From: Kel <ckelll@hotmail.com>
Date: Sat, 02 Oct 1999 22:16:29 -0400
Subject: NEW: Backtracking (1/17)

Title: Backtracking
By:    Kel and Scetti
Rating: R
Keywords: MSR
Category: X
Summary:  What do Charlie Scully, the Alien Bounty Hunter, and 
          Jesse "the Body" Ventura all have in common?  Last April you 
          could have found all three of them in Minnesota.

          Backtracking: sometimes you have to retrace your steps before 
          you can move ahead.

Feedback is welcome. Kel at ckelll@hotmail.com or
                     Scetti at Malgio@Netscape.net

Disclaimer:  Fox Mulder is the private sex-toy of Kel and Scetti.  
             Nya-nya-nya-nya-nya.
             Hey, Scetti, I get him tonight!

             In other words: Mulder, Scully, Skinner, Danny, and, I
             suppose, even Charlie Scully belong to TPTB at Fox and
             1013.

Thanks to our beta readers:  Trelawney, who already reads everything
anyway, thanks for the insights and comments.  And Porkchop, thanks for
all of your contributions, but especially for figuring out how to spell
"shoof."



Backtracking
(1/17)
          

"No! Oh no!"

The words came out as a stifled moan and the redhead who spoke them
twisted on the bed without awakening.  The other figure in the bed came
awake at once.  This had been going on for a week now.

"It's okay, love.  Just a dream."  The soothing words had no effect and
the sleeper continued to thrash and groan.

"Scully, wake up!" More forceful this time, and louder, to break through
the barrier of sleep.  And indeed, the sleeper sat bolt upright and
gasped.

"That same dream," he said.  "The bridge, and those men with their eyes
stitched shut.  The flames."

"You need to do something, Charlie," his wife said.  "This is driving
you crazy."

"Dana.  She's on the bridge.  They're going to kill her," Charlie Scully
said.

"Call her, Charlie.  It's seven A.M. in DC.  If she's not in the office
you can use the voice mail."

"You're right, Allison.  I'm going to call her."

======================================================================


When she fell asleep at night her last waking thoughts were of Mulder,
and she woke up thinking about Mulder.  She loved him.  She had loved
him for a very long time.

She didn't just love him, she loved him *like that*.  Dana Scully was
through kidding herself.  She loved him as a friend and as a partner,
but she also loved him *like that*.  

And he loved her too.  But not like that.  She would do anything for
him, and he would do anything for her.  Even sleep with her.  Because he
did love her, even if he didn't love her *like that*.

Sleeping with Mulder was the acme of her life, physically and
spiritually.  It was an act filled with passion, desire, and adoration.
For her.

And for him?  Scully could only speculate.  Without a doubt it was an
act of friendship.  And pity?  Maybe.

It was an act that would not have an encore.  Not because of pride--she
had no pride, she told herself.  But she would not use him.  Not again.

And so she awoke as she did every morning, thinking of Mulder.  Maybe if
she hurried she could get into the office before him.  When he arrived
she would already be immersed in work.   It would afford her some
protection.

She did hurry, but when she got to work, there he was.

"Morning, partner," he said.  He wasn't working, or didn't seem to be. 
He was leaning back in his chair, twisting the sections on a Rubik's
cube.  

Partner, she thought.  Good move, Mulder, define the relationship, set
the limits.  That way there are no misunderstandings.

"Good morning," she said.

"Would it be convenient for you to accompany me for some field work?"
Mulder asked.

"Pardon me?" Scully said.  What happened to "Hope you packed your cowboy
boots?"

"I've taken the liberty of booking us on a flight to Minneapolis,"
Mulder said.

"Minneapolis?" 

"I had a phone call this morning.  A man in Minnesota has been troubled
by dreams, strange dreams that he finds very disturbing," Mulder said.

"We're flying to the only state in the union that has a pro wrestler for
a governor because some crackpot there is having nightmares?" Scully
asked.  "Come on, Mulder, what aren't you telling me?"

"You know this crackpot, Scully.  It's your brother Charles."

======================================================================

Hell wasn't a place with fires and pitchforks, someone had told Mulder
once.  The torment of hell was simply this:  You knew about the divine
joy of Heaven, but you were forever barred from sharing in it.  

Not much of a punishment, Mulder had thought at the time.

Now he knew better.

Loving Dana Scully and being loved by her was heaven.  Knowing it would
never happen again was hell.   

He'd gone six long years without sleeping with Scully, and he could have
gone on forever.  But now he knew what he was missing and it was
grinding him down.  It was like a chronic toothache, a pain that was
always in the background but occasionally burst into agonizing
consciousness.

If only they could go back to how things were before.  But that seemed
to be impossible.  Sometimes he could hardly talk to her.  And he had no
idea at all what had gone wrong. She had made love to him warmly and
willingly and she'd fallen asleep in his arms.  He'd stayed awake a long
time, getting cramped and stiff but not moving for fear of waking her. 
He'd fallen asleep at last.  And when he woke up, she was gone.

She had given herself to him and then she had changed her mind.  For
Scully, an indiscretion to regret and get over. For Mulder, a night of
rapture followed by a lifetime of sorrow. They never spoke of it.  

Mulder was sitting in the coach section of North American Flight 108,
the perfect place for a six-foot man to ponder the meaning of hell.  And
just in case he wasn't uncomfortable enough, there was a large carton
under his seat extending to take up half of his leg room.  While
shopping the outlet stores, Scully had found some pieces from Allison
Scully's now discontinued china pattern, and she still hadn't gotten
around to sending them.  She was not flying to Minneapolis without them,
she had told Mulder.  She had a similar carton under her seat, but
Scully didn't need any leg room.  Her little feet didn't reach the
floor.  She would suffer too, though.  Mulder elbowed her, pointed to
the boxes on the floor, and spoke again those three magic words.

"Change at O'Hare."

"Yes, Mulder, I know," Scully said impatiently.  He had wanted her to
check the china, but she was absolutely sure the baggage handlers would
smash it to bits.

"I have a few  questions about your mysterious brother," Mulder said. 
Out of Scully's family, Charles was the only one he had never met. 
Charles didn't show up for family parties or holiday celebrations. 
Mulder used to tell Scully that he didn't "believe" in Charles.  Bill,
Melissa, and Dana just invented him to use as a scapegoat.  

"My mysterious brother," Scully repeated.  "He's the most normal of all
of us.  At least he was until he started having these dreams."

"When Matthew was born, your mother said he was the first grandchild. 
What about Charlie's kids?" Mulder asked.

"They're his stepchildren, technically.  He adopted them years ago,"
Scully explained. "He threw a huge party to celebrate."

"Your mom doesn't think of them as her grandchildren?" Mulder was
surprised.  He'd always found Maggie Scully to be generous in her
definition of family.

"Of course she does," said Scully.  "But she wasn't around for their
births.  I think that made Matthew special."

Mulder was skeptical, but he wasn't stupid enough to directly challenge
Scully's notion of her perfect family.

"Did your mom go to the party?  Charlie's big bash when he adopted the
kids?" Mulder asked.

"No," Scully said.  She was using the careful tone of voice that got her
through senate hearings and internal bureau reviews.  "No, she wasn't
able to go.  I believe my father was indisposed that weekend.  His back
was acting up, as I recall."

"But you went," Mulder said.  "I bet Melissa went too."

"Yes, we both went," Scully said, smiling at the memory.  "We had a
ball.  Allison, my sister-in-law, she's this beautiful Midwestern
blonde, a real farmer's daughter type.  We were teasing her about
looking like a cheerleader.  Well, she was a cheerleader!  She was
trying to teach us these corny cheers, oh, it was so funny.  And her
little girl, Chrissy, she could do them all."

"But brother Bill, he couldn't make it either, could he?" Mulder asked.

"No, Bill was having car trouble.  Or maybe he had to work," Scully
said.  "Both, I  think."

"Wonder how Charlie felt about that," Mulder mused.  "His parents and
his big brother couldn't make it to this important celebration."

"You're jumping to conclusions again," Scully said.  "Now you're going
to tell me that that's why Charlie missed our father's funeral."

If Mulder was a practicing psychologist, he would have jotted down this
fact.  Instead he continued the conversation in a neutral tone.

"I'm just trying to get a sense of the man, Scully.  From what both of
you told me, he's a down-to-earth guy.  He's never shown any psychic
ability in the past.  All of a sudden he's dreaming in vivid detail
about an experience you had, an experience you've never told to anyone
in your family and that you barely remember yourself.  Why now?" Mulder
asked.

"He recently moved his family  to Minnesota," Scully said.  "That's
where Allison is from.  Charles gave up a very successful career to take
over her father's business.  I think he feels a lot of pressure to make
good."

"That could be it," Mulder agreed.  "People are more open to this kind
of message during times of stress and change." 

"What's your feeling about this, Mulder?  Is there a psychic link
between Charlie and me?" Scully asked.

"No," said Mulder.

"You sound awfully sure of that," Scully said.

"Scully, if you and Charlie had a psychic link, he would have stopped
you from buying a thousand-piece model for a twelve-year-old boy.  You
know Charlie is going to end up building that himself," Mulder said.

Before stopping at her apartment for Allison's dishes, Scully had
dragged Mulder to the Smithsonian to pick up gifts for the children.

"Oliver is not your average twelve-year-old," Scully said.  "Anyway,
Charles always loved building models."

"That's good, because he'll probably end up working on that other one
too," Mulder said.

"Not on your life," Scully told him.  "Chrissy and I will do that
together."

"You, Chrissy, and a team of paleontologists," Mulder said.  "Oh, sorry,
I'm sure you're right.  Your niece and nephew are brilliant beyond their
years.  Silly me for even considering that you might not be objective."

"You'll see," Scully said. 

Hauling two cartons of china from one end of O'Hare to the other and
then through Minneapolis International turned out to be considerably
easier than carrying Scully up a ladder while being chased by aliens. 
Mulder loaded the cartons and luggage into the rental car, then got
behind the wheel and let Scully navigate them to her brother's house,
about forty-five minutes away.

"The City of Lakes," Mulder said, surveying the landscape.  

"But more importantly, the home of Colombo Yogurt," Scully said.

=====================================================================

Charlie Scully washed his hands in the bathroom and dried them on his
pants leg.  Allison hadn't actually told him not to use the guest
towels, but he didn't want to wrinkle them or disturb the arrangement. 
Then he went to his rarely used living room and sat down on the sofa. 
There were some pretty little snacks set out on the coffee table, but he
ignored the cheese and crackers and the vegetable pate.  He selected a
bruised grape from a bowl of fruit; his wife probably wouldn't mind if
he took that one.  

Allison came into the room carrying four champagne flutes.  She hadn't
bothered to unpack the crystal, since they didn't use it very often.  So
she'd pulled out these four glasses, in case they were needed.  She put
them down by the liquor cabinet.

When Charlie had tried to call his sister at work, just to hear her
voice and reassure himself that his dream didn't mean anything, he'd
gotten some man on the phone, her office mate, apparently.  He was a
nice enough guy and a good listener, and Charlie had been surprised to
find himself telling this total stranger about his unsettling
nightmare.  The guy had listened intently, then asked a few questions. 
Then he'd said that he and Dana would be making arrangements to
"interview" him in person.  

"Interview," that was really the word he'd used.  

When Charlie told his wife that Dana and her associate would be flying
into town, Allison had started to squeal.

"Dana is coming over with Mulder?" she asked him excitedly.

"Muller, I thought he said," Charlie answered.  "Maybe it's Mulder. 
What's the big deal?"

"Figure it out, Charlie," Allison had told him.  "Dana's coming to
visit, and she's bringing her partner.  I've got to get ready."

Allison had hustled the kids off the school, and she asked Charlie to
stay home from work.  He couldn't, he told her, but he would come home
for lunch.  He'd been better than his work, getting home by eleven.

Now Charlie watched Allison as she rearranged the throw pillows on the
living room furniture and realigned the platters of canaps.

"I don't get it," he said.  "First the FBI makes a federal case out of
my nightmare.  Then you make a state visit out of Tiny Dancer dropping
in."

"Just be nice," Allison said.  "Don't call her that, it really isn't
funny anymore.  And his name is Mulder--just Mulder."

When they heard the rental car pull up in the graveled driveway, Allison
was not able to contain herself, and she raced out the door.  She barely
let Dana get out of the car before she wrapped her arms around her, and
then she dashed around the car to hug Mulder, whom she had never met.  

Scully made the introductions, superfluous as they were, and Charlie
came out and embraced his sister and shook hands with Mulder.  

Allison looked at Mulder and Scully expectantly. 

"Well?" Allison asked.  Scully looked from Allison to Charlie and then
to Mulder but still felt clueless.

"Allison, you look wonderful," Scully said at last.

"That's a nice house," Mulder said.

"Why don't we go inside?" Charlie suggested.

"Yes," said Allison, taking Dana by the arm and hurrying into the house
with her.  "Charlie, help Mulder with the bags."

Charlie and Allison lived in a large new split-level.  With Mulder and
Charlie each carrying a carton of china up the outside stairway to the
entrance, neither of them had a free hand to open the door.  Charlie
called for Allison to get the door, but he had to call twice because she
was that involved in conversation with Dana.  

Allison wanted only to talk to her sister-in-law right now.  It had been
months since they'd had a real conversation and the last time they'd
talked, Allison had gotten the definite impression that something was
finally brewing between Dana and her complicated colleague.  But here
was Dana telling her, once again, that they were just partners, would
never be anything more, well, okay, yes, they were friends... Oh, all
right! Yes, they cared about each other, sure....  

With the luggage in the house, Allison had Charlie and Mulder sit in the
living room while Dana "helped" in the kitchen.  

"I won't ask you for details right now," Allison said in a half whisper,
"but you will have to tell me what's going on."

Sitting in the living room with Charlie, Mulder had to remind himself
that this was not Bill Scully, Jr., despite the resemblance.  This man
might or might not come to believe that he was one sorry son of a bitch,
but so far the slate was clean.  

"Well, how about those Vikings?" Mulder said conversationally.

"What do you mean by that?" Charlie snapped back.

"Nothing," Mulder said.  "Next year for sure.  All the way."  

Charlie plucked off a grape, then put it back in the bowl.  Allison had
instructed him to stay in the living room and talk about "guy" things,
but it wasn't working. His mind was not on football.

"I know you want to ask me about the dream again, and I have some
questions I want to ask you," he said.  "Is there some way we can leave
my sister out of this?  Some of the things I saw, I just don't want her
to have to hear it."

Just as his wife was whispering in the kitchen, Charlie was talking to
Mulder in a muted voice.

"We can start out your way," Mulder said. "but she'll read the
statements and you know she's going to have questions of her own."

Allison had lunch on the table in almost no time.  She'd planned this
meal as a celebration, since she'd convinced herself that Dana would
have something to tell them, maybe even something to announce. Now she
just wanted to get it over with so she could find some excuse to send
the two men out of the house and finally interrogate her sister-in-law
to her satisfaction.

The meal turned out to be a pleasant one nevertheless.  Charlie took the
opportunity to engage in a hobby that had given him hours of amusement
as  a youngster. 

"Dana..." Charlie began in a provocative whine.  "You know he's gay..."  

Allison gulped and forced herself not to look at Mulder.

"He's bi," Scully answered, laughing.  "He's full of love for everyone."

"He's gay, and you can't marry him," Charlie said.  

"He's bi, Charlie, and I can marry him if I want to," Scully answered.   

"He's so poetic.  He seems to know what's in your heart," Charlie said. 
"You want him bad."  

"No, I don't.  I'm through with Elton," Scully said through her
laughter.  "I want to marry Sting."

"Good choice," Mulder said.  "The King of Pain.  Definitely your type."

"My type?  Let's discuss your type," Scully retorted.  "Some siliconed
bimbo with a leather dog collar and a big, wide mouth..."

"This is a rough crowd," Allison interjected.  She wasn't accustomed to
the harsh banter that was common along the northeast corridor.

"Some like it rough.  Don't you agree, Scully?" Mulder said.

"Hey, leave me out of this," Charlie said.

"It's okay, Charlie, he meant me," Dana explained.  "Anyway, you
started..."

"Dessert!" Allison announced.  "Time for dessert!  Charlie, could you
give me a hand in the kitchen?"   She cleared the table hastily, her
husband assisting.

"I'm sorry," Mulder whispered when Charlie and Allison had left.  "I'll
call you Dana, okay?"

"Sure, Fox," Scully answered.

"Don't do that," Mulder said.  "You don't mind when anyone else calls
you Dana."

"I don't mind at all, Fox," she said.

In the kitchen, Allison was doing her best to apprise Charlie about his
sister's unusual relationship.  

"You're crazy," Charlie said.  "They're in love and they don't know it? 
I don't think so, honey, I think you're just trying to read something
into it.  I'll see what I can find out, though.  I want to talk to him
alone anyway."

A short while later Charlie was heading back to work, with Mulder along
for the ride.  

"I really do need to get back," Charlie said. "We have a shipment coming
in and we're reconfiguring one of the lines."

"What kind of business are you in?" Mulder asked.  Scully hadn't
mentioned.

"Air conditioners and refrigeration systems," Charlie said. "Feel free
to comment on the irony of an air-conditioner plant located in
Minnesota, but I doubt if you'll come up with one I haven't heard."

Mulder could have thought up some wisecrack, but he sensed that Charlie
Scully was not in the mood.

"There's not much manufacturing left in this country.  How's business?"
Mulder asked.

"We're doing okay.  I know I could boost the profits if I took the works
south, but I won't do that."

Charlie's reserved space was taken when they got to the parking lot for
Plymouth Refrigeration, and his expression of annoyance made him look
even more like his brother.  They parked several rows from the entrance.

Charlie walked purposefully through the factory, greeting the people he
passed, stopping at times to speak to them or respond to their
questions.  In one part of the plant Charlie put on a respirator and a
set of goggles before entering an isolated area, and Mulder waited
outside and watched through a glass window. Later Charlie was inspecting
a sample of some small motor or pump or something, and Mulder was
impressed to see him take it apart and reassemble it in a matter of
minutes.

In his own element, dealing with the problems and routines of the
factory, Charlie seemed less like his explosive brother and more like
his analytical sister. 

When Charlie had seen to all the urgent matters, he took Mulder into his
office so they could talk about the strange dream.  Charlie's secretary,
who looked too old to be working, brought them coffee.  Like everyone
else in the plant, she called her boss by his first name.  Mulder
noticed that Charlie addressed her as Mrs. Olsen.

"I don't know what else I can tell you about the dream," Charlie said. 
"The people on the bridge, and my sister right in the middle of the
crowd.  Lights overhead, they're looking up at something, something
big.  And then those men, with their eyes sewn shut, and their mouths
like that too.  Flame throwers.  Fire, screaming.  What else do you want
to know?"

"How does the dream end?" Mulder asked.  "Do you see what happens to
Dana?"

Charlie thought for a minute.  Sometimes this dream seemed to drift into
another one, a dream that was even more baffling and senseless.  It was
a weird dream that seemed totally unrelated.  Dana wasn't in that one at
all.  There was a Viking in it, of all things.  What could be more
simplistic, he thought--move to Minnesota and start to dream about
Vikings.  Anyway, there was nothing to tell, he could not remember the
details at all.

"Usually I wake up.  I don't see her get burned.  It's the people at the
edge of the crowd.  The faceless men come at them from all around. 
Dana's in the middle, she's watching," Charlie said.  "You think it's a
message?  Do you think something like this could really happen to her?"

"Charlie, something happened, a couple of years ago, you may have seen
it on the news.   In Pennsylvania, by Ruskin Dam... A mass killing, 
dozens of people burned to death..." Mulder spoke slowly, waiting to 
see understanding click in Charlie's eyes.

"That's what happened there?" Charlie asked in astonishment.  "That's
how it happened?  And Dana was there?" 

"Yes, she was there.  She got hurt, her face and hands, but she was
okay.  You didn't know that, Charlie?" Mulder asked.

"No, I didn't know that," Charlie said angrily.  "Apparently no one
thought I needed to know.  Not my brother or mother, and I guess not my
sister either."

"I don't think she told Maggie or Bill," Mulder said.  "And she really
doesn't remember it, Charlie.  She has no conscious memory of the
events."

"What the hell are you two up to?" Charlie asked.  "What kind of work
are you doing where she has to be put in that kind of danger?  Why
weren't you on that bridge with her?"

My work here is done, Mulder thought.  Now both Scully brothers think
I'm one sorry son of a bitch.

=======================================================================

Charlie seemed troubled as he drove home from the plant with Mulder but
he showed no further hostility.  

"At least I understand now why you came out to 'investigate' my dream,"
Charlie said.  "I couldn't figure it out."

"I'm going to want you to go over it again," Mulder said. "With Dana and
me, next time."  Dana and me.  Sounds okay, Mulder thought.

"Tonight, after dinner," Charlie said.  "I'm picking up my daughter now,
and I don't want her to hear anything about it."

"Good plan," Mulder agreed.  He could take the Scullys out for dessert
or a drink or something, pay them back for their hospitality.

Charlie pulled up by the Plymouth Middle School, a sprawling
single-story building with playing fields on one side and a parking area
on the other.  A slender blond girl in bell-bottom blue jeans approached
the car, followed by a sullen looking boy with a camouflage-green
bandana tied over his head. Mulder opened his window.

"Hi, Chrissy," Charlie called.  "Get in."

"Daddy!" the girl said.  "That is not my name. And I need you to drive
me and Ryan to the mall.  We have to get stuff for school."

"It's dinnertime, *Christina*," Charlie said, "and we have guests
tonight.  I'd be glad to drop Ryan off at his house."

Ryan and Christina exchanged glances.

"This is for school, Daddy!" Christina said angrily. 

"What do you need?" Charlie asked.  "What do you need that you have to
get tonight that you didn't know about yesterday?"

"Just forget it!" Christina said.  She opened the door and slid into the
back seat, followed by her friend.

"My brother gets everything he asks for," Christina told Ryan in a
whisper that everyone could hear.  "Because he's gifted."

"Sucks," Ryan said.

"Christina, Ryan, this is Mr. Mulder," Charlie said.  

"Hi."  Christina's grudging greeting was less audible than her whispered
conversation with her friend.  Ryan managed to nod.

"Hello," Mulder said over his shoulder.

Wow.  Christina had asked Aunt Dana once if the guy she worked with was
cute, and the answer had been very noncommittal.  

Maybe Aunt Dana should wear her glasses more often.

"He works with my aunt that I told you about," Christina told her
friend.

"Your nerdy aunt from Washington?" Ryan asked.

"I never said she was a nerd, Ryan.  I said she was intelligent.  There
is a difference, you know," Christina said.

"Whatever," he said.  

Charlie pulled into the driveway of a large Tudor house.  Ryan nodded at
Christina before getting out of the car.

"Call me later, okay, babe?" Ryan said.



end of 1/17

Backtracking
(2/17)
Disclaimer, etc., with part 1



Before dinner, Dana presented her family with their gifts. 

Allison opened the first carton and pulled out a bubble-wrapped tea cup.

"Oh, Dana!  Where did you find this?" she exclaimed happily.  "Look,
Charlie, the missing pieces from our good china!"

"Oh," said Charlie.  "I thought that looked familiar."  He pondered the
mysteries of the International Sisterhood of Women:  Tiny Dancer had
brought them more of those dishes they never used.  His wife was elated.

"Thank you so much!  But why did you bring these on the plane?  What
were you thinking, girl?  You *know* I could have had any of the freight
handlers pick them up.  I've got a dozen accounts!" Allison said.

"Allison is a manager for Mailboxes, Etc.," Dana explained to Mulder. 
"I guess you didn't really have to carry those two crates."

Mulder shot her a tight, sarcastic smile.

"Didn't I tell you?  I left Mailboxes, Etc.  I'm with a new company
now.  They're only a few years old, but they're growing like crazy." 
She grinned.  "Which is nice, because I'm also a shareholder."

"Way to go, Alli," Dana said.    

The detailed model of the brachiosaurus was greeted with considerably
less gratitude by its disappointed recipient.
 
Christina Scully knew that her parents thought she was just a little
kid, but she had expected more from Aunt Dana.

"Thank you very much," she said in a monotone, putting the box down
before she had completely removed the gift wrap. 

"I'm sorry, Chrissy," Dana said.  "I can see you're not really
interested, but I still think we can have fun putting it together."

"Yeah," Christina said.

Oliver accepted his present with real enthusiasm.

"You know what's great, Aunt Dana?" he said.  "On my other model of the
USS Missouri, I closed it up all the way.  I'll leave this one in cross
section so you can see the inside."

Christina looked like her mother, long-legged with straight blond hair
and even features.  Oliver was a round-faced little boy with brown hair
and big ears.  Scully had described him as adorable, but Mulder thought
he looked a little peculiar.

When Allison called everyone in for dinner, Christina addressed her
brother in a snide tone.
 
"We're dining in the dining room tonight, dirtbag.  Do you remember how
to use a napkin?"

"Don't use your fork to pick your teeth," Oliver said.

"Don't blow your nose on the tablecloth," Christina answered.

"Don't vomit in the mashed potatoes."

"That's enough!"  Charlie said.  "Anyone who can't participate in a
pleasant and mature conversation can keep quiet."

Christina opted for the latter choice, and spent most of the meal
looking down at her plate or staring into space.  Charlie was seated at
the head of the table, to Mulder's right, scowling to himself.  Mulder
tried to think of something to say to him--something that didn't involve
the dream, football, or the irony of locating an air-conditioner factory
in Minnesota.  

Charlie was wondering how a bright, talented girl could be failing three
subjects and why she would voluntarily spend her time with a spoiled
brat who didn't have enough sense to hide his arrogance.

I should have made chicken, Allison was thinking.  Everyone likes
chicken.  Charlie was shoveling in the beef stroganoff, but by the look
on his face he wasn't enjoying it much.  Christina was ignoring it
completely--probably she'd snacked on something after school, before
band practice.  Dana was pushing her food around on her plate, and
Allison, who ate like a quarterback but looked like a goddess,
remembered that her sister-in-law tried to avoid saturated fats.

Allison wondered how Dana's mystery man was able to eat at all, with
Christina staring at him.  Only Oliver seemed totally content, eating
with so much gusto and animation that he knocked over his water twice.

Dana was remembering the first time she had taken Chrissy to see the
dinosaurs at the Smithsonian--what a disaster.  The child was
overwhelmed  and frightened by the huge displays.  The next time had
been better, and Chrissy had become quite the authority on Mesozoic
reptiles.  

Dana was smiling to herself over a particularly memorable telephone
conversation:

"Aunt Dana, the Elasmosaurus was not a true dinosaur anyway.  But I'm
sorry about your dog."

Poor Chrissy--no, poor Christina, Dana thought.  Plunged into the world
of misery, rage, doubt, and restlessness known as adolescence. 

At last someone spoke, and the tension began to dissipate.

"This is delicious, Allison," Mulder said.  It was the best meal he'd
had in months.  Real beef stroganoff, with sour cream and lots of beef
and mushrooms.  

"How do you do it?" Scully asked, hoping that Allison wouldn't notice
how little she ate.  "Running a business, managing the household,
cooking gourmet meals..."

"I like to cook," Allison said.  "And most of the time the shop takes
care of itself."

"Everybody pitches in," Charlie said, and Allison gave him a look of
surprise.

Christina, who was sitting next to Scully, leaned over and whispered to
her aunt.

"Mom cooks about once a month.  She stays in the kitchen all day making
big vats of stuff.  Then she puts it all in plastic bags and she freezes
it."  Christina sounded as if she was divulging something scandalous.  

"Now you know my secret," Allison said.  "All I ever feed these poor
kids is frozen food."

"Except when Daddy goes fishing," Christina said.  "Then we have pizza."

"Unless he stops on the way home to buy fish," Oliver added.

"Chip off the old block," Dana said.

"It's the Scully curse," Charlie explained.  "We repel fish."

When Oliver learned that his parents were planning to step out that
evening with Aunt Dana and her friend, he became apprehensive.

"Can I come too?" he asked.  "I'll keep my mouth shut.  I'll wait for
you in the car."

Christina felt some satisfaction that her brother was afraid to be alone
with her, but she also felt a twinge of guilt.  

"If you can keep your mouth shut for real you have nothing to worry
about," she told him.

"Punk," Oliver said.

"Squealer," she answered.

"We never fought like that," Charlie said to Dana.

"Of course not," she said. "We had a common enemy."  

Charlie grinned broadly.  He was thinking about the summer that Bill Jr.
had to pay Dana and him ten dollars each and drive them anywhere they
wanted to go.  That was the summer they found his rolling papers in the
glove compartment.  

"You can think of me as your common enemy," Allison told her children. 
"If you two can't manage to be alone for a few hours without killing
each other or destroying the house, you'll have me to answer to."

"Yes, mother dear," Christina said.

======================================================================

The Village Tavern was a popular spot, even in the middle of the week. 
Scully understood why her brother wanted to get out of the house to talk
about his disturbing dream but she was surprised that he'd chosen a
noisy bar.

It turned out to be a good choice after all.  Charlie and Allison led
the way to a table in a quiet section with a working fireplace.  The
real action was by the bar. There was another room off the bar with a
raised stage and a dance floor.  A few people there danced to recorded
music. Later on there would be a live band.

The foursome took their table.  Dana was content to chat with Allison
until the pitcher of beer and plate of chicken wings arrived, and then
she looked at Charlie expectantly.  Sooner or later he would have to
tell her about his dream.  

"Well?" she said.

Charlie looked at his wife and then at Mulder.

"Go on, Charlie," Allison encouraged him.  "It's just a dream, tell
her."

"I have the general idea," Dana reminded him. "I know it's about the
bridge and the fires.  You're not going to hurt me, Charlie.  I was
there and I survived."

Charlie poured out four glasses of beer and passed them around.  Finally
he began.

"It's outdoors somewhere, on a bridge. It's dark.  Lots of people,
standing on the bridge, waiting for something, looking up.  Then
overhead, something big with lights.  Some men with guns, but they're
not guns, they're flame-throwers.  Not normal men.  Their eyes are sewn
shut, with black thread.  And their mouths.  Then screaming and people
getting burned by the faceless men with their flame-throwers. And you're
there, Dana, you're right in the middle.  That's my dream."

"Oh, Charles," Dana said.  "I'm sorry.  I'm sorry you dreamed about
that."

Her sympathy seemed to annoy him.

"You're sorry I dreamed that?  Well, I'm sorry it happened.  And I'm
sorry you decided it wasn't important enough for you to tell me about
it, or maybe I wasn't important enough," he said.  "Or did Big Brother
make that decision?"

"I think we need to discuss exactly who is important to whom," Dana
said.  "Charlie, sometimes I don't even know if we're in the same
family.  I know you and Billy have issues, but where does that leave Mom
and me?"

Allison cleaned her fingers on a napkin and looked across the table to
Mulder.  Mulder dropped the chicken bone he'd been working on and wiped
his own hands.  

Oh my stars, thought Allison, he really does have the most beautiful
green eyes.  Mulder was looking right at her.

"Dance?" he asked.  Allison followed him past the bar to the dance
floor.

Mulder thought it might feel awkward to dance with Allison, but he had
wanted to give Scully--Dana--and Charles a chance to talk.  It didn't
feel awkward at all, though.  Allison was good at it and she made Mulder
look good too.

Allison wondered if Mulder had ever danced with Dana, or if she should
encourage him to ask her.  She found Mulder as attractive as Dana had
described him but much quieter.  

"How long do we give them?" Mulder asked.

"Ten minutes ought to do it," Allison said.  "Do you dance much?  You're
good."  Unfortunately a new song came on, giving her words unintended
irony.

"Yeah, I try to get out a couple of times a decade," Mulder said.  He
was trying to follow Allison in some unfamiliar Western dance.  She had
jinxed him by saying he was good.

"Want to play pool instead?" Allison asked sympathetically.

"Let's go back to the table," Mulder said.  "If they need more time
we'll shoot some pool."

When they got back, Charles and Dana were talking quietly, and Dana
waved Mulder and Allison back to the table.

"We're going to try something," she said.  "He's going to try to
remember the other dream."

Charlie had opened up enough to tell her about the second dream.  Just
the fact that he could never remember it made him believe that it had to
be important.

"She wants me to use relaxation techniques," Charlie said.  "You know,
meditate."

"You can do that, honey.  Give it a try," Allison said.  She sat down
next to him and squeezed his hand.

Charlie had practiced meditation before, but never in public.  

"I can't do it here," he said, a little exasperated.  "This is a bar."

"This is a safe, comfortable place.  I think you can do it,"  Mulder
said.  He was hoping that Charlie had chosen this location because he
felt secure here.

"Oh, hell," Charlie said.  He closed his eyes and let his breaths grow
deeper and slower.  He reached for Allison and she took his hand.

Charlie surprised himself by achieving a state of alert relaxation.  He
could see the dream before his eyes, but it was hard to describe without
sounding like a lunatic.  Allison had already heard about it, those few
fragments that he could remember.  Dana wouldn't laugh at him, she never
did.  Mulder wouldn't either.  

"I see him.  He's like Odo," Charlie said.

"Deep Space Nine," Allison explained.  "Odo's an alien, a shapeshifter."

"But he's not like Odo," Charlie continued.  "He kills.  He can kill
with a touch. He has a weapon, an ice pick.  A fancy ice pick. Makes a
noise... *Shoof!*  This guy 'morphs,' like those special effects in the
Schwarzenegger movies."

Dana turned from her brother to Mulder, to catch his eye.  She'd been
watching Charlie, but Mulder, she saw, was sitting there with his eyes
closed, as if he was trying to help Charlie meditate.

"He looks like the meter reader," Charlie said.  "You know who I mean,
Alli."

"Stan Jonsen, from the electric company," Allison said.  "The morphing
guy looks like him?"

"No.  Yes, but no," Charlie said.  "The morphing guy looks like anyone. 
It's the other guy."  This was the part of the dream that embarrassed
Charlie, though he couldn't say why.  The other guy was dressed like a
Viking.  

"The other guy," Dana said quietly, trying to direct his description
without disrupting his concentration.

"He's sad but he's not afraid.  He's got his hair brushed back, like
Jonsen.  Same color.  No expression.  I think he's very old," Charlie
said.

"An old man," Dana said.

"No.  No age.  But he seems old.  He seems forever."

"Where is he?" Mulder mumbled.  "Can you tell?"

"Rocks and mist.  Pine trees.  Water, water spraying.  A waterfall. A
cave.  Snow and ice and water.  Pines.  Pine trees, pine scent, a forest
of pines.  The rocks are slippery, moss-covered."  

"Sweetheart, that sounds like Temperance River.  Don't you remember?"
Allison said. They had spent almost a week there, skiing the trails,
tracking through the woods on snowshoes.  There was a cabin with a
fireplace, and even a big bearskin rug.  A bearskin rug in front of the
fire.  And nine months later...

Wait! Allison remembered.  That wasn't Charlie.  That was before
Charlie. 

Charlie gave her a sour look.  His trance was broken. 

"It's real?  That's a real place?" Mulder asked.  

Allison looked at him from across the table.  He sounded as distant as
Charlie had. Dana had her hand on his arm, but she drew it away
sharply.  Maybe because Allison had seen.

"It's just a dream," Charlie said, looking at Mulder.  "Please keep that
in mind."

"A dream is nature's way of saying it's okay to hallucinate," Allison
said.

"Tune in, turn on, drop out," Mulder quoted.  "Only you're all too young
to remember that."

"So are you," Dana said.  Mulder had some fantasy life in which he'd
hitchhiked to Woodstock and dug the vibes at the Fillmore, but he was
really only four years older than she was.

"Here's the point," Mulder said.  "It's a dream, and the feelings and
reactions you had in the dream are really part of the dream content.
I've had some very weird dreams myself--just ask  Dana."

"I think we've all had a few," she said.  "I don't know what it means,
Charlie, that you could dream about Ruskin Dam without knowing about
it.  I don't know what to make of the other dream either, but I really
want to hear everything you can remember about it."

"Yeah, dreams are inherently crazy," Charlie said.  "You're one place,
then suddenly you're someplace else.  You know things you have no way of
knowing."

"Charlie, spit it out," Dana said.  "Don't make me put you in a
hammerlock again."

"Well, you heard most of it.  Two guys.  One guy can morph, he can look
like anyone.  He's the killer.  The other guy, well, he looks like the
meter reader.  Tall, kind of impassive, sort of cold looking.  But he's
not wearing a jumpsuit from the utility company.  He's dressed like a
Viking.  No jersey, no purple helmet, a real Viking."  Charlie looked at
Dana, then at Mulder, waiting for one of them to speak.

"What else?" Mulder asked after a long pause.

"That's it," Charlie said, "that's all there is."

"What about the things you know?  The things you just know, but you have
no way of knowing?" Mulder prodded him.

Charlie squinted at him, wondering if somehow Mulder already had some
idea what he was going to say.  Then he answered.

"The meter reader--the Viking--he's knows how to fight him.  He knows
how to stop him, but it will cost him his life," Charlie said.  

Again there was silence, and Charlie's words hung in the air.

"Come on," he said to Allison at last.  "Let's dance."  He led her from
the table, and she nodded over her shoulder at Mulder and Dana as she
followed him to the dance floor.

Mulder pushed the plate of appetizers over to Scully.  The wings were
gone; only the raw vegetables remained.

"So," Scully said as she picked up a carrot stick.  "The case of the
morphing meter reader."

"You think it's just a dream?" Mulder asked. "Nothing here to interest
us?"  He remembered how nave Scully was when they started working
together, how surprised she was by the things they uncovered.  She
wasn't nave anymore, she was just stubborn.  It was a knee-jerk
response of hers, this skepticism.

"Are you tired?" she asked him unexpectedly.  She knew she was.  Mulder
had been up longer and he was starting to sound grumpy.  

