PAPER SAINTS 1/15
by Jill Selby (jillselby@yahoo.com)

Archiving Note: Do not archive at Gossamer. All other archives, please ask
permission.

Disclaimer:  Characters from the X-Files are the property of Ten
Thirteen Productions and the Fox Television Network.  All others
are the author's creation.  Any similarity to any person, living
or dead, is purely coincidental.  No infringement is intended.

Classification:  XRA/MSR

Rating:  PG-13

Spoilers: None

Timeline: Post-movie

Notes and thanks from the author will appear at the end of the story.

**Feedback is always appreciated.**
____________

PAPER SAINTS 1/15

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"What's your name?"

It's typically the first question someone asks when making
your acquaintance.  Once you answer, your name and an image of
your face is planted in their memory. For that very reason, I
try to avoid meeting new people.

I hate my name.  My whole damned name is just one embarrassment
heaped atop another.

Charmin.

Who the hell names their kid Charmin?  What could have possessed
my parents?  Mom will only say that she thought it sounded cute.
Cute? Charmin is a brand of toilet paper.  I don't think it
qualifies as cute.  And what an enduring little ad slogan to
accompany the name: "Please don't squeeze the Charmin."  Did it
ever occur to my dear, brainless mother, how such a slogan
would rattle off the wicked tongues of hormone-driven teenage
boys as they pointed out my conspicuous lack of squeezable
assets?  

The obvious solution, most would say, would be to discard Charmin
in favor of my middle name -- Jane.  On the surface of it, Jane
doesn't seem so bad.  It's a time-honored name.  Grandmother's
name.  It would be ideal, except it invariably gets hooked
up with the word "plain" in an oh-so-apt description of me.

I've looked at it from all angles.  Really, I have.  I've spent
entire evenings standing in front of a mirror on a mission to
find "pretty" somewhere on my body, and in the end I've come to
this conclusion:  I have nice, well-shaped toes. Otherwise,
genetics was not kind.

Regardless of what my beautician says, my hair is mouse, not
chestnut, brown.  My nose is too large, my eyes are too small,
and my teeth -- well, suffice to say orthodontia was beyond the
financial grasp of my parents.  The rest of my body is so devoid
of curves I had to let my mousy locks grow well past my shoulders
just to avoid being called "sir" by waiters and nauseatingly
polite grocery clerks.

The final insult for unsqueezable, plain Charmin Jane?  Zullman.
A surname that will forever consign me to last place on every
list.  

Yet, despite the name handicap and my inability to inspire any
sort of romantic aspirations in the opposite sex, I did earn my
library science degree.  I enjoy my job as the supervisor of the
Rare Books Department of a college library.  And I have a good
friend:  Trent Crowley.

While somewhat more fortunate than I in the name department, he
didn't fare any better in sex appeal.  At just over five-foot,
he's half a head shorter than me.  Shorter, he laments, than the
majority of the female population.  His hair is orange.  Not red.
Not auburn.  Bozo-the-Clown orange.  He hasn't quite figured out
that there are certain colors someone with orange hair should
avoid and his fashion sense perversely gravitates toward those
forbidden shades.  As an unwelcome complement to his hair, he is
covered with freckles.  Not those tiny, cute freckles that seem
to be regaining popularity these days.  These are large red-brown
splotches he equates with a pox plague.

Despite the fact that most women dismiss him for these outward
imperfections, I think he's in all ways a wonderful guy.  He
treats me with respect.  He asks my opinion.  We work as a team
even though, technically, I'm his supervisor.

I don't delude myself.  He's not interested in me in any romantic
way.  Still, it's nice to spend time with someone who understands
my work and doesn't judge me on my own flawed appearance.

He even came up with a new name for me.  One I like.  C.J.  I
think it has a certain air of mystery without the baggage of
Charmin or Jane.

I used to laugh at that bible verse: "To whom much is given, much
will be required."  With my looks, I figured I was off the hook
for fulfilling any sort of karmic requirements.  I could have
happily gone on for the rest of my career, working among stacks
of dusty old books, cataloging arcane volumes that would
otherwise be lost, and commiserating over the plight of
the homely with Trent.