"Yeah, I am," he said.  Scully was staying with her brother's family but
he had a room booked somewhere, hopefully not too far away.  He was
going to need directions.

"To answer your question, yes, I do think this dream of Charlie's
warrants further investigation," Scully said.  "He described that weapon
perfectly, even the sound."

"If the place with the rocks and the mists and the pine trees is around
here, maybe we can go there tomorrow,"  Mulder said.  "Do you want some
coffee?"

Charlie and Allison returned to the table.

"Line dancing," Charlie explained.  "I just don't get it."  

"Me neither," Dana admitted.  "We were going to get coffee."

"Great," said Allison.  "And they have the most wonderful bourbon
chocolate pecan pie.  You have to try it."

The waitress removed the half-full pitcher of beer and brought around
three slices of pie and four coffees.

"We'll need another fork," Mulder said.  

"Still up to your old tricks, I see," Charlie said.  "Tiny Dancer
doesn't want dessert.  She just wants to taste."

"You were pretty quick with the fork yourself," Dana replied.  "I
remember leaning over to give Bootsy my carrots and when I looked up my
Tater Tots were gone."

"Dana, remember the time Bootsy threw up all those lima beans?" Charlie
asked. "We all got in trouble for that."

"Good old Bootsy," Dana said.

"How's your pie?" Allison asked Mulder.

"It's really good," he said.  "Allison, you knew exactly where to find
that place in Charlie's dream.  Is it near here?"

"About four hours by car, on the North Shore of Lake Superior."  Allison
said.  "It's a great spot for cabin camping and skiing, or hiking in the
summer.  

"Could we all go there tomorrow?" Dana asked.  "What do you think?"

"Dana, that would be great.  I'm sure Margaret could handle things at
the shop. What do you say, Charlie, could you get away for a few days?"
Allison asked.

"I could do that," Charlie said.  "I'd love to get in some skiing before
the season's over.  Do you think we could get Mrs. Hansen to babysit?"

"I don't know about that.  But I've been thinking, Charlie, maybe it's
time we gave Christina more responsibility.  She's growing up, you know,
and I think she'd do fine.  Besides, the Andersens are right across the
street if she needs anything."  Allison knew that Christina was going
through a rough patch, but she was still a bright, caring girl and she
needed a chance to show that she could handle herself.

"That's exactly the problem, Alli, she is growing up," Charlie said.

"Scully--uh, Dana," Mulder said.  "Want to shoot some pool?"

"Yes," she said.  She and Mulder did not belong in this discussion, that
was certain.  She'd play pool with Mulder and let him win.  Mulder
really wasn't that good at pool, but he did like to win.

There were two pool tables in the Village Tavern, one of them
unoccupied.  And no wonder.  It was in terrible shape, not even level. 
Scully racked up the balls and broke, then stepped aside to let Mulder
"run" the table.  In no time at all it was her turn again.

Mulder watched as Scully scratched.  He'd never seen her play this
badly, but then again the table sucked and her mind wasn't really on the
game.  And any game of pool that you could walk away from without a
fistfight was a good game, as far as Mulder was concerned.  

Scully was so competitive, Mulder thought.  There were a few areas where
she conceded Mulder's superiority, but in general she hated to lose. 
Pool was a game of skill, not strength, and Scully would make life
miserable for him if she didn't beat him.

Mulder took his turn, not wanting to score, but she'd left him so many
shots that it would be obvious if he didn't get a few.  He knocked in a
couple of balls then went for a third, tapping the cue ball so lightly
that it kissed against its target and came to a stop.

Scully gave him a funny look.  She chalked up her stick, thinking there
was no way she could miss the shot he'd lined up for her.  But it was
okay now, since he had a couple of points himself.

"Let me give you a free lesson."  The offer came from a buck-toothed man
of about thirty.  "Your boyfriend obviously hasn't played much."

Give me a break, Mulder thought.  This guy might as well carry a big
neon sign that said, "Loser."  He was wearing a black pinstriped jacket
over his tan Dockers, plus brown wingtips.  

"We'll manage, thanks," Mulder said, taking a step toward Scully.

"He's not my boyfriend," Scully said.  Mulder's chivalry annoyed her. 
Did he honestly think she needed his help with this clown?

"Oh, even better," said the clown.  "My name is Jeff, Jeff Nelson.  Can
I buy you a drink?"

"Let's go, *Dana*," Mulder said pointedly.  "We have some plans to
discuss." 

"A drink would be very nice, Jeff," Scully said, "but I'll buy my own,
if you don't mind."

Jeff nearly swooned with joy.  He had found the perfect woman.  

"Enjoy yourself, *Dana*," Mulder said.  He knew she would never admit
that she'd set this up only to humiliate him.  She'd say she felt sorry
for the guy, or she'd find some way to put the blame on Mulder.  

Feeling like pond scum, Mulder rejoined Allison and Charlie at their
table. 

Scully and Jeff found seats at the bar.  Allison practically gaped at
them.

All this time I thought Mulder was the problem, Allison thought.  But
no, Dana is a first-class dodo in her own right.

"Looks like your sister made a new friend," she told Charlie.  Charlie
looked over to the bar and started to laugh.

"Oh, this is too good," he said.  "Dana's got herself buttonholed by the
biggest asshole in Minnesota.  And Jeff is trying to sell his pyramid
scheme to an FBI agent.  Let's go home and leave her here."

"Charlie!" Allison said.  "We will do no such thing."  She strutted over
to the bar, reflecting that "biggest asshole in Minnesota" was a hotly
contested title.  

"Dana!  We're leaving!" she announced.  "Now march!"  Allison was not
going to take no for an answer and fortunately Dana was ready to make
her escape.  She gave Jeff an apologetic little shrug as she walked out
with Allison.

Mulder dropped some bills on the table for the tip.  The cash register
was by the bar.

"I'll meet you outside," Charlie said. He could hardly wait to
congratulate his sister on her conquest of the village idiot.

Mulder went over to pay the check, and Jeff sidled in next to him.

"You're well rid of her, you know," Jeff said.

"Excuse me?"  Mulder said.

"Did you see what happened?" Jeff asked.  "She's going home with that
other chick."

"Well, that explains it," Mulder said.

"Lesbians," Jeff whispered knowingly.  "They're everywhere."


end of 2/17

Backtracking
(3/17)
Disclaimer, etc., with part 1



Allison corralled Dana into the back seat of the car--they had to talk. 
Charlie and Mulder could sit up front and plan the ski trip.  

"You have a problem, girl," Allison said.  "What are you trying to do?"

"You mean Jeff?  I'm not trying to do anything, Allison.  I just had a
drink with him," Dana said.

"You had a drink with him.  Why?  Because you liked him?  Because you
were intrigued by his offer of a ground-floor opportunity in the
wonderful world of wireless communication?  Damn it, Dana, I want you to
think about this."  

Allison was anything but starry-eyed.  Unlike her brother-in-law Bill,
she understood that Dana found fulfillment in the life she was leading. 
But watching Dana and her partner together, she was certain that both of
them were looking for something more.

"Allison, I know you're a born matchmaker, but you have to get this out
of your mind.  Mulder is my partner.  He's not my boyfriend, he's not my
lover.  He's just a guy I work with, okay?  There is no reason it should
matter to him if I have a drink with someone."  

Charlie and Mulder, in the front of the car, had most of the trip
planned.  They would probably be able to get a cabin this time of year.  

"We'll have to take along two sleeping bags and folding cots," Charlie
said.  "The cabin only has beds for two.  It will be a little tight, but
mostly we'll be outdoors anyway."

Oh joy, Mulder thought.  Sharing a one-room cabin with Scully.  Scully
would be thrilled, too.  She'd been so delighted about sharing a house
with him at Arcadia. At least Charlie and Allison would be along this
time.  Bunking with three Scullys would be a little easier.

In the back of the car, Allison was whispering something.  Unlike her
daughter, she was able to whisper quietly.

"Do you really think it doesn't matter to him?" she said.  She had
caught the dismay in Mulder's face as he contemplated the close quarters
with Dana Scully.  "Look at him, Dana.  He looks like a wounded puppy."

"You'll love the skiing," Charlie was telling Mulder.  "Cross country
skiing is easy.  The hardest part is waxing, but I have a book that will
tell you everything you need to know."

"Don't give him that book, Charlie, it makes it way too complicated,"
Allison said, joining their conversation.

"Waxing is very important.  Sure, you can get by with shoddy technique,
but--"  Charlie and Allison had been having this argument as long as
they'd been skiing together, so he wasn't surprised when she interrupted
him.

"Scully!" Allison said sharply, although she wasn't really angry. 
"You're asking for it."

"Nordic skiing really isn't hard to learn," Dana told Mulder. "Allison
taught me a couple of years ago.  And I can wax your skis for you."

Charlie gave Mulder a little nod to assure him that the book would be
forthcoming.

"Okay, Thor-the-Thunder-God, why don't you teach him about snowshoeing?"
Allison said.

"My wife is casting aspersions on my Nordic survival skills," Charlie
commented.  "She's trying to give you the impression that I'm not the
world's greatest snowshoe artist."

"Charlie hates snowshoes," Allison said.  "But unless your skis are made
for bushwhacking, you really need a trail to ski on.  So you use the
snowshoes to pack down the snow and stamp out a trail."

"Or you let your wife do that part," Charlie said.  "Otherwise you can
wait for a snowmobiler to come through and leave you some tracks.  Then
you shake your fist at him for defiling the wilderness, and off you go
on your skis."

"That won't work this time, Charles Scully.  The truck will drop us off
as close as possible, but we'll need to use snowshoes and a toboggan to
drag our stuff from the road to the cabin," Allison explained.

"I think I have to work tomorrow," Charlie said with a big grin.

"No problem, handsome.  I've got plenty of pre-cooked meals in the
freezer, and the Andersens are right across the street if you need
something," Allison said.  

"Oh no!  You can't leave me alone with two adolescents," Charlie
groaned.  "It isn't safe."

They had reached the house, and Charlie was going to signal to turn into
his driveway.  But he didn't, because there were the two adolescents,
playing basketball at the hoop over the garage.  

Christina and Oliver, playing nicely together.  What a wonderful sight. 
Their parents sighed with satisfaction, until they  realized something
that Mulder and Dana had noticed right away.

The Lariat rental car was no longer in the driveway, where Mulder had
left it.  It was parked in the street.  Somebody had moved it.

==================================================================

Mulder and Scully sat side by side on the couch in the Scullys' living
room, trying to ignore the shouts wafting up to them from the family
room.

"You say you want me to be responsible, but you don't let me take any
responsibility!" Christina was shrieking.  "I just moved the car so we
could shoot hoops."

"As you are well aware, young lady, you are fourteen years old and you
do not have a driver's license," Allison answered.

"And where did you learn to drive, anyway?" Charlie bellowed.

"I told you we'd get in trouble," Oliver said.  "You wouldn't listen."

"I just wanted to play basketball with my brother!  Is that a crime?"
Christina wailed.  "I hate you all!"

"You come back here!" Charlie shouted again, and then came the sound of
Christina stomping up the stairs from the family room.

Dana grabbed something to read from a pile of magazines on the coffee
table and slapped it into Mulder's hand.  Then she grabbed something for
herself.

Mulder buried his nose in a pamphlet titled "Federal Express Terms and
Conditions" as Scully flipped through an old copy of "Parade."  

Christina could have continued up the stairs to her room, but she
didn't.  She marched up to the couch to confront its cowering occupants.

"I hate you too, Aunt Dana!" she announced.   

"Christina..." Dana began, but the girl ignored her.

"I'm sorry you had to be subjected to this scene," she said to Mulder in
a shaky voice. "I'm used to it, please don't worry about me."

Then she turned her back and stormed away up the half-flight of stairs
that led to the bedrooms.  

The whole house shook when she got to her room and slammed the door.  

"I'm going to make a run for it," Mulder said quietly, and Dana nodded. 
But there was still the matter of retrieving his car keys.  Mulder hoped
that someone had remembered to get them back from Christina, because he
was simply not that brave.

More conversation drifted up from the family room, and then Oliver
himself came up the stairs.

"I'm supposed to entertain you," he said.  "Mom and Dad have things to
discuss."

"We'll be up in a minute," Allison called, as Oliver sat down in the big
lounge chair.

"I was hoping we'd get a chance to talk," Dana told her nephew, then
turned to address Mulder.  "Oliver has some intriguing theories about
UFOs."

"I'd like to hear them," said Mulder.  "Could you give me an overview?"

"I think that UFO sightings and related phenomena are best understood as
a kind of contemporary folklore," Oliver said.  "They are the modern
equivalent of fairytales and religious visions."

"You think that people dream up little green men and the like to explain
things they don't understand?" Mulder asked.  "Like inventing an angry
spirit to explain why a volcano erupted?"

"You have a sanguine understanding of mythology in general," Oliver
said.

"Really?" said Mulder.  "I don't think I've ever been accused of that
before."

"The purpose of myths is to maintain the status quo.  To keep people in
their proper place.  To stop them from asking questions," Oliver said.  

"That's true," Mulder said, "but it doesn't preclude the existence of
extraterrestrials or even extraterrestrial visitations."

Scully was beaming with pride.   Now Mulder would have to admit how
intelligent and articulate Oliver was.

"No, it doesn't," Oliver agreed.  "My aunt, for one, is convinced that
the aliens are already here."

"Your Aunt Dana?" Mulder asked.

Charlie came up into the living room and gave Mulder the car keys.

"I'm sorry about what happened," he said.  "Let me know if you find any
damage to the car."

"Don't worry about it," Mulder said, "and thanks for everything.  Can
you give me directions to my motel?"  He gave Charlie the confirmation
slip from the government travel office.

"I don't know where this is," Charlie said, and he showed it to Allison,
who had entered the room after him.

"Oh my stars," she said.  "This is over an hour away.  You'd have to
drive back to the airport, and then out past St. Paul."

"That's crazy," Charlie said to Mulder.  "You'll stay with us.  You can
use Chrissy's room, and she can share with Oliver for tonight."

"Da-ad!" Oliver groaned, and then he turned to Mulder.  "You stay with
me.  You can pick which bunk.  Please!"

"Go get your suitcase, Mulder," Allison said.  "We can work out the
details later. Now march."

===================================================================

"You should have a good time," Allison said wistfully.  "Plenty of snow
left from winter, but the temperatures should be moderate."  She had
piles of ski clothes, both hers and her husband's, stacked on the bed in
the guest room, and she was helping Dana pack for the trip to Temperance
River.  Allison and Charlie would not be going along.  They had a
wayward daughter to attend to.

"It would have been a lot more fun if you were coming," Dana said. 
"Anyway, it's not supposed to be a vacation--we're looking for
something."  

"You're looking for Charlie's dream," Allison said.  "Do you know how
strange that sounds?"  She was placing stacks of long underwear and
socks in the suitcase.

"Yes, I know, Allison.  That's the nature of our work--strange," Dana
said.  "Hey, how much stuff are you lending us?  We're only going for
two days!"

"I know it seems like a lot, but you may need it.  Cross-country skiing
is hard work--you get hot and you sweat.  You're going to want to
change," Allison said.   Allison was covering the long johns with a row
of sweaters, but Dana caught a glimpse of something else among the
woolens.

"Allison!" she exclaimed, pulling something lacy and black from the
suitcase.  "I brought my own pajamas, thank you very much!"  

"It might get warm in the cabin at night," Allison said earnestly. 
"You'll have a fire going, and you'll be more comfortable in something
light."

Scully raised her eyebrows and shook her head.

"Okay, Sister Dana Katherine, let's see what you brought," Allison
challenged her.

"It's new," Dana said, holding up a nightgown for Allison's inspection.

"Dana," she said, "what are you trying to prove?" 

"What do you mean?" Dana asked her.  "It's warm, it's practical..."

"My grandmother wouldn't wear that," Allison answered.  "Little Red
Riding Hood's grandmother wouldn't wear that."

"Quilted flannel," Scully said.  "I like flannel."

"You like ruffles?  You like pink and blue checks?  Dana, this nightie
should come with a tube of denture adhesive."

"Allison, read my lips.  Mulder is my partner and my friend and that is
all he'll ever be," Dana said.

"Is he seeing someone else?"

"No."

"Are you?"

"No."

"Is he gay?"

"He never mentioned it," Dana answered.

"Are you?" Allison asked.  

"Not to my knowledge," Dana said.

"You don't sleep with anyone, he doesn't sleep with anyone, you like
each other, you love each other, but there can never be anything more
between you," Allison summarized.  

"Exactly," Dana said, relieved that her sister-in-law had finally caught
on.

"How do you know?" Allison asked.  "Don't raise your eyebrows at me, I
want you to think about it.  Because I know what I see, Dana, and I see
enough sparks flying to start a fire.  I want to know who keeps pouring
water on the kindling."

"You want to know why I'm not sleeping with Mulder?  You really want to
press the issue?"  She couldn't believe that Allison was being so
pushy.  She couldn't believe that she was tolerating it.

"Talk to me, girl," Allison said.

"We tried.  No good. Okay?"  It cost her plenty to make this admission,
but it still wasn't enough for Allison.

"You slept with him?  You *did it*?"

"Yes, Allison, we did it.  We went all the way.  We made the beast with
two backs. The old in-out.  Hide the salami. We had sex."

"And?"

"And what?  What else do you want to know, Dr. Ruth?"  Dana was angry
and embarrassed.  If anyone else had talked to her the way Allison was
doing...

"What happened?  You didn't come?  He called out the wrong name? 
Somebody farted?" Allison hoped this intrusion wouldn't ruin their
friendship.  Maybe she should mind her own business--Charlie certainly
thought so--but she didn't want to see Dana turn her back on love.

"He didn't respect me in the morning," Dana said.

Allison gave her a look.

"Sit down," Dana said. "You really want to know what happened?"  Allison
nodded and sat on the bed.  Dana started to pace.

"Start at the beginning," Allison said.

"We were on a case in the middle of nowhere. We were staying in a
motel."

"Separate rooms?" Allison asked.

"Of course separate rooms," Scully said.  "Except something happened to
Mulder's room."

"What happened?" Allison looked worried; she was imagining arson or a
drive-by shooting.

"Never mind.  There were no other vacancies."

"In the middle of nowhere?  All the rooms were taken?" Allison asked.

"Yes.  High school reunion," Dana said.

"Okay.  No other room.  So you had to share?"

"Yes.  I should have slept in the car," Dana said.  "Or made him sleep
in the car."

"You could have taken turns," Allison said.  It was a joke, but Dana
nodded seriously.

"They set up a roll-away bed in the room.  I told him I'd use it.  But
no, he wouldn't hear of it.  So I got ready for bed..."

"This was before you bought your beautiful flannel nightie?" Allison
asked.

"I had on my blue silk pajamas.  Is that all right?" Dana asked
pointedly.

"Yes, they're cute," Allison said.

"Thank you, I'm glad you approve.  I was in the bed, and he was lounging
around on the folding bed, trying to look pensive and sexy..."

"Hard work for a man like that," Allison said.

"Are you going to keep interrupting?" Dana asked.  

"Nope, not another word," Allison promised.

"Anyway, he started tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable.  And
then he said that there seemed to be plenty of extra room in my bed." 
Dana stopped.  She sounded so anguished that Allison regretted her
attempts at levity.  

"He looked so insolent," Dana continued.  "He looked so... good.  I
said, Okay, why don't you join me."

Allison nodded.

"And... he did.  And... we did.  And... it was wonderful," Dana said in 
a whisper.  "Very wonderful."

"That's good," Allison said.

"No, it was not good.  It was bad and it was wrong," Dana said.  "Don't
you see, Allison, I forced him."

"You forced him?  No, Dana, I don't see.  How did you force him?"

"I called his bluff.  He couldn't have backed down at that point, he
would have been too embarrassed.  I made him do it."

"Is that how Mulder sees it?" Allison asked.

"Yes," Dana said.  "Yes he does.  You should have seen him the next
morning, he wouldn't look at me."

"Did you ask him why?" Allison questioned.

"I knew why.  Because he'd been betrayed.  Because he'd been used by
someone he trusted," Dana said.  She was miserable but dry-eyed.

"Do you want my advice?" Allison asked.

"Absolutely not," Dana said.

"Tomorrow night, you tell him there's room for two in *his* bed.  See
what he says."

"I will not!  Anyway, you said the cabin has twin beds."

"It does, Dana.  But believe me, there's room for two."

======================================================================

"Wanna watch a movie?" Oliver was hanging down so far from the top bunk
that Mulder was afraid he was going to fall out of bed.

"Sure," Mulder said.  Oliver's foot bounced onto the mattress of the
lower bunk before he landed lightly on the floor.  Oliver shoved a
cassette into his VCR and bounded back up to his bunk, again using the
lower bed as a step.   Mulder had moved over to allow for this maneuver,
but he grimaced as Oliver hit his mattress, sending it sagging down with
a groan and a creak.

"Sorry."  Again Mulder was greeted by the sight of Oliver's big round
head hanging upside down.

"It's okay," Mulder said as the movie started.  The tape rolled right
into the credits, Mulder noticed, without the usual previews and ads.

"Have you seen this one yet?" Oliver asked.

"Uh, Oliver, where did you get it?" Mulder asked. It was "The Matrix." 
It had opened in theaters a couple of weeks ago.

"D-oh!" Oliver smacked his hand to his forehead Homer Simpson-style,
then did another two-step vault, out of the bed and over to the VCR.  He
slapped the "eject" button and tossed the tape into the open clothes
hamper.   

"Wanna watch..."  Oliver sorted through his tapes nervously, casting
another half dozen into the hamper.

"You seem to have an interesting collection," Mulder said.  Who would
have thought that a little kid in a Minneapolis suburb would have access
to bootleg videos?  

Oliver shoved "The Lion King" into the VCR and started the tape.  He
knew Mulder wouldn't arrest him.  He'd never heard of anyone being
arrested for just owning a bootleg tape, let alone a kid.  His only real
concern was whether Mulder would tell his parents.   

"Good movie, huh?" Oliver said with as much enthusiasm as he could
muster.  "Great music!  Elton John!"  Grown-ups loved Elton John.   

"'Aladdin' is better," Mulder said.  'Dumbo' was better than the two of
them put together, but he didn't know if Oliver had ever seen that one. 

"For sure," Oliver said.  "In 'Aladdin', a street urchin becomes a
prince.  But 'Lion King' is blatantly counterrevolutionary."  

"Yeah!" Mulder agreed.  He'd tried to explain that to Scully, but she
told him it was just a cartoon.  "Nobody tries to overthrow Scar, even
though he's a terrible king.  Only Simba can dethrone him, because he's
the legitimate heir."  

"That's what I say," said Oliver happily.  Everyone else seemed to think
he was taking the movie too seriously, but this Mulder guy got the
point.  "Hey, do you know the story of Heimdall, how he became the
father of mankind?"

"Heimdall," Mulder said. "The Norse god who guarded Bifrost, the rainbow
bridge between heaven and earth."  Mulder had been leafing through one
of Oliver's mythology books.  

"Yeah, that guy.  The story is, one day he came to earth.  He met a
couple who were very poor, but they took him in and shared their meager
supper with him.  They were not able to have children, but nine months
after Heimdall's visit, they had a son. Then Heimdall came to a second
couple, and they couldn't have children either.  They weren't poor like
the first couple," Oliver said.

"But they wouldn't share?" Mulder asked.

"No, they shared with him too.  Only their food was better.  And nine
months later, they had a son," Oliver said.

Mulder had a sudden vision, but he shook it off.  Mulder was thinking of
babies with tails.

"Then Heimdall came to a third couple, and they were really, really
rich, and they couldn't have children either," Oliver said.  "They
entertained him in style."

"And nine months later..." Mulder suggested.

"Yeah, nine months later, they also had a son," Oliver said.

"So the story shows that whether you are rich or poor, as long as you
are generous with what you have, you will be rewarded," Mulder
concluded.

"No!" Oliver said.  "That's not the point at all.  Because the first
couple, their son was named Thrall, which means slave.  And his
descendants became the serfs.   The second couple, their son was named
Karl, which means freeman.  His descendants were the freemen.  The third
son was named Jarl--that means Earl.  He started up the royal line."

"Oh," said Mulder.  Oliver had latched onto this story because it fit in
with his theory, but his interpretation seemed indisputable.  "A caste
system, complete with divine origin."

"Yeah," said Oliver.  "And everyone accepted it.  They even named the
baby Thrall.  Why would you do that, give a kid a name like Slave?"

"Or Fox," Mulder said.

"Fox is kind of cool.  How would you like to be named Oliver?" the boy
asked.  He turned off the VCR and climbed back to this bunk, actually
using the ladder for once.

"You don't like it?" Mulder asked.  At least it was a name, he was
thinking.

"It's totally dorky," Oliver said.  "Anything would be better."

Mulder decided not to ask him about his middle name, in case it turned
out to be Wendell.

"You could change it," Mulder said.  "How about Jarl?"

"Right!  Seriously, I've thought about it.  Did you ever consider
changing your name?" Oliver asked.

"On and off, for years.  I think it's too late now," Mulder said.  Just
as well that he'd never taken any action.  When he was Oliver's age, he
was leaning toward Carl.  Carl Jung Sagan Yastrzemski Mulder.

"I was thinking about Dawson," Oliver said.  "Or Brandon."  

Mulder didn't answer.  The kid's voice sounded muffled, as if he might
fall asleep if Mulder gave him a chance.

"Or maybe not.  Call me Scully," Oliver muttered.  "Just Scully."

"Good night, Scully," Mulder said quietly.  He repositioned himself
diagonally across the bed, trying to find a less uncomfortable position,
but his feet still hung over the wooden bedframe.  Sleep was a long way
off.

He opened the mythology book Oliver had loaned him. Here was an
interesting story:

Loki, the Norse god of mischief, assumed the form of a young mare in
order to seduce a stallion.  Later he gave birth to an eight-legged
colt.

Like to see Odo try that, Mulder thought.

===============================================================

Christina heard a soft knock on her door.  She stretched sleepily,
tossing her long, blond hair from her face and adjusting the straps on
her simple yet sophisticated Calvin Klein tank top.

"I know this is wrong," Mulder said, as he entered her darkened chamber,
"but I can't stay away."  He was wearing those stretchy bikini-type
briefs and a Brittney Spears concert shirt.  Mulder loved Brittney
Spears.  

**No.  What am I thinking?  Mulder is totally indifferent to Brittney
Spears.**  

Okay, a Ricky Martin shirt.  Mulder was a big fan.

**Maybe he's met Ricky.  Maybe they're friends.**

Yes, they were friends.  Ricky always sent Mulder backstage passes.

"My darling," Christina said.  "I feel it too."  She noticed that her
breasts were larger than she remembered them.  They were the kind of
breasts that men liked a lot.

Mulder sighed with relief.

"They won't understand, Christina--"

**No, that's all wrong.  When Mulder really cares about someone, he uses
their last name.**

"They'll try to break us up, Scully," he said.

"We won't let them," Christina promised him.  

"We may have to run away," Mulder cautioned her.  "And Scully, you're so
young and I'm so old.  Perhaps one day you'll grow tired of me."

"That will never happen, my love.  Some things are forever."

Reassured by the wisdom and sincerity of the blossoming young woman,
Mulder took her in his arms at last....


end of 3/17

Subject: NEW: Backtracking (4/17)



Mulder and Scully were driving north on I-35 early the next morning in a
rented Taurus jammed full with borrowed clothes and equipment.  Two
pairs of skinny skis were on the roof along with a wooden toboggan. 
Snow shoes and backpacks filled the trunk. An insulated cooler, solidly
packed with Allison Scully's precooked dinners, was in the rear seat.

The Ford, the white lines of the highway, Mulder's nasal monotone... it
was all so familiar.  Allison didn't appreciate what the partnership
meant to her, Scully thought.  It was easy for Alli to say she should
make a move, tell Mulder how she felt, but she could end up losing
everything.

Mulder had been telling her stories from Oliver's book for the last half
hour, and she'd been tuning in and out.  Story after story about Loki,
the god of evil, and how he could appear in any form.  Now he was
telling her about how Loki turned himself into a mare to seduce a
stallion.

"Why did Loki want to seduce a stallion?" Scully asked suddenly, to
Mulder's surprise.  He didn't think she'd been listening.

"It's a long story.  Basically, the gods needed some construction work
done.  The wall that enclosed Asgard, where they lived, had been
destroyed in a war, leaving them with no protection against the giants. 
They hired an itinerant stonemason for the job. He said he'd rebuild the
wall, but in payment, he asked for the hand of Freya, one of the
goddesses.  He also wanted the sun and the moon," Mulder said.

Scully laughed.

"This sounds like Danny's story about how he decided to finish the
basement himself," she said.

"Unlike Danny, the Norse gods agreed to the contractor's terms," Mulder
said.  "But they stipulated that the work had to be done within six
months, or they wouldn't pay."

"Sounds reasonable," Scully said.

"Not really," Mulder replied.  "Asgard was rather large.  Anyway, the
stonemason accepted their terms, but only if he could use his stallion
to help him."

"Aha.  There's the horse," Scully said.

"Yes.  The mason and his horse worked quickly, and the gods became
worried.  Odin, the patriarch, threatened to kill Loki if the work was
done on time," Mulder related.

"Time out!  How was this Loki's fault?" Scully asked.

"The six-month limit was Loki's idea," Mulder explained.  "The plan was
that they'd get part of the wall rebuilt for free.  Loki figured that
the mason could never finish in six months, and they wouldn't have to
meet his outrageous demands."

"So Loki decided to distract the mason's stallion," Scully said.

"Hey, who's telling this story?" Mulder asked her.  "Anyway, as you have
guessed, Loki decided to distract the mason's stallion.  He took the
form of a young mare and lured the stallion away.  The horse did not
return until the next day, but it was too late.  The work could not be
completed on time."

"So the Norse gods got to keep the sun and the moon, and Freya did not
have to marry the mason," Scully concluded.

"The mason turned out to be a rock giant, and Thor killed him with his
mighty hammer.  But months later, when Loki returned, he brought along
an eight-legged colt, which he presented to Odin as a gift," Mulder
said.  "The colt was the offspring of the stallion and Loki, as a mare."

"Mulder," Scully said, suddenly very serious.  "I don't think Loki was
really the mother."

Mulder's crazy story had taken one turn after another, getting sillier
and sillier.  But the ending sounded believable.  An abduction, a hybrid
offspring...

Mulder glanced over at Scully, trying to make eye contact, but she was
looking down.

"It's just a story," he said.

==================================================================

Mulder and Scully arrived at Temperance River around noon, but it was a
couple of hours before they were settled into the cabin.  Then Mulder
took Charlie's racing skis outside to utilize his newly acquired waxing
knowledge.

Mulder used the propane torch to soften some green wax, which he rubbed
on the skis in long strokes. He took a rag from the tackle box and used
it to rub the undersurface of the skis.   Next came the cork.  He buffed
the wax flat and smooth. So far so good.  Maybe another wax for the
"kick" zone, the part of the ski that would propel him into a glide as
he stepped forward off the rear ski.  Something a little softer. 
Blue.   

Working in front of the rough cabin, waxing his skis in the brilliant
sunshine, Mulder felt unexpectedly melancholy.  This was a parody of a
winter vacation, he thought.  He was outside getting ready for some
cross-country skiing, the little woman was in the cabin fixing lunch. 
It could have been for real, but that was not what Scully had chosen. 
He had to be content to be her partner; to strive for more would put
everything at risk.

"Scully," he called in to her.  "Do you want me to wax your skis too?"

"Don't even think about it!" she called out to him.  "Come on in and
have lunch."

Mulder pulled off his sweater as he came through the door; even without
a fire going, it was noticeably warmer inside.

"What's for lunch?" he asked.  "Herring and mead?"

"Close," said Scully.  "Allison packed us tuna surprise."  

"After we eat, let's go back out and look for the waterfall," Mulder
said.  "I want to find that place from from Charlie's dream."  

"We'll try out the skis," Scully said.  She didn't think Mulder could
face another outing on snowshoes.  She didn't think she'd be up to it
herself.

"I'll take the heavy camera and the electronics," Mulder said.  "You can
carry the other cameras and the bag with the sweaters and stuff."  He
popped the top on a can of Pepsi and slugged some back.

"I'll take the big pack, at least until you get the hang of it," Sully
said.  "It's gong to throw your balance way off.  Anyway, I've got a
lower center of gravity."  She didn't mention it, but she was not going
to let him touch the big camera until he proved to her he'd be able to
keep it out of the snow. 

"Scully, if you can walk, you can ski.  Right?" That's what they said
about cross-country skiing.

"Not quite," she answered.  "If you can walk, you can learn to ski." 
She folded up the foil wrap from their lunch.  They'd have to carry all
their trash out with them when they left the cabin.  Mulder would
finally have a legitimate reason to crush soda cans.

Mulder got up from the table.  Apparently Scully had appointed herself
the world authority on Nordic skiing. Perhaps if he was lucky the Snow
Czar would permit him to go outside.  

"I'll give it a try while you get your skis waxed," he said as he put on
his ski boots.   

Mulder was using that careful, restrained tone, Scully noticed.  Scully
could hear the disapproval in his voice, and sometimes she just wanted
to shake him and scream it out:

"I'm sorry I made you sleep with me!  I'm sorry I used you!   Now get
over it!"

But she said nothing.  She concentrated on smoothing the wrinkles out of
all the aluminum foil.   

Outside of the cabin, Mulder got his skis off the waxing rack and set
them flat on the snow.  Then he had to fit his boots into the bindings
and lock them down.  The first one snapped in place after a couple of
tries, but the second one was more difficult, in part because he was
forced to put his weight on the foot with the ski.  Finally he released
the first ski and tried to put on the second one.  He discovered that
the binding on that ski really was harder to snap down, but he managed
it at last.  Now for the other one.

Scully was out of the cabin by now.  Mulder, who was crouched over his
skis, looked up to find her standing over him, observing his
predicament.  She used her ski pole to lock his open binding.  He gave
her a withering look as he stood up.

"Get over it," she said.  "And you're holding the poles wrong."  She
wanted to place his hands through the loops correctly, but he wouldn't
let go of the poles.  She stuck her tongue out at him and  pulled his
hat down over his ears.  

"You're such a hump," he said.

"I know.  So are you," she answered.  

Mulder waited for her to get engrossed in the waxing process so he could
take his first steps unobserved.  But she never did.  She took no time
at all to select a wax, and then she used it to scribble on the running
surface of her skis.  Ignoring rags and corks, she wiped her glove
across the wax in a few long strokes.  She was done.

"That's pitiful," Mulder said.

"The snow's cold and dry," Scully said.  "It will be fine."  

Her ski bindings were entirely different from his, with some fat spring
going around the back of her boots, but she hunched down on the skis and
got both boots fastened in without a problem.  She sidestepped until she
was next to him.

"It's really a lot like running," she started to explain.  "You step off
the back ski and onto the forward one.  Try it without the poles
first."  

"Scully, Charlie told me everything I need to know, okay?  You just
toddle along, and I'll try not to knock you over when I pass," Mulder
said.  If she would just leave him alone he'd be fine. He didn't feel
quite as brash as he sounded, but he'd always excelled in athletic
endeavors and it would be pretty pathetic if he couldn't manage to
outrun his diminutive partner, who, apart from everything else, was a
girl. 

Scully could see that she'd have to let him go it alone in his
testosterone haze, but she wanted to make sure he wouldn't actually kill
himself.

"Ever tried downhill skiing?" she asked.

"Of course," he answered.

Good, she thought, he has some clue how to stop.  And they were just
going to do a circuit or two near the cabin; they'd need their packs and
equipment before they went exploring.

"Have fun," she said, stepping past him onto the path of flattened snow
they'd created earlier when they'd snowshoed from the rudimentary access
road to the cabin.  The forestry service truck had brought them as close
as possible before dropping them off, and the driver had placed their
gear in a careful pile.  

Very conscious that Mulder was watching her, she broke into her stride,
using rapid little steps where the path climbed upward and longer ones
where the ground was level.  She was pleased with her performance,
pleased that she hadn't lost the technique.  She warmed up quickly and
within ten minutes she had to stop and remove her zippered windbreaker.  

She and Mulder were both decked out in borrowed equipment.  Allison had
brought out her best for Scully to use, and the fit was adequate though
not perfect.  The pleated tweed pants were too roomy, but the suspenders
held them in place and the gaiters that covered her lower legs contained
the extra length.   

Mulder, on the other hand, was stuck with Charlie's cast-offs.  The
traditional Nordic ski pants were knee britches, knickers that reached
just below the knee and buttoned in place.  Charlie thought they made
him look like a troll.  Mulder, with his lighter build, looked kind of
cute, but he hated them too.  

Scully was wearing Allison's favorite thermals, made of luxurious pink
silk.  Mulder was encased in the union suit that Charlie wouldn't wear
anymore because it was so itchy.  

Mulder had the better skis.  They seemed absurdly long to Mulder, but in
fact they were the right length for him.  Charlie was a strong skier and
he liked his skis stiff, for the added power.  That was going to be a
problem for Mulder, until he got the hang of it, especially where the
trails ran uphill.  

Scully's wooden skis weighed a ton, but they would glide easily on the
fine, dry snow.  They were really too short for Allison, but she'd
bought them for next to nothing at a garage sale.  This kind of
old-fashioned ski was perfect to use in the back country.   

Once Scully was out of sight, Mulder got into motion.  Charlie had told
him about the diagonal stride, the basic step he'd need.  Coordinating
the poles and skis was easy to do.  Forward with the left ski and the
right pole.  Then with the right ski and the left pole.

But it didn't feel right.  It felt like a death march.  

"It's really a lot like running," Scully had said, but this was nothing
like running.  He dropped his stance and tried it with more spring in
his step.  Better, but now the poles weren't cooperating as much.  He
tucked both of them under one arm and, as Scully had suggested, "tried
it without the poles."  It was like running!  It was better than
running, faster and smoother.  Instinctively he used a quicker, shorter
stride to work his way over the first incline and then picked up speed
where the ground became level.  Another little hill, and he crested that
one too.  

He was growing uncomfortably warm, but that wasn't his only problem. 
The trail was sloping downward now, and his skis were picking up speed
and threatening to take off without him.  He was going to fall.  He
thought about throwing himself to the side of the trail, but before he
could plan the move he had fallen backward.  He continued down the trail
on his back, coming to a stop after about a hundred feet, where the
trail turned uphill again.  

He felt only a little shaken, ready to get to his feet, but the skis
kept sliding out from under him.  He tried to use the poles to get some
stability and they helped.  A few more tries and he would have it.

Way up ahead, the Snow Czar was having the time of her life.  Scully had
left the flattened path created  by their treks from the road to the
cabin and stamped out a new trail leading up into the woods.  It was a
steep trail, and she'd had to move sideways for most of it.  But once
she'd finished it, what joy.  The trail was rough, winding through the
trees, and as she rode it down, she found herself leaving the ground at
times, launched into flight by the bigger bumps.

On his feet again, Mulder brushed himself off and considered his
options.  He thought about retracing his steps to try to wipe out the
evidence of his undignified fall.  But it wasn't worth it.  He'd
probably fall again.  And Scully would fall too.  He'd see to it himself
if necessary.  He decided to continue toward the road.  He tried to use
the poles this time, but they seemed to hold him back, if anything.  He
wished he had let Scully correct whatever it was he was doing wrong with
them.

Scully hauled herself back up her roller-coaster trail.  From the top,
she tried to peer through the conifers and maples for a glimpse of
Mulder, but the growth was far too thick.    This was a real forest. 
She could see a trail, though.  The snow wasn't flattened or groomed,
but nature, or hikers, had created a pathway among the trees, and Scully
decided to explore.  

Skiing through the forest filled Scully with a serene pleasure.  It was
cooler here and while she was working harder she was covering less
ground.  The trees kept out some of the sunshine and also, evidently,
some of the snow.  The coverage was meager, and in places where tree
limbs or saplings had fallen, she could see skinny twigs poking through
the surface.

Fallen tree limbs.  She and Mulder would have to gather some of these
later on.  Their cabin had a supply of firewood for their use, but it
would be their responsibility to replace what they used for the next
occupants.

Scully wondered how Mulder was doing.  She didn't doubt that he'd teach
himself the basics.  Fox Mulder was the most self-sufficient person she 
knew. It was a part of his personality that others usually
misunderstood.  
It was one of the things that had drawn her to him from the beginning, 
that quality of not needing anyone.  If only he had a little less of 
that quality...

Well, he was who he was.  Her friend, her partner, the center of her
life, but not her lover.  Time to get back to him so they could look for
that waterfall from Charlie's dream.  And she wouldn't let Mulder carry
the big camera no matter how well he skied.  The better he was the more
likely he was to attempt some flamboyant trick.

Instead of turning around and going down from the hillside by way of her
private trail, she decided to head back through the woods.  She'd miss
out on her bone-shaking thrill ride but it would be better preparation
for the exploring they would have to do.  As Scully followed the trail
around the next big tree, she saw something that made her glad she'd
chosen this route.  An unexpected burst of color against the white snow,
a surprise present from Mother Nature.

A patch of purple flowers, growing right up through the snow. Fragile
and small, but exquisite.  She took her time to look at them, admire
them.  Flowers blooming in the snow.  It made no sense at all, but it
didn't have to.  They were beautiful.

Mulder, meanwhile, was moving way too fast to do more than notice his
surroundings. Charlie had assured him he'd make a great skier, and it
was true. Now that Mulder was using  the loops on the ski poles to let
the forward pole swing ahead of him, he was soaring along on the snow. 
He skied the length of the trail without seeing Scully.  As he
approached the access road, he began to angle his skis into a snowplow
position, to slow down and stop.  He was doing everything right, but one
ski caught on a rough spot and before he could shift his weight to the
other ski he was tossed off his feet again.

But now he knew how to get up.  Organizing his skis and ski poles, he
righted himself smoothly and headed back toward the cabin.  He had both
sweaters off and tied around his waist, and his knit hat was stuffed in
his pocket.  There was snow in his hair and falling down under the
collar of his blue chamois shirt, but it didn't matter.  He was hot, not
cold.

Mulder had noticed Scully's roller-coaster trail going up into the woods
when he'd passed it on his way to the road.  Now, heading in the
opposite direction, he decided to make the climb.  Scully's ski marks
made it obvious that she'd side-stepped her way to the top, so Mulder
chose the same technique.  If he'd tried a herringbone he would have
been on his ass again. 

Reaching the top of the run took fifteen minutes of hard climbing. 
Scully had been able to pace herself on the way up, but Mulder had to
exert himself continuously  because his skis had less grip.  His skis
were lighter than Scully's, more suited for skiing in tracks or
"skating" on groomed trails than for bushwhacking.  At last he reached
a  spot where  the trail flattened out enough for him to pause without
slipping downward.  He planted his poles in the snow and leaned his
weight on them, breathing hard.

Mulder didn't want to look down, so he looked up.  He could see Scully's
tracks continuing up the hillside; impossible to tell how far they
went.  It was funny about Scully.  Her fitness regime was based on
work-outs at a gym.  She did a little running, but it wasn't something
she enjoyed.  He'd invited her to run with him numerous times over the
years--starting with their first case, in fact.  She rarely accepted.
And yet when they were in pursuit of someone, she generally managed to
keep up with him.  In heels yet, as she reminded him continually. 

So little Scully--little jazzercising, step-classing Scully--had climbed
beyond this point. Mulder had to continue up the hillside.  

He arrived at the end of the trail at last.  Scully couldn't have
climbed any higher without cutting through the forest.  Mulder had to
grip a branch from a maple tree to turn himself around.  Now he looked
down. The run was steep, twisting, and rough.  But Scully had skied it,
skied all the way down without wiping out.  Her tracks proved it.

In any case, Mulder did not have much of a choice.  His swift and
well-waxed skis were going down, and one way or the other, Mulder was
going down with them.  He dropped into the stance of a downhill racer,
tucking his poles under his arms, shooting down the trail like a rocket
sled.  He had to lean forward to keep his upper body lined up over his
skis, and that made him go even faster.  Amazing to be going this fast
without the sound of a motor or the rumble of a wheel.  Just the humming
of his skis. A fragment from James Joyce floated through his head: 
"...falling, falling, but not yet fallen, still unfallen, but about to
fall." 

Back on the snowshoe trail, Scully realized that Mulder had to be up on
the hillside, trying out her roller-coaster ride.  She'd gone to the
cabin and then out to the road again without finding him.  He had his
work cut out for him, if he was climbing up that trail in her brother's
skis--they really weren't suited for that kind of terrain.  Hopefully
he'd figure that out before he got to the top.  

When Mulder and Scully had dragged the toboggan from the road to the
cabin, they'd cut their trail by the edge of the forest.  The other side
of the trail, away from the forest, had only a few trees and bushes. 
The snow-covered ground was flatter than the forested area, more like a
rolling field.  

Scully arrived at the foot of the roller-coaster trail.  If Mulder had
climbed to the top and then headed into the woods, she might be able to
catch up to him.  She could show him the purple flowers; it would be
fascinating to hear his explanation. But if she started up the trail 
and he was on his way down, it would be a disaster.  She'd have no place 
to get out of his way, and Mulder would never be able to stop in time.

Scully took in a huge breath and bellowed with all her might:

"Mulder!"

From far up the slope, deep among the trees, growing louder and nearer,
came his reply:

"Sculleeee!"

She had about ten seconds to get out of his way--if only she knew which
way he was going.  Turning around or stepping backwards would be too
slow, and going forward meant crossing Mulder's trajectory.  She
launched herself off the snowshoe trail into the snowfield, trying to
head away from  Mulder's likeliest path.  The snow here hadn't been
packed down in any way, and Scully's skis broke through the crusty
surface as she cut two tracks with her wooden skis.

The juggernaut formerly known as Mulder passed her within inches. All
along, Mulder's challenge had been to keep his body going as fast as his
flying skis.  But now the skis began to sink into the ungroomed snow. 
The skis dragged to a halt, and Mulder kept flying.  But not for long.

In a  few strides, Scully reached the spot where he had landed, face
down and sprawled out.  Mulder had already pulled himself out of the
snow and aligned himself over his skis. Wet with snow and perspiration,
he was uncomfortably chilled but otherwise unscathed.  

"You okay?" Scully asked.

"Yeah.  Let's go back to the cabin and get our stuff," Mulder said. 
Scully nodded. 

Mulder probably expected her to make some jibe about his spectacular
descent, and she'd considered it for a moment.  Then she'd thought about
telling him what she really thought:  He was magnificent on skis.  He'd
taken that trail at a speed she'd never have dared, and now he was
getting back on his feet with the agility of a cougar.  Of course that
would embarrass them both, so she held her tongue.  Finally, she wanted
to instruct him to use her tracks to get out of the snowfield. His sleek
skis would sink in the virgin snow; he would have to follow along where
her wider skis had packed it down. 

But he knew that.  Or if he didn't, he'd figure it out.  He'd figured
out how to ski all by himself. Trying to give him instructions was a
waste of breath.  Trying to tell Mulder almost anything was a waste of
breath.


end of 4/17

Backtracking
5/17
Disclaimer, etc., with part 1



Before they set off in search of the Viking, Mulder and Scully went back
to the cabin to re-wax and pick up their monitoring equipment. They had
an assortment of electronic devices, films, and treated papers to detect
the physical events that occasionally accompanied "paranormal"
phenomena.  

The X-Files team had come a long way since the days when Mulder had to
rely on two stopwatches and a can of spray paint.   They had a Polaroid
camera that they used extensively, not just for the convenience of
instant photos but also because Polaroids had some uncanny ability to
make a visual record of the invisible. They had three other cameras as
well:  a Minolta, a camcorder, and Mulder's latest toy, a digital
camera.

Mulder worked on getting the equipment distributed into the two
backpacks, and Scully packed some drinks and snacks.

"It's not supposed to be a picnic," Mulder said.  

"We'll need it, believe me," Scully said.  

They had their gear together, but Mulder was still wearing his saturated
chamois shirt.  Scully, who wanted to say, "Put on some dry clothes or
you'll freeze later on," forced herself to use a more objective
approach.

"Your shirt's wet," she said.

"An astute observation," Mulder answered.  

Smart-ass, Scully thought, and took off toward their destination. The
snowshoe trail extended only from the utility road to the cabin, and the
waterfall that Allison had identified from Charlie's dream was in the
other direction. 

They started out with Scully breaking the trail with her backcountry
skis, Mulder following on his graphite skis.  They came to a point where
a snowmobile had cut through the snow, leaving tracks that were well
suited for Mulder's recreational skis.   Mulder took the lead.  He shot
off down the trail, getting so far ahead that Scully had time to compose
an entire lecture on professionalism, safety, and common courtesy. 
Mulder doubled back when he realized he'd left Scully behind, and she
never delivered the lecture.  He loped back to her in smooth, confident
strides, and it was clear that he'd just been caught up in the pleasure
of good skiing.

"You're carrying too much, Scully," Mulder said.  "Let's move the water
and the camcorder into my pack."

"Thanks, Mulder, but once we lose this trail, you're going to be working
twice as hard as me.  Enjoy it while you can," Scully answered.

"You don't mind?" he asked.

He sounded so open and uncomplicated when he was having fun.  Scully
shook her head; she didn't mind a bit, but she didn't trust herself to
speak without choking up.  Mulder did a smooth kick-turn and raced away
from her again.

She caught up to him where she knew she would, where the route they
would have to take to the waterfall split off from the tracks of the
snowmobile.  Mulder was attempting to forge ahead in the deep, soft
snow, but he'd sunken in down to his knees.  

"Oh well," Mulder said when Scully was near enough to hear him.  "It was
fun while it lasted."

"This would be a good place to take a break," Scully said.  The first
leg of their trek had been easy for Mulder, but not particularly so for
Scully.  The big wooden skis were just plain heavy.  She had tried to
set her own pace, but she found herself trying to rush along to catch up
to Mulder.  The next leg would be even harder; she'd be breaking a
winding trail through some rough and overgrown terrain.

"Let's find the waterfall first," Mulder said.  Scully was trying to
make this into an expedition, he thought. The whole trip was only about
three miles, but Scully had to pack food and schedule breaks as if they
were scaling Mount McKinley.

"Fine," Scully said.  "Just give me a minute."  She swung the pack off
her back and retrieved a water bottle.  Mulder watched as she drank and
then closed the top and began to put the bottle away. Scully waited for
him to ask for some and he finally did, in a way.  He reached out his
hand.  She tossed him the bottle and he took a long, noisy drink.  When
he finished he stuck the bottle in his own pack.

"You're welcome," Scully said, skiing past him to forge a path through
the snow-covered forest.  

There was a hiking trail here somewhere, but under the blanket of snow
it was not easy to tell which way it went.  Scully tried to pick her way
through the forest but at times she was well off the trail.  Her biggest
fear concerned going downhill; she was afraid she'd follow a false lead
and ski right into the river, without being able to stop.

Mulder learned not to follow too closely.  When Scully tramped her way
up a particularly tough incline, she would stop at the top to catch her
breath.  This left Mulder stuck on the side of the incline, where he
couldn't possibly stop.  He would slide and slip down the slope, and
then have to make the same climb again.  Or Scully would be standing at
the bottom of a hill, trying to choose her direction, and Mulder would
run right into her.  So he started to give her more distance.

Skiing uphill took a lot of energy.  Mulder's shirt would have been
soaked by now even if it had started out dry.  When Scully took a long
time to move ahead and Mulder could do nothing but stand and wait, he
found himself getting thoroughly chilled.  And hungry.  When he was busy
working his way up the trail or fighting to keep his balance as he skied
down, he didn't feel it as much.  But when he had to stand around and
wait, he was aware of a nagging, uncomfortable empty feeling.

Allison would have agreed about taking a break, Scully was thinking. 
Allison was an experienced skier, and she would have seen the wisdom in
Scully's suggestion.  Mulder should have stayed back at Charlie's house.
He and Charlie could have managed the kids.  Allison should have gone on
this trip with Scully.  Allison would be leading.  They would be at the
waterfall by now.  Or maybe even back in the cabin.  Scully could easily
set up the monitoring equipment without Mulder; she'd devised or chosen
at least half of it herself.  She and Allison could be drinking hot tea
in the cabin.  Mulder could be cooking macaroni and cheese, folding
laundry, and helping Chrissy memorize the names of the geological eras.

Why don't they ever put ice cream on cheesecake, Mulder was wondering. 
They'd be great together.  Soft-serve vanilla ice cream on cheesecake. 
With caramel sauce.  

Up ahead Scully saw a little clearing with a cluster of tree stumps. 
That settled it.  She was taking a break.  A real break.  She detached
her skis from the boots and stuck the skis upright in the snow.  She
cleared the snow from a tree stump and sat down on it.  Removed the back
pack.  

Meat ball Parmesan hero.  With lots of melted mozzarella.  Crusty
Italian bread.  Peppers... Mulder thought about it.  No.  No peppers. 
Maybe pepperoni.  Yes.  Meatballs, then mozzarella, and then pepperoni
on top. He was almost to the top of the incline, and he marshaled his
efforts to sprint to the summit.  Bacon, he thought.  Meatballs
surrounded by mozzarella, all wrapped up in a strip of bacon.  Forget
the bread and the pepperoni.

Mulder looked down the slope and there, in a clearing next to the trail,
was Scully.  The slacker!  And she had food.  With a kick of a ski he
was down the trail, then traced Scully's tracks into the clearing.  He
popped open his bindings and jammed his skis in the snow next to
Scully's.  He sat down next to her on the tree stump.

"Don't think I'm going to feed you," Scully said.  "Not until you admit
that I was right to bring food."

"On one condition," said Mulder, starting to dig through her backpack,
even as she tried to shove him away.  "Only if you rub my feet while I
eat."

======================================================================

They heard the crash and rush of water against rock before a bend in the
trail brought them the vision of the waterfall.

"It's like something from a dream," Scully said.  The cataract of foam
and spray sent clouds of mist into the air, and the sun glinted off the
wet rocks.  The air was tangy with the scent of pines. 

"Except for one little detail," Mulder said.  "No Viking."

"No Viking," Scully, agreed, and she thought back to Charlie's choppy
description. "No cave, either, and no moss."

Even without the Viking, it was a compelling sight, and Mulder and
Scully took their time to appreciate it.  Then Mulder took some
preliminary readings on a hand-held meter, and Scully leveled a tripod
and got a camera mounted in place.  Setting up the equipment and
documenting their efforts was something either of them could do
automatically in about ten minutes.  Rain, darkness, heat, cold--none of
those things would slow the task.  Fear, grief, or rage, on the other
hand, added a couple of minutes to the process.

But there was no interference today. 

"Where did you put the second Pendrell monitor?" Scully asked, as she
recorded the settings and positions.

Mulder pointed.

"Good spot?" he asked.

"Should be fine," Scully said.  "I don't think we'll get anything
meaningful from the chem sensor, though.  Too wet here."

"It will take till tonight to collect adequate data," Mulder said. 
"It's going to be a bitch to ski back here in the dark."  He wasn't
looking forward to it.  He wasn't even looking forward to the trip back
to the cabin.

"We've got the miner's lamps and we have our tracks to follow," Scully
said.

"Plus the full moon," Mulder added.  

=====================================================================

Mulder walked into the cabin exactly three steps behind Scully.

"Hi, honey, I'm home," he shouted, practically in her ear.  "What's for
dinner?"

My, he was witty today, Scully thought. 

"I'd love to cook your supper for you," Scully said, "but little me is
simply to weak and feminine to build a fire.  Do you think you could
help me out?"

"Oh, sure," said Mulder.  He still didn't like walking into burning
buildings, but he had no problem with campfires or fireplaces.  Never
had, really.

"And melt some snow in the kettle, and don't forget to add the
decontamination tablet," Scully said.

"Got it," said Mulder.

"And see if you can find some more firewood, before it gets too dark,"
Scully said. 

"Scully, you're pushing it," Mulder said.  "And you still owe me a foot
massage.  With interest.  So make that a full body massage."  

Mulder had been making these innuendoes since their earliest days
together.  For a long time he used them to test the waters; if she'd
risen to the bait, he would have been ready for her.  If she took it as
a joke, he'd pretend that's all it was. But recently he'd had his
chance. He had failed the entrance exam, screwed up on the interview,
blown the audition.   Now his little remarks were just an attempt to
maintain the relationship at its present level.  Romance was out, but he
could still be the pal, the guy she was comfortable with, the guy who
could kid around with her.

Of course Scully didn't see it that way.  She found some of his come-ons
tempting, or she used to, back when she thought he might be serious. 
Some of them were funny, hilarious even.  But so many of them were tacky
and sophomoric.  And these days she found them simply cruel.  He didn't
want her peaches but he insisted on shaking her tree.  Just to make a
point of leaving the peaches on the ground to rot.

Scully tried to ignore the comment and went to take a shower. 

Allison had warned Scully about the shower in the cabin.  The water had
been off all winter and turned on in March, so they were lucky to have
any indoor plumbing at all.  But the shower was rudimentary, supplying
at best a thin, lukewarm trickle.  It was an unpleasant experience, but
she did leave the shower feeling cleaner.  And it felt good to put on
her regular clothes.

Mulder had a medium-sized fire going and he was adding more snow to the
water in the big pot.  Scully sat down on the big shaggy rug in front of
the fire.  

"The water's boiling again," Mulder said as he turned from the fire.  He
looked at Scully and his face fell.

"Mulder?" she said.  "Mulder, what's the matter?"

She doesn't even know, he thought.   That's the sweater she wore for
him.  When she thought he was me.  Only he was more charming.

"You haven't worn that for a while," he said.

"I wear this all the time," Scully said, "just not when I'm working.  Is
there a problem?"

"No.  You look nice," he said.   "I'm going to change.  Don't take it
personally if I fall asleep in the middle of dinner."

Scully went outside the cabin to get a couple of the packaged meals from
the cooler.  She took some water from the pot to make instant cocoa
before putting the bags in to heat.  One day she would make Mulder real
cocoa, from scratch.  Oh, who was she kidding.  That would never happen.

The small cabin didn't provide for much privacy, but where Scully had
managed to undress and change in the bathroom, Mulder was sitting on one
of the beds and peeling off his clothes.  He wrapped a towel around his
waist and headed to the bathroom.

"You do this all the time, Mulder, and I'm sick of it," Scully
exclaimed.

I am tired, sore, sweaty, and hungry, Mulder thought.  I really don't
want to deal with this.  What the hell have I done now?

"What is it that I do, Scully, that offends you so much?" 

He had the nerve to sound aggrieved.  

"You do this goddamn striptease.  You undress in front of me like I'm
not even there.  You're an exhibitionist, do you know that?"  Scully was
getting more furious by the moment because Mulder was in no way taking
her seriously.  It was the same as all his lewd little comments--shaking
the tree when he didn't want any peaches.

"Scully, I've tried showering in my trench coat, but I never get clean,"
Mulder said.  "How do you manage it?"

"I'm not asking you to shower in a trench coat, but you don't have to
stand around like Michelangelo's David either," Scully said.  

Mulder was trying to keep a straight face.

"Is that how you see me, Scully?  Because the David is more like this." 
He assumed the famous pose, taking the towel from his waist and holding
it over his shoulder, head turned toward the left, right hand at his
side.

Scully looked around for something to throw at him, but unless she was
willing to scald him, there was nothing handy.  

"You make me so mad!" she exclaimed.  "I'm going to--"  She did not
finish the sentence.  I'm going to charge you with sexual harassment,
she was about to tell him, but the words stuck in her throat.  That was
her crime, not his.  She was the one who had forced him to sleep with
her.  She sighed deeply.

"You're a work of art, David," she said.  

====================================================================

Way to go, moron, Mulder told himself as the feeble stream of tepid
water trickled over him.  The perfect response when someone accuses you
of being an exhibitionist. He shut off the water and dried himself,
feeling only a little fresher than he had before.  He called a warning
to Scully:

"Avert your eyes, Scully.  I'm coming out."  

He dressed quickly and joined Scully at the table.

Mulder's shower had taken about five minutes, and Scully had spent all
that time berating herself.

That poor guy, she thought.  He was skiing all afternoon, probably wet
and tired, and he just wanted to take a shower.  And I had to make him
feel like some sleazy flasher.  It's my hang-up, not his.  He's got a
casual attitude about nudity--he always has.  I never complained to him
before.  Isn't that interesting, Dana, you never called him on it until
after he rejected you.  

Scully thought for the hundredth time that she really shouldn't be
working with Mulder anymore, and for the hundredth time she admitted to
herself that she'd never end the partnership voluntarily.   But maybe
this particular side trip was a mistake.  Just the two of them with no
privacy and no chance to get away from each other.

"I really ticked you off, didn't I?" Mulder asked, digging into his
spaghetti. 

"Mulder, I'm not a prude--no, I'm not!  There's nothing shameful about
the human body.  But you have to admit that people do not ordinarily
display their naked bodies to others, except in very limited
circumstances.  Nudity, in our culture, carries some definite emotional
significance," Scully said.

"Scully, it's not like I jumped up on the table and flung my jock strap
in your face.  I was going to take a shower and you started browbeating
me.  I thought I'd diffuse the situation with a little humor," he said.

"Well, thank you for explaining it to me," Scully said. "In the future I
will show no reaction to your state of dress or undress.  If you want me
to even  notice, you'll have to jump up on the table."

"And fling my jock strap in your face," Mulder reminded her.

"But don't do that.  If you're going to be David, you'll need a
slingshot," she said.

They finished eating, and clean-up was minimal.  It was too early to go
back to the waterfall, so Mulder got comfortable on one of the beds and
started reading another of Oliver's books about Norse mythology.  Mulder
could see why Oliver was attracted to these stories.  They showed a
preoccupation with death and the end of the world that would have
resonated with the morbid impulses of early adolescence.

Scully sat at the table drafting the first part of the report to
Skinner, the part that explained why they'd become involved in this
investigation and how they'd proceeded.  She put the fact that Charles
was her brother in the first paragraph, to anticipate and confront
whatever issues would come up on that account.  Maybe she and Mulder
really were the central figures in the conspiracy, since their families
were so frequently involved in their efforts.  The expenses for this
trip would be light, thanks to her family's hospitality, and that should
please Skinner.

Scully finished what she could and then started to read through Mulder's
notes.  Charlie had been upset to learn what had happened to her on the
bridge, and he'd lashed out at Mulder.  Her whole family seemed to think
it was Mulder's job to protect her.  Most of the time Mulder thought so
too. 

If Mulder had been able to mollify her brother, it wasn't in his
transcript.  She started to ask him what answer he'd given to Charlie's
accusations, but she saw that Mulder had fallen asleep over the book. 
Scully checked her watch.  It was a little earlier than she'd planned to
go back to the waterfall, but she couldn't be sure how long the trip
would take.  Might as well get it done now, before she passed out like
Mulder. 

She refilled her water bottle and made a Thermos of hot tea to take
along as well. She changed into fresh ski clothes and strapped the
miner's lamp around her head.  Mulder was sleeping on top of the bed,
and she wouldn't be able to pull the quilt out from under him without
waking him up.  Instead she took the sides of the quilt and brought them
up to cover him.  Even when she took off his reading glasses, he didn't
stir.

"Sleep tight, shepherd boy," she whispered, and she slipped out the
door.

====================================================================

When Mulder woke up, the cabin was cold.  There was only the faint glow
of embers from the fireplace.  

"Scully," he called, expecting to hear a sleepy groan from the other
bed, but he heard nothing.  He turned on the little bedside lamp.  
"Scully?" he called again.

He swung his legs out of bed, recoiling as his feet touched the frigid
floor.  How late was it?  He rubbed his gritty eyes and glanced at his
wristwatch.  Ten after nine.  

A quick survey proved Scully wasn't in the cabin and he opened the door
to check outside.  Maybe she was waxing her skis or scooping up more
snow to melt for water.

The full moon gave the trees a weird, threatening look, and their
shadows danced on the snowy ground whenever the breeze shook them.  He
took a deep breath and the cold air jolted him.  The temperature had
dropped maybe twenty degrees. From far away he heard the lonesome howl
of a wolf.  In reply came another howl, but this one was much closer.  

She ditched me, he thought.  She's all alone out there with a pack of
wolves.  If she didn't take her gun I'll shoot her myself.    

Maybe she'd written him a note.  He found her longhand report on the
table, but nothing to say when she'd left.  He knew where she'd gone,
though.  Back to the waterfall.  At least her gun was gone.  He felt a
little better knowing she was armed.

How much time should he give her before he went after her?  As long as
he didn't hear the crack of her gun firing, he could be reasonably sure
she hadn't run into trouble.  Maybe the best thing to do was rekindle
the fire.  Scully would need to warm up when she got back.  The woodpile
was getting low.  A family of spiders scurried away as Mulder pulled
firewood from the dusty stack.

Mulder got the fire to blaze again, and he hung the kettle of water
where it would heat.  He wouldn't yell at her.  He wouldn't try to make
her feel guilty.  He'd give her a nice cup of tea.  Come on, Scully, he
thought.  Just come back.

A wolf howled again.  Was it the one he'd heard first or the one that
had answered? It sounded very close.  What if Scully had dropped her
gun, maybe lost her  backpack?  What if she strayed off the trail
entirely, and she was stuck in the woods, or maybe she'd fallen into the
river.  It wouldn't take long to freeze to death on a night like this...

He looked at his watch again.  Ten after nine.  Shit.  Oh shit oh shit
oh shit.

I'm coming, Scully, he thought, hoping somehow to project the message to
her.  Hold on, Scully.  Keep breathing.

He would use the snowshoes.  

He threw on a sweater over his flannel shirt and pulled on some socks. 
There was a head-light here somewhere...

You don't have to sleep with me, Scully, he thought.  You don't have to
work with me.  Just be okay.

Another howl, mournful and musical.  And then the response--no, not a
wolf.  Not a wolf at all.  That was Scully.

Mulder pushed open the door.  There was Scully, her back against the
waxing rack, looking out over the woods as she removed her pack and set
it in the snow.  The distant wolf began his serenade again, a bark
breaking into a howl.  And Scully's reply, a howl ending in a clear peal
of laughter.

She turned toward the cabin and planted her ski poles in the snow. 
Looking up she saw Mulder in the doorway.

"Oh, Mulder," she said.  "You wouldn't believe it.  It was so
beautiful..."

"Was it, Scully?  Was it really?" he asked.

"The way the ice reflects the starry sky, and how the mist looks rising
off the waterfall.  The waterfall with the shadows and the moonlight,
it's like a diamond with a thousand facets," Scully said.  "It's
radiant."

Scully's face in the moonlight.  That was radiant too.  

"This was dangerous, Scully," Mulder said very seriously.  "You can't go
off like that.  You shouldn't be skiing alone at night.  At least you
should have told me you were going.  Scully, those were wolves.  One of
them sounds like it's right here."

"Yes, a huge one," Scully said, her eyes shining.  "A big timber wolf
walked right onto the trail, right in front of me.  He stood there,
Mulder, and I swear I looked right into his eyes.  This beautiful animal
just stood there and stared at me."  Scully leaned over to unfasten her
ski bindings.

For years Mulder had lived with the fact that the woman he loved was in
constant danger.  She was threatened by a conspiracy that spread around
the world and beyond and by free-lance psychos like Donnie Pfaster and
Gerry Schnauz.  Now he felt as if Scully herself had joined the
conspiracy.  She was going to do her utmost to put her own life at risk.

"Scully, why don't you come inside now," he said weakly.  He was going
to explain to her that trying to stare down a canid was a very
aggressive and provocative act and that she was just lucky the animal
hadn't attacked her.

Scully was crouching down in the snow, working on her boots.

"He looked into my eyes, and I looked into his," she continued. "And
then in the same moment, we both looked down.  After then he trotted
away, as if we had an understanding."  The bindings on her skis were
stuck, and she pulled off her gloves for increased dexterity.

"Scully, do you understand that while you were researching the sequel to
*Women Who Run with Wolves*, I was wondering if you were alive?"  Mulder
had gone from fear to anger to resignation, and now he was escalating to
fury.

"Mulder," she said, laughing at her own predicament, "we've got a little
problem."

"Get in here!"  It was unmistakably an order.

"Mulder, my bindings are frozen solid," she said.  For some reason this
made her giggle.

"You're funny, Scully," he answered.  

"I could use a little help here, O great G-man," she said.  

Mulder stepped into his hiking boots without tying them and slammed
through the door.  He kneeled in the snow and tried to work the
bindings, but just for a second.  Then he untied and loosened the laces
of her ski boots with a couple of tugs.

"What are you doing, Mulder?" she asked.

With one foot planted over both her skis, Mulder lifted Scully up out of
her boots and over his shoulder.  He carried her into the cabin and
slammed the door behind him.

end of 5/17

Backtracking
6/17
Disclaimer, etc., with part 1



It's lucky she can't see my face, Mulder thought.  Hauling Scully around
over his shoulder was making his mind race with the possibilities.

Of course it also made him remember the escape from Antarctica, and he
found himself gripping her leg more tightly.  

"Thank you, Mulder," Scully said.  He had gotten her out of a jam, and
he had given her a whole new way to check out his butt.

Mulder kicked off his boots and went to the fire to see if the water was
boiling. 

"The scenery's great from up here," Scully said.  She was enjoying the
view, but she was ready for him to put her down.

Scully balanced so well on his shoulder, Mulder thought.  He could keep
her up there indefinitely, if she would let him.  She hadn't actually
asked him to put her down.  Her clothes were awfully cold, and her pants
legs were wet.  He had one arm across the backs of her thighs to hold
her in place, and he used his free hand to feel her foot.  Her socks
were wet too.

"Mulder!" she exclaimed. "You can put me down now."

"Your socks are wet," Mulder explained. 

"Oh," Scully said.  

Her interactions with Mulder had finally reached the pinnacle of
absurdity.

What did Scully want from Mulder?  As much as he was willing to give
her.  If that didn't include sharing her bed, so be it.  If it stopped
short of love, friendship would have to be enough.  

Now what did Mulder want from her, Scully asked herself.  At last she
understood.  Mulder wanted to drive her insane.  It wasn't enough for
him to draw the line on sexual relations.  No.  Mulder had to prohibit
sex while flaunting his sexuality.  He had to walk around naked and
solicit massages and now he had to carry her around like something out
of a Cary Grant movie.  His arm had been migrating up her leg, and now
he was clasping her left buttock in a way that was both politically
incorrect and inappropriately pleasing.

Mulder was using a stick to poke at the fire.  His hair had picked up
the scent of burning wood.  Scully had the urge to comb her fingers
through his hair.  It was way out of line, and she wasn't really
positioned right to accomplish it.  But if Mulder objected she could
pretend that she was just doing it to make him put her down.  

Mulder felt Scully start to squirm around in his arms.  He'd been
waiting for her to do something.  She seemed to be in such a giddy mood
he'd expected her to pummel his back Hollywood-style and demand to be
released.  But she'd be just as likely to make the demand quite
seriously, without the fists, or to push away from him without saying a
word.  She was doing none of these things.  She just seemed to be
changing her position.  She was leaving it up to him when to put her
down.

Suddenly it was clear to Mulder what he needed from Scully, what she
would have to do if they were to continue working together.  Scully was
going to have to be the referee.  It was fine that she trusted him, and
she was right to trust him.  He would never violate the unwritten rules
she'd set.  But policing himself was just too hard.  It made him think
of that dog trick, where the dog has to balance a treat on his nose
without eating it.  

Earlier she'd berated him for his "exhibitionism."  He should have
reinforced that behavior instead of making fun of her.  That was exactly
what he needed from her, obvious, overt, verbal instructions on when he
was going too far.  

He leaned forward a little to put Scully down, wet socks and all, and he
felt her hand on his head.  She kept it there, too, even once she was
standing, until he ducked away from her and took a step backward.

"There's something in your hair," she said.

"Dandruff?"

"No, Mulder, there's something there, right behind your ear."  She
wasn't sure what it was.  It felt like a little scab, or maybe it was
something he'd picked up skiing through the woods.

"A quarter?" Mulder asked, shaking his head and pushing his hair back.  

Scully didn't answer, but she was reaching for his head with both
hands.  

"Stop it, Scully," he said.  "I need to talk to you."  He'd felt her
fingers in his hair enough times to know he'd be less than coherent if
he let her continue.  He wanted to be clear-headed and serious for this
conversation.

"Sit down," she said, trying to steer him toward the chairs by the
table.

Sit, Mulder, sit, he thought as he sat down.  Scully began to examine
his head again, but the lighting in the cabin made it difficult.

"Mulder, get the backpack from outside," she ordered.  Neither of them
had shoes on, but Mulder's boots were right by the door, unlaced for him
to step into.

Fetch, boy, he thought, but he retrieved the knapsack anyway and gave it
to Scully.

"Thank you," she said, although to Mulder it sounded more like, "Good
dog!"  Scully took the head-light from the pack and put it back around
her head.  That freed both her hands to search through Mulder's hair and
feel his scalp.

Damn it, Scully, Mulder thought.  How can I tell you to keep your
distance while you're sending me to Nirvana with your fingertips?  

"Hold still, Mulder," Scully said.  Frowning with concentration, she
used her thumb and index finger to pluck something off Mulder's scalp.

"What is it?" Mulder asked, pushing his chair back.  Scully placed the
thing on a white paper napkin on the table, and she and Mulder squinted
at it.  At first it looked like a tiny circle, smaller than a pinhead.

"Whooahh!" said Mulder.  "It's got legs!"  It wasn't a girly scream, but
he managed to convey a generous amount of fear and loathing.

"It's a tick," Scully said.  

"Revolting little monster," said Mulder, grimacing with disgust.  "I
thought the cold would kill them."

"I know," said Scully.  "Unless they're living in the cabin..."  She
looked at the fireplace.  "You rekindled the fire, didn't you?"

"Yeah..."

"The woodpile," Scully said.  "Who knows how long it's been here.  And
it's warmer in the cabin."  There was only an armload of wood left
anyway, and Scully hurried to the pile, gathered it up, and tossed it
onto the fire.  She swept up the debris that was left and threw that in
to burn as well.

"Die, you bastards," Mulder said as the wood crackled.

"Okay, take off your shirt," Scully commanded.

"Scully, this is exactly what I need to talk to you about," Mulder
said.  "You have to stop doing this to me.  I'm not made of stone."

"Michelangelo notwithstanding," Scully said, smiling.

"Yeah.  I'm sorry about that, Scully," Mulder said.

"Mulder, this can wait.  Take off your shirt," she said again.  "There
might be more ticks."

Mulder looked skeptical but he pulled off his sweater and shirt. Scully
began her inspection from the back, starting at his neck and working
down until she got to the waistband of his pants.  She walked around him
so she could explore his chest.  

She was so serious and methodical that Mulder was able to tolerate her
scrutiny.  From time to time she'd scrape a spot with her fingernail, to
satisfy herself that it was a mole or freckle and not another tick.  

"Okay?" Mulder asked.  Scully didn't answer, but she was still frowning
with concentration.  

"Pick up your arm," she said.  He gave her a look of resentment but he
let her lift his arm and start to probe his armpit.

"You're just trying to tickle me," he said, well aware that if Scully
wanted to tickle him she knew how to do it. She frowned with
concentration as she completed her tour of the first armpit and then the
second.  

"Take off your pants," Scully said.

"I think this has gone far enough," Mulder said.  "Thank you for your
help, but I'll take it from here."