Yesterday we received an estate donation that changed all
that.  This marvelous treasure looked, at first, like the answer
to all those secret desires I had barely even dared to dream.  I,
like Trent, was swept up in its promise.  But today I'm beginning
to wonder if it will exact more of a price than I'm prepared to
pay.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her eyes never shifted from their study of the file in her hands
as Dana Scully moved across the room and eased down into her
chair.  She turned on her computer, reached into a drawer for a
highlighter, and uncapped the marker with her teeth.  Still her
gaze didn't waver. Fox Mulder was immediately and intensely
curious.

They had agreed to arrive early to go over the annual budget report before
their meeting with Skinner.  Mulder had arrived on time, started the coffee,
reread the report, made revisions, finished off one cup of coffee and
started on a second. By then, Scully was late enough that annoyance and
worry were battling for control of his mood.  At the sound of her footsteps
coming steadily, *slowly* down the hall, annoyance won.

He spun his chair around to face the door, crossed his arms to
punctuate his displeasure, and waited for her repentant excuse --
preferably something involving cataclysmic automotive failure or
an impromptu roadside medical intervention.  But she offered
no story, no greeting, not even a grunt of acknowledgment.  She
strolled in, maneuvered flawlessly through the crowded
office, and deposited herself in front of her desk without saying
a word.

Evolution, he'd once explained, takes place in fits and starts
and he'd expected his relationship with Scully to evolve in a fit
of passion so heated their clothes would simply melt away.  He'd
initiated the change with a hesitant kiss to celebrate their
reinstatement to the X-Files, but it was she who was setting the
pace.  Sensible and deliberate, even in matters of love, Scully
had insisted they progress slowly and, above all, keep their
professional and personal lives separate.  He thought that
meant they couldn't have sex on the desk during coffee breaks.
He didn't realize a phone call to assuage his concern would be
considered too intimate for the office.  And since when did
saying "good morning" to your partner violate any rules of office
etiquette?

Scully had long ago ceased her complaints about his
noncommunicative, almost fugue-like state when he was engrossed
in his work.  If she still thought it rude, she no longer
bothered to comment.  It was not, however, her normal modus
operandi, and experiencing the cold shoulder from the chilly side
made Mulder distinctly uncomfortable.

He stood and moved stealthily across the room until he was
right behind her.  He pulled the watch from his wrist and
dangled it in front of her, directly in her line of sight.

"If you're trying to hypnotize me, you might have better luck
with a pocket watch."

"Actually I was going to offer to synchronize our watches.  That
way I won't arrive an hour early for our next meeting."

Scully finally tore her gaze from the folder and stole a quick
glance at the watch.  "Oh, I didn't realize it was this late.
Skinner stopped me on my way down to tell me about a new case."

"And that's what has you so absorbed?"  Mulder leaned in over her
shoulder to steal a look at the contents of the file.  It was
unfortunate positioning on his part, because Scully chose that
instant to stand and her shoulder drove into his chin.  The
collision of his lower and upper teeth sent aftershocks through
his entire body.

"God, Mulder.  Are you okay?  I didn't realize you were.... You
didn't break a tooth did you?"  The distracted haze she'd been
in since arriving dissipated before his eyes.  Suddenly she
was the compassionate doctor, feeling along his jaw for
evidence of damage, looking for any sign she might have hurt him.
"Open your mouth."

He opened and closed his mouth experimentally until he was
certain his jaw still functioned smoothly.

"Keep your mouth open so I can see.  Do you think you chipped a
tooth?"  

"I'm fine, Scully.  No harm done."  He gently removed her hands
from his face and bared his teeth in a Cheshire Cat grin to
reassure her.  "I've always known it was rude to read over
someone's shoulder, I just didn't realize it was so dangerous."
He nodded toward the file she had tossed on the floor in her
haste to assess his condition.  "Is that the information on the
new case?"

Scully reached down, plucked up the file and handed it to him.
"Ought to be right up your alley.  A locked room murder."  Mulder
shuffled through the reports and photos as she continued.  "The
victim, Tony Oliver, was being held in special custody, awaiting
transfer to a maximum security facility.  He was heavily guarded.
Received no visitors.  Security monitors show no unusual activity
in the area during the hours preceding his death.  The door and
window locks were intact.  No fingerprints on the body.  And
cause of death was odd, to say the least."