"You'll take it from here?  What does that mean, exactly?" Scully asked.
Her patience was running out.  Only a few hours earlier Mulder had gone
out of his way to display his wares, and now he was fussing and
stalling.  Scully was tired from skiing, and despite the lively fire,
the cold from her wet clothing was starting to penetrate to her weary
muscles.  The sooner she got Mulder checked over the sooner she could
slip into a warm bed herself.

"I will complete this inspection without your assistance," Mulder said.  

"You are so obstinate," Scully said.  "This isn't an option, Mulder,
this is a necessity.  Do I need to describe the effects of tick-borne
diseases or the methods used in their diagnosis and treatment?  Now take
off your pants."

"I understand how this must seem to you," Mulder said.  "I just can't go
through with it.  I'll check by myself.  If I miss something I'll take
the consequences."  

"Fever.  Joint pain.  Muscle weakness.  Vertigo.  Fatigue.  Confusion.
Blood tests. CAT scans.  I.V.s.  Spinal taps."  Scully was not willing
to lose this battle.  She wanted to change into dry clothes, or at least
move closer to the fire, but she could not back off now.

"You're shivering, Scully," Mulder said.  

Mulder, who was arguing about whether or not he would undress, had not
bothered to put his shirt back on. 

"I'm not going to molest you," Scully assured him.  "This is just
something we have to do for health reasons."

"Scully, you've got to get out of those wet clothes," Mulder said.  It
wasn't a joke despite the context.

"As soon as we get this over with," Scully said.  "Now take off your
pants."

"Who's stubborn now?" Mulder asked.  "You're freezing to death here but
you won't do anything about it.  Go change your clothes.  For health
reasons.  Or do you want me to help you?"

Scully did one of her little gasps, but she backed off at once.  She
hurried into the bathroom, hoping she'd escaped before Mulder could see
her blush.

How many times had she imagined Mulder undressing her?  More than once. 
More than twice.

Mulder undressing her slowly and lovingly... Mulder ripping her clothes
off in a frenzy of passion... Mulder overwhelming her with his size and
strength, forcibly stripping her naked...  Mulder attending her during
some Harlequin-romance type illness, gently removing her clothing to
care for her... Strip poker with Mulder... 

In the bathroom she removed her sodden ski clothes and rubbed herself
dry with a towel.  She put on the sleepwear she'd bought especially to
wear on road trips with Mulder.  She'd given up on that corny facial
masque, but this nightgown just screamed, "Abstinence!"

No wonder Allison had understood the significance of this garment
immediately.  

It was warm but not comfortable.  The stiff lacy trim poked into her
chin.  It smelled funny, even after she'd run it through the washer. 
But as Scully went back to resume her confrontation with Mulder, it felt
like armor.  This nightgown would protect Mulder from her inappropriate
yearning.

Scully hung her outerwear by the fire to dry.  Mulder was still sitting
by the table.  He was studying the tiny tick.  

"Okay," Scully said brightly.  "I took off my clothes.  For health
reasons.  Your turn."

No matter how many times Scully used the phrase "for health reasons,"
Mulder continued to sense an undercurrent of sexual tension.  

"We really need to talk," Mulder said.  "About us, about what happened
in Kansas..."

What happened in Kansas.  Mulder couldn't even make himself name the
act, Scully thought.  We made love, Mulder.  You felt my need and you
gave me what I asked for. And now you're afraid I will ask that of you
again.  Don't worry, Mulder,  I would not use you that way a second
time.  And I'm the only one who should feel shame about the first time.

"Yes, we do," Scully said.  "We definitely need to talk.  But first
let's get this over with.  I know you don't want to.  I'll make it as
quick and painless as I can."  Mulder stood up, and Scully reached to
unbutton his pants.  Reacting instantly, Mulder grabbed her wrists,
startling her with the speed and force of his grip.

"Mulder!" she said.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to hurt you. 
But you have to stop this.  You're not going to check me for anything. 
I'm not going to take off my pants.  Got it?"  He let go of her hands,
took his shirt from the back of the chair, and walked back to the bed. 
The small cabin didn't give either of them a place to retreat.

Scully followed him but sat down on the other bed.

"I understand," she said shakily.  "I understand why you don't trust
me.  But I swear, Mulder, this isn't about sex.  This is for--"

"Health reasons," Mulder interrupted her.  "Yes indeed, this is for
health reasons."  He was turning away from her again.  

"You don't believe me," she said.  "I made one mistake and you won't let
me live it down.  I know I hurt you.  Don't you think I hurt myself
too?"  She was grimly determined not to cry, but her voice was going up
and down.  "And now you're going to let yourself get sick and infected
because you don't think I can inspect you for ticks without making it
into something sexual."

"Scully, I can't do this.  I can't be what you want me to be," he said
in a monotone.

"I know, Mulder, I know.  And I don't want anything from you.  Just take
off your pants and lie down," she said.  No matter how much Mulder
resented her for using him, he would have to let her do this.  She was
not going to let him get Lyme disease.

"Aren't you listening to me? I won't play this game anymore.  I'm not
your pet eunuch," he said bitterly.

"What?" Scully squeaked.  

"Mulder the Wonder Eunuch. You can do anything you want to him.  You can
climb in his bed and ride him till he sees stars, and then you can throw
him away.  Because Mulder the Wonder Eunuch is disposable!"  

"Mulder?" Scully said, looking utterly bewildered.

"You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?" Mulder said. 
"Scully, I understand what happened.  You hopped into bed with me and
then you had second thoughts.  Maybe I didn't measure up to your
expectations, but goddamn it, Scully, you didn't seem too disappointed
at the time.  I think we were good, but fine, you don't.  Or you did,
but then you got to thinking."

"Mulder?" she squeaked again.  "I thought we were good."

"Terrific.  You thought we were good, but it just wasn't worth it.  You
got that phone call from Skinner, and you started thinking about your
career again.  Or maybe you started thinking about Skinner..."  The
thought hit Mulder like the stab of ice cream on a loose filling. 
Skinner.  Everything went to hell after Skinner called.  

"Mulder, I don't know what you're talking about, I really don't."  Shit,
she thought.  She was crying.  Federal agents do not cry.  "Why won't
you take off your pants?"  She'd never been more confused.  Only one
thought remained clear--Mulder had to take off his pants.

Scully was crying.  Why was Scully crying, goddamn it.  He should be
crying, Mulder thought. 

"You want me to take off my pants?  You got it!"  Mulder shouted.  He
pulled off his jeans and  kicked them to the side and tossed his socks
on the floor.  He pulled off his boxers, twirled them around his finger,
and sent them flying across the cabin.  "There!  Are you happy, Scully?"

Scully nodded.

"Mulder, lie down," she said.  Mulder lay down on the bed.

"Just let me know when you want me to roll over and play dead," he
said.  Scully was still sniffling, but Mulder was feeling relief.  Maybe
because he'd finally had his say, or perhaps he'd just needed to yell
like that.  Anyway, however bad this tick inspection turned out to be,
they would finally get it over with.  Scully took a bath towel from the
empty bed and placed it across him.  Then she left him--walked clear
across the cabin to rummage through an equipment bag.

"Scully, just do it already," Mulder said impatiently.  "What are you
looking for?"

"I'll need forceps," she said.  "And a magnifying lens."

"Is that what you told Ed Jerse?" Mulder asked.  "No wonder he tried to
stuff you in the furnace."

"Shut up, Mulder," she said.  She had the miner's lamp on her head, a
pair of magnifying loupes over her eyes, and a set of tweezers in her
hand.  She had pulled herself together to deal with the task at hand. 
If Mulder would keep quiet she could get it done.

She started down by his feet.

"Here's one," she said.  It was right on his ankle.

"Get it off me," Mulder said urgently.  

"I got it, Mulder, it's off."  She dropped the tick in a specimen jar. 
Poor Mulder.  He could face Lyme disease with indifference, but he
couldn't disguise his antipathy to the arachnid that carried it.

Scully finished checking his legs and feet without finding another
bug.   She pushed the towel aside and began her inspection of--down
there.  She thought for a second about slipping on some gloves, but it
wasn't practical.  Checking for ticks required maximum tactile input.

"Scully, tell me if you find one," Mulder said.  This was pathetic, he
thought, but if it wasn't for the threat of those disgusting creatures,
this would be a rare treat.

"Nothing so far," Scully said, as she combed and searched, lifting and
manipulating as needed.  She was earnestly trying to keep the
manipulation to a minimum, but Mulder was responding anatomically.  She
would use her med school training to allay the distress this must be
causing him.

"Nothing to be embarrassed about, Mulder," she said crisply, "just a
normal physiological reaction.  The autonomic nervous system causes a
reflexive response to stimulation, even when the stimulation is applied
inadvertently."

"I'm not embarrassed, Scully.  It's not the first time you made me
hard," he said. 

She was not going to remind him that he'd thrown a major-league tantrum
before agreeing to remove his pants.  If talking tough helped him endure
this ordeal, she was all for it.  Anyway, she was almost done.  She
draped the towel over his middle again.

"Roll over and play dead," she said.

"I'll roll over, but I'm done playing dead," Mulder said.  "Didn't you
hear me before?"

Oddly, Scully had listened to Mulder's tirade without comprehension. 
She'd heard his anger, but she already knew he was angry.  And he didn't
seem to be angry that she'd coerced him into sleeping with her.  He was
accusing her of changing her mind, which she hadn't done.  And then he'd
called her a castrating bitch, but not in those words.  It was something
about her treating him like a eunuch. 

"You're going to have to run it by me again, without the metaphors,"
Scully said.  "You lost me right after--oh!  Hold still."  She'd found
one more.

Face down was good, Mulder thought.  Instead of trying to look
nonchalant, he could grimace into the mattress.  

"It's off," Scully said.  "You can get dressed."  

Oops, shouldn't have said that, Scully thought.  If I wanted him to put
his clothes on, I should have ordered him *not* to get dressed.

"I'm quite comfortable the way I am," Mulder said.  He wanted to bite
his tongue as soon as the words were out.  "No, strike that.  I am
getting dressed."  

He found his jeans on the floor, but what the hell had he done with the
boxer shorts?  He pulled on the jeans and zipped up them very, very
carefully.


end 6/17

Backtracking
7/17
Disclaimer, etc., with part 1



Mulder succeeded in closing his fly without mutilating himself and he
gave the jeans a few tugs to adjust them.  He didn't bother putting on a
shirt.

"Mulder, I don't understand something.  If you can forgive me for
tricking you, and you said yourself, you thought we were good... Well,
what are you so angry about?"

Scully was sitting cross-legged on the bed, the hideous, stiff, frilly
nightgown enveloping her like a tent.  

"I didn't make the cut," Mulder said.  "That's why I'm angry.  And you
didn't even give me the pep talk about keeping my grades up and trying
again next year."  But he would be back, and he wouldn't wait a year,
either.

"You made the team, Mulder," Scully said.  "but you didn't want to sit
at the training table."  The next morning, after Scully had faxed the
report to Skinner, she'd gone into the coffee shop and taken a table. 
Mulder had walked in later, bleary and grouchy, ordered something to go
and taken it back to the room.  "Like a bad joke.  You didn't respect me
in the morning."

"I was afraid to go to sleep that night.  I knew if I closed my eyes
you'd be gone. And that's what happened, Scully."  

"Skinner called.  I told you that, Mulder," she said.  

"Yeah.  Skinner called, asked you what you were doing in my room.  That
got you to thinking, didn't it?  Made you ask yourself the same
question," Mulder said.  

"I learned something that morning:  don't tell Skinner more than he
needs to know. I should have never mentioned the cow," Scully said.  If
she had just said, "Sir?" in that way of hers, Skinner would have backed
down.

"The cow?  Who cares about the cow?" A cow falling through the roof was
a singular event, but no more singular than sleeping with Scully.  Once
in a lifetime for both.

"I told him your room had  been destroyed by the falling cow," Scully
said.  "First he said he looked forward to reading my complete report
when we got back.  Then he changed his mind and told me to fax it from
the field office.  Then he said that the motel probably had a fax
machine, and he wanted to see my report in an hour."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Mulder asked.  "I thought you were running
away from me."

"I took care of it," Scully said.  "I wasn't going to wake you up just
to tell you we were in trouble again."

"Why didn't you tell me later?"  Mulder asked.  The rest of that day had
been one of the most painful in his life.  "Scully, I was devastated. 
Couldn't you tell?"

"Of course I could tell.  You were ashamed.  You let me push you into
something that just wasn't right for you.  You felt you'd been used, and
you couldn't trust me anymore.  You couldn't even look me in the eye." 
Scully had tried to retain a sense of proportion.  She was mourning for
the love that she would never have, and for the friendship she had lost
through her own treachery.  But she had to move on. She had to leave the
disaster behind and do everything in her power to rebuild the
partnership.

"But, Scully," Mulder said.  "That's so stupid."

"And you were brilliant to conclude that me getting out of bed meant it
was over between us?" Scully asked.  

"You ditched me, Scully."  That's how it had felt, but now that the
details were emerging he had to agree that he'd been an ass.  

"Mulder, I am sorry that it happened the way it did.  I really didn't
give you a choice, and that isn't right," Scully said.  That bothered
her more than anything; it should have been a mutual decision.

"A choice about getting ditched?" Mulder asked.

"A choice about getting laid!" She jumped off the bed and gave her ugly
nightgown a few tugs.  Flannel was supposed to be soft but this thing
had a stiff surface, as if someone had starched it.  

"I think I can reassure you on that point, Scully.  I didn't realize you
weren't giving me a choice.  What were you going to do to me if I
refused?" Mulder asked.  

"You wouldn't refuse, Mulder, that's what I'm saying.  You couldn't have
refused," she said.

"Mind control, Scully?  Drugs?  Of course I could have refused," Mulder
said.  

"Don't you remember?  You said something about how there was plenty of
room for two in the bed, and I said, Sure, why don't you join me?  You
would have never backed down from that," Scully said.  The nightgown was
really driving her crazy.  She'd used fabric softener, too.  Maybe she
was allergic to cheap flannel.

"I could have said no," Mulder said,  "and I didn't have to invite
myself in to begin with.  But why wouldn't you have breakfast with me? 
Uh, Scully, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Mulder," she said, but she was plucking at that thing she was
wearing.  Mulder had never seen anything quite like it.

"Scully, we're both idiots," Mulder said.  "Take that off."

Scully laughed.

"We are both idiots," she agreed.  "We were both so ready to be rejected
that we couldn't even wait for it to happen."

"Yeah, that too," Mulder said.  "Let me help you with that."  He grabbed
a couple of handfuls of the flannel tent-gown and started to pull it up.

"Mulder!  Stop it," Scully said.  "We are not ready for this!"  They
certainly weren't, she thought.  Mulder was a bright guy, maybe even a
genius, but when it came to relationships, he was a slow learner.  And
she was nothing to brag about either.  

"Scully, the ticks!  You were carrying wood too," Mulder said.  "You
have to get that off."

"Mulder, I was in contact with that wood for less than a minute.  I'm
sure I didn't get any ticks," she said. 

"But you're squirming and scratching," Mulder said.  "I don't want you
to get sick."

"It's this stupid nightgown," Scully explained.  "That's all it is."

"This will take five minutes.  Just let me check," Mulder said
reasonably.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Mulder. Didn't we just agree that there's hope
for us yet?  You, me, together, et cetera, et cetera?" Scully asked.

"As a matter of fact, I think we did.  All the more reason for you to
lose that bold fashion statement you're wearing," Mulder said.

"To the contrary," Scully said.  "It's too soon.  I'll take the
flashlight into the bathroom and check myself over, just to make you
feel better."

"Tell you what," Mulder offered.  "If you'll just demonstrate how you're
planning to inspect your own backside, I'll go along with it."

"This is insane," Scully said.  "I don't have any ticks anyway." 

"We're not going to risk it," Mulder said.  "Remember?  Fever, joint
pain, weakness, confusion, spinal taps--what else were you telling me?"

"No, that's only if it goes untreated.  If you catch it early all you
need is a week or two on antibiotics," Scully said.

Mulder gave her a look of resentment, anger, and betrayal.  Had she
really made him bare himself just to pay him back for flashing her
earlier?   

"I wasn't informed of that treatment option," he said coldly.  

"Obviously the most direct and expedient approach, when it is available,
is to remove the ticks before infection can occur," Scully said.  He
could glare all he wanted; she had chosen the safest approach for him.

"Or else you can take a couple of pills," Mulder said.  If Scully hadn't
been trying to humiliate him, she'd at least been indifferent to his
feelings.

"The antibiotics aren't always effective, and the diagnostic tests for
Lyme disease are not entirely reliable," Scully said.  "You can finish a
course of antibiotics, appear to be free of the disease, and then
develop complications later on."

Mulder's glare softened as he looked at her.  He understood.  Scully
hadn't been trying to embarrass or punish him.  She'd used her best
medical judgment for him, but she wasn't able to do that for herself.

"Scully, I think you can see which way this is going," he said gently.  

"I know what you're getting at.  You think that if removing the ticks
was the best treatment for you, it would also be the best for me,"
Scully said.  "Ordinarily that would be true."  

The cabin seemed so small now, and Mulder seemed to be filling at least
half of it. Scully was backing away from him, imperceptibly, she hoped. 
The cabin seemed so small, and yet the bathroom seemed so far away.  The
bathroom, with that door, with that latch you could lock.

"Ordinarily, but not in your case?" Mulder asked.  Scully's
deer-in-the-headlights look.  Mulder shoved aside his pity.  He had a
job to do.

"Damn it, Mulder, I can't go through with it!  Not with you, not right
after we decided we might be able to work this out," Scully said.  She
could feel waves of heat radiating from her chest and feel the pressure
building in her head.

"I let you check me, Scully.  And lived to tell the tale," Mulder said. 
He didn't expect her to enjoy the situation, but she would have to deal
with it.  It wasn't as if he'd never seen her naked, but he knew it
would only make matters worse if he reminded her of that fact.

"That's you, Mulder."  She knew she sounded like an idiot.  Like a
panic-stricken idiot.

"You don't trust me," Mulder said.  "You think I'm too immature, or too
much of an opportunist, to keep this from becoming something sexual." 
He sounded serious and a little edgy.

"Of course I trust you, Mulder.  This is no reflection on you at all,"
Scully explained.  To Scully her logic was unassailable; she just had to
make Mulder understand why she was right.

"You'd rather get sick than allow me to do this," Mulder said.  "That
isn't trust, Scully."  He sounded dejected--at least he hoped he did.

"I trust you with my life!" Scully told him earnestly.  "Mulder!"  Was
he putting her on?  He looked as if he might cry.

"That's what you say," Mulder said.  "That's not what that nightgown
says."

"Mulder."  This wasn't going well, Scully realized.  The most
single-minded man in the world had declared war on her sleepwear.

"I'll give you a hand," Mulder said, grabbing the hem of the oversized
nightgown.

"Stop it, Mulder," Scully said, but she knew it was like trying to tell
Captain Ahab to forget about that whale and get on with his life.  "I'll
do it myself."

She drew her arms back through the sleeves.  Then she pulled the stiff,
smelly, offensive garment off over her head and flung it at him.  

Her bravado fled as the cool air hit her skin.  Again she felt herself
flush with embarrassment and felt her throat constrict so that she had
to force out each breath.  

"Let's go, Mulder," she said hoarsely, preceding him back from the
center of the room to the bed.  "Let's get this over with."

I can't do this, Mulder thought.  He felt impossibly awkward, and Scully
looked impossibly beautiful, brassy, and vulnerable.  But he had to do
it.

He followed her over to the bed.

"Mulder, hand me the towel, please," Scully commanded, and he complied. 
"Do you know how to remove a tick?"

Yeah, I guess, probably, Mulder thought, shaking his head No.

She sat on the bed with the towel wrapped around her and instructed him
in the art of tick removal.  He nodded dumbly when she had finished.

"Okay, Mulder, get to work," Scully said, and she lay down on the bed.

Mulder put the miner's lamp around his head; the lighting in the cabin
was atrocious.  Then he put on the magnifying loupes, which helped
tremendously.  They let him ignore the big picture and concentrate on
each inch of skin.

Scully hoped she sounded matter of fact, businesslike, but that's not
how she felt. The towel gave her only the slightest feeling of security.

Mulder swallowed.  If he just concentrated on her skin, he told himself,
he could do it.  What was that, a freckle, a mole?  No.  It was moving.

"Scully," he whispered.  God, how he hated bugs.

"Mulder..."  Her voice was shaky.  "Please get it off me."

He brought the forceps up to grab the abominable little arthropod, and
fortunately the touch of the steel was enough to brush it off Scully's
leg and onto the floor.

Mulder heaved a huge sigh.  One down, but how many to go?  There was a
lot of Scully left to cover.

"Scully," he said.  "Tell me about health reasons."  

"The first sign of Lyme disease is often the bull's eye rash, seen where
the bite occurred.  Other early symptoms suggest the flu, like a
headache or overall achiness."  Scully tried to find comfort in the
familiar role of lecturer.    

"Uh-huh," Mulder murmured.  Somehow her voice made him feel steadier. 
He was moving his hand up her leg, using his fingertips as well as his
eyes to search for ticks.

"Later symptoms include two or more rashes, away from the site where the
bite occurred, migrating joint pain, and neck pain and stiffness."  She
tried to ignore what she was feeling and concentrate on her
presentation.

"Scully, maybe if you'd just bend you knees here, yeah, like that,"
Mulder said.  Mulder knew she was cooperating, but he could hear her
gasp as he got her to spread her legs a little. He was just trying to
see what he was doing.  "Scully, tell me the bad stuff."

"Other symptoms of the early disseminated phase can include facial
paralysis and tingling or numbness in the hands or feet," Scully
whispered.  "Changes in vision, fever of a hundred to a hundred and two
degrees, cardiac arryhythmias, and severe fatigue."

"Damn," Mulder whispered to himself.  There was another one. "Keep
talking, Scully," he said.  

"Late-stage symptoms would be arthritis of one or two large joints, and
severe, disabling neurological problems.  Confusion, memory loss,
dizziness.  Numbness in the arms and legs."  She could do this, she
realized.  They would get through it.

Mulder grimaced as he used the forceps to remove the tick and drop it in
the jar.  

As Mulder continued to check her groin, Scully continued her
recitation.  

"Early treatment of Lyme disease almost always results in a cure," she
said.  "Treatment begun later than three weeks after infection is
usually successful as well, but the outcome becomes more uncertain the
longer treatment is delayed."

Mulder replaced the towel across Scully's waist and exposed her breasts.

"The relevant serological tests are the ELISA and the Western-blot. 
Blood tests are considered unreliable in the first month after
infection, and diagnosis should be made on the basis of symptoms and
evidence of a tick bite." 

Her words were barely audible.

"Scully, put your arms over your head," Mulder said quietly.

"No test is one hundred percent accurate.  The PCR, or polymerase chain
reaction test, is performed on cerebrospinal fluid or fluid aspirated
from an affected joint," Scully said, raising her arms.  "This test will
usually detect the presence of the Borrelia burgdorferi, the bacterium
associated with Lyme disease."

"Almost done, Scully, we're almost done.  I need you to turn over,"
Mulder said.

"Doxycycline or Amoxicillin are the drugs of choice, given orally,"
Scully said into the mattress.  

"Okay," said Mulder.  "Just about done."

"For more severe symptoms, when disease is more advanced, ceftriaxone
may be preferred, given intravenously," she continued huskily.  "Mulder,
do you want the doses?"

"No," he said.  "We're done."  He placed the towel across her once more.

"The towel helps, doesn't it?" Scully remarked, grabbing the towel
around her as she sat up on the bed. Her voice was finally above a
whisper.  

Mulder reached to pull something out of his duffel bag.  A clean white
T-shirt.
 
"Thanks," she said as he handed her the shirt.  She pulled it on over
her head.  Scully reflected that this shirt was larger than the usual
Mulder tee.  She preferred to see him in those body-hugging shirts that
showed off his toned torso. This shirt was really better for her.

"Unless you'd be happier back in that Victoria's nightmare original,"
Mulder said, grinning at her.

Without the confinement of the cabin and the isolation of the woods,
Scully and Mulder might still be caught in their stereotyped dance,
their never-ending pas-de-deux of near-and-fear.  An air-borne bovine
had sparked their initial encounter, but somehow they'd rallied with
enough neurosis and self-doubt to rewind themselves back to the
beginning of their endless loop of defense and denial.  

Now the Ixodes tick had forced them together again.  A second chance. 

After all the tension and confrontation of the last two hours, sleep
would not come easily.  It was going to be a long night.


end 7/17

Backtracking
8/17
Disclaimer, etc., with part 1




Scully longed for a television.

She'd been in and out of more outfits that day than a new Barbie on
Christmas morning.  She'd seen all of Mulder there was to see without
the use of fiber optics, and she'd shown him as much too.

This wasn't her maiden voyage, but she could feel those watertight
compartments collapsing into one another.  Friend, partner, doctor,
lover...

What they needed now was to let the dust settle while they figured out
their new equilibrium.  What they needed was a TV.  

"Do you have a hairbrush?" Mulder asked.

"Of course," she said, "but why?"

"Your head," he said.  "I didn't check your scalp.  Don't worry, you'll
like this part."  He smiled confidently.

Scully retrieved her hairbrush and started to put it to use, but Mulder
motioned her over to the bed.

"Come on, Scully, be a sport," he said, and she sat on the edge of the
bed and gave him the hairbrush.

Mulder put the brush down and started with his fingers, and as he had
promised, the sensation of fingertips on scalp was mesmerizing and
relaxing.

"I could get used to this," Scully said.

"It's the primate in you," Mulder said.  "We're pre-programmed to
respond to grooming activity."  Using the hairbrush, Mulder started to
part her hair into sections, letting him check more thoroughly.

"You're showing some real talent here," Scully told him.  "Maybe you
missed your calling."

"Mr. Fox of the Ritz," Mulder said.  "But you couldn't afford me, and
I'm booked solid for the next two years."

"Tell me, Mr. Fox," Scully said.  "What's Hillary really like?  And that
Paltrow woman, isn't she getting a little uppity?"

"Hey, Scully, want to try something?"  Mulder was satisfied that Scully
was tick-free, but she was practically purring under his touch, and he
had an idea that she might just go along with.  "Seems your
sister-in-law slipped us a little care package."

"She did?" Scully asked.  

Allison had thought that the harsh Minnesota weather might prove too
rough for her citified visitors, and she'd packed them some basic skin
care items.  She'd intended for Scully to discover her gift, but Mulder
had found it instead.  Because she fully understood how dense the two
agents were, Allison had even provided some instructions:

"Scented body oils.  Warm in hands and apply to skin.  Feels great. 
Good luck!"

"How does that sound, Scully?" Mulder asked.  "Want to try it?"

"Sure," said Scully, but when she reached to take the little bottle from
him, he pulled it away.

"Let me do it," he said.  "Let me give you a massage."

"Mulder... I don't think so," she answered. She and Mulder had taken
some important steps that night, but they'd have to proceed with
caution.  

A massage would be too risky.  

"Come on, Scully.  I've behaved honorably, haven't I?  I know you must
be stiff from skiing.  This will be good.  It will help you let go of
the tension."

"I see," she asked, smiling at him. "This is for health reasons."

"No," he said.  "This is to feel good.  Any benefit to your health is
purely incidental."

Massage.  Mulder.  Hands.  Skin.  Scully tried to consider all the
implications, but her thoughts spiraled into knots.  Mulder touching
her... that would be nice.  But where would it lead?  Wouldn't Mulder
want more?  He'd be disappointed, wouldn't he, if this was just a
massage? Or wouldn't she?  When she felt his caresses, wouldn't she want
more herself?  

Scully wanted them to proceed with caution.  But she did want them to
proceed, she reminded herself.  And this was progress.

"Mulder?" she said.

Mulder studied her face for clues.  Nothing is ever simple for us, he
thought. I want to give her a backrub, but she's going to have to
convene an ethics committee before she decides. 

"What?" he answered.

"Just a massage?" she asked.  

"Just a massage," he assured her.  "Even if you beg for more."  

"Because it's been brought to my attention that I treat you like a
eunuch," Scully continued.  "And I don't want you to think I'm a tease. 
We are two responsible adults--"

"Shut up, Scully."  He met her eyes as she gaped at him.  "I don't think
you're a tease.  You are nuts, though."

"That's a great line, Mulder, have you had much luck with it?"  He was
infuriating, really, she thought.  After all these months of pain and
misunderstanding, of course she wanted everything spelled out between
them.

"And they call *me* Spooky," he said. "Here's the way it's going to be. 
Tonight I will rub your back with scented unguents.  Tomorrow I will
seduce you.  Any questions?"

They were still sitting on the bed.  Mulder's bare chest was so familiar
to her.  She knew where to auscultate each lobe of his lungs.  The burns
were long gone, but she knew exactly where she'd placed the paddles to
shock his stalled heart back into a rhythm.  She knew too, from her one
experience, where teeth and tongue would send him into shivers.

"Mulder, are you going to spend the night in those jeans?" Scully
asked.  His trousered leg was harsh against her bare one. Boxers without
jeans were one thing, but jeans without boxers?  

"Are you asking me to slip into something more comfortable?" Mulder
asked.  It was the same ironic tone he used so often, and not just with
her, but it sounded warmer now.

"That depends," Scully said.  "Did you pack those plaid pajama bottoms? 
You know, the soft ones."  

"You like those, huh?" Mulder asked. "You never told me that."

Mulder had started wearing pajamas a few months ago. Probably a sign of
impending senility, he thought.  What was next?  Bifocals?  Bermuda
shorts?  The fact was, though, they were damn comfortable.  They'd feel
a lot better than this stiff, thick-seamed denim.  

He found the requested pants from among his clothes and took a gray
T-shirt to go with them.

"Excuse me," he said.  "I'm going to change privately."

While Mulder was in the bathroom, Scully looked for something to put on
herself.  Mulder's shirt was great, but it only went so far.  She donned
a pair of Allison's textured cotton long johns and got into bed to wait
for Mulder.

He came out of the bathroom dressed just the way she'd wanted.

She turned onto her stomach and Mulder tucked the blankets around her
waist.  He started to pull the T-shirt up over her back when she turned
around again and stopped him.

"Mulder, are you sure I'm not using you?" she asked.

"Roll over, Spooky," he said.  "Prepare yourself for indulgence and
relaxation."

He warmed the scented oil in his hands. With her back to Mulder, Scully
pulled Mulder's T-shirt off over her head and stowed it under her
pillow, then lay face down on the bed.

"Are you comfortable?"  Mulder asked, adjusting the blankets. His voice
held no seductive tone or sensual teasing.  Scully could feel herself
relax and the massage had not even begun.

"Oh, yes," she said, but when Mulder moved closer to her on the bed, so
that his hip pressed against hers, she felt her throat constricting. 
Her breathing became forced and deliberate and her skin flushed with
heat. She had to time her breathing; inhale to the count of seven, and
hold it for seven, now blow it out (five-six-seven).

But the reaction was one of desire as well as anxiety.  

Mulder placed both of his palms on Scully's shoulder blades and applied
a firm pressure.  His hands remained still as Scully's skin adjusted to
the warmth of his touch.  At first, Scully was overwhelmed by the
sensations--it was as if the walls of the cabin were closing in on her.
But as Mulder's hands remained stationary she felt herself settling
down.

Once Mulder's treatment began, his hands never broke contact with
Scully's skin.  His left hand moved to the center of her back where he
kneaded and pressed against the tension that gripped against her spine. 
On her neck, his right hand stroked up and down in an oblong pattern
that seemed to draw out and dissipate the tight ache. Sometimes Mulder's
hands would switch tasks, but the contact remained and Scully felt the
knots loosen as her muscles ribboned into a relaxed harmony. 

As Mulder felt Scully's muscles unclench, he changed to a gentler touch.
Both hands began to circle on Scully's back. The soothing oil and
Mulder's fantastic hands were sending her into a stupor. Her back was
humming with the pleasure of it, and she was drifting into sleep.

She wanted to thank him, tell him, that was fine, he could stop now. 
But she didn't want to move, didn't really want him to stop.  If only
she could stay awake to enjoy this...  

Out for the count, Mulder thought.  He continued his gentle circles for
a few more minutes and then he brought the sheet and blanket up over
Scully's bare shoulders. 

He'd spent the last several months frustrated and bewildered because he
thought Scully had rejected him, but very little of his discomfort was
sexual. Sexual tension was dealt with easily enough, frankly, and if
he'd wanted to outsource the task there were plenty of volunteers.  

The comfort he'd longed for was physical, yes, but only partly sexual. 
It was enough for him that Scully had acknowledged the urges they
stirred in one another.

Enough for tonight, at least.

He pulled back the covers and got into the second bed.
               
===================================================================

For the second time that evening, Mulder was awakened by the chilly air.
The cabin was colder than ever.  Wood, Mulder thought.  Got to go out
and get more firewood.

He forced himself to get out of bed.  Scully was still asleep, curled up
like a hedgehog under her quilted blanket.  He took the covers from his
own bed and placed them over her.  

"Mulder?"  Scully said sleepily.

"Go back to sleep," he whispered.  "I'm just going to collect more
wood."

"'s freezing," she mumbled.

"I'll get the fire going again," he promised.

"No.  Don't go out. 's freezing." 

"I know, Scully, that's why I have to get more wood," he explained
patiently.  He loosened the duffel bag to find something to put on over
his pajamas.

She was alert by this time, but she felt more comfortable pretending to
be half asleep 

"Warm in here.  Plenty of room," she murmured.  She was on her side near
the edge of the bed.

"Looks cozy," Mulder said.  

"Be warmer if you were in here."

"You're not giving me much choice," he said, remembering her scruples
about the first time he'd climbed into bed with her.

"No choice at all," she said.  

Trying to hide his eagerness, Mulder walked around the bed to slip in
on the other side.  

Mulder saw that Scully was wearing his T-shirt again. That was
good--sort of.  

Mulder got under the covers.  He lay on his side, to avoid crowding in
on Scully's space.  She was off the pillow entirely, so he pulled it
over to use himself.

Mulder tried to get comfortable without squirming.  There really wasn't
enough room. He started to reposition himself, inadvertently bringing
his arm against Scully's back.

"Sorry," he whispered.

Scully sighed, stretched, and wriggled herself closer to him until her
head was on the pillow and her back was against his chest. She reached
back for his arm and pulled it over her shoulder as if it were another
blanket.  

This last maneuver finally convinced Mulder that it would be all right
to make himself comfortable.  He snaked his right arm under Scully's
neck and pillow.  He encircled her in his arms.  His left hand was
within inches of Scully's left breast.  And his right hand would not
have to more very far either.

Scully was not surprised when she felt Mulder's hands graze her
breasts.  To her great satisfaction, he did not apologize.

Scully settled back into Mulder's embrace.  His right hand clasped her
upper arm and his left hand lay casually across her hip. 

Comfort and fatigue were greater than arousal for both partners, and
they slept.  



end of 8/17

Backtracking
9/17
Disclaimer, etc., with part 1




To pee or not to pee.

Scully had been debating with herself, in between naps, for the last
fifteen minutes, but at last she had no other option than to drag
herself from the warm bed across the cold floor to the freezing
bathroom.

Mulder had twisted the blankets into a jumble when she returned, and she
straightened them out enough to get him properly covered, but she did
not get back in the bed.  She dressed and left the cabin to collect some
firewood.  

Her watch showed 2:30, but outside it was early dawn. The cold was
bracing and energizing as she gathered up some fallen branches. Stopping
by her abandoned skis, she tried to pry out her ski boots, but the
bindings were still frozen. She put the skis into the rack, then took
two trips to bring the wood into the cabin.

Scully got a fire started and the cabin warmed up quickly.  She would
have to wake Mulder soon.  While skiing back from the waterfall the
night before, she'd met someone who was also studying the area around
Temperance River, an archeologist from the University of Minnesota.  He
had agreed to drop by the next morning.

Nevertheless she took a few minutes to watch Mulder sleep. For the first
time she could behold him in his tousle-haired, stubble-faced glory and
bask in the sight.  She'd been privileged to see him like this before,
but regret and yearning always made the pleasure bittersweet.  

Scully knew exactly how she wanted to wake Mulder.  The scented oils
were still on the floor next to the bed.  She had fallen asleep last
night with Mulder's palms and fingers rubbing the soothing lotion into
her skin. Payback time.  She poured a cup of hot water from the kettle
and used it to warm up the oil.

Mulder lay face down on the bed. The cabin was toasty now, and he had
tossed off his covers. 

Scully sat down on the edge of the bed and slipped her hands under his
shirt.  His skin was comfortably warm, so she started to pull his shirt
up to remove it.  He turned over for her and pulled the shirt off over
his head. 

"Hey," he said, his voice hoarse with sleep.  "Get back in here."

"Nope," she told him.  "You're going to get what's coming to you."  He
grabbed her arms, trying to pull her into the bed.  "Stop that, Mulder! 
Roll over."

"Ooh!  Are you going to spank me?" Mulder asked, flopping onto his
belly.

"I've spent the last six years covering your ass, and now you want me to
paddle you?" Scully asked.  

"It's not my number one request," Mulder said, "but I'd settle."  

"I'll keep it in mind," Scully said.  She poured some of the oil onto
her palms and started to rub firm circles over his upper back.  

"Free weights?" she asked him, willing to stroke his vanity as she
stroked his body. 

"Nautilus."  He sounded very pleased. 

Working the dorsal muscles from this position was awkward and tiring.
Scully knew she could do a better job if she could get closer.  Leaning
on Mulder for support, she scrambled on top of him, kneeling across his
lower back. 
 
"Yee-haw!" Mulder yipped.

Scully angled forward and used her thumbs to soothe and press the
muscles of Mulder's neck.  She frowned with concentration, using slow,
even pressure to make him relax.

A low groaning noise conveyed Mulder's appreciation.

Scully finished with the splenius muscles and briefly moved up Mulder's
neck to massage his scalp gently.

Mulder sighed, deeply contented.  

Scully wondered if she could make him fall asleep, as he had done to her
the night before.  Mulder had promised to rub her back last night; today
he was planning to seduce her.

Maybe she could beat him to it.

She moved down to his left shoulder.  

In some ways, Scully thought, she knew Mulder's body so well.  She knew
his medical history, his blood type, his weight, his body surface
area--she could calculate his drug doses in her head.  

She knew what size he wore, in everything.  More than once their
activities in the field had necessitated an emergency trip to a local
Wal-Mart.  Scully was as adept at pulling together an acceptable
Mulder-ensemble as Mulder was at changing his clothes in a moving car.

She giggled a little.  Mulder had performed the same service for her, of
course.  And she still didn't believe the leopardskin-print bra was the
only one in her size.

"What are you thinking?" Mulder asked.  The strong, small hands on his
back were sublime, but a night spent wrapped around Scully and dreaming
about her had reduced his tolerance for deferring the other pleasures
she could bring him.

"You have nice arms," she said.  

Seduce Mulder--could she do it?  Probably, but it would be devastating
if she started to move in on him and he wasn't into it.  She didn't know
if she could weather that kind of rejection, or if the relationship
could.

Dana Scully had never seduced anyone in her life.  Dana Scully was a
lousy lay--Jack Willis had told her that.  Of course that was when they
were breaking up, when he was angry and hurt, but she had every reason
to believe him.

Mulder was thinking about seduction too.  He had told Scully he was
going to seduce her today, and here she was in the bed with him.  That
had to qualify as consent.  

Scully was paying a lot of attention to his right arm, bunching and
pressing his deltoid muscle.  It was pleasant enough, but there had to
be a way to re-direct her efforts to certain other areas. Yet as Scully
continued to work on his shoulder he found that he really didn't want
her to stop.  She used both hands to massage him in a leap-frog motion,
and the warmth and pressure of her hands spread the relaxation from his
shoulder down his triceps to his forearm and finally to his hand and
fingers.

Scully returned her hands to Mulder's left shoulder, then worked her way
across his back, kneading the muscles forcefully and skimming over the
bony processes of his vertebrae.  She followed the ridge of his scapula
to land on his deltoid, where she began to gather and spread the meaty
muscle of his right shoulder as she had the left.

Scully was trying to exorcise her self-doubt.  Why was she so focused on
rejection? Why couldn't she enjoy the moment and let it lead where it
would?

Trust your instincts, Dana.  

I don't know if I can, she answered herself.  It's been a long time
since I touched a man for pleasure.  I'm just touching his arm, and it's
making me hot!

Be honest, Dana.  You're not just touching his arm, you're also
straddling his butt.

Oh.  Yeah.

Mulder was planning his seduction, or more accurately, he was
considering whether it would be wise to attempt one.  If Scully had any
clue what she was doing to him, she'd probably stop.  She'd have to call
in the ethics committee again.

They had touched so much in a few short hours.  So much after so little.
He was definitely ready and willing for more.

Scully moved her attention to the muscles along Mulder's spine.  She
worked this area as she had his arms, with long strokes by one hand and
then the other.  The sacral area called for a circular pattern--first
Scully used her finger tips and then she retraced the pathway with the
heels of her hands.  

Tension was moving throughout Mulder's body now, but it certainly was
not being reduced.

Scully's voice squeaked at first when she tried to talk.

"Hold on, Mulder.  I need some more oil."  

She leaned over to get to the bottle, but Mulder twisted beneath her,
grabbing her arms so he wouldn't throw her off the bed.

He was on his back, and Scully, blushing and startled, still straddled
his hips.

"Be gentle with me, Scully,"  Mulder told his shocked partner.  When she
had recovered from her surprise, she aimed the massage at the safest
area presented--the arms again.

Scully began to smile as Mulder's expression clearly revealed his
enjoyment.  

In Mulder's four decades on earth, his arms had never before received so
much attention.  If his brain and his hormones would just leave him
alone, he'd probably fall blissfully asleep.

Scully moved to the center of his chest and the massage paused.

Mulder opened his eyes.  Scully's smile had turned suspiciously
mischievous. 

"Mulder, you must be really sore right here."  The hands were in motion
again and working on his pectorals.  Oh, my God!

Scully was no longer trying to relax Mulder or relieve his stiffness.
Far from it. Breath was coming faster and deeper for both of them.

There was no reason to hold back, nothing left to hide. 

Scully felt not only pleasure but relief.  Like a drink of cool water on
a parched throat, or finally getting to scratch that itch.  Mulder was
hers.  Body contact, so essential, so desired, was now permissible.

Her hands moved from his pecs to his delts, then back to his chest. 
Then they traveled downward. 

External abdominal obliques. Scully closed her eyes, the better to
appreciate the Braille message of his contours. Her hands moved with
almost enough pressure to cause bruising. His abs, then back up his
chest.  And then lighter pressure, much lighter.  Circles.  

Mulder twisted again without warning and had Scully on her back. Their
gazes locked and the smile returned to Scully's lips, a wickedly playful
smile.  Her hands returned to his chest, lightly now, very lightly, her
fingers teasing his nipples. Mulder's elbows stayed locked, but his arms
were trembling.  His breathing slowed into long inhalations ending with
short, grunted expulsions of air.

Mulder was undone.  Touching... Scully... words were not even part of
the thought process now.  Scully controlled him completely.
 
One action seemed possible that would level the field.  He was hovering
over Scully, and she was lying beneath him fully dressed.  He lowered
himself next to her and grabbed the hem of her sweater, a cable-knit
acrylic.

For a fraction of a second, Scully's mind focused on the pragmatic.  

He'll stretch it out! she thought

Scully wriggled her way out of the sweater and tossed it onto the second
bed.  

Mulder hands traveled to Scully's waist.  He teased under her T-shirt,
stroking and scratching lightly.  Then he took two handfuls of T-shirt
and tugged it over Scully's head. 

Her hands broke contact with Mulder's body for a moment to let the shirt
pass.  

Mulder started to laugh.

Not the reaction Scully had hoped for.

"Scully, I'm sorry," he said.  "It's just that I'm happy.  And you're
beautiful.  And you're wearing that bra."  That bra from Wal-Mart.  That
bra that proved, beyond all doubt, that he was crass and tasteless, with
the sensibility of an adolescent.

"I wear this bra a lot," Scully told him.  "Usually with the black lace
panties."

While Mulder tried to formulate a response, Scully slid sideways so that
she was on top of him again. She leaned forward and planted her palms
solidly on the bed, just above Mulder's shoulders.  

"Scully?" he said.

"Hm?" she queried.  Her leopard-bra'd breasts grazed lightly along
Mulder's chest. 

"Black lace panties.  Show me." The panties didn't matter, but he wanted
to get those pants off her.  The oversized tweed ski pants she had
borrowed from Allison.

Scully's lips and tongue trailed along Mulder's chest, following the
same route her hands had blazed.  She nibbled on his neck, dozens of
quick little nips.  Her tongue flicked at his ear lobe, and then she
wrapped her arms around his neck as she tasted her way down his neck and
back to his chest.

Mulder could not move, could not even think. If it weren't for the feel
of Scully moving above him, he would have believed that time itself had
frozen.

Scully's clothing was rough against his skin.  Her bra felt rough where
it brushed against his bare chest, and her wool pants felt rough where
they rubbed hard against him, even through his flannel pajamas. 

He didn't know if Scully was doing it on purpose, but she was gyrating
against him.

"S-s-s-s."  Mulder wanted to say something, wanted to warn her. Passion
and desire grew and fulminated within him, and he could not even say her
name.

"Mulder..."  She abandoned his nipple so that she could answer him,
and   Mulder and his nipple felt desolate, bereft.  "Do you want me to
stop?"

"N-n-n-n," Mulder stammered spastically, and as Scully's incisors
resumed their gentle torture, and her shameless pelvic bones ground
against him again, Mulder felt lust and longing explode until they were
extinguished.

Mulder shuddered when he came, uttering something guttural, voiceless,
and throaty.

Scully opened her eyes to Mulder's look of chagrin and disappointment.
At last Mulder was able to speak.

"Oh, shit," he said.

Scully took a moment to get over her surprise.  

"I'm good!" she said at last.  "I am g-o-o-o-o-d!"

"You're taking this awfully well," Mulder said.    

"You are so cute.  God, you're cute, Mulder.  Do you have any idea how
cute you are?"  But Scully was not going to give him a chance to answer
that question, because she could no longer refrain from nibbling on his
lips.

Nibbles did not satisfy her for long, and soon her mouth was pressed
hard against his.  

Mulder returned her avid kisses.  

Leopardskin suits her after all, Mulder thought.  She's a wildcat. 

He pulled Scully to him, encircling her with his arms, accepting her
tongue against his.  And then, when she was firmly in his grasp, he
artfully flipped her.

"You called me cute.  I object to that patronizing characterization,"
Mulder said. Not only was he above her, he was actually pinning her, and
pouting.

"You don't understand, Mulder," Scully protested.  "I loved it.  I loved
making you lose control."  Mulder's unexpected orgasm had boosted
Scully's confidence.  Making Mulder come and sharing the bed with him
were enough to carry her for the rest of the day, the rest of the week,
if need be.  

"You loved that?  You *are* spooky."  He began to stroke her stomach,
and then, as his hand cupped her left breast, he kissed her again.  

"Scully," he said when he broke from the kiss, "maybe you'd better get
those pants off."

It was a little late to worry about the pants, Scully thought.  She'd
have to invent a fictional mishap and then insist on replacing them.  

"We don't have much time," Scully said.  "We have to get up now."  Her
watch still read 2:30, but daylight was streaming through the windows
and she didn't know how long until her visitor would arrive.

"Scully, aren't you hot in those pants?" Mulder asked.  

She laughed.

"I thought so," Mulder said.  "I'm going to help you."  She gripped his
wrists to stop him, but he still succeeded in undoing the button and
sliding down the zipper.

"Okay, okay," she said, pulling off the pants so that he wouldn't tear
them.  "But we still have to get going."

"Scully... You're going to get what's coming to you." He had moved aside
so that she could strip off her pants, but now he was on top of her
again, with his knee in between her legs.  

"Mulder, really.  There's no time."  Don't make me spell it out, she
pleaded silently.  I am not like the women in your movies.  

She realized that their night in Kansas could have given Mulder a false
picture.  She had never in her life come like that.  The surprise, the
years of foreplay, and maybe some happy accident of anatomy had given
her the fastest, easiest orgasm of her life.  But that was like a triple
play--once in a lifetime, if you were lucky.

"That bra has to go," Mulder said.  "My best friend said it was
tasteless and tacky."  He snapped it open one-handed.

And I thought he picked it just for the leopard spots, Scully thought. 
Mulder's slow fingers were doing wonderful things to her, puckering her
nipples and softening her brain.

Mulder stared into Scully's eyes while he played with her nipples, and
then his gaze shifted as he lowered his head to her breast. She felt
gentle traction on her nipple as his soft, greedy mouth began to suck,
and warm sensations jolted from her breast to her vulva.  

Scully's thighs clamped against Mulder's knee, and he took it as a good
sign.  He flicked his tongue against her nipple, twisting his neck in an
effort to catch the look on her face as he did it.

Mulder was trying hard to please her, Scully thought.  It wasn't his
fault she was so high-maintenance.  Jack used to complain that she
couldn't respond unless the room was dark, the phone was off the hook,
and there was a towel spread out to protect the bed.  

Mulder lowered himself to lie down on his side to Scully's right. He
brought his arm behind her neck and pulled her closer.  Then he threw
his right leg over hers. 

Mulder wanted to ask her to help him, to show him what she liked.  He
felt like a cluck.  Scully had made him come in his pants like a kid,
and now he was fumbling around like a kid. 

Scully felt an odd combination of controlled and contented.  Mulder's
arm across her back was such a sweet, friendly gesture, but his leg,
which was wrapped around hers and forcing her legs apart, felt thrilling
and a tiny bit menacing.  

She reached for him, turning on her side to face him.  She leaned in to
kiss him, leaned in close to feel him against her breasts.  And when she
felt Mulder's hand slide under the waistband of her panties, she forgot
to warn him that she was high maintenance.

It was Mulder who broke off the long, hard kiss and pulled Scully onto
her back again.

Scully looked at him questioningly, and he felt stupid again.

"I want to see your face," he explained.  He wanted to watch her
expression as he slid his fingers against her clitoris.  

"We have to get up."  Scully's tone conveyed a total lack of conviction.

Mulder drew his hand up Scully's body, circling and caressing.  Her
breasts, down to her belly, her legs... Mulder's head was resting on top
of her arm. Scully reached her other arm to stroke up his inner thigh
and cup his balls in her hand, feeling their weight through the flannel.

Then Mulder's hand was back in her pants, his fingers sliding past the
patch of coarse hair to the slippery labia.

Wet, warm, slick.  Mulder used his fingertips to circle on Scully's
clitoris, slow, firm circles.  

"Mulder."  Long, soft syllables.  Eyes half closed.

He didn't answer.  He was tonguing and sucking again on her left
breast.  His fingers moved up and down against her clit.  Scully was
undulating against the bed, against his fingers.  

Looking good, Mulder thought.  One problem, though. Scully's hand by his
balls was becoming less attentive, more careless.  He really didn't want
that hand there anymore.

Unfortunately, Mulder had only two hands.  With his left arm under
Scully's neck, his left hand was in position to pull at Scully's upper
arm.  He tried it, but she resisted.

Scully's brain had switched into hot-pants mode.  When Mulder tried to
pull her arm away, it took an emergency over-ride from her intellect to
stop her from grabbing his testicles to maintain her position.

Mulder immediately switched tactics.

"Scully."  He had to abandon the slick clitoris to move her hand from
his crotch.  "I just want to take care of you now."  

Scully's intellect took the opportunity to reassert itself.

"Mulder, there's something you need to know.  Something I should have
explained last night."  Scully knew her message would be less than
convincing.  She was lying in Mulder's arms wearing only her black
cotton panties, her labial folds hot and slippery.  

Mulder recognized that the wildcat had been displaced by Dr. Scully,
scientist.  He passed her hand  across her body to his left hand, and
she laced her fingers into the fingers of his left hand.  Mulder rubbed
again at her right nipple and flicked his tongue along the folds of her
ear.

Then he answered her.

"Okay, Scully, tell me your secret," he said.  His hand was migrating
south once more, but he was letting it enjoy the journey.

"My sexual response--limited.  Fussy.  High maintenance." 
Sentences--couldn't.

"That's fine, Scully.  Don't respond," Mulder said. He was watching her
face.  

"Mulder.  Really."  Scully didn't want him to stop, she just wanted to
warn him that it wouldn't work.  "Takes forever."

Mulder was tasting her neck again, so there was a pause before he
answered.

"I've been known to last longer than a minute myself," he said.  

"Mulder, don't take this personally."  Dr. Scully, scientist, had
triumphed, unfortunately.  "I'm not going to come.  Women are not like
men."

"Really?"  Smugness.  Index and ring finger, back on her clitoris. 
Slow.  Circles. She knew his confident smile.  She could see his face
even with her eyes closed.

"Mulder.  Mulder.  Mulder.  Oh my God!" 

Circles. Circlescirclescircles. 

She tore her hand from his grasp, because she had to kiss him, and she
grabbed his head to bring him to her.  She pushed her open mouth hard
against Mulder's, and she could feel his teeth against her lips as she
possessed him with her tongue.  

And still the two fingers were circling.  And still she was coming.

And then she grasped his hand to slow his rhythm, and collapsed back on
his arm.

Mulder hand increased its range, traveling down her soft-skinned thighs,
up her belly, over her hip bone to squeeze her buttock.  

And Scully lay there, smiling.  A very big smile that looked as if it
might break into actual laughter.

"Sorry, Scully," Mulder said even more smugly.  "Maybe next time."



end 9/17
Backtracking
10/17
Disclaimer, etc., with part 1




"I'm expecting company," Scully said.  She and Mulder had finally sat
down to breakfast. "Someone I met in the woods yesterday who knows this
area inside out."

"Scully, if the wolf's coming over, I'm going to hide in the cupboard,"
Mulder said.

"Shame on you, shepherd boy," Scully laughed. "But it isn't the wolf." 

"Oh," Mulder said. "So it's back to business for us."

"Mulder."  She took his hand in hers and looked into his eyes.  Still
holding him with her gaze, she brought his hand to her mouth and gently
kissed the back of his fingers.  Then, without releasing his hand, she
leaned forward and  placed a small peck on his cheek.

"Thank you," she said.  "Thank you for having breakfast with me."

Mulder squeezed her hand.  Maybe we'll make it, he thought.

"Tell me about our guest," he said.

"You know those snowmobile tracks?  This is the snowmobiler.  Brad
Swenson.  He's an archeologist studying this area," Scully said.  "He's
a post-doc fellow at the University of Minnesota, working with the
Department of Natural Resources."

"Well then, I'd better rustle up another cup of Taster's Choice," Mulder
said.  He went to the fireplace to move the kettle closer to the fire,
then sat down again. 

"Scully, are you going to eat that?" he asked.   

Allison Scully always treated her houseguests to a big batch of her
famous stuffed raisin-bread french toast.  She'd sent along the
left-overs for the camping trip.

Dana had never had the heart to tell Allison how much she despised
stuffed raisin-bread french toast.  

She'd excised and consumed a few raisin-free morsels, but most of the
concoction remained on her plate. 

"Help yourself," she said.  "Aren't you going to eat your cantaloupe?"

"I don't usually eat the rind," he said, spearing a sticky bite of soggy
toast.  "But go ahead."

"Hmph," she snorted, reaching for his melon.  He'd left over more than
he'd eaten.

The sputter of the snowmobile outside announced the arrival of Scully's
guest. Brad Swenson held a doctorate in archeology, but his oddball
approach to the science kept him firmly on the fringes of academia.

Swenson stamped his feet at the doorway to clean his boots before coming
into the cabin.

"Morning, folks," he said.  

"Brad, this is my partner, Special Agent Fox Mulder," Scully said. 
"Mulder, Brad Swenson."

"Agent Scully tells me you know this area inch by inch. Maybe you can
help us find our missing cave," Mulder said, shaking the man's hand.

Brad Swenson wore a fluorescent orange snowmobile suit.  He looked older
than his thirty years, and his habitual squint made him seem humorless,
which he was not.  He was a tall, blond, big-boned man who thought
quickly and spoke slowly--most of the time.

"If you're looking for a cave by a waterfall with some moss-covered
rocks, I can tell you where to find it," Swenson said.  

"That's great, Brad," Scully said, nodding at Mulder.

"As for your Viking..."  Swenson sat down across from Scully and
accepted the cup of coffee that Mulder gave him.  "Do you think you can 
keep an open mind?"  

Mulder pulled out a chair and sat down next to Scully.  

"We'd be interested in anything you can tell us," Scully said.  "We've
heard a lot of odd stories that turned out to be true, or at least more
true than false."

"There are many kinds of truth, don't you think?" Swenson asked.  "The
sacramental wine in a Catholic Mass, is that the blood of Jesus?"

"So I have heard," said Mulder.

"That is one of those questions that science cannot even investigate,"
Scully said.

Swenson nodded, apparently satisfied that he'd made his point.

"Science has its method, and religion has its dogma, right?  But
sometimes it is the shaman, not the astronomer, who is able to predict
the next eclipse," Swenson said.  

"The difference between science and religion is not that science is
right and religion is wrong," Scully said.  "The difference is this. 
Science has a mechanism for self-correction.  The scientist can study
the eclipse and use that data to correct his hypothesis."

"Historically, scientists often overlooked data that did not fit with
their existing hypothesis," Swenson said. 

"A shortcoming that continues into the present," Mulder said. 
"Furthermore, the scientist will present her--or his--data as if it
represents the objective truth.  The scientist seems unaware, at times, 
that her role as observer is part of the picture."

"Excuse me," said Scully, "but the errors of individual scientists do
not invalidate science itself.  The scientific method is sound, Mulder. 
It is the only legitimate tool that we have."

Swenson cast his squinty gaze from Scully to Mulder and back again. 
He'd heard this argument many times in many forms, but there was
something particularly personal about this discussion.

"Don't underestimate empirical wisdom, Agent Scully," Swenson said.  "As
Kelvin Throop put it:  Celestial navigation is based on the premise that
the Earth is the center of the universe.  The premise is wrong, but the
navigation works."

"Kelvin Throop?" Scully echoed incredulously.  "You made that up."

Mulder actually waved his hand at Scully to quell her.  She settled back
in her chair and forced herself to suspend her skepticism. 

"Okay," Mulder said.  "This is getting interesting.  What do you think
we can learn here?"

"The Vikings believed that the end of the world was preordained.  They
believed in the twilight of the gods, Ragnorok, when most of the gods of
the Norse mythology would be killed in battle," Swenson said.  "Do you
know anything about the Norse religion?"

"A little," said Mulder.

"A few of the gods survive the final battle against the giants," Swenson
continued. "Balder the brave is one who survives."

"Ironically, Balder had been killed earlier," Mulder explained to
Scully.  "There's a picture of his funeral in Oliver's book."

"I guess returning from the dead was easier back then," Scully said,
raising her eyebrows at Mulder.

"Yes, they had more loopholes," Swenson agreed amiably.  "Anyway,
something happened at Balder's funeral.  Odin, leader of the gods,
passed along a secret to his dead son."

"There was a poem we had to read in high school, by Longfellow."  Mulder
said.  "Rather awful, really. 'Tegner's Drapa.'"  He began to recite:

        They laid him in his ship,
        With horse and harness,
        As on a funeral pyre. 
        Odin placed 
        A ring upon his finger, 
        And whispered in his ear.

"You remember that from high school?" Swenson laughed.  "The undergrads
I teach can't remember if Paleocene comes before Pliocene."

"Don't encourage him," Scully said.  "Anyway, what does this have to do
with the cave we're looking for, or the Viking?"

"The local lore here includes a lot of the ancient beliefs," Swenson
said.  "What the old settlers decided is that Odin must have given
Balder some special piece of advice, some information he could use to
protect himself when the end of the world came."

"Told him to use sunscreen," Mulder said solemnly.  Scully gave him a
stern look, but Swenson laughed.

"Maybe.  No one knows.  But here's the thing, and like I said, you need
to keep an open mind.  People hiking around here have seen something. 
An old Viking--and no, it's not Fran Tarkenton."  He shot a wry glance
at Mulder, who looked hurt.

"I wasn't going to say that," Mulder protested.

"Anyone's who's ever seen this... apparition comes away convinced that
the Viking has a message, a secret to tell them," Swenson said.

"There's something strange and mythic about this place," Scully said. 
"The mists, the way the flowers bloom in the snow, the temperature
shifts. Even the animals..."

"It's a special place, all right," Swenson agreed.  "For example, notice
anything funny about your watches?"

"Mine stopped last night," Mulder said.  "At ten after nine."  He looked
at his watch.  "Only now it's running."

Swenson nodded. "I have to radio to the park service headquarters if I
want the right time," he said.

"Where do people report seeing the Viking?" Mulder asked.  "Is there any
particular place we should look?"

"He's shown up all over," Swenson said, "but I have a hunch that your
waterfall would be a good place to start."

"A hunch, Brad?" Scully asked.  The eyebrow went up, she couldn't help
it.

"Hear me out," Swenson said. "That waterfall you're looking for, with
the cave behind it... There's another interesting feature there, a hot
spring.  It's like Mother Nature's own Jacuzzi, except for one thing.  
Sometimes it's there, and sometimes it's not."

"How's that again?" Mulder asked.

"You got me," said Swenson.  "Some kind of underground river or spring,
it must get diverted at times.  I don't think the geologists have it
figured out yet.  But there's a natural depression, a pit, really.  And
when we get lucky it fills up with nice, bubbly water.  Now, what do you
think we call that hot spring?  The Indians called it the Devil's
Cauldron, something like that, but the Swedish settlers gave it a new
name."

"Paul Bunyan's bathtub?" Mulder ventured.

"It's called Odin's Secret.  It's full-up now, so you might want to
check it out." He looked from Scully to Mulder.  "Just don't do anything
stupid like get drunk and drown.  You'd be surprised what people do."

Scully shuddered a little.  It wasn't that long since Mulder had almost
succeeded in drowning himself.

"Have you ever seen the Viking?" Mulder asked.

"No," said Swenson, "never have. Have you ever seen a virus, Agent
Mulder?"

Swenson was done talking, but he made a few notations on Scully's trail
map to show the way to the second waterfall.  After he took his leave,
Mulder and Scully prepared to follow his map.

"We'll get a final set of readings at the first waterfall and then move
the equipment to the new site.  So, Mulder, do you think we should bring
some food along?"  Scully asked.

"Yes, Scully, pack us some food.  Then whenever you're ready I'll carry
you to your little skis."

======================================================================

The trip from the cabin to the first waterfall differed from the one
yesterday in two major ways.  First, when Scully caught up to Mulder,
where the trail through the woods broke off from the snowmobile tracks,
he ambushed her with a stockpile of snowballs.  Second, using the tracks
they'd made yesterday, Mulder was able to lead the way through the
woods.  

Mulder led the way, which made it almost too easy for Scully to get him
back for the snowball attack.  He was still having a devil of a time
skiing uphill, even though he'd waxed scientifically for increased grip.

"You know why I'm having so much trouble on the inclines?" Mulder asked
when they took their break by the tree stump.  "It's your fault."

"My fault?" Scully echoed.  He was having trouble on the inclines
because of his skis. 

"I've got no grip because you waxed wrong yesterday," he explained. 
"Now my skis are picking up all your bad wax from the snow."

Scully laughed appreciatively and kissed him.  Mulder decided that he
had indeed intended his complaint to be a joke.

When they resumed skiing, Mulder noticed the wolf tracks in the snow. 
The paw prints seemed enormous.  He sidestepped off the trail and
motioned to Scully so she'd catch up to him.

"Look at those, Scully, that's the wolf you were playing with last
night."  He thought the reality of the huge prints would have a sobering
effect.  What scared Mulder silly was the realization of how far from
him she'd been when she'd encountered the monster.  Even if he had heard
her gunshot, it would have taken him forever to reach her.

"See?" Scully looked up at him with the same excitement she'd shown
yesterday.  "I told you he was a big one."

Mulder wanted to shake his partner and ask her if she had a death wish. 
It was a new experience for him although it would have been quite
familiar to Scully.

They reached the waterfall and quickly took their readings and began to
pack up the equipment.

"The usual assortment of background noise," Mulder said, "except for the
temperature fluctuations."

"Most likely attributable to the underground water and the hot spring,"
Scully said.  "High sulfur, too.  Either from the spring or maybe from
pollution."

With the equipment packed, Mulder took out the Minolta and performed his
usual act of "using up the roll."  He'd always pretended he did this
just to bug Scully, but in fact that was only a side benefit.  He really
did it for the pictures.  His large collection featured shot after shot
of Scully scowling at him, hiding her face, or giving him the finger.

This time he got a few smiles, until she got fed up and took out the
digital camera to get him back.  She snapped one picture after another,
and Mulder found it incredibly annoying.

"When we get back to the cabin, I want you to do 'David' for me again,"
Scully said.  "You'd make a great screensaver."

"Your monitor's not big enough," Mulder said.  "Do you have the map
Swenson marked for us?  I want to get to that hot spring."

"I'm sure what you really meant to say was that you wanted to get to the
cave and the waterfall," Scully corrected him.  "The hot spring is
merely an interesting geological phenomenon."

"They call it Odin's Secret," Mulder reminded her.  "Could be the key to
everything."

Swenson's map showed a trail from the first waterfall to the second
one.  The trail followed the river, so it shouldn't be hard to find.

It was easy to find but hellacious to follow.  The trail ran almost
entirely downhill, with only a few flat or uphill sections.  It curved
sharply to the left, so that Scully, leading the way, continuously felt
that she was skiing directly into the river.  There were no snowmobile
or ski tracks here, and Scully began to suspect that more experienced
campers avoided this trail entirely.

Unable to control the velocity of his descent, Mulder was at even
greater risk for losing the trail and plunging into the water.  To
compensate, he made his turns too sharp, so that when he fell, he would
fall into the thick growth of the forest rather than over the edge. And
he did fall.  Many times.  

While Mulder was picking himself out of the evergreen thicket,
struggling to reclaim a ski pole from a particularly aggressive juniper
bush, Scully had arrived at last at the bottom of the run.  The trail
widened, flattened, and veered away from the river.  

She stood in the clearing, watching for Mulder, chanting to herself,
He'll be fine, he'll be fine, he'll be fine.  But at the same time her
mind was racing from one possibility to another.  By the time he came
down the trail, as shaky as she was, his face scratched raw by the plant
growth, Scully had him in rehab, with lawsuits pending against the state
of Minnesota, the federal government, and Brad Swenson.

Mulder skied up to Scully.

"Hey, it's okay," he said.  She looked wide-eyed and pale.  "But we're
not going back that way."

"Mulder," she said.  At least none of his scratches were too close to
his eyes.

They would not have to ski back the way they came because there was a
much easier way.  If they had continued along the snowmobile tracks
instead of turning into the woods, they would have arrived at this same
clearing.  They had turned into the woods to find the first waterfall,
and then followed the riverside trail down to this site.  They would
have been better off backtracking from the first waterfall to the
snowmobile tracks and continuing along on that trail.

"Come on," Mulder said, "let's find that bleepin' waterfall."

Adding insult to injury, the trail they were following crossed right
over the snowmobile trail, and there, by a rocky embankment, was the
waterfall that Swenson had told them about.

Scully took out the map again.

"Look at this, Mulder, we didn't have to go down that deathtrap at all,"
she said. 

Mulder saw that she was right.  

"We could have stayed on the snowmobile trail, followed it all the way
out here," Mulder said.  "That son of a bitch."

"Do you think he was putting us on about the Viking as well?" Scully
asked.  

Screw the Viking, Mulder thought, but there'd better be a hot spring. 
He'd even brought towels.



end 10/17


Backtracking
11/17
Disclaimer, etc., with part 1




Mulder and Scully surveyed the area around the waterfall, but while
there were plenty of moss-covered rocks, there was no sign of a cave.

"It's like a rain forest here," Mulder said.  Unlike the other
waterfall, this one was free of ice.  The ground around the waterfall
was boggy and bare, without a trace of snow.  Scully put her backpack on
the ground and snapped off her skis.  Mulder followed suit, and they
both pulled off their sweaters.  Scully went back to the steep, rocky
hillside that was the source of the waterfall, poking and examining.

"There is no cave here," she said.  "He's a sick man, that Swenson."  

"It does seem that he was having some fun with us," Mulder agreed. 
"Maybe he thought we were pulling his leg, asking about the Viking."

"He might have gotten us killed," Scully said.  Mulder felt along the
rocky embankment much as Scully had done, and with equally disappointing
results.  He reached his cupped hands into the stream from the waterfall
and  used the frigid water to wash the dirt and sweat from his
scratched-up face.

"I'll get you some ointment," Scully offered.  She took got out a packet
of antibiotic cream from the first aid kit in her backpack and dabbed
some along Mulder's scrapes.  "Does it hurt much?" she asked him, and he
answered with a shrug that could have meant anything.

"Scully, I want to find that hot spring, I really do,"  he said.  

"You still believe that's the key to finding the Viking?" Scully
asked.   Maybe it was;  maybe there was a good reason the Swedish
settlers had named it Odin's Secret.

The Viking from Charlie's dream was about the last thing on Mulder's
mind just now. This trip was a complete success, even if Skinner
disapproved their traveling expenses and Mulder had to pay for
everything out of his own pocket.  

"Don't you ever think about anything besides work?" Mulder asked. 
"Swenson said it's like a Jacuzzi.  Doesn't that sound like fun?"

Scully shrugged, first one shoulder and then the other.  Her mouth
twitched as she looked up at him.  She was trying to fight it, but the
smile was winning.

"Yeah," she said, and she unfolded Swenson's map once more.

Swenson's notations showed the hot springs practically at the juncture
of the two ski trails.  They had to be within a couple of hundred feet
of the spa, unless Swenson really had been hoaxing them.  There was a
thicket of trees large enough to hold a secret hot tub but from where
they stood that didn't seem likely.

"I hate to disappoint you, Mulder, but unless it's in the middle of that
grove, there's no hot spring here," Scully said.  It was worth a look,
anyway.  This valley was drastically warmer than the higher parts of the
forest, and the ground was soft and mulchy.  That, at least, suggested
geothermal activity in the area.

They left their skis by the waterfall and traveled the short distance
into the wooded area.  Under the canopy of the trees, thick, soft snow
still covered the ground.  The hot spring was nestled within the shelter
of the grove as if by design.  An ancient seismic upheaval had formed
the spa of some volcanic matter.  It did not look rough and rocky like
the waterfall but smooth and glassy.

Mulder whooped with joy when he spotted the hot spring.

"Yes!  There it is!" he exclaimed.  "Look at it!  Please, Scully, can
we?"  

"Why, I don't know, Mulder.  Did you pack a swimsuit?" Scully asked him.

Mulder looked at her with a mixture of confusion and apprehension.

"Scully," he said.

"Gotcha!" Scully shouted.  "Last one in has to log the vouchers."  She
hurled her pack on the ground in an effort to get stripped and into the
water before Mulder.  Mulder dropped his pack a second later.

"No!" Mulder shouted.  "Not the vouchers."  He pulled Scully to the
ground, trying to hold her down with one arm while wiggling out of his
shirt with the other.  He couldn't remove his shirt without letting
Scully go, and she threw herself across his chest and pulled off her
turtleneck.

"Yes, Mulder, all the vouchers!" she crowed.  Mulder rolled Scully off
his chest and back onto the soft moss and threw himself on top of her
while he tried to open his fly.  When he arched himself up, Scully
slipped out of her pants and away from him as fast as he was stripping
off his own trousers.

"No!" he yelled again, and he grabbed her from behind.  He wrapped
himself around her, his legs locked around hers and his arms pinning
hers in place.  Now she wouldn't be able to finish getting undressed. 
Of course, neither would he.  

Scully was laughing too hard to say much of anything.  As if she'd ever
let him do the vouchers.  They were a nuisance, to be sure, but she had
a system by now and she'd be a fool to let Mulder monkey with it.

So they spent the next few minutes rolling around in the mud in their
underwear, laughing and grabbing.  

"Mulder," Scully gasped at last.  "You're filthy.  Hot springs!  Now!"

"No!" Mulder yelled back.  "I don't wanna take a bath!"  They wrestled
some more, their garments succumbing at last, except for Scully's bra.

"God damn it!" Mulder exclaimed.  "It doesn't open in the back, it
doesn't open in the front, what is it with this thing?"

"Think of it as an IQ test," Scully said.  Crossing her arms in front of
her she slowly drew the sports bra over her head, bumping and grinding
all the while.  "There have been some recent advances in the field of
women's foundation garments--and with the woman in mind!"

"I wouldn't know, Scully, it's been a long time since my last
cross-dressing assignment," Mulder said.  Scully was vamping it up, but
when she noticed Mulder's open-mouthed, appreciative stare she became
self-conscious again.

She snapped the Lycra bra in his direction, and he grinned broadly as he
caught it.

"Great!" Mulder exclaimed.  "My slingshot!"  He raced around the hot
spring to the mound of snow on the other side.  He had some notion that
he held in his hand the world's first double-barreled snowball launcher.

"Don't try it, shepherd boy," Scully warned him.  Mulder had hurriedly
formed two slushy snowballs and placed them in the stretchy cups. 
Despite his sincere efforts, the snowballs landed by his feet and
disintegrated.

"That's *King* David to you," he said.  Scooping up more snow, he
charged at Scully as she tried to slip down into the hot spring.  
"Think you're safe, do you?"  Throwing himself after her, he slid across
the ground on his side, grabbing her arm before she could submerge
herself and rubbing the cold snow across her bare back.  

"Mulder!" she screamed at him, undone by the simultaneous sensations of
the hot spring water and the cold snow.  She grabbed his arms and
tugged, and Mulder came splashing into the hot spring after her, yelping
in surprise himself as the signal for heat surged out over nerve cells
still jangling with cold.  

Mulder ducked his head a few times to wash out the mud and leaves and
wiped his hands across his eyes.  

"Hey, Scully, come here," he said, reaching out his hand.

"How deep is it over there?" she asked him, taking his hand and wading
over to his side.

"Don't worry, shorty, I won't let you drown," he said.  "Anyway, there's
a ledge back here."  Incredibly, Mother Nature had placed a bench in her
Jacuzzi.  Mulder settled himself onto the ledge and Scully moved in next
to him, leaning back onto his outstretched arm.

"How perfect is this, Mulder?" she asked, eyes closed in contentment.

"Almost perfect," Mulder said.  His voice was soft.

"Almost?" Scully asked.  The hot spring was a bubble of peace in an
ominous world, she thought.  If only Mulder could let the peace engulf
him, just for a while.

"Almost," Mulder repeated. 

"You're thinking about what we've been through and the uncertainty that
lies ahead," Scully said.

"No."  Mulder sounded very surprised.  "I was thinking that I want to
kiss you.  I should have just done it, but I waited too long.  Then I
wasn't sure.  And I didn't want to ask, that would really be asinine.  I
mean, here we are, naked--"

"Shut up, Mulder."  She took hold of his fool head and tilted her face
toward his, not offering him her lips so much as taking possession of
his.

Silly man, she thought.  