Mulder shrugged.  "It says here he died of heart failure."

"While accurate, it doesn't really tell the whole story."

"Which is?"

"Although there were no surgical incisions or other apparent
injuries to the body, it is obvious from the initial coroner's
exam that some sort of procedure was performed on this man."

"Why?"

"Because," Scully said, "his heart was found 10 miles away on his attorney's
doorstep."

All residual irritation over his partner's tardiness was swept
away by a wave of enthusiasm.  "You do realize that I've already
come up with half a dozen theories and a couple of lawyer jokes."

"And you know how anxious I am to hear them, Mulder."  Scully's
expression belied her words.  Mulder was well aware of the time
it would take to wear down her resistance before she would be
ready for a juicy alien abduction theory.

She continued.  "But there are a couple of things you need to
know before you dive off the paranormal deep end."

"Such as?"

"Such as, there was a plea bargain in the works.  Tony Oliver was
being held for first degree murder, but was willing to offer
evidence implicating a group of aerospace executives in
industrial sabotage in exchange for a lesser charge.  His
location at the time of his death was thought to be a
well-guarded secret.  His loss, of course, means a huge setback
for the aerospace investigation."

"So our likely suspects would be powerful men with well-placed
government contacts.  This just keeps getting better and better."

"The St. Louis field office has assigned a couple of agents to
investigate the murder, but they've asked for an agent from
D.C. to head up the team.  They hope it will send a signal to
the interested parties that, if anything, Oliver's death only
strengthens the FBI's resolve to expose the conspiracy."

"So what you're saying is, if we want to get in on this, we've
first got to kiss the fat ass of some self-important agent here
in D.C."  With a renewed sense of frustration, Mulder stormed
back to his desk and threw down the file.

"Although I take exception to your describing my ass as fat, I
don't suppose a little kissing up on your part would hurt
anything."

Mulder turned to face her again. "You?"

"Skinner thought my medical expertise would be beneficial, so I
was elected.  I get to pick one more agent for my team.  Know
anyone who might be interested?"

He walked slowly toward his partner.  His low, seductive tone
was accompanied by a quirked eyebrow and wolfish smile.  "Believe
me, Scully.  There is no one's ass I'd rather kiss."

She gave him an appraising look, as if seriously considering his
proposal, then extended her hand for him to shake.  "Welcome to
the team, Agent Mulder."
____________

End "Paper Saints" part 1/15

PAPER SAINTS 2/15
by Jill Selby (jillselby@yahoo.com)

Classification:  XRA/MSR
Rating:  PG-13
Spoilers: None
____________

PAPER SAINTS 2/15

No man as extraordinarily perceptive as Fox Mulder could be this
clueless.  Not even on his worst day.  So why was every subtle
dismissal she sent being rewritten as an invitation?

She crossed her legs.  He caressed her knee.  She brushed his
hand away like a piece of lint.  He captured her by the wrist and
brought her hand to his lips for a gentlemanly kiss.

"Mulder, stop that."  Scully was secretly pleased with the
irritated growl she incorporated into her voice.  If Mulder detected even
the faintest trace of amusement, he would never tire of this ridiculous
game.  

"Stop what?"  The words were breathed into her ear, spelled out
in the touch of his fingers as they brushed through her hair,
underlined by kisses and nibbles on her earlobe.

The next growl she attempted came out less threatening and more
encouraging.  "We talked about this.  We agreed not to...."
Evidently there was a nerve ending in the neck, right below the
ear, which was connected to the memory center of the brain,
because as her partner began to nuzzle that particular spot,
Scully found she couldn't quite recall any agreements they'd
made.  Certainly none that prohibited displays of affection while traveling
by plane.

In truth, this was all so new it would have been presumptuous to
start imposing too many guidelines.  What they were undertaking
was a grand and dangerous experiment, one they'd put off for
years and now approached with no small amount of trepidation.
She revised the thought as she intercepted the hand making a
slow, stealthy trek up her thigh. *She* was approaching this new
aspect of their relationship with caution.  Mulder, for all his
reluctance to make the first move, had not hesitated to keep
moving once he'd overcome his inertia.