Mulder's lips rested firm and still against hers, and Scully realized
that this was the same way he had begun his massage, leaving his hands
motionless on her shoulders.  The full, warm lips lulled her until his
incredible mouth began its circular pattern, its offering.  An
unforgettable kiss.  No intrusive teeth, no dueling tongues, just the
insistent waves of Mulder's lips.  And then, with Scully lost in the
kiss, she felt the waves deepen as Mulder's tongue licked at her lips,
working in harmony with those muscular lips.  At last Mulder softened
the kiss, lighter, lighter, and then it was done.

Scully let her head flop back on Mulder's arm as Mulder reclined against
the side of the hot spring.

"Now it's perfect," Mulder murmured.

Scully didn't answer for a few minutes.  She was tracing the improbably
chain of events that had brought them there.

"We owe it all to Christina," she sighed.  

Mulder snorted.

"No, really, Mulder," she said.  "Think about it."

"I'm sure Christina is a lovely girl," Mulder said.  "It was so
thoughtful of her to move the car for us, and it's wonderful that she
can articulate her hostility so freely." 

"But, Mulder, if she hadn't moved our car, Charles and Allison would be
here now to share the scenery with us," Scully said.

"Well, when you look at it that way, Christina does seem something
closer to the ideal.  You know, Scully, she really looks up to you,"
Mulder said.

He was setting her up.

Charlie had let down his guard enough to confide in Mulder about one of
his biggest fears:  that his daughter would go through the same kind of 
"wild phase" that his sister had.

"I'm aware of that, Mulder, and it's a responsibility I take very
seriously," Scully said.  

Scully had strong views on child rearing and adolescent development, and
her diction was taking on that slightly pedantic tone that always
brought out the devil in Mulder.  He remembered a conversation from
years ago.  They'd been working together only a short while, but he'd
been unable to resist the urge to tease her:  

"Ooh, if your were that stoned, what?" he had asked her.

This time Mulder answered her casually; she'd wouldn't guess that he was
up to something.

"It's really very important for a child to have a strong role model,
don't you think?" Mulder asked.  His eyes were closed and he was twining
his fingers with hers.

"Absolutely," Scully agreed.  "Especially for a girl.  She'll have so
many choices to make, and each of them could affect her future."  

"She could do a lot worse than follow in your footsteps, Scully," Mulder
said.

"Thank you, Mulder.  She's such a talented, intelligent girl..."

"Driving without a license--that's really foolish, isn't it, Scully?"

"Foolish and dangerous," Scully agreed.

"Where would a young kid get the idea she had any business driving a
car?" Mulder asked.  "Or taking someone else's care without permission?"

"Teen logic," Scully said.  "Don't try to follow it."

"Drag racing--that's foolish too, isn't it?  And dangerous," Mulder
said. His hand was on her shoulder now, and his index finger was
inscribing little spirals and circles. 

"Drag racing?" Scully asked.

"I've heard of kids taking souped-up old cars and racing them right on
the streets," Mulder said.  "It's illegal, you know."

"I've heard of that too," Scully said.

Heard of it?  She'd won Tommy Durkin's Pontiac from him! But Ahab made
her give it back.  And she couldn't go to Jessica's party with a real
DJ.  Plus she had to do all the ironing for a month.  And no griping or
he'd make it two months.

"You're a little heavy on the gas pedal at times," Mulder said, eyes
still closed, finger still circling.

Scully's head was off his arm, and she was watching his face carefully.

"Really?  You think I drive too fast?" Scully inquired.  Mulder opened
his eyes and let a snort of laughter escape before disguising it with a 
cough. He nodded his head eagerly. 

"Mulder, did you and Charlie get much of a chance to chat?" Scully
asked, and Mulder continued grinning and nodding.  

"That's nice," she said.  "I'm glad you two are getting along."  And she
settled back against Mulder's arm.

"Don't you want to know what we talked about?" Mulder asked.

"Of course not," Scully said, eyes closed again.  "That's between
Charlie and you."

======================================================================

Lazing against the side of the hot springs, with Scully leaning against
his chest, Mulder had no desire to move.  But it wouldn't do to be 
stuck here after sundown, and it felt as if they'd been here for 
several hours.

"Scully... You asleep?" he asked.

"Not really... just dreaming," she said, smiling without opening her
eyes.  "We have to go, don't we?"

"Well, maybe another five minutes," Mulder said.

"Okay.   One more kiss."  It was a long, languid kiss, long enough that
when they let their lips come apart they needed another little kiss to
ease the transition.  Scully sighed deeply.

"I'll get out first.  I'll get the towels," she said.

"Um," Mulder agreed.   Mulder could stay in the nice warm water.  Scully
would fetch him a towel. Love is a beautiful thing, he thought.

Using the ledge they'd been sitting on for a step, Scully climbed out of
the hot spring.  The air felt cool but refreshing against her
well-poached skin, and she pulled the first towel from her backpack and
wrapped it around herself before getting out a towel for Mulder.

Mulder was making the most of his extra minute, luxuriating in the hot
water.  Scully held out the towel for him.  She held it by the corners,
and she used it to hide that king-size snowball in her right hand.

"Okay, G-man, everyone out of the pool," she said.

"I don't suppose you could come back for me in the morning," Mulder
muttered, but then he roused himself and climbed out.

Mulder had packed a couple of towels but it gratified him no end to see
that Scully had done the same.  He walked into her embrace, and as she
wrapped the big towel around him, she clapped her big snowball against
his back.

His cry of surprise was something between an "Oh," and a "Huh."  

"You are evil, Scully, pure evil," he said.  "This will not go
unpunished."

"Call it even, Mulder.  You got me on the way in," Scully said.  She
started picking up her discarded clothing and thoughtfully handed Mulder
his mud-soaked shirt.

Mulder took the shirt, grimacing at the thought of having to wear the
filthy, wet garment.  Scully rolled up her muddy clothes with the driest
items on the outside.

Scully's foresight had extended beyond the need for towels.  She reached
into her backpack and pulled out some fresh clothing.

"Where's mine?" Mulder asked.

"Your what?" Scully was dressing quickly, and quite unselfconsciously
she took Mulder's hand for balance as she pulled on a dry sock and then
the ski boot.  She leaned against him again to put on the second sock
and shoe.

"Come on, Scully, you must have brought clean stuff for me," Mulder
said.  She was going to play with him a little, he realized, and then
she was going to give him some nice dry clothes to wear.  She had given
him food, even on that first day when he'd told her not to bring any. 
She had brought him a towel.  She was not going to make him put on these
disgusting pants again or this dirty shirt.  

All dressed now, Scully took her towel and draped it around Mulder, over
the first one.

"You're not cold, are you?" she asked.  

"I am," said Mulder.  "I'm very cold."  He didn't feel cold.  He didn't
sound cold, either.  Scully relented and gave him a plastic bag full of
clothes.

Scully hadn't known for a fact that she and Mulder would require a
change of clothing after their trip to the hot springs, but the
experience of years had told her it was likely.  At least on this
occasion a spin through the washer would take care of the damage. 
Scully's dry cleaner had flat-out refused to deal with the aftermath
when she'd raced to rescue Mulder from the cockroach invasion.  

Scully had bits of Mulder's wardrobe salted away in various locations,
for his use. She always had a dress shirt on the shelf in her closet at
home and at least a set of sweats in the trunk of her car.  Mulder's
devotion to Scully was equal to hers for him, and yet when he'd traveled
to the bottom of the world to rescue her, he'd never thought to pack her
even a sweater.  

"Scully, I've noticed something about us," Mulder said.  In pulling on
his shirt, he'd somehow left his wet hair standing straight up in the
back but plastered to his head in the front.  Scully hoped he wouldn't
decide he liked it this way.  Then she ran her fingers through her own
hair--for all she knew she could be wearing a similar coiffure.  

"When we try to go on vacation, we run into talking dolls or..."  His
voice trailed to a stop. He'd been thinking of how this investigation
had turned into a vacation, whereas Scully's attempts at recreation had
turned up genuine X-files.  Like Emily.  

"I know what you mean," Scully answered him.  Not a day went by that she
did not remember the little girl who had passed through her life so
briefly.  By that commonplace miracle of human nature, Scully had found
that her heart could hold sorrow and joy at the same time.  At first she
had berated herself for being able to still feel joy.  No longer.

"This is like a vacation," Mulder said.  "Scully, wouldn't it be nice to
take a real vacation some time?"  He could imagine them snorkeling in
some coral playground or exploring the narrow streets of a medieval
market town.

"I'd like that," Scully said.  Danny and Lois had offered her the use of
their thirty-foot Catalina for a week or two this summer, but that would
be courting disaster.  She'd be afraid to take Mulder on Pirates of the
Caribbean.  

Mulder and Scully retrieved their skis from the waterfall but did not
put them on. They'd have to hike their way out of the oddly temperate
valley.

Fifteen minutes later they were skiing along the packed powder when
Mulder felt a pop and a shove as the binding sheared off from his right
ski.  The ski slid its way down the trail and Mulder had to remove the
other ski and catch up on foot.

"It looks like I owe your brother a new pair of skis," Mulder said.  The
punishment of back country skiing had proved too much for Charlie's
track skis.  Mulder had the two skis upright in the snow, but the
binding from one ski was in his hand.

The temperature had dropped noticeably as Mulder and Scully had gotten
farther out of the valley.  They'd put back their skis a few hundred
feet up from the waterfall, where the snow cover was solid.  The run to
the cabin should have been easy because the ground was level and the
trail was set with snowmobile tracks.  It would have been a quick jaunt
on skis, but it would take longer on foot.

"I'm sure that can be repaired," Scully said.  She took some cord from
her own backpack and used it to bundle the skis and poles for easier
carrying.  "At least we'll have no trouble walking here; the
snowmobilers have packed down the snow for us."   She leaned over to
unfasten her own skis.

"Scully, you don't have to walk with me," Mulder said.  "Go ahead and
ski back to the cabin."

Scully agreed to his suggestion with great reluctance.  She wasn't eager
to leave Mulder behind, but she remembered that they were still low on
firewood.  It would be better to look for more before the light was
gone.  Fortunately, the arrival of Brad Swenson expanded their options.

They heard the roar of the snowmobile before they could identify the
driver.  Swenson slowed to a stop and climbed off his vehicle.

"Any luck with your Viking?" Swenson asked them.

"Not today," Mulder said.

"Apparently you find it amusing to mislead federal law officers," Scully
said.  Mulder's tone was neutral but Scully was clearly annoyed.

"Hey, take it easy," Swenson said.  "I didn't promise that you'd find
the Viking by the waterfall, I just said that was your best shot."

"As I'm sure you're aware, Swenson, there was no cave by the waterfall. 
And that so-called trail you told us to use..."  Scully's icy tone was
as intimidating as she had meant it to be.

"Oh.  Yeah, kind of a rough trail.  Especially with those skis." 
Swenson could see where Mulder's racing skis would have given him
trouble in the back woods.  "But you must have found the cave--how could
you miss it?"  He looked at Mulder--Scully frightened him.

"Good question," Scully said.  Mulder was starting to feel sorry for the
archeologist.

"Maybe you could help us out here," Mulder said, showing him the broken
ski.  "Drive us back to the cabin?"

"Glad to," Swenson answered.  "I'll have to make two runs, though." 
Normally he would have offered to drive the lady first, but he wisely
decided to leave that choice to his passengers.

"I don't require a ride," Scully said.  "Mulder, go back to the cabin
and get us some firewood while there's still enough light to find it. 
Frozen wood, Mulder, that would be best."

"Scully, let him drive you too.  It's getting late."  Mulder leaned in
so he could lower his voice.  "Take the ride, Scully, I really don't
want you out here with the wolves."

"I'll be fine," she said, and no one would dare contradict her.  Swenson
got back on his sled and Mulder climbed on behind him, clutching his
skis.  They looped off the trail for a wide U-turn through the woods,
then zoomed along toward the cabin.

She will be fine, Swenson thought, but maybe I'll come back later to
check on the wolves.


end of 11 of 17


Backtracking
12/17
Disclaimer, etc., with part 1




Once the snowmobile was out of sight, Scully turned around to go back to
the waterfall.  The archeologist had sounded sincere.  There had to be a
cave there.

Scully skied as far as she could and took her skis off when the snow
cover gave out.  Then she walked the short distance to the waterfall. 
She eyed the steep, rocky hillside, sweeping her eyes up and down, left
and right, trying to find the cave.

"How could you miss it?" Swenson had asked.  

Scully believed there was a cave here, but she still couldn't see it.  

Mentally she divided the surface into a grid, and examined it again,
square by square.  She tried to keep her mind and senses fresh so that
she would overlook nothing.  When she'd exhausted the squares to the
left of the waterfall, she was tempted to skip over and start from the
right.  She wouldn't be able to check behind the waterfall without
getting wet.  

But it wouldn't be methodical to skip from left to right.  And suddenly
Scully felt certain that the cave was precisely behind the waterfall.

To avoid passing right through the cascading water, she walked up to the
stoneface and edged her way across the slippery rocks toward the
waterfall.  The moss grew thick here, on the ground and up the
hillside.  She sidestepped toward the waterfall, and at last she felt it
on her back, soaking her with cool water.  She pressed herself against
the wet rocks as the water poured down her head and back.  

Scully's hands were flat against the rocks to feel for the entrance to
the cave.  She continued to edge along, and then her knee came to a gap
in the stone.  Reaching down, she could feel the edge of the gap; this
might be it, this might be the cave.

She dropped to her knees for a better look, but with the spray from the
waterfall bouncing off the rocks and into her face she could see very
little.  It felt right, though.  She started to crawl into the opening.

The inside of the cave was cool and misty, and slimy moss covered the
ground.  When Scully was in far enough that she no longer felt the water
on her back she stopped to unpack her flashlight.   The beam of light
showed that the passageway continued for at least another few yards, but
it was so narrow that she would have to proceed on all fours.

Her knees were taking a beating from the stony surface.   That damn
Swenson might have mentioned that the entrance to the cave was a tiny
tunnel right behind the waterfall.  Then she could have prepared for
this miserable, painful, wet journey.

Scully continued along the tunnel.  In places it was too small to allow
her to crawl and she had to slither, which at least gave her knees a
break.  Cold, wet, sore, and filthy, she thought longingly of the hot
springs.  She'd definitely treat herself to another dip when she got out
of this cave, and probably rinse out her clothing as well.  

The beam of the flashlight showed the end of the tunnel a few feet up
ahead.  If this was a dead end and Scully had to back her way out on her
belly, she was definitely bringing charges against Brad Swenson.  In
fact she would arrest him for interfering with the investigation.  

But the tunnel did not stop, it turned to the left and widened out. 
Scully dragged herself through into the chamber and hauled herself into
a sitting position.   She leaned against the wall of the cave and used
the flashlight to examine her surroundings.  She could see two
good-sized passageways leading off from this chamber, in addition to the
narrow tunnel that led from the waterfall.  The chamber itself was dry
and reasonably warm, and the mossy floor was cool but not slimy.  There
was a definite odor here, rather unpleasant.  An animal smell.

She played the flashlight beam across the floor of the cave and it
reflected back at her from two glowing eyes.  Then she heard the low
growl.   

After Mulder had lectured her about canid behavior and the folly of
looking a wolf in the eye, he had gone on to discuss territoriality. 
Not that Scully needed coaching to figure out that a wolf's den was not
the safest place she could be.

What would Mulder do in this situation?  Draw his weapon?  Whimper
submissively to show the wolf that he wasn't going to challenge it?  
Hurl himself back into the little tunnel and wriggle away as fast as he
could?

Scully looked at the wolf.

"Hi," she said.  The wolf looked at her.  He stopped growling and put
his head down on his paws.

"Thanks," Scully said.  The wolf really didn't seem dangerous.  She
hoped she wasn't deluding herself.

Time to move on, but which way?  There were two passageways to choose
from.  The one to the left of the wolf seemed to lead back to the
outside, at least that was her impression of the direction it took.  The
tunnel to the right was about the same size and appeared to lead deeper
into the cave.

Head right.  It just made sense.  Scully was looking for a secret and
her intuition told her that the secret would be deep in the cave.  But
as she proceeded to the right, her lupine friend rose to his feet and
started to growl.

"It's okay," she told him reassuringly.  "I'm not going to hurt you.  I
just want to look around."  But the wolf did not back down.  He trotted
ahead of her, blocking the passageway.  She advanced on him very slowly
and his growling grew louder.

"All right," Scully said.  "What if I go left?"  She backed away from
the wolf and stepped slowly toward the other tunnel.  The wolf stopped
growling.  Scully was in the passageway now.  The wolf was not going to
chase her.  He settled down again at his original spot.

"Thanks," Scully said again.  "See you later."  

The passageway was luxuriously wide after the confines of the first
tunnel and the wolf's chamber.  As she followed it the air grew colder
again.  There were icicles and frosty patches on the cave's walls.

Walking rather than crawling or slithering, Scully made easy progress
through the cave's corridor.  She played the flashlight beam back and
forth ahead of her.  The passageway seemed to go on a long way.

Scully wondered if the tunnel became warm again up ahead.  Here where
the temperature was just around freezing, the air was clear.  In the
distance, though, she thought she could see more mist and fog.  Scully's
skiwear was designed to retain its insulating property even when wet,
but she was rather cold by now.

In her many years with Mulder, Scully had become a connoisseur of
discomfort.  She knew, for example, that it was better to be cold and
wet than to be cold, wet, and covered with goo.  And of course it was
better still to be wet but not cold.

She wondered if the equipment in her backpack had suffered from the
waterfall.  She had the digital camera and the camcorder, but she didn't
know if they were still functional.  She'd stop and check when she
reached a warmer spot.

Scully found herself stepping onto a sheet of ice.  One foot slipped out 
from under her and she could not regain her balance.  She did one of 
those pointless dances that would have been most amusing to an observer, 
if there had been one.  

Just fall, she told herself, knowing that her gyrations were merely
going to add the pain of pulled muscles to the inevitable pain of
bruises and bumps.  And she did fall.  The hard rocks smacked her on the
arms as she tried to break the fall and on the back and head.  She fell
and she kept on falling.

This was a chute, a slide.  Maybe a trap?  Scully slipped and bumped
about ten feet straight down.  Much as it hurt, she knew it was going to
hurt more in a few seconds.  She'd taken a hit to the solar plexus on
the way down and the wind was knocked out of her entirely.  She had to
deliberately start to breathe again, and the air escaped her with a
grunting, gasping sound.

She found herself huddled in the bottom of a pit, shuddering and
stunned.  But she hadn't lost consciousness--that was good.  And she
could move everything. Whether this was a trap or a natural phenomenon,
the most important thing now was not to panic.

Scully slowly got to her feet, relieved that she was able to do so. 
Another miracle--the flashlight was there on the ground, still lit.  She
groaned as she leaned down to pick it up; her back didn't like that move
at all.  The beam of the flashlight offered her a most discouraging
view.  Ten feet of sheer rock covered with ice.

She would not surrender to her fear.  She was in a serious situation,
but she would stay clear-headed and calm.

Scully thought about writing a note to Mulder.  She was sure that he
would find her, eventually.  But what would she write?  I love you?  He
knew that.  Yet another miracle.

Her first attempt to climb up the rocks was unsuccessful, as she knew it
would be. She would have to abandon her backpack down here to have any
chance at all of escaping.  She opened the pack to choose a few items to
carry along.  Too bad she'd used her cord for Mulder's damaged skis,
because that was one thing that might really help her now.  

She took out the muddy clothing she had discarded after the soak in the
hot springs and layered it on over her own wet clothes.  It would keep
her warmer but more importantly it would give her extra padding against
the rocks.  She took the digital camera and zipped it into the pocket of
her windbreaker.  She stuck the flashlight in a pants pocket and tried
again to climb up the ice.

The pit was narrow enough that Scully thought she might be able to make
the climb by pressing against both sides of the hole.  The technique
worked well enough to get her a few feet off the ground before she lost
her traction and fell back down. It was a long shot but it was the only
shot she had.  She would have to keep trying.

Scully persevered.  Again and again she tumbled to the bottom of the pit
but she remained hopeful because of the few times she was able to make
good progress before losing it all.  Escaping from this hole would be
like working on the X-files.  She'd had plenty of practice at that.

She would not give up, but she would have to take a rest.  She was
battered and exhausted.  She should probably drink some water, too.  She
didn't feel at all thirsty but maybe she needed it.  And even if there
was no need to write Mulder, perhaps she should leave a note for Charlie
and Allison, indeed, for her whole family.  Something to tell them that
she had no regrets, would not have chosen a different course.

She huddled again in the bottom of the pit, hugging her knees against
her body to conserve heat, and she tried to think of the words to leave
for her family.  But she couldn't.  She was feeling quite calm, and she
wondered rationally if that was normal.  Maybe not.  Maybe it was
hypothermia.  Maybe she had already given up.

That wouldn't do.  Scully marshaled her strength and began the climb
again.  

Perhaps she had mastered the technique, for now she climbed steadily. 
Slowly she ascended the slippery pit, her feet pressed tightly against
one side and her back wedged against the other.  She was breathing
hard.  It was working.

Scully's mind was locked onto the task at hand.  Inching her back up the
pit, then pressing hard to advance her feet.  But her luck did not
hold.  She was a couple of feet from the top of her prison, but she was
not going to make it.  The pit widened out.  She would not be able to
continue.

Think of it as an IQ test, she told herself.

Well, might as well yell for help.  Mulder wouldn't be anywhere near
here, he was probably back at the cabin gathering wood.  Even if he
decided to come and look for her it would take him hours to reach her. 
It was possible that Swenson was around, or maybe someone from the
forestry service.  Anyway, nothing to lose.  

"Help!" she shouted as loudly as she could.  "Help!  I'm in the cave! 
Help!"

That would do for a while.  She would hold her position near the top of
this pit for as long as she could.  She would call out for help every
ten minutes or so.  When she was too tired to hold on she would climb
back into the pit.  That would be better than falling again.

"Hello in the cave!"  The cry seemed distant but strong.  It wasn't
Mulder, but maybe it was Swenson.

"Hello!  I'm trapped in a pit," Scully called.  

The voice didn't answer, but Scully thought she could hear footsteps.  

"Down here!" she called again.  The flashlight in Scully's pocket was
pointed upward, but she had no way of aiming it.  She saw a figure at
the top of the pit.  A man.

Scully's hero lay on the ground at the top of the hole and reached down,
grasping her arm with one large, strong hand.  Scully felt a moment of
terror as the hand began to lift her from her prison and she lost the
comforting sensation of being wedged in place.  The man got to his feet
as soon as his grip was secure.  He was pulling her up smoothly and
easily, as if she weighed nothing.  

Scully's arm protested the rough treatment, especially when the rescuer
gave a jerk to pull Scully over the edge of the pit and set her down
away from the opening.

"Thank you," Scully said.  She was shaking with relief and with cold,
but she managed to pull out her flashlight to get a proper look at the
source of her salvation.  

He was a large man, practically expressionless.  His dark blond hair was
brushed back.  A sword hung from his belt along with a leather pouch,
and while his attire was too crude to pass muster in a Wagner opera, it
was unmistakably Nordic. 

The Viking had rescued her.

But this couldn't be the Viking.  Scully knew this face, she knew this
man.  She had seen him in different forms, but this was the form she
knew best.

This was the alien bounty hunter.

==================================================================

Swenson dropped off the goofy-looking G-man and turned back toward the
waterfall.  Maybe the hotheaded female agent had chilled out enough to
reconsider his offer of a lift to the cabin.

So, the FBI hadn't found the Viking, Swenson thought.  He was secretly
glad.  He'd been prowling this area since the fall and he had yet to see
the Viking himself.  He would have been rather resentful if these
government investigators had waltzed into the forest and found the
Norseman on their first attempt.

If Swenson had ever heard Mulder or Scully say that the Truth was out
there, he would have corrected them.  He saw it differently.

The truths are out there.  The truth of the Maori.  The truth of the
Navajo.  The truth of the Hebrews, the Masai, the Vikings, the
Christians.  For Swenson, the Truth had been shattered into fragments
eons ago.  There were particles of it everywhere.

A man who believes in everything is a fool, Swenson's father had
pronounced.  

Swenson did not believe in *everything,* but he believed--no, he
*knew*--that among all those beliefs there were shards of wisdom, of
knowledge, of magic--of Truth.

The FBI was here at Temperance River searching for the Viking.  That
made him smile.  Perhaps the IRS had agents somewhere looking for a
leprechaun.  Maybe Swenson himself had a future in the civil service.

Swenson was still hoping to forge some kind of alliance with the two FBI
agents.  Their collection of sensing devices intrigued him.  He had
never considered that approach.

He snowmobiled back to the spot where he'd originally encountered the
two agents without crossing paths with the blue-eyed redhead, so he
followed the trail back to the valley with the waterfall.

He left his sled where the snow ran out.  Scully's big wooden skis were
jammed upright in a snowbank only ten feet away, but Swenson didn't
notice them. He hiked to the waterfall, but Scully wasn't there either.  

Swenson assumed that Scully wasn't dim enough to explore a strange cave
by herself, without even informing her partner.  He didn't check the
cave.

With a gleam in his eye, he decided to check the hot springs. 

I'm not a voyeur, he told himself.  I'm just being thorough.

There was nobody in the hot spring.  Agent Scully must have left the
snowmobile trail at some point on her way back to the cabin.  Probably
bushwhacking through the forest somewhere.  

The hot springs looked awfully inviting.  And who knew if it would even
be here tomorrow.  Swenson stripped off his orange snowmobile suit and
then the rest of his garments.  He folded them carefully and placed them
on top of his boots, to keep them out of the mud.  He moved the whole
bundle to the closest dry spot--it wouldn't be much fun if he had to
dress himself in filthy wet clothing after his soak.

He eased himself into the soothing hot water and sat down on the ledge
that was only one of the remarkable features of the spa.

You're a lucky man, Swenson, he told himself.  You could be stuck in a
library somewhere.  Or wearing a suit.

This last idea was not a random thought, for there, within the grove of
trees, was the FBI agent, Mulder, looking rather ridiculous in this
rugged setting because he was dressed in a suit and tie.

How the devil did he get back here so fast? Swenson wondered.

"Hey!" he called.  "Hey, Agent Mulder!"

Mulder looked at him impassively.  And then, with Swenson staring right
at him, he picked up the archeologist's boots and clothing and started
to walk away.

"Good one, Mulder!" Swenson called after him.  It was childish, Swenson
thought, but the G-man probably thought it was a great prank.  In a few
minutes he'd be back with the clothing, probably chuckling to himself
about how funny he was.

That's what Swenson thought until he heard the sputter and roar of his
snowmobile starting up.

That sorry son of a bitch, he thought.  Messing with my sled...

=======================================================================

It was late.  Mulder didn't know what time it was, but he knew that it
was dark and cold.  Once again he had the fireplace aglow and a kettle
of water on a slow boil. 

After Swenson had taken him to the cabin, Mulder had busied himself
collecting a big load of firewood.  He'd started a fire and set the
table.  And then he'd waited.

No wolves howled tonight.  That was good.  But Scully should have been
back long before this.  He'd left her on a flat, easy trail with set
tracks.  No woods, no river.  It wouldn't take her this long to ski
back; it wouldn't even take this long to walk.  

She might be lost or hurt, but that wasn't his fear.  It was the cave. 
Mulder was certain that Scully had gone back to the waterfall to search
for the cave again.  The only logical thing to do would be to wait for
her here.  It would take him hours to reach the waterfall on foot, and
there was no reason to think he'd be able to find the cave when he got
there.  But he was incapable of sitting here and doing nothing.

If only I had a snowmobile, Mulder thought.  Then when he heard the 
snowmobile sputter to a halt outside the cabin, he realized that the
noise had triggered the idea.

Brad Swenson pushed through the door of the cabin without knocking, and
the look he gave Mulder seemed almost hostile.

In truth, Mulder derived only relief from the Swede's dour expression. 
That was definitely not the face of a man about to tell you that your
partner was hurt or killed.  More likely he'd had had another run-in
with Scully and he was coming to complain, or maybe to carry out some
order Scully had given him.

"Hi," said Mulder.  "Is Agent Scully still on your case?"

Swenson continued peering at him, but then his face softened into a big
smile.

"Yes," he said.  "She is on my case.  And you know what that is like." 
Swenson was practically leering.  He'd been so stone-faced up until now,
but maybe he'd been on his best behavior because of Scully's presence.  

"Say, Swenson, why don't you give me a lift back to Agent Scully, and
maybe we can straighten her out," Mulder suggested.  He tossed some
fresh film into his backpack, wondering what else he should bring. 
Water.  He refilled the bottle, trying not to take too long.

"Yes," Swenson said.  "Back to Agent Scully."  Mulder had finished
packing and he pulled on a couple of sweaters.  Mulder went out the door
and Swenson followed.

Swenson got onto the snowmobile and Mulder got on behind him.  The
engine started up, but they didn't move.

"Where is she?" Swenson shouted to Mulder over the noise.

Why would Swenson have to ask him that?  

"I think she's back in the woods," Mulder said.  "She said something
about a flower."

"In the woods," Swenson repeated.  "Which way?"

"Toward the utility road," Mulder said.  It was in the opposite
direction from the waterfall, the hot springs, and the alleged cave. 
"Let me drive."

"Just tell me where to go," Swenson shouted back.

"Come on, you told me you'd give me a chance to drive this thing,"
Mulder said, clapping him on the shoulder.  "You're not backing out, are
you?" 

"Of course not.  You take us to Scully," Swenson said.  He climbed back
off the snowmobile.

Mulder slid forward, shoved the snowmobile into gear, and floored it,
racing toward the utility road.  He knew he was heading the wrong way
but he hoped he'd be able to drive up into the woods and turn around
unobserved.

The roar of the snowmobile's engine gave Mulder the comforting feeling
that he was going fast.  What was less than comforting was the sound of
footsteps crunching along behind him.

Brad Swenson, or whoever that was, was chasing him.  And he was keeping
up.


end of 12 of 17

Backtracking
13/17
Disclaimer, etc., with part 1




"What do you want?" Scully asked the man who had rescued her.  "What do
you want from me?"  

"I do not want," the Viking said.  "Be gone, woman of Earth."  He turned
from her to walk back the way he had come.

It was not the response Scully had expected.  Of course she thought the
bounty hunter was going to beat her up and ask her where Mulder was. 
Instead of running for safety, Scully took out the digital camera. 
Physical evidence at last, an image of the bounty hunter.

The Viking turned to face her, piercing her with his cold eyes.

"Your weapons will not work here," he said.  "This is hallowed ground. 
Be gone, I tell you.  Do not test my patience."

"Who are you?" Scully asked.  "Why did you rescue me?"  If this was a
dream, Scully thought, it was a preternaturally realistic dream.  The
pain from her fall was very real.  She was bleeding, she realized, or
she had been.  Her face was stiff with dried blood.

"A woman of destiny," the Viking said.  "Indeed, if you were not, the
wolf would have barred your passage.  Put down your weapon, woman, and
tell me what you seek." One of the odd things about the Viking, Scully
noticed, was the way he stood without moving, without leaning.  As still
as a statue and just as patient.

"I think I was looking for you," Scully said, awkwardly stuffing the
camera back in her jacket pocket.  "I was told that you had... a
secret."  

"Audacious woman. You would leave your world to seek a secret."  The
Viking sounded severe but also sorrowful.

"Who are you?" Scully asked again, feeling more confused than audacious.

"You look at me with fear.  Why do you fear me, woman of Midgard? 
Throughout the ages I have walked among your kind and done you no harm,"
the Viking said.  "I have brought fortune to your race, and caused the
barren womb to flower."

Barren womb, what a low blow, Scully thought angrily. If this is a
dream, it's my dream, and I don't have to put up with this.  

"Done us no harm?  You are a murderer," Scully told him quietly. "Your
very biology is fatal to us."  

Am I really saying this? Scully wondered.  Or am I still at the bottom
of the pit?

"So you have seen him," the Viking said.  "I thought as much.  He who
stole my countenance and wears it for his own."

"You're the one who steals peoples' faces," Scully told him with quiet 
anger.   "I know what you can do. I've seen you in action."

"Bold as the sun you are, daughter of Midgard," the Viking muttered. 
"But I am not the one you have seen.  You have seen the trickster, the
wizard of lies.  He borrows the faces of others, but it is my face he
keeps and shows to the world for his own."

Scully felt no fear at all.  Probably a symptom of hypothermia.  

"Is the alien bounty hunter your evil twin?" she asked sarcastically.

"Your scorn is misplaced," the Viking reproached her.  "The trickster
will be my doom, as I will be his.  The race of man will live on when he
and I are both become dust.  Do not be proud, woman, it is unseemly. 
For many will perish before that final battle is lost and won."

The Norseman's somber tone cut through Scully's flippancy.  

"He's going to kill you?" she asked.  "How can you be so sure?"  

"Whatever is, is forever," the Viking said.  "Surely you know that.  We
will fight to the death and will die of our wounds.  But not in your
time, woman.  The spectacle must run its course."  

Scully didn't answer.  He looked so weary and grim that she wanted to
comfort him. She looked into his eyes and he shook his head as if with
pain.

"A sad curse indeed," the Viking said quietly.  "I did not see before
that you were afflicted." 

"What do you mean?" Scully asked, but she thought she knew.

"An evil was done to you.  I can take this from you.  It is within my
power," he said.

"Please tell me who you are," Scully asked for the third time.  

"I will tell you first who you are.  You are of the earth, as I am not. 
But the earth does not confine you.  You are a woman of destiny, and you
have journeyed where few may go.  I will give you what you seek," he
said.

The Viking addressed her gently, but she felt more and more afraid.

"Your companion is a good man, with heart and cunning," the Viking
continued, and for the first time he smiled.  "He fancies himself a
giant-slayer.  He is a man of great integrity, but a man of earth
alone.  He cannot follow you here.  For if he does, he cannot return."

Scully questioned the Viking in a frightened whisper.

"Am I dead?" she asked him.

"Among your kind, do any return from the realm beyond?" the Viking asked
her.

"I--don't know," she said.  "Perhaps.   Yes, I think they do.  People
have reported near-death experiences--"

"Be still," the Viking interrupted her.  "I will answer your question. 
You will return to your world and your kind, but first you will receive
my gifts."

"You said you would tell me who you are," Scully reminded him in another
whisper.

"I am the sentinel," he answered, "the keeper of the bridge.  The bridge
Bifrost spans from Asgard, domain of the gods, to Midgard, where your
kind dwell.  One day the bridge will rupture, but today it holds.  Your
race named me Heimdall, and I am honored to carry the name they gave
me."

======================================================================

Mulder decided against taking the snowmobile up the hillside into the
woods to turn it around.  Instead he veered to the right, taking the
sled off the snowshoe trail and into the rolling snowfield with its
deep, unpacked drifts.  He hoped the powdery snow would slow down his
pursuer.

The snowmobile skimmed over the snowy surface and Mulder no longer heard
anyone behind him.  He didn't dare slow down to take a look.  He kept
the accelerator against the floorboard and urged the vehicle around,
swinging back toward the cabin, back to the waterfall.

Whatever was chasing him was not Brad Swenson.  Mulder remembered
Charlie's dream. Was it the bounty hunter?  The bounty hunter could make
himself look like the Swenson, but that wasn't a unique ability among
his kind, among aliens in general, apparently.  Mutant humans could do
it too, for that matter, like Eddie Van Blundht and Robert Modell.

Whoever was chasing Mulder wasn't after Mulder anyway.  He--it--wanted
Scully.  

As confusing as it was, Mulder had to get a handle on what was going
on.   Because maybe he was leading this thing right to Scully.  

Wouldn't the bounty hunter know where Scully was?  Didn't the microchip
let them track her, control her?  

Too many variables.  No way to know.   The snowmobile brought Mulder to
the waterfall before he had time to formulate a theory or a plan.  

Just find her, he told himself.   Find Scully and get her out of here,
before Swenson--whatever he is--catches up to you.

"Scully!" Mulder shouted.  "Scully!  Scully!"  He projected his cry in
all directions, toward the waterfall, toward the grove of pines that hid
the hot springs, toward the treacherous river trail.  "Scully!"

The call that answered his came from the grove, but it was not Scully.

Fuck.  It was Swenson.  He'd gotten here first.  Mulder was furious at
himself; he had led the shapeshifter right to Scully.

"You son of a bitch!"  Swenson emerged from the grove.  "You stole my
snowmobile!"

Swenson, who had been so pokerfaced,  was red with rage.  And he was
naked.

"I don't care who you work for," Swenson shouted.  "I'm going to report
you.   You are beneath contempt, you bastard.  You took my sled!  You
took my clothes!"

"What do you want?" Mulder yelled back.  "What do you want from us?"

"Is this your idea of a joke?" Swenson shouted.  "I could have stolen
your stuff while you were in the hot spring, but I'm not a sick creep!"

"Swenson?" Mulder asked.  Maybe this was the real Swenson.

"Don't bother asking me for help again," Swenson said.  "And that goes
for your partner as well."

"Swenson, pay attention.  I didn't take your snowsuit," Mulder said.  He
took off his backpack to dig out his old dirty clothes for the
archeologist's use.

"I saw you!" Swenson exclaimed, but he took the clothes that Mulder gave
him.  For a second he pondered whether he might be better off naked, but
then with a look of resignation and distaste he began to get dressed.

Mulder felt sorry for him for a minute, but then he remembered how
Swenson had directed Scully and him to ski down a steep, treacherous
trail that could have landed them in the river.  And then the cave
wasn't even where he said it would be.

"Where's the cave, Swenson?" Mulder asked him.  "You have to show me."

"That's Dr. Swenson, okay?  And I don't have to do anything," he said.

"Listen to me, Swenson--uh, Dr. Swenson.  I didn't steal your stuff, and
you have to help me find Scully.  I think she's in trouble," Mulder
said.

"Guess that snowmobile just followed you home,"  Swenson said.  

"I don't have time to explain it right now," Mulder said impatiently.

"Try," said Swenson, arms folded.  "Try hard."  

"What if I told you that there is a man who can make himself look like
other men, like anyone or even anything he chooses?"  Mulder asked.

"I'd say you've been taking these Viking legends to heart," Swenson
said.  His naturally low-key personality was reasserting itself and his
anger was fading.  "It sounds like you've been reading about Loki, the
wizard of lies.  He was born a giant, but Odin adopted him as his
blood-brother, making him one of the Norse gods. Loki was a
shapeshifter."

"What would it take to convince you?" Mulder asked urgently.  "There is
a man like that. The man who stole your snowmobile wasn't me."

"Loki stole my snowmobile?" Swenson asked.  He wasn't smiling but he
found the notion fairly farfetched.  "And then you stole it from Loki?"

"Swenson, you said yourself that the ancient legends could contain the
truth.  Maybe the ancient Vikings based their stories about Loki on
someone who actually existed, someone with the ability to change his
appearance.  It doesn't matter."  Mulder tried to keep the frustration
out of his voice.  "What does matter is that Scully is probably in that
cave of yours, and she may need help.  She may be lost or hurt."

"She went into the cave?" Swenson asked.  "That's stupid.  Without a
guide?"

"A guide?" Mulder answered.  "Do you need a guide?"

"Agent Mulder, you should not go alone into a strange cave with no idea
of where you're going," Swenson said.  "I thought that was obvious."

"Damn it, Swenson, you knew we were looking for the cave.  Now show me
the cave and help me find Scully," Mulder said.  

"All right, we'll sled back to my truck for some basic equipment, notify
the ranger station, and go look for Agent Scully in the cave," Swenson
said. 

"No," said Mulder.  "We don't have time.  Show me the cave!"

"I'm not going caving in my socks," Swenson said.  He was wearing
Mulder's muddy clothes but that still left him without shoes.

"I'll give you my boots," Mulder said.  "Or we can share them.  I'll
give you the bootliners."

"That's ridiculous.  And if she's really in trouble there are things
we'll need.  Blankets, rope, maybe even ice picks and crampons," Swenson
said.

Mulder grimaced with frustration but there was nothing he could do. 
Swenson was not going to lead him to the cave until he had the supplies
he felt he needed.

"Give me your boots," Swenson said.  "I've got a spare pair in the
truck, but I'm not driving the snowmobile like this."

"I can drive," Mulder offered, but Swenson just pointed at his shoes and
Mulder untied them and pulled them off. 

Swenson got the boots on and climbed onto his sled, and Mulder got on
behind him.  The machine sputtered to life and the archeologist steered
a wide turn back to the trail.

====================================================================

"Return now to your own realm.  Know that there is light from without
and from within,"  Heimdall said.  He turned his back to Scully and took
a slow, heavy step away from her and further into the tunnel.

"Wait," Scully said.  "Please, teach me how to use your gifts."  She
held two items firmly in her hands, but she was mystified as to their
significance.

"Teach you?  Can it be that these things are unknown in your world?" the
Viking asked.  He took the first item from her.  "I will instruct
you--it is easily done. This we call a bottle.  Thus is it opened"--he
pulled out the cork--"and thus is it closed."  He handed it back to her.

It was a small glass bottle, crude and flawed.  The workmanship was
crude, but the glass itself was luminous and iridescent.  

"The second object is called a ring," Heimdall told Scully.  "Unglove
your hand."

It was an odd-looking ring, formed of braided strands of pewter or some
other grayish metal.  Embedded in the strands was a flattened oval of
reddish stone.   A rough image had been scratched into the stone, a
simple drawing of a tree.

Scully pulled off her glove and Heimdall slipped the ring on her
finger.    

"The branches of the tree may reach toward heaven but the roots grip the
earth.  May you always find your way home."  The Viking frowned.  "But
it does not fit.  Perhaps it is not meant for you."

To Scully's surprise, he took the ring back.  He looked through his
leather pouch and produced a coil of rawhide.  He knotted the rawhide
through the ring and gave it back to her, gesturing that she should put
it around her neck.  

"The earth does not confine you, but it welcomes your return.  The ring
is for another--one who may need help to find his way home."  Heimdall
clasped her shoulders in his big hands and looked at her.  Scully turned
her face up to meet his stare.

"Use the light from within, but use also the light from without. The
reckonings of your mind can serve the magic of your heart and the magic
in your heart can show your mind where to explore,"  Heimdall said. 
"Farewell, my Midgard friend.  May your eyes be clear and may your hands
be clever."  He turned and trudged away from her into the tunnel.

"Heimdall," Scully called after him, but he did not stop.  "Farewell. 
And thank you."

Scully put the glass gift in the zippered pocket of her waterproof
pullover and walked back toward the wolf's den.  

I'll try to write down everything I remember when I wake up, Scully
thought.  But some of this must be real.  The lump on her head was
undoubtedly real, and she was sure that all of the pain she felt in the
dream would still be there when she awoke.

A dream is a wish your heart makes.  Scully smiled to herself--Sigmund
Freud according to Jiminy Cricket.  Or what was it Mulder said?  A dream
is an answer to a question we haven't yet figured out how to ask.

And then Mulder was in the cave with her, waving at her from up ahead. 
He was wearing an orange snowmobile suit, a one-piece coverall identical
to the one Swenson wore.  

"Mulder," she called to him, "Go back.  You can't come here."  She was
remembering what the Viking had said, that if Mulder followed her here
he could not return.

"Scully, I came to warn you," Mulder called back.  "There's danger in
here, something very dangerous.  Come out of the cave, Scully."

"I'm coming, Mulder, but you get out too," she said, hurrying toward
him.  "You have to get out, Mulder, before it's too late."

"That's right, Scully, come on," Mulder shouted, stretching his arm
toward her.  Then suddenly, as she approached him, he grabbed his head
and collapsed to the ground.

"Mulder!" Scully broke into a run to get to his side.  Mulder was
writhing on the ground, clutching his head and shrieking.

"Get away!" he shouted.  "Get away from me!  Get it away!"

"It's okay, Mulder, it's okay," Scully tried to reassure him.  She
dropped to her knees and tried to cradle him in her arms, but he fought
her, still squealing in panic and pain.  On hands and knees, Mulder was
hammering his forehead into the stony cave floor.

Scully tried with all her strength to drag him forward, because she
could see no other hope of getting him out of the cave.  She could not
do it.  She grabbed his arms but could not even manage to hold on.

The gift.  The bottle.  Maybe that would help him.

Scully let Mulder flail as she took the Viking's gift from her pocket. 
Mulder's screams were continuous now, as piercing as a siren.  Scully
closed her fingers around the cork and began to rock it, to loosen it.   

Please let this be the answer, Scully prayed, not sure to whom she
addressed her prayer.  

Supine now, Mulder banged the back of his head on the ground with a
sickening crack.  His back was arched as if in tetany, but he rose to
his feet in a single motion.  He was still screaming, but the pitch was
dropping down into the range of human vocalizations, and he was managing
to form a word.

"NOOO!" he was shouting.  Scully stood up as well, and she would not let
herself recoil from him.

Mulder's back was still arched stiffly, but his right arm flew to
Scully's throat and he grabbed her, wrapping his fingers across her
neck.  He lifted her from the ground.

"NOOO!" he shouted again.  He held her up by the throat for long enough
that she was sure she would black out, but before she lost consciousness
he hurled her through the air.  She landed badly, taking some of the
impact on her shoulder and arm but more of it on her head.

"Mulder," she said weakly.  His screams had dropped to an angry whine,
and he was holding his head again.  He looked at her in pain and anger,
then turned away and began to stagger in the direction of the wolf's
den.

Scully's head ached dully, but what was worse was the nausea.  

I need to sleep, she thought.  I'll feel better if I can sleep this off.

She'd gotten a good look at Mulder, and nothing made sense.  There was a
deep gash on his forehead, but considering the punishment he'd been
through, he was mostly unscathed.  And where he'd scratched his face
earlier that afternoon, skiing down the steep trail that ran by the
river, there was nothing.  The scratches were gone.

But that gash on his forehead, that was oozing.  And what oozed from it
was moist and green.



end of 13 of 17

Backtracking
14/17
Disclaimer, etc., with part 1



Brad Swenson did not want Agent Mulder to assist in the search for Agent
Scully.  Swenson would  have his hands full rescuing one FBI agent and
he didn't want to have to worry about a second one.  Especially since
FBI agents seemed to have even less common sense than the average
academic committee.

Swenson had taken Mulder along for the ride to his truck only because he
did not trust him to stay by the waterfall without causing more
trouble.  The entrance to the cave was not that hard to find, even for
an FBI agent. Swenson was sure that if he didn't take Mulder with him,
there would be *two* FBI agents stuck in that cave.

When Swenson got to his truck he radioed the ranger station for
assistance with the search, then he got out the equipment he needed and
switched Mulder's boots for his own.  

"I want you to wait here by the truck," he told Mulder.  "I need you to
monitor radio communications."

"You're wasting time, Swenson," Mulder said grimly.  "Let's go."  Mulder
was revving the snowmobile, waiting for Swenson to climb on behind him. 
Swenson did; he could see there was no point in arguing with Mulder.

The ride to the waterfall took no more than ten minutes, but to Mulder
it seemed much longer.  I shouldn't have gone with him, Mulder was
thinking, I should have insisted that Swenson tell me where to find that
cave.  

For his part, Swenson was thinking that he would not enter the cave
until he'd extracted from Mulder the promise not to follow.  Swenson
didn't relish searching for Scully alone, and he would have preferred to
wait for help from someone else experienced in cave exploration.  But if
he had to choose between going in alone or going in with Mulder, he
would do it alone.

Mulder drove the snowmobile as near as he could to the waterfall, almost
riding it onto the mud.  

Mulder dismounted the sled practically spoiling for a fight, annoyed
with himself and Swenson for taking so long to come to Scully's aid.

"Now where's that--" he started, but he never go to the word "cave,"
because all of a sudden the cave didn't matter.

There she was.  Scully.  But she wasn't moving.

Scully was lying face down on the ground, close enough to the waterfall
to be hit by the spray when the wind gusted.

Mulder gathered her to him, turning her over, supporting her head on his
arm.  He was relieved when she opened her eyes but winced with pity when
he saw how red and sore they were.

"Scully," he said.  "Scully."

"Mulder," she whispered.

"Scully, what happened?" he asked.

Her answers came slowly at first.

"He's in there. The bounty hunter."

"He's in the cave?" Mulder asked her with a catch in his voice.  "I led
him right to you."

"Seal the cave," Scully said.  "He's in there, Mulder, we have to seal
the cave."

"That's not possible," Swenson said.  He brought Scully a blanket and
she sighed gratefully as Mulder wrapped it around her, over the bright
orange coveralls.

"We'll seal the cave if we have to, Swenson," Mulder snapped at him. 
"I'll take full responsibility."

"Have to," Scully said.  "Do it, Mulder."

"We'll need some explosives," Mulder said.  "Can you get us some,
Swenson?"

"Sure," said Swenson dryly.  "I've got about a half ton of dynamite in
my truck.  Or did you want something nuclear?"

"I've had about enough of your theoretical academic crap," Mulder
snapped.  "I'm telling you to get some explosives!"

"Mulder," Scully said, trying to soothe him.  "We don't need
explosives.  Rocks will do, we just need to close up the entrance so no
one can get out."

"Rocks won't be enough, Scully," Mulder said.  "Don't you remember how
strong he is?  He'll just toss them aside."  

"Mulder, don't argue," she said.  "Do what I say."  She was rapidly
regaining her forcefulness.

"Scully, what happened in that cave?" Mulder asked.  "Are you okay? 
You're not thinking straight, Scully, rocks will never keep the bounty
hunter trapped."

Scully wrested herself from Mulder's arms, tossing the blanket aside. 
She stood up, glaring down at him. 

"Fine.  I'll do it myself," she said.  

Scully's coveralls were made for someone over six feet tall, and the
boots she was wearing were about as big as Mulder's. 

"Where'd you get the clothes?" Mulder asked.  Scully should have looked
silly in her oversized get-up, but she didn't, really.  She looked
menacing.  Without answering she picked up a large rock and hurled it
through the waterfall.  The tumbling sound from within the cave told her
the rock had found its mark.

"Get to work," Scully commanded.  "We have to fill the cave with rocks."

"Those are mine," Swenson said.  "My suit.  My boots."

"Come on, Scully, what's going on?" Mulder asked her.

"Get moving, Mulder," she said.  "I'll explain it all later."  

"Okay," Mulder said.  

The cave was directly behind the waterfall.  That was where "Scully" had
tossed the rock.  Right behind the churning, white cascade of the
waterfall.  That's why Scully and he hadn't found it.  No wonder Swenson
thought they were idiots.

Mulder picked up a medium-sized rock and tossed it through the water.  

"I can't see where to throw them," Mulder said.  He got closer to the
falls and reached his arm through, ignoring the water that pounded over
his head and sprayed into his face.

"Don't help her," Swenson told him urgently, raising his voice so Mulder
could hear him over the roar of the cascade.  "This isn't your partner. 
Don't you see that?"  Swenson was staring from Mulder to "Scully," fear
and wonder etched on his normally placid face.

"Shut up, Swenson!" The command came from Mulder.   Mulder couldn't wait
any longer or he would lose this chance.  Ducking into the waterfall he
pushed himself into the wall of rock and found the gap he knew had to be
there.  

The cave was so much smaller than he had expected, no more than a hole
in the wall. Mulder crouched down to fit into the hole.  He was in.  And
then he was out.

He gasped for breath as Scully dragged him from the cave.  His collar
choked him as Scully used it to pick him up and throw him over her head.

Mulder landed face down, stunned and shaken.  He lay very still, hoping
"Scully" would believe him to be unconscious.  

"You too," Scully barked at Swenson, and Mulder heard him gag and
grunt.  Scully hauled Swenson next to Mulder and tossed him roughly onto
the ground.

Swenson raised himself onto his elbows and coughed a few times before
dropping down to catch his breath.

"Shoot her," he whispered hoarsely to Mulder.  "You've got a gun.  Shoot
her now."

"Yes, Mulder, shoot me," Scully said, but then she wasn't Scully.  She
was the bounty hunter as Mulder knew him.  The snowmobile suit wasn't
oversized any more.  It was a bit too small.

The bounty hunter turned Mulder over with a kick to the ribs.

"I never kill you, Mulder.  Sometimes I wonder why," the shapeshifter 
said.  

"Guess it's my winning personality," Mulder muttered. He looked at the
alien, wondering if his was the last face Scully had seen. The bounty
hunter looked nothing like Scully now, except for one thing.  His eyes
were still rimmed with red, as if they'd been burned by fire or
chemicals.

"I'm not here to kill you this time either," the shapeshifter said. 
"Unless you force me.  Now fill in the cave."

"Scully," Mulder said.  "Let me get Scully first."  Mulder was still
lying on his back.  He wasn't sure he could get up.

"Every time I meet you you're looking for someone, Mulder," the alien
said.  "Get that cave sealed off and I'll take you to your sister."

"Give me Scully," Mulder said. "Then I'll seal the cave.  Just let me
have Scully."

"She's dead, Mulder.  You can't help her, you can only get yourself
killed as well."  The shapeshifter nudged Mulder with his foot; he
didn't want to kick him again because he still wanted Mulder's help to
block off the cave.  The shapeshifter didn't want to get too close to
the cave or what was in it.  

"I want the body.  I want her out of there," Mulder said.  

Swenson listened in bewilderment.  He knew Mulder had a gun, he could
see it.  Why wasn't Mulder using it?  Swenson reached for the gun,
unsnapping the top strap that kept it in the holster.

"No," Mulder told him, barely turning his head in Swenson's direction.  

Swenson had the gun and he'd have to use it right away.  That hadn't
been his plan, but the FBI man's protest had alerted the Trickster.

"Don't shoot," Mulder told Swenson,  "It won't stop him.  You'll get us
both killed."

Swenson ignored him.  He moved away from Mulder and aimed the weapon.

"Play time's over, Mulder," the bounty hunter announced, oblivious to
Swenson's threat.  "You have no options.  Scully's dead, and I'd be glad
to kill your friend here as well.  Get to work sealing that entrance and
when you're done I'll give you what you've always wanted."

Mulder didn't believe him.  He didn't believe Scully was dead.  She
couldn't be dead, he thought, or I would feel it.  But even if she was
dead, he could not seal her into that cave.  

"I'll give you Samantha," the shapeshifter said.  "I know where she is."

The shapeshifter was looking at Mulder.  

Now! Swenson told himself, squeezing the trigger.  The gun only clicked.

The bounty hunter turned his cold gaze on Swenson, but in that moment he
was distracted by a figure emerging from behind the waterfall. Someone
was running at them.  No, not someone, something.

A wolf, thought Mulder.  A big, bad wolf.  There's a wolf charging at
me.

But the wolf was not charging at Mulder.  He lunged at the bounty
hunter, knocking him down. The shapeshifter shook off the attack,
slamming the wolf to the ground.  The wolf attacked again, and once more
the shapeshifter threw him off.

Swenson lowered the gun.  Mulder finally forced himself to a sitting
position and when Swenson stood up, Mulder let the Swede help him to his
feet.

"You see," Mulder said to Swenson.  The wolf's jaws and teeth had torn
at the bounty hunter without slowing him down at all.  Swenson saw the
pernicious green ooze that drained from the wounds and then he got a
whiff of something that stung his eyes and tore at his lungs.

Swenson covered his face, stumbling against something that turned out to
be Mulder. Mulder was trying to retreat, and he reached blindly to pull
Swenson along with him.  Each breath he took brought stabs of pain and
the ground was reeling beneath him.

Nor was the wolf unaffected.  He yelped in surprise and began to back
away.  After a few feet the wolf broke into a trot, running back toward
his lair.  But he stopped at the waterfall.

Mulder forced himself to open his burning eyes, but he still could not
see.  And then the burning stopped.

Scully.  By the waterfall.  For real.

"Scully."  He staggered to meet her, his gait growing steadier with each
step.

"Mulder."  Scully was wet and bloody, and the wolf, now at her feet,
began to growl at Mulder's approach.  

"Shh," Scully hushed him, and the growling ceased.

Swenson opened his eyes and found that they didn't hurt any more.  He
could see and breathe.  There by the waterfall was Agent Scully. She was
dirty and bruised, and her face seemed rigid with pain. There was the
wolf, too, just sitting there.  Mulder was limping toward Scully.  

A piercing howl filled the air.  At first Swenson could make out some
words, like "no," and "get away," but then the words stopped and there
was only the noise of mindless agony.

That man, that thing, that wizard of lies--he was making the noise.  He
was on the ground, writhing spastically.  But it wasn't a seizure, at
least Swenson didn't think it was.  

Mulder had made his way to Scully's side, and his breath was coming in
shaky gulps. He embraced her, his arms around her and his head down,
pressed against hers.

"It's okay, Mulder, it's okay," she said as she gently disengaged him. 
She unzipped the pocket on her windbreaker.  She took out the iridescent
bottle.

Her fingers shook as she gripped the bottle and pulled out the cork.

The shapeshifter rose from the ground.  His neck was arched and his
shoulders were back--he moved as if propelled by his breastbone.  He
pressed his fingers to his head, rolling side to side as he walked. He
turned toward Scully, but then he whirled away.  The shrieking 
continued, rising and falling like a fire siren.

He turned next toward Swenson, but he could not hold his ground.  He 
had to escape.

He lurched to the snowmobile, and when he reached it, he took his hands 
from his head to grab the handlebars.  He hoisted it in the air and 
turned it around before letting it drop back to the ground. 

The shapeshifter mounted the sled and started it up.  Still wailing, he
drove away.  His screams faded in the distance until they were gone.

Scully corked the bottle.

"Mulder," she said.  He was staring after the shapeshifter, and Scully
reached for him to pull him closer.  Again he wrapped his arms around
her, and she buried her head between his neck and shoulder, feeling his
stubbled cheek against her face.

The ground no longer reeled and his eyes didn't hurt, but Mulder's head
ached from where he'd fallen and his neck felt like someone had twisted
it around in a full circle.

Swenson had been staring after the shapeshifter as well, but he looked
around to see Mulder and Scully and the wolf, settled now by Scully's
feet.

"Son of a bitch," he said. "Loki stole my snowmobile again." 

===============================================================
The room was warm.  Out of consideration for his saturated visitors, 
Superintendent Gundersen had turned the thermostat up to the maximum.

Please shut up, Mulder thought.  Please shut up so we can get out of
here.

Mulder's temples throbbed, and his hair was stiff with dried blood and
dirt.  He was trying to look attentive, but his mind kept wandering. 
The dark-suited man behind the desk was droning mercilessly.  The wall
clock showed 9:30, but it felt much later.  The interlude in the hot
springs seemed as if it had happened days ago instead of hours.  Mulder
hoped that Scully was paying attention to what the man was saying, in
case he said something that they needed to know.

"And do you agree, Agent Mulder?" the man asked.

Mulder withstood the temptation to nod and smile.

"I'm sorry, sir, I wasn't able to hear you clearly," he said.  Scully
rolled her eyes.

Now the senile bureaucrat is going to start at the beginning and repeat
it all, she thought.  Thanks, Mulder.

"The Department of Natural Resources supports worthwhile archeological
and cultural research.  We've offered financial support and cooperation
to scholars from the university.  We've provided equipment--including
snowmobiles and other vehicles.  We've supplied back-up and manpower." 
The dark suit's delivery was ludicrously theatrical.  He all but rolled
his R's.

"That's very progressive, Mr. Henderson," Mulder said.

"Gunderson.  And thank you," the suit said.  "We are proud to underwrite
genuine academic research, but we are not willing to be associated with
the frivolous or the spurious."

Mulder caught Scully's eye, searching for a cue.  If this geezer was
calling their investigation frivolous and spurious, why was she looking
so complacent?  

"I have assured Mr. Gunderson that Swenson's integrity is sound, and
that his ideas, while unorthodox, are worthy of rigorous investigation,"
Scully said.

So that was it.  It was Swenson who was in trouble.

"Agent Scully seems to feel that Bradley Swenson, for the most part,
behaved appropriately.  She says she can corroborate much of his
report.  She states that the FBI has some experience in detecting and
measuring paranormal phenomena, and that she has scientific data to
support Swenson's unusual claims," the dark suit said.

"Yes, Mr. Henderson,  I concur," Mulder said.  

"Gunderson," the man corrected him again.  "I will assume then that you
would be willing to appear at  Swenson's   hearing.  I have been in
contact with the Office of Oversight, Analysis, and Reporting at the
university.  Believe me, the University of Minnesota  is also unwilling
to support spurious scholarship."

"Mr. Gunderson, Agent Mulder and I are both willing to appear, but it is
imperative that we return to Minneapolis tonight.  We have business to
attend to with the FBI field office and Agent Mulder may well require
some medical attention," Scully said.

"That will not be a problem," Gunderson said.  "The disciplinary hearing
is scheduled for tomorrow in Minneapolis.   If you don't mind, I'd like
Dr. Swenson to be present for the conclusion of this meeting." 

Gunderson picked up his phone and spoke briefly.  

Swenson had been waiting outside the office and he pushed through the
door a moment later and stood in the back of the room, leaning against
the wall.

"Do you want me to stand in the corner, Superintendent Gunderson?" he
asked.

"Keep it up, Swenson," the bureaucrat said.  "Give me something else to
think about while I drive down to the capital to deal with your
garbage."

"Now I'm shaking,"  Swenson asked.  "You tattled on me to the
university."

"The committee will convene tomorrow to review your work so far.  Of
course I will be forced to bring up the matter of the missing
snowmobile--the DNR will have to be compensated for the loss.  Agents
Scully and Mulder have graciously agreed to testify," Gunderson said. 
"Be packed and ready to go in an hour--you can drive down with me."

"Oh, I get the picture," Swenson said to Mulder and Scully. "You two
developed a sudden case of amnesia.  Well, thanks a lot."

"Dr. Swenson, it is not my habit to ignore or forget the events that I
witness," Scully said.  "Agent Mulder and I will give full, open
testimony.  I was going to request a favor from you, but your obvious
hostility makes me hesitate."

"See that, Swenson, I've talked to you before about your attitude,"
Gunderson said. Others in the DNR might feel that Swenson's work had
some merit, but as far as Gunderson was concerned,  the archeologist had
a lousy personality and he brought the department nothing but grief.

"I'm sorry if I misjudged you," Swenson said.  He was usually
unflappable, as cool as a glacier, but Superintendent Gunderson had a
knack for making him snarl like a badger. 

"Then I was hoping you'd be willing to drive downstate with Agent Mulder
and myself," Scully said.  "Agent Mulder may have suffered a head injury
and I find myself somewhat the worse for wear as well."

"Oh.  I'll drive you down," said Swenson.  The FBI agent was rescuing
him from a car trip with his officious overseer.  He tried to make eye
contact with her to signal his thanks, but she looked at him
impassively.

"Will that be acceptable, Agent Mulder?" Gunderson asked.  Scully had
been taking the lead throughout the meeting, but the old coot couldn't
get past the notion that Mulder had to be the senior operative.

"What?" Mulder asked, his head still pounding.  "I'm sorry, Mr.
Henderson, I didn't hear you."


end of part 14 of 17

Backtracking
15/17
Disclaimer, etc., with part 1


 
"Would you guys like to use my cabin to wash up?" Swenson asked when the
meeting with Superintendent Gunderson was finally over.  "It's right on
the way, and I need to stop and pack a few things before they lynch me."

"Thank you, Brad, we'd really appreciate that," Scully answered for both
of them.  "Where's your car?  I can follow you back to your place." 
Mulder seemed more like himself now, but she didn't want him to drive
until she could have a good look at him.

Scully thought she'd be able to have a private talk with Mulder on the
way to Swenson's home.  She wanted to tell him about Heimdall, ask him
if he believed she'd actually met with the sentinel of the gods, with
Loki's ancient adversary.  

But whether or not she'd found Heimdall in the cave, and whether or not
the shapeshifter and Loki were one and the same, this much was clear: 
The bottle and its contents had power over the bounty hunter.

"In the shop," Swenson said.  "Timing belt.  I need to get a ride with
you."

"Ford?" Mulder and Scully asked together.

So Swenson drove them in the  rental car.   His cabin turned out to be
no larger than the one that Mulder and Scully had occupied, but the
sheltered carport and the propane tank outside indicated that this was a
year-round residence.  

After Mulder and Scully had been evacuated from the waterfall, a couple
of the  rangers had gone back to the cabin to retrieve their
belongings.  Everything had been packed up and loaded into the car. 
Scully looked through the jumble of stuff in the trunk.  Even if she had
a clean outfit left, she had no idea where to find it.  She pulled out a
backpack and a duffel bag practically at random.

"Take something," she told Mulder, and he carried in another couple of
bags.

From the outside the cabin looked charmingly rustic, but its small
interior was crammed with the electronic necessities of modern life.  A
trestle table by the window was dedicated to Swenson's computer and its
related devices.  An "entertainment center" housed a twenty-seven inch
television with a VCR.  The cassettes that didn't fit into the cabinet
were stacked on the floor, the lurid illustrations on their cardboard
sleeves another intrusion of the late twentieth century.

Swenson looked at Scully apologetically.  

"Your friend keeps them here," Scully reassured him.  "They're not
yours."

"Yeah," Swenson agreed gratefully.  

One of the boxes had caught Mulder's eye.  He'd heard about that one,
but nobody seemed to know where to get it.  Maybe Swenson would lend it
to him.  Or make him a copy.  

"Put your stuff down anywhere," Swenson said.  He walked over to his bed
to pull the striped blanket up to cover the sheets, then he hoisted two
large laundry sacks from the floor up onto the bed.  He'd have to figure
out which was the clean one so he could provide his visitors with
towels.  A discreet whiff helped him make the determination.  He pulled
out a large, faded orange and black towel that he gave to Mulder.

"I hope your shower works better than the one in our cabin," Mulder
said.

"Hey, does this look like the Watergate to you?" Swenson asked.  "A word
of advice--turn on the cold water first, let it run until it clears, and
then turn on the hot."

"Thanks for the tip," Mulder said, heading for the bathroom.

"Mulder--wait," Scully said.  "Brad, I'm going to need my medical bag, 
I've go to get him checked over."

"It's got to be in the car there somewhere," Swenson said.  "What does
it look like?"    

"I'll find it.  Mulder, sit down.  Wait for me," Scully said. 

"But I'm fine," Mulder protested.  

Scully fixed him with a look before she left the cabin.

After she'd crawled her way out of the cave, Scully had seen again the
powerful effect of the Viking's bottle on the alien bounty hunter.  He
had fled, his flat, unearthly screams filling the air.  The bottle was
palpable proof that her adventure had not been a dream.

Until Scully emerged from the cave with Heimdall's potent gift, the
shapeshifter was overpowering and unstoppable, and he'd tossed Mulder
fifteen feet through the air and onto his head.  But Scully hadn't seen
that.

Soon rescuers from the forestry service had begun to arrive.  They'd
come with ATVs and blankets and ropes and Thermoses of hot liquids. 
Scully and Mulder were the objects of their mission.  They were bundled
tenderly into the back of a Jeep and whisked away from the waterfall,
away from the cave, and over to the small complex of cabins that served
as the administrative center and barracks for the rangers of the Lake
Superior area.

Preoccupied with her own aches and contusions, Scully hadn't thought to
check Mulder for injury until she saw how dazed and scattered he acted
under questioning by Gunderson.  Now she was wondering if he'd been
hurt, maybe hit on the head.  She really should have thought of this
earlier.  Mulder should have been evacuated on a stretcher, not bounced
around in a Jeep.

"She's going to check me over," Mulder groaned.  "Help me, Swenson."

"You're on your own," Swenson warned him.  "I'm going to take a walk."

Scully came back in the cabin with her Gore-Tex carryall as Swenson was
leaving.  

"Oh, Scully, not the light!" Mulder felt his headache escalate in
anticipation.

"Shh," Scully said, clicking on her ophthalmascope.  "Now watch my
finger..."  She leaned over him as he sat on the bed, checking for signs
of swelling or pressure changes in his brain.

"I hate this," Mulder groaned.

"You're doing fine," Scully reassured him.  "Now close your eyes and
touch your index fingers to your nose, like this."

"Exactly why are we doing this?" Mulder asked.  "Oh, and Scully, it's
D-L-R-O-W."

"Mulder, you seemed kind of sketchy, back with the superintendent.  Are
you sure you're all right?" 

"I'm fine, Scully, except for this headache," Mulder told her.

"You have a headache?" Scully asked.  "Since when?"

"Started around the time the bounty hunter threw me on my head," Mulder
explained. 

You never told me that! Scully thought angrily, but she answered him
very calmly.

"Tell you what, Mulder.  I'll finish up my exam and then we'll see about
getting you to a hospital, okay?"  She said it as cheerfully as she
could, trying to make it sound like fun.

"Scully, I'm fine," Mulder repeated.  "I've got a headache, that's all,
and I think that's understandable, under the circumstances."  He knew
he'd be able to dissuade her.  Scully had always been a softy on this
issue, and over their years together, her mistrust of hospitals had only
increased.

"Mulder, if he threw you on your head, you might have  injuries you
don't even know about," Scully said.  She had also been tossed through
the air by the shapeshifter, and she seemed to have gotten a touch of
whiplash.  Mulder might have that too.

"Give it a rest, Scully.  You haven't found anything wrong with me, have
you?" Mulder said.  "Oh, it's Clinton, William Jefferson.  Cats and dogs
are both mammalian carnivores, but cats are loners and have retractable
claws, except the cheetah.  Dogs hunt in packs."

"You think you have this routine memorized, don't you?" Scully asked,
fighting back a smile.  Mulder was being so Mulderish, trying to charm
her, and it was working.  She sat down next to him on Swenson's bed.

"Yes.  Now you're going to bring out your rubber hammer that you bought
just to hit me with," he said.  "And if I really piss you off you'll
take out your pizza wheel."

"You're making fun of my neuro toys," Scully said.  "You must be feeling
better."  She was checking his head with her fingertips now and quickly
found the small, jagged scrape, which seemed reassuringly superficial.

"Scully, what about you?" Mulder asked.  She'd washed her face, but
there was still some blood on her nylon windbreaker.

"I think we both just need to clean up," Scully said.  "We have to get
to Minneapolis.  I want to get the bottle to the lab."

=======================================================================

Brad Swenson didn't worry about disciplinary hearings.  Whatever
happened would happen.  Sooner or later the Department of Natural
Resources or the University of Minnesota would find a way to boot him
out, he was sure of that.  Until then he was happy to live in a place he
loved, pursue a quest that made everyone else label him as a lunatic,
and collect a stipend for it.

He was driving the Taurus South on Interstate 35.  Traffic was light;
for most of the trip he was able to keep his brights on.  His two
supporting witnesses were in the car with him, one snoring in the back 
and the other next to him in the passenger seat.

"I do appreciate your support," Swenson told Scully, "but I hope you
know what you're  getting into.  Testifying that Loki stole my
snowmobile might not do much for your career."

"You mean the FBI might figure out that we're a couple of crackpots?"
Scully asked. "I supposed we'll just have to take a chance."  

Scully turned around to check on Mulder.  Time to wake him up
again--make sure he was all right.

Mulder didn't respond to her at first, and she had to repeat his name
twice before he answered with a grunt of annoyance.

"Mulder, who's the President?" she asked.

"Jesse the K," Mulder said.  "Leave me alone."

"Pull over," Scully instructed Swenson.

"Scully, chill out," Mulder said, forcing himself awake.  "It's still
Clinton, okay?  One hundred, ninety-three, eighty-six, seventy-nine..."

Swenson drove the car onto the shoulder of the road and brought it to a
stop.  If Agent Scully had to wake Agent Mulder every time he fell
asleep, she might as well sit in the back with him.  

Scully had reached the same conclusion.  She got into the back seat,
forcing Mulder to sit up and get his feet onto the floor.

"...fifty-eight, fifty-one, forty-four," Mulder continued.

"Okay, you pass," she said.  

Swenson pointed the car back onto the highway and brought it up to
speed.  The next time he checked in the mirror, both his passengers were
asleep, leaning against each other and looking quite content, if a
little crowded.  

Just like a couple of kittens, Swenson thought.  He turned the radio on
softly and let it keep him company through the night.

They were almost to Minneapolis before either of the agents stirred, and
it was Mulder who woke up first.

He nudged Scully gently.

"You're drooling on me," he said sleepily, bringing the back of his hand
up to wipe her mouth.

His hand found the source of the moisture, not Scully's mouth but her
ear.

Suddenly alert, Mulder opened his eyes and confirmed his first
impression.

"Swenson," he said quietly but sharply.  "Get us to a hospital--now!"  

"What's the matter?" Swenson asked.  Abbot-Northwestern was the closest,
and he was not waiting for a reply  to take them there.

Mulder wasn't answering just yet anyway.  He was focused on Scully.

"Scully, wake up," he said, immensely relieved when she came awake at
once.

"What?  What's wrong?" she asked.

Mulder didn't want to alarm her by pointing out that there was something
clear weeping slowly from her ear.  

"Uh, Scully, who's the President?" he asked.

=========================================================================

"A skull fracture is not particularly serious," explained the earnest
young woman in the white lab coat.  "No more serious than any other
broken bone, provided that the brain itself is not injured.  Of course
you will be admitted until the drainage stops, but that is mostly for
observation."

Reclining on a stretcher, Scully was as unperturbed as the ER doctor,
but Mulder wanted to scream.  If this injury was so frickin' trivial,
why was Scully's brain leaking out her ear?  

"You've found no signs or symptoms of an active bleed or increased
pressure, is that correct?" Scully asked.  "I presume you'll want a CT
scan."   Hopefully the CT scan will be normal, she thought, and I'll be
out of here tomorrow, maybe the next day.  Thank goodness Mulder's x-ray
was negative.  He ought to get a CT scan anyway, though...

"Yes," the doctor said.  "CAT scan will call for you when they're
ready."  Mulder followed her out when she left the exam room.

"Wait," he said.  "What happens after the CAT scan?"

"Well, that depends," the young doctor said.  "If there's continued
bleeding or if there's pressure from a blood clot, she may require
surgery to correct it.  But that's unlikely.  I don't think you have
anything to worry about."  Again she turned to walk away.

"Damn it!"  It came out louder than he'd intended.  "Her brains are
falling out!  Aren't you going to fix that?"

The doctor glanced at her watch before answering.  She'd be off call at
6 AM, but that was hours away.

"Here's the story.  It's a basilar fracture.  In all likelihood the
damage will repair itself.  The drainage will stop  in a day or two. 
Until then she'll need to be on bedrest and avoid doing anything to
elevate her intracranial pressure.  The biggest danger is the risk of
infection.  And sir... her brains are not falling out.  That's
cerebrospinal fluid."  This time she touched his arm reassuringly before
racing off.

Mulder took a moment to compose himself before returning to Scully. 
He'd need to have a long, serious talk with her, about honesty and
unnecessary risks.  About knowing when to ask for help.  About taking
care of yourself so that the people who loved you didn't have to grind
their molars into dust worrying over you.  But this wasn't the time.

"Looks like you're going to be fine," he said cheerily as he walked back
in the exam room.

"I know," Scully answered.  "Why don't you go get something to eat,
Mulder, I don't need you to wait here with me."

Oh, sure, thought Mulder.  I'll go out for a burger, maybe stop and get
the car washed.  Catch a flick.  Sure, Scully.

"I'll just hang out here for a while," he said casually.

"Mulder!"  Scully sat up suddenly.  She'd just remembered something. 
Something wet and disgusting in the trunk of their car.

"What's wrong?" Mulder asked, kicking the exam room door open before he
sprang to her side, in case he'd have to yell for help.

"You have to find a Laundromat!  We can't go back to Allison with fifty
pounds of muddy clothes!"

Mulder's sigh of relief came out more like a gasp.

"Okay.  I'll take care of it," he said.

"Don't forget," Scully said.  

A magenta-haired kid tapped on the open door before he walked in the
room.

"Scully, Dana?" he asked, showing off a big, pink wad of bubble gum as
he spoke.  "CAT scan's calling for you."

"I'm ready," Scully said.  "Mulder, you take my stuff."  

"I've got it," he said, showing her the plastic bag with her
belongings.   Scully was traveling light today--no cellular, no purse,
just the 9 mm. automatic and the clothes she's been wearing.

"Mulder," she said.  She wanted a kiss.  She wanted it enough to ask for
it, if she had to.

But she didn't.  The kid from CAT scan was popping his gum
indifferently; and Mulder allowed himself and his partner a restrained
peck on the lips.

"Mulder, there's something I want you to wear for me," Scully said as
she reached through the bag of clothes.  Of course Mulder expected her
to produce the little cross, but she did not.

It was the runestone ring that the Viking had given her.

"Would you do that?  Wear it for me?" Scully asked.  As if he might
refuse.  Mulder put the rawhide strand around his neck.  

"See you later," he said.  She would know that his smile was forced, but
it was the best he could do.

=======================================================================

Mulder found Swenson sleeping in the waiting room and woke him up.

"You can go, Swenson," Mulder said.  "Pick me up before your hearing."

Swenson stretched and yawned.

"I'm going to crash at my dad's place," he said.  "You can come too, if
you want.  Plenty of room."   Swenson hoped Mulder would accept the
offer.  His dad was a lot more civil when other people were around.

"Thanks anyway, but I'll stay.  Scully's in CAT scan now, and they're
going to admit her." 

"How is she?" Swenson asked.

"I don't know," Mulder said.  "She's got a skull fracture."

"I'm sorry," Swenson said.  "Is there anything I can do?"  He felt like
a jerk even saying it.  He wished there was a way he could help Scully,
but what could he possibly do?

"Yeah.  Please," Mulder said.  "The laundry.  She... She doesn't want
her brother's wife to get stuck with it.  We borrowed it.  Their ski
stuff, you know?  And it's all dirty.  And wet.  Scully said--"

"Leave it to me,"  Swenson said.  "I'll meet you back here at eight."

Mulder sat down in the chair Swenson vacated, cradling the plastic bag
on his lap. 

Clothes, he thought.  Should have given them to Swenson to wash with the
rest.  

He was still hugging the plastic bag thirty minutes later when Allison
Scully arrived.  He didn't notice when she sat down next to him.

"Mulder," she said softly.  

He looked up.

"She has a skull fracture," he said.  

"I know, but she's going to be all right," Allison told him.  "The CAT
scan was negative, and they're bringing her up to her room now."

Mulder nodded.  

"Is Charlie with her?" he asked.  Charlie would probably beat the shit
out of him, he thought, and the sooner he did it the less inconvenient
it would be.

"Charlie didn't come--he's not great with hospitals," Allison said.  It
was perfectly true, but the real reason she had insisted that her
husband stay at home was because she knew he would want to beat the shit
out of Mulder.

"You know, she was worried about *my* head.  And she's got the
fracture," Mulder said.

"And you wish it was you instead," Allison said.  

"Well, yes," Mulder said.  "Sounds lame, though, doesn't it?"

"No," Allison said.  "I guess that's how it is with partners."

"Can I see her?" Mulder asked, since Allison seemed to have the latest
information.

"Soon.  You know she's going to ask if you've eaten anything," Allison
said.  Dana had already asked about that, in the hallway outside of CAT
scan.  Allison's assignment was to get Mulder to eat breakfast.

"I'll have to lie," Mulder said.  "I really can't eat now."

Allison believed him; she was like that herself.  Genetic Scullys
stuffed their faces when they were stressed, and Oliver seemed to have
that tendency as well, but Allison found it impossible to eat when she
was upset.

"Okay.  Let's go up and see her," Allison said.



end 15 of 17

Feedback to Scetti, malgio@netscape.net, and Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com


Backtracking
16/17
Disclaimer, etc., with part 1




Scully sighed.  She'd been in this bed less than thirty minutes--long
enough to swallow two Tylenol and a pretty red Colace and flip through
the limited selection of TV channels--and she was bored.

She didn't feel sick.  She didn't even feel tired.  She had a slight
headache and her neck was sore, but otherwise she felt fine.  The
drainage from her ear seemed to be slowing down, but it had been so
scant to begin with that she couldn't be sure.  It was going to be a
long couple of days.

When Allison and Mulder came into her room, she was more than ready for
the diversion.

"Oh boy, company," she said.

"It took forever to find you," Allison said.  "I don't know who designed
this hospital." She put her coat down over a chair.

"M.C. Escher," Mulder said.  "Hey, Scully, how'd you rate a private
room?"  

If Allison hadn't talked to him in the waiting room, she would not have
guessed that Mulder was worried.  He sounded quite hearty.  

"Allison, would you mind getting me a soda from downstairs?" Scully
asked.  

"Sure, Dana," Allison said.  She didn't wink knowingly, but she patted
Scully's shoulder.  

"Alone at last," Mulder said when Allison had gone.  

"I know," Scully said.  "So give."

If Allison had happened to overhear this conversation, her romantically
inclined imagination would have taken flight.

In point of fact, Mulder and Scully had exchanged only a few sparse
observations about the events at Temperance River and it was critical
that they get the details sorted out before Mulder drop by the regional
FBI office.

"After Swenson drove me to the cabin, he must have sledded back to the
hot springs. The bounty hunter found him there and stole his snowmobile,
not to mention his clothing," Mulder said.

"That must have been after I went into the cave, because I didn't see
him," Scully said. "That's going to come up at Swenson's hearing, you
know.  Gunderson is telling them that the DNR doesn't care to underwrite
so-called scholars for their personal, hedonistic pursuits."

"For soaking in the hot spring?" Mulder asked.  "Well, I won't be able
to testify about that.  I wasn't there."

"Maybe they'll ask you if you did any hot-tubbing," Scully suggested.

"Don't worry about the hearing, Scully, I can handle that," Mulder
said.  "Concentrate on the bounty hunter."

"Okay, so the bounty hunter made himself into Swenson and then he found
you back at the cabin," Scully said.  "What happened next?"  

"He wanted me to take him to you.  That's how I knew he wasn't
Swenson--he didn't know where to look for you," Mulder said.  "We've
never seen him afraid before, but I think he was afraid of you, or
afraid of what you would find."

"He's afraid of the bottle, or what's in it," Scully said.  "You saw
what it did to him.  We finally have something we can use against him. 
And did you notice, Mulder?  The bottle also gives us some protection. 
He was bleeding, you know, but his green blood didn't hurt us when the
bottle was open."

"That's why he wanted us to trap you in the cave.  He ordered Swenson
and me to fill the entrance with rocks, but he was afraid to do it
himself.  He didn't want to get too close," Mulder said.

"Mulder, you have to get that bottle to the lab.  We have to find out
what's in it," Scully said.  

"They're going to ask me where the bottle came from," Mulder said.  "And
I won't be able to tell them."  He leaned back in his chair and folded
his arms.  He would not be able to tell them because he didn't know. 
Scully had never told him what happened inside the cave.

Scully turned away from him.  There were so many reasons she didn't want
to talk about it.

She'd felt herself close to death, trapped in the pit.  She didn't even
want to think about it.  Mulder was bound to tell her she'd been
"incredibly rash" to go into the cave alone without first informing
someone, and she didn't want to deal with that either.  Some of the
things Heimdall had told her--they were so weird.  Mulder would think
she was psychotic, or hallucinating.

No, Mulder would believe her.  The real problem was her own beliefs. 
She had to accept that Heimdall was real, because the bottle was real. 
She had held it in her hand.  She had opened it, and the bounty hunter
had been vanquished, overcome with pain and forced to flee.  

Heimdall was real, at least as real as the bounty hunter.  Dana Scully
was a federal agent investigating a paranormal phenomenon.  She had the
duty and obligation to disclose her findings.

"Come on, Scully," Mulder said quietly.  "Tell me how you got the
bottle."

=======================================================================

Allison Scully got a Sprite from the vending machine in the lobby. 
Early as it was, the gift shop was open, and she took the time to select
some magazines for Dana.  Then she had a cup of coffee in the cafeteria
and read People magazine from cover to cover.

That should give those two some time to talk, she thought.  When she got
back to Dana's room, Mulder was still sitting by the bedside.  Allison
coughed discreetly from the doorway, and Dana waved her in.

The two agents were in disagreement about something.

"Don't do this, Mulder," Dana said.  "I'll re-explore the cave when I
get out of here.  You're not the one for the job, Mulder, I explained
that to you.  Besides, you won't know where you're going."

"What if I take Swenson in with me?" Mulder asked.  Scully was trying to
tell him that he'd be in more danger in the cave than she was.  She'd
also argued that a "secret" that lasted for millennia would last a few
more days, until she was well enough to look for it.

They shouldn't be arguing, Allison thought.  Dana was supposed to stay
calm.  There was no yelling or screaming, but Dana looked worried and
somber, and Mulder sounded frustrated.

"Here's what you do," Scully said.  "Get the bottle shipped to DC so we
can have it analyzed.  We're on to something big here.  The bottle may
be the key to everything.  But even if it's not, it's the most effective
weapon we have against--"  She had to watch what she said in front of
Allison.  "It's our most effective weapon," she concluded.

"You're right, Scully, we are on to something big, and you know that's
why I have to go back to Temperance River.  I'll take the bottle to the
regional office, and they can send it on ahead."  Mulder found himself
fingering the runestone ring as he spoke.  It was a hefty piece of
jewelry but there was something comfortable about its weight.  "I'd
better send this to the lab too," he added.

"Mulder!" She was off the bed, leaning over him in his chair.  She'd
forgotten about being on bedrest.

"Jesus, Scully!  What are you trying to do?"  Mulder said, his voice
full of fear and anger.  

"Dana Katherine Scully, you get back in that bed!" Allison ordered her.  

"Oh.  I forgot," Scully said.  "Relax, you two, I'm going back to bed. 
But Mulder, you have to wear that ring.  Promise me you won't take it
off."  She was supposed to stay in bed and avoid activities like
coughing and sneezing.  She could probably get Mulder to dance the
Macarena, if she wanted to, by threatening to blow her nose.

"Yes," Allison intervened again.  "Promise her you'll wear the ring and
you won't go back north.  And Dana, you promise him that you'll stay in
bed."  There, she thought, that would settle everything.

"I don't want him to promise he won't go back to the cave," Scully
said.  "I don't want him to lie to me.  I just want him to promise about
the ring."

"Okay, I'll keep the ring on," Mulder said.  "Now get back in the bed. 
This is extortion, you know."  

"Promise, Mulder.  Promise me."  They exchanged a serious look, and she
got back in the bed.

"I want a word with you," Allison told Mulder sharply.  "I'll be waiting
outside. And Dana, I will speak to you later."  

"I think we're in trouble," Mulder said in a conspiratorial growl, and
Allison, who had not yet closed the door behind her, gave him the look
that he usually got from Scully.

"She thinks it's time for both of us to grow up," Scully said.  "We've
been ignoring our feelings for too long.   There's more to life than
work."

"Is that what she wants to tell me?  Am I allowed to explain that we're
trying to prevent aliens from colonizing the planet?"  Mulder asked.

"You can try, but she'll tell you that everyone thinks their job is
important.  Mulder, about the laundry..."

"Yes, Scully, I understand it's important," Mulder said.

"I know you do.  I just wanted to tell you, don't put the silk in the
washer, you'll ruin it.  I'll wash it by hand, okay?"  She tilted her
head a bit.

"Okay," he said.  The laundry was no longer in his control.  One day,
when Scully was all better, he would tell her what a total pain in the
ass she had been.

"I wish you weren't going to do what I know you're going to do," Scully
said.  "Don't take that ring off, Mulder, you promised me.  And keep the
bottle with you too."  

Mulder was going to go back to the cave to look for the Viking.  He was
going to shimmy down a rocky, wet tunnel until he came to a wolf's den,
and then he was going to hang a left and try not to slide down into a
sheer, ten-foot pit.  He would journey where few could go, and fewer yet
returned.

She had almost lost him so many times.  And he was going to put himself
in harm's way again.

"I'll wear the ring, Scully, I promise,"  Mulder said.  "And Scully, be
good.  I want you to get better.  I'll see you tonight."   And he kissed
her.  It wasn't so hard, really.

"Good-bye, Mulder," Scully said.  "May you always find your way home."

========================================================================

Oliver picked up the ringing telephone, certain it was just another call
for Punk Wannabe Christina Snotnose.  Who, by the way, was going to miss
the school bus if she didn't get out of the bathroom soon.  Aunt Dana
was in the hospital and Mom had gone to see how she was.  Oliver and
Christina were supposed to be old enough to get their own breakfast and
catch the bus without her help.

"Scully," Oliver said.

"Please hold for Assistant Director Skinner," a woman's voice told him.

Assistant Director Skinner, Oliver thought.  FBI.

For a split second he wondered if Mulder had ratted about his videotapes
after all. Nah.  Must be a call for Aunt Dana.

"Scully.  Perhaps you'd care to explain these interesting communiqus
I've received from the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources," a
gruff voice said.

Cool! Oliver thought.

"Communiqus?" he asked.  He knew he sounded like a girl on the phone. 
He was always being mistaken for his sister.

"Why, yes, Agent Scully.  The Department of Natural Resources was
courteous enough to share their information about your rescue.  Perhaps
you could take a lesson from them."

"Sir?" Oliver said.

"All right, agent," Skinner said.  Scully was going to play games, but
he didn't have to play along.  "Please send me your report ASAP.  This
afternoon will be fine."  He hung up the phone.

=======================================================================

"Just like old times, son.  You show up in the middle of the night with
a mountain of laundry, and then you try to sneak out the door before we
get a chance to talk." Bill Swenson had been sitting in the kitchen
since six without turning on the light.  

"I'm sorry, Dad," Swenson said.  "My hearing is at nine o'clock, and I
have to pick up the FBI agent from the hospital."  He should have known
the old man would be up and waiting for him.  Before he'd retired, 
Professor  Swenson was notorious for holding his graduate seminar at
8:00 AM.

"The FBI agent who's going to back up your... version of events," the
elder Swenson said dryly.  "That must be the FBI agent who sustained the
head trauma."

"No, Dad, it's the other one," Swenson answered.  "Sorry to disappoint
you--again."

"Bradley--it's your life.  I don't pretend to understand all the choices
you've made," the father said.

The son sighed.

"I know, Dad.  You spent good money on my Ivy League education.  You
didn't complain when I applied to grad school for archeology.  You were
proud of me when I got my doctorate..."

"I was very proud," said the older Swenson.  "I liked the idea that
you'd be a professor--I suppose that says something about my ego.  And I
understand your thirst for knowledge, son, I respect that."

"Your respect that, but you hate to see me jeopardize a promising
academic career,"  Swenson said.

"Bradley, you're a grown man who believes in fairy tales.  You're
tracking down Apollo, trying to put Osiris together again.  Myths are
myths, son.  There's a kind of truth to them, but not the literal truth
you're looking for."  

"I have to go, Dad.  I'll call you, okay?" said the son.

That was a myth that neither man believed.

======================================================================

Mulder had called Scully once today, after Swenson's disciplinary
hearing, to tell her how it had turned out.

Swenson's snowmobile had been located, so the DNR had to drop their
complaint about equipment loss.  Mulder's testimony and Scully's
deposition supported Swenson's other claims, and that was enough to
resolve the matter without any official disciplinary action being taken.

Nevertheless, Swenson felt that he was being punished.  The Department
of Natural Resources and the University of Minnesota had assigned a
geologist to work with him, someone to keep tabs on him and see to it
that he didn't waste government resources on his own eccentric agenda.  

"I work alone," Swenson had told the review board huffily, but he'd been
informed that if he wanted to continue to collect his stipend, he'd be
working with a scientist.

"Poor Swenson," Scully said.  "I hope she doesn't cramp his style."

Mulder paused before telling her what he had to say next.

"I'm going back to Temperance River," he said at last.  "With Swenson. 
Do you need anything before I leave?"

I need you, she thought.  I need you safe.  I need you with me.

"No, Mulder, I have everything I need.  I'll see you later," Scully
said.

"I'm still wearing the ring, Scully, and I've got the bottle too,"
Mulder said.  

Should she tell him that she loved him?  Scully wondered.  The
conversation would become weighty and ominous if she ended it that way. 
She was still debating with herself when Mulder hung up.

That was hours ago.  Now she found herself staring at the phone, and
Allison caught her at it.

"Another game of gin rummy?" Allison offered brightly.  

"Allison, go home," Scully said.  "Or go to work.  I'll be okay.  I'll
call you if I get too bored."

"I'll come by later, or I'll send Charlie if I can get him to behave,"
Allison said, rising from her seat.  

"Thanks," Scully said.  

"Try not to worry," Allison suggested, aware that her advice was
useless.

"He's going to come back," Scully said.  

She did not complete the thought.  If he did not return to this realm,
she would follow him into the next.

========================================================================

Home alone.  Christina did not want to waste this rare opportunity. 
Oliver had computer club this afternoon, and then karate.   Daddy had
called a minute ago--that's how much *he* trusted her--so she knew he
wouldn't be home for a while. Mom was visiting with Aunt Dana.

She could call Ryan.  Nothing like a little male attention to make your
day more interesting.  And Ryan was male.  Not much else to recommend
him, unfortunately.

Aunt Dana had it made.  That guy Mulder was also male.  But he respected
her--you could tell.  The way he looked at her, the way he listened to
her when she talked. Even the way he called her by her last name. 
Scully.  

But Aunt Dana said they weren't seeing each other or anything like that.

Maybe he was lonely.  Anyone who was willing to talk to Oliver had to be
very, very lonely.  

Maybe Mulder wanted to talk about how lonely he was.  He needed someone
to talk to. Someone who could appreciate the dark emptiness he felt
within.   Aunt Dana wasn't really that helpful when it came to dark
emptiness.  She would tell him about hormonal changes and playing sports
and joining clubs.

Then the phone rang.  Maybe it was him.

No, it wouldn't be him, Christina sighed.  Better get back to reality
and pick up the phone.

"Scully," she said.

"Hey, babe."  It was Ryan.  "A bunch of the guys are going over to the
rec. center after dinner to play some b-ball.  Want to watch?"

Christina sighed.  

"No, thanks," she said.

===================================================================

It was probably early evening when Mulder and Swenson arrived back at
the waterfall.  Mulder's watch showed 6:10, for whatever that was
worth.  Swenson no longer bothered wearing a watch here.

Swenson led the way.  It was impossible to avoid the torrent from the
waterfall as they entered the cave, and they found the tunnel quite as
rocky and uninviting as Scully had, but even more confining.

They were heading for the wolf's den.

Scully showed no fear of the wolf.  She described her encounters with
the animal as if she were talking about a casual acquaintance.

Swenson was equally sanguine.  He told Mulder that the wolves in the
area never attacked humans.  It was part of the mystery here, just like
the flowers that bloomed through the snow and the odd temperature
shifts.

Mulder was not afraid of the big, bad wolf.  Not afraid, he told
himself, just appropriately concerned.

The wolf's den was a hub, the way Scully explained it.  The twisty
tunnel from the waterfall led into it, and two larger passages exited
the den, one from the right and one from the left.  Scully had followed
the passageway to the left--the wolf had given her no choice.  The
passageway to the left had taken her to the icy pit and to Heimdall, who
had rescued her.

Heimdall had given Scully two gifts.  The first was the glass bottle
with its thick liquid contents.  This gift repelled the bounty hunter,
hurt him somehow, and vitiated the toxic force of his pernicious green
blood.

The second gift was the runestone ring.  Swenson had been nearly
awestruck when Mulder showed it to him.  He wanted to get it
carbon-dated, x-rayed, and analyzed. His voice caught in his throat when
he described the significance of the crudely etched tree, which might be
Ygdrasil, the Norse tree of life, or perhaps the oak tree, identified
with the god Balder.  

"I've got a friend at the university who can run the tests.  We've got
to give this to him," he'd urged Mulder.

"No," said Mulder, "I can't take it off." 

"I guess I'm not the only one who believes in this stuff," Swenson
responded.

Mulder wasn't sure if he believed in the ring, but he believed in
Scully.  He had promised her.

Mulder carried both of Heimdall's gifts along the narrow tunnel.  The
bottle was in his pocket, and the ring, on its thong of rawhide, was
still around his neck.  From time to time he found himself checking for
it, patting his chest to feel its bulk through the layers of clothing.

He carried two gifts from the Norse god.  Audacious human!  What more
did he seek? 

Was the alien bounty hunter really Loki, the ancient adversary of
Heimdall and his kinsmen?  Even in the tales of the Vikings, Loki's
origin was obscure.  He'd started as one of the evil giants, but he'd
been adopted by Odin as his brother, making him one of the Aesir, the
Norse pantheon.  From ancient times Loki had been an ambiguous figure,
the cunning trickster, sometimes siding with the gods but more often
against them.

Was Loki an extraterrestrial?  

Heimdall would know.  He would know many secrets.

Mulder slithered along,  The light he wore strapped around his head
showed him only the moist rock walls of the tunnel or the ridged soles
of Swenson's boots.  Then Swenson stopped moving.

Swenson's light illuminated the interior of the wolf's den, and Mr. Wolf
was at home.  Swenson had hoped it would be otherwise.  The confident
reassurances he'd offered to Mulder were sincere, but Swenson held some
reservations about meeting up with the wolf in this confined space that
was unarguably its home turf.

Swenson started to move again, slithering until he was fully in the
chamber of the wolf's den.  It was large enough here that he could have
stood up, but he did not, choosing instead to crawl the rest of the
way.  Mulder crawled in after him.

The wolf stretched and yawned.

Swenson took the light off his head and aimed it deliberately on the
left wall of the cave.  It seemed absolutely solid, with no sign of a
passageway.

He looked over at Mulder, who shrugged.  

Swenson started to crawl toward the left wall.  Mulder also moved to the
left, but when Swenson had spent several minutes poking at the wall
without finding an opening, Mulder abandoned his crouching posture to
lean back against the rocks in a sitting position.

Remembering that the shapeshifter had wanted the cave to be sealed off,
Swenson wondered if the passageway to the left had been closed up
deliberately.  He tried to move the rocks that made up the wall, but for
the most part it seemed to be of one piece.  The thick coat of living
moss that covered it gave the impression that it had been there,
undisturbed, for a very long time.

Swenson heard Mulder gasp and then the sound of footsteps in the leafy
litter behind him.  He gave up examining the wall to turn around.

Mulder was still leaning against the wall.  He was absolutely still.  He
was breathing, presumably, but Swenson couldn't detect it.

The wolf was looming over him.  

It was not a threatening pose, to Swenson's educated eye.  Still, he
didn't envy Mulder's situation.

"Keep him occupied," he told Mulder in a helpful whisper.  "I'll keep
looking for the passageway."

Mulder's eyes moved, nothing more.  

Swenson took a pick from his belt and rapped it on the stone wall.  He
was getting nowhere.  He moved back a few feet to photograph the wall
using infrared film.  Maybe the developed images would give him a clue
about getting through this wall.

"We might as well give up," he said when he had finished.

The wolf retreated to his leafy bed.  Mulder heaved a sigh.

"I'll find the passageway," Mulder said, but he had barely finished the
thought when the wolf was over him once again.

The wolf definitely seemed friendly now, Swenson thought.  He was
panting like a dog that wanted to play fetch.

"He likes you," Swenson said.

"Can I keep him?   I'm going to call him Champ,"  Mulder said.  He felt
very concerned, very appropriately concerned, about the wolf.  Scully
would have recognized his panicked face.

We will get no farther, Swenson thought.  We will learn no more tonight.

"Say good-bye to Champ," he said.  "It's time to go home."

Mulder looked at the seemingly solid cave wall to his left, and then
back at Swenson.  Again, only his eyes moved.

"Good-bye, Champ," he said with his jaw locked.  The wolf retreated
again.

Swenson crept his way back into the narrow tunnel.  His last look over
his shoulder showed the wolf still lying down with his head on his
paws.  When the archeologist heard someone crawling behind him, he was
reasonably sure it was Mulder.  

Mulder wriggled along the slimy tunnel, guided by the dim image of
Swenson, a few feet ahead of him, as illuminated by his head lamp. 
After several minutes he heard the sound of the waterfall.   Reaching
the outside at last, he got to his feet but promptly slipped on a mossy
rock.  

It really didn't make any difference.  He was already soaked and
battered. Maybe the cascading water would wash off some of the oozy
grunge that coated his entire body.  

But to his surprise, Mulder found himself even wetter and colder than
before, so he stood up again and walked back to where the snowmobile was
parked.  Swenson was waiting for him.

They rode the sled to the administrative center, where they switched to
Mulder's rental car.  The snowmobile was too noisy to allow
conversation, but even in the car they exchanged few words.  Mulder
drove to Swenson's place, turning the heat on full blast when the engine
was finally warm enough.

Swenson unlocked the door to the cabin.  Mulder was rummaging through
the trunk of the car for something to wear.  Swenson had washed the
laundry and even folded it, but he'd packed it rather randomly into
garbage bags, and it took Mulder a while to find a suitable set.  That
gave the archeologist time to figure out which of his duffel bags held
the clean clothes.

When they were both dry and dressed, Mulder broke the silence.

"That was interesting," he said.


end part 16 of 17

Backtracking
17/17
Disclaimer, etc., with part 1



It was two days later that Scully was lounging in her brother's family
room, on the phone with her mom.  She was fully recovered, but she was
making the most of the last hour of her enforced convalescence.

"I'm fine, Mom, really.  Charlie and Allison are taking wonderful care
of me."  It was ten o'clock, but she was still wearing her blue silk
pajamas.  She was sitting cross-legged on the faux-suede sofa, with
"Rugrats," on the television.  There was a plate of stuffed raisin-bread
french toast on the coffee table, but as soon as Allison vacated the
kitchen, Dana was going to dispose of it.  

"How are they, Dana?" her mother asked.  

"They're fine too.  Charlie's business is doing great and they have a
beautiful house.  And Allison is manager at one of those packaging
places, part of a new franchise.  Alli's at home, Mom, why don't you
talk to her?" Dana asked hopefully.

"How's Mulder?" Maggie asked.   

"Mulder's good.  Don't you want to know about the kids?"  She reached
for her coffee cup.  At least Allison made great coffee.

"Of course, Dana, how are the children?"  

"Christina's really growing up.  Charlie says she makes him think of me
when I was that age," Dana said proudly.

Maggie laughed.

"I don't think I was that amusing,"  Dana bristled.  Apparently her
mother remembered her as a juvenile delinquent. 

"Not at the time," Maggie agreed. 

"Oliver's amazing," Dana continued.  He's so full of enthusiasm.  He'll
start to talk about something and pretty soon you're listening to a
lecture....  Mom, you should get to know these kids.  They're your
grandchildren."

"I know they are, Dana, but it's not that simple."

"Because they're not Catholic?" She had never asked that question before
because if that was the reason, she didn't want to know.

"Dana!  Of course not!"  

"Mom... I know Ahab never accepted them.  Do you feel that way too?" she
asked.

"Try to understand.  I was shocked when Charlie married so young and
took on a ready-made family.   I know he's happy now and I have to be
happy for him.  But Dana, he said some terrible things.  He said some
terrible things to your father."

"Daddy said some terrible things too," Dana said.  "And so did Billy. 
Don't you remember?  He told Charlie he was disgracing the family name! 
But if you ever want these kids in your life, I think it's time to get
over it."

"Oh, Dana, I'm sure it's too late for that already," Maggie said.  

"You have nothing to lose by trying.  But it's up to you."

===================================================================

"Mom, where'd you hide my dinosaur model?"  Christina stood leaning
against the door jamb,  hands on her hips, headed tilted as she waited
for an answer.

"It's in the family room.  Why?"  Allison asked as she finished wiping
off the stovetop.  

"I was thinking I could work on it with Aunt Dana.  Give her something
to do," she answered.

Allison didn't say anything, because anything she said would have been
the wrong thing.

Oliver's footsteps thudded from the stairs and he came skipping toward
the kitchen but he stopped cold when he saw his platform-shoed sister
towering over him from the doorway.  They exchanged glares as Oliver
entered the room and Christina exited.

"Any french toast left over, Mom?" he asked.

"Here," Allison said, handing him an apple.  "I have to stop by the shop
for a couple of hours.  I'll try to get home before your aunt has to
leave."  She went out the door to the garage and her son sat down at the
table to eat his apple.  When the phone rang he picked it up. 

"Scully," he said.  "Yeah, I can get a fax.  Give me a minute to set it
up."

======================================================================

The man at the ski shop said it would be no problem to repair Charlie's
ski.  Charlie was disappointed;  it was the end of the season, and there
were some incredible skis going for a fraction of the regular price.
There was one pair that you could use for just about any kind of
skiing.   They were fast in the tracks but reliable on ungroomed snow.  
Lots of grip *and* lots of glide.  Lightweight, too. Expensive, even on
sale, but worth it.

"She'll think I'm an idiot," said Mulder, who had just paid for them.  
No question about it, when Scully saw that he had bought himself a pair
of skis, she'd have plenty to say.   

"You'd be an idiot to pass them by," Charlie assured him.  "That is the
last pair of skis you'll ever need.  You're going to win races on those
things.  I'm thinking biathlon--you should try it."

"She's going to ask me when and where I intend to go skiing," Mulder
predicted.  Then she was going to ask them how he planned to get them
home from the airport and where he was going to keep them.

When the skis were ready, with the bindings mounted in place, Mulder
held them vertically until he was out of the store, then swung them onto
his shoulder to carry them to the car.  

So, it turned out Allison was right all along about Tiny Dancer and
Mulder, Charlie thought.  I suppose I should say something

"Good skiing right around here," he said.  

=======================================================================

"You broke it, dickwad!" Christina whined.  "Get your hands off that
model, it's mine!"  Christina and her aunt had been assembling the
brachiosaurus together but then her gifted brother had to horn in on
their fun.

"I didn't break it, that's the way it should go," Oliver said
defensively.  "Anyway, why aren't you at the mall?  It's Saturday, isn't
it?"  That was the best thing about Saturday, usually.  His rottweiler
of a sister spent the day with her friends, harassing innocent merchants
instead of him.

"Christina," Scully said, "there's no need to talk to him like that."

"Look what he did!  The boy wonder put the vertebral column in upside
down," Christina said. 

"But it fits!" Oliver protested.

"Well, how would the spinal nerves get out?   Huh?  Huh?"  Christina
knew she was showing off for her aunt.  It wasn't that often that she
got the chance to show up the conceited little turd.

Oliver didn't have to think of an answer because he heard the rattle of
the garage door opening.

"Dad's home!" he announced.  "Want to call me a dickwad again?"

Charlie and Mulder came into the family room and Charlie sat down in the
reclining chair that was obviously his throne.  Mulder took the love
seat; Christina and Oliver had Dana surrounded on the couch.

"How did it go at the ski shop?" Dana asked.  "Can they fix it?"

"Yes," Charlie said.  

"Did you hear from the lab yet?" Mulder asked his partner.  "This is
taking too long."

Scully raised her eyes.

"You're right," she said.  "We should have a preliminary report by now." 

"I have more of the samples," Mulder reminded her.  "We can still get
them analyzed privately."

"D-oh!" Oliver smacked himself on the forehead.  "You got a report.  I
forgot to give it to you."

"That's not like you," Christina said sweetly.  "Maybe you're not
getting enough sleep."

"Shut up, snotface!" Oliver screamed.

"Oliver!" Charlie said.  "Chill out!  Go get the report."

Oliver couldn't find it.  He'd taken it from the fax machine with every
intention of giving it to his aunt, but he's been sidetracked and
forgotten all about it.  He had no idea where it was.

"Maybe it's in your room with your videos," Christina suggested
helpfully.  "Maybe it's under your pictures of Lucy Lawless."

"Christina!" Oliver shouted.  "Maybe you're not really staying at
Hayley's house tonight!"

"I am too, butthead! I hate you!" Christina screamed back. 

"What's going on with you kids?" Charlie asked.  He raised his voice,
but only a little.  "You will not talk that way in this house,
Christina, not ever.  And Oliver, you have a job to do.  Find that
report."

Oliver paced from one room to another, growing red in the face as he
leafed through piles of paper and looked under magazines.  

"Charlie, we'll get them to fax it over again," Mulder said.  "Just
destroy the first copy when you find it."

"You see what it's like, Aunt Dana?" Christina asked, little noticing
how distracted Dana was at this moment.  "I just can't live here
anymore."

Oliver came back to the family room almost in tears.

"I couldn't find it," he said, "but I remember what it was.  Like you
said, it was a lab report, an analysis of two specimens.  All kinds of
descriptive stuff, like dimensions and colors, okay?  And then it said
what they were."

"Oliver, you shouldn't have read that," Scully said.  She spoke calmly
to him, in fact, never in her adult  life had Scully felt real anger
toward a child.  "That was official FBI business--"

"Oliver, just tell us what they were," Mulder said, also calmly.

"Untanned leather," Oliver said.  "From a reindeer."  He looked up at
Mulder, hoping his information was useful.

"Reindeer?" Scully asked.  That didn't seem possible.  Of course,
possible and impossible had very little meaning in her line of work.

"What about  the other sample?" Mulder asked.  That was the one he was
really interested in---that was the powerful liquid in the crude glass
bottle.

"Pine sap," Oliver said.  "Purified and concentrated.  I'm sorry, I
don't remember what kind of pine tree."  He used his big brown eyes on
his aunt this time.

Charlie Scully felt a chill.

"Kids," he said.  "Aunt Dana and Mulder will have to leave for the
airport soon.  Get their stuff loaded into the car."  

Mulder glanced at Charlie, then handed the keys to Christina.  

Christina felt redeemed as she accepted the keys.  He trusted her. 
Furthermore, his hand touched hers.  

"No problem, Mulder," she said,  "the kid and I will take care of it."

"Thank you," Mulder said.  Maybe Christina imagined it, but it seemed to
her that when their eyes met, he gazed at her for a fraction of a second
longer than he really had to.

When the children were out of the room, Charlie was able to talk.

"Pine sap," he said.  "That was the Viking's secret.  That's what would
weaken the shapeshifter so that the Viking could destroy him in their
final battle."  Charlie was no longer embarrassed to talk about the
Viking.

"Pine sap," Dana repeated.  "It seems so ordinary."

"So is garlic," Charlie said, "and look what it does to vampires."

Dana smiled.

"Yes, and look what water did to the Wicked Witch of the West," she
said.

"Ordinary items with extraordinary effects," Mulder said.  "But there's
something else I remember, from one of Oliver's books."

"Something about pine sap?" Dana asked.

"Pine trees.  A pine forest in Norway called Balder's Grove. It was a
sanctuary, with a temple to the gods," Mulder said.  "Even with the
advent of Christianity, this pine grove was regarded as hallowed ground,
where no man might harm another."

Pine sap.  So earthly, Dana thought.  And so available.  Could something
so simple protect humankind from the bounty hunter?  

She felt skeptical.  At the same time, she was glad that Mulder was
still wearing the Viking ring.

Christina and Oliver came bounding back into the family room, full of
excitement at something they'd found on the roof of the Taurus.

"Mulder got some wicked skis!" Oliver exclaimed.  

"The ones Daddy wanted!" Christina added.  "The real expensive ones made
from titanium!"

"You bought skis, Mulder?" Scully asked.

"Yes, I bought skis," Mulder said.  He wanted to add, What's it to you?

"Three words, Mulder.  Change at O'Hare."

==========================================================================

"You're just not going to admit that I'm a genius," Mulder said.

"I said it was a good idea, Mulder.  Don't push it."  

They were driving to the airport with two suitcases and two carry-on
bags.  No backpacks, no duffel bags, and no cartons of china.  But tied
to the roof of the car were Mulder's new skis.

The brilliant, Oxford-educated psychologist, or whatever he was, had
come up with a plan.

Since Allison Scully managed a business with the exact mission of
packaging and forwarding items of any size or shape, why not let her
deal with the skis?  They would stop at her store on the way to the
airport.

"You get to say good-bye to Allison, and you finally get to see her
shop," Mulder said.  "She wanted to show it to you."

"She's proud of it, and she deserves to be," Scully said.  "She went out
on a limb, moving over to this new franchise, and now it looks as if
they're going to take over the whole business.  They have stores opening
all over the country."

"Well, you can talk to her about her business," Mulder said.  "I think
I'm going to thank her.  For the oils."   

They were holding hands as he drove, and Mulder couldn't remember if he
was the one who had initiated the gesture.  However, it was certainly
Scully who had decided to stroke that uncannily sensitive web of skin
between his thumb and index finger.

"Mulder, please don't embarrass me," Scully said.  He wouldn't have
to--she would embarrass herself.    Because whatever Mulder ended up
saying to Allison, Scully would be blushing like a tomato.  And Allison
would know.

"Scully."  His voice was low and serious.  "I live to embarrass you."  

He turned the car into the parking lot by Allison's store.  It was easy
to find because of the huge sign.  Bold purple letters announced the
name of the establishment:

      UNITED SHIPPERS!

So many events had fallen into place to bring Mulder and Scully back
together.   The frozen bindings, the cold cabin, the tick-infested
firewood.  But those events would not have sufficed if not for Allison.  

Allison was the catalyst.

Because, if you haven't guessed yet, Allison Scully was a Shipper.  





the end

Backtracking
by Kel and Scetti
Talk to us!
Scetti: malgio@netscape.net   Kel:  ckelll@hotmail.com