One of them had to be the rational one -- the one willing to
question the wisdom of mixing personal with professional,
the one who could pull them back from the edge before things got
too intense, the one who could undo everything before everything
came undone.  Mulder didn't make it easy for her, not that he
ever had, but lately he'd found interesting new ways to drive her
out of her mind.  Like now, by doing nothing more than resting
his forehead against her temple, fingering the clasp of her
necklace, and making her want him so badly she was seriously
considering testing the airline's promise of increased leg room
in business class.

"You and I are going to have a serious talk after this case is
over, Scully."

He was so close he probably didn't see her smile, but it
filtered into her voice.  "Talk, Mulder?"

"There might be some word-like noises exchanged."

"Okay.  After this case is over.  I think maybe it's time
we...talked."

He brought his hand to her cheek and turned her face to his,
meeting her halfway for a brief, chaste kiss.  "Whenever you're
ready, Scully.  But I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward
to having that conversation with you."
____________

"Agent Scully, it's a pleasure to meet you.  I wish we had more
time to get acquainted, but we just got word there's been another
murder.  We're not sure if it's related to the Oliver case at
all, but the circumstances are just so damned strange that the
St. Charles PD gave us a call for a consult.  I thought you'd
want to take a look for yourself.  I'd offer you a cup of coffee,
but we'd better head over to the crime scene before the local
guys clear out."

If the FBI ever required a textbook example of the model agent, they
could take a photograph of Sheila Solomon.  She was impeccably dressed in
muted beiges and browns with hair so shortly-cropped it was virtually
muss-proof and makeup applied with such skill it seemed she wore none at
all.  She was confidence and professionalism made manifest in a 6-foot-tall
black woman. 

She'd quickly demonstrated a firm grasp of the case, and had no
less firm a grip on the hand of the agent who was to be her new
supervisor.  As first impressions went, hers had been flawless
except for one little mistake.  She was shaking the hand of the
wrong agent.

Scully took a step forward and extended her hand.  "You must be
Agent Solomon.  I'm Dana Scully."

There was something perversely wonderful about the scene
unfolding before Mulder.  Even as Scully introduced him to Agent
Solomon, Sheila was still mindlessly shaking his hand, no doubt
using all her mental resources to search for a graceful recovery
from her faux pas.

She tried laughing it off but her chuckle was a bit too forced
and made more conspicuous by the fact that Scully wasn't
laughing. There was no reprimand in Scully's tone as the women
made their introductions, but she did not dismiss the agent's
error. Their conversation was nothing more than the obligatory
discussion of office arrangements and vehicle requisitions, but
Scully was sending the woman a clear message:  "We'll start
fresh, but don't overlook me again."

Others seemed more than willing to blend into the scenery.
Solomon motioned to a man who was standing quietly a few feet
behind her.  "This is Agent Abbott.  He's also been assigned to
the case."

Whereas Sheila Solomon's sense of personal style was dramatic in
its understatement, Nelson Abbott was someone who was clearly
going against his own nature in order to impress. Like a little
boy whose mother dressed him for church and then made him
stand still so as not to get scuffed or dirty, Abbott was clearly
uncomfortable in his suit and tie.  He fidgeted.  He tugged at his starchy
collar.  He looked at his shoes.  And other than a quiet "hello," he let
Sheila do the talking.

Talking was something at which Sheila excelled.  She was
articulate and informative, but good God, did the woman ever stop
for a breath?  

". . . so with all that evidence, the case was rock solid.  Jury
selection's been going on for a week and the trial was set to
start on Monday.  Randall Palmer was under maximum security and
kept isolated from the other prisoners for his own protection.  You know as
well as I do that prisoners don't play nice with child molesters.  Somehow
the guy disappears from his cell early this morning and is found thirty
minutes later by the director of the Pollywog Preschool."

"And?" Mulder, sensing they were getting to the good part
of the story, urged the woman on, with no further concern for her
pulmonary health.  

The story had to wait, however, while the agents went through
some silent maneuvering for the power positions in the car.
Sheila was the self-elected driver; since she was clutching the
keys with such proprietary relish, it seemed wise not to
challenge her.  Agent Abbott, shuffling along behind the others,
likely would have ridden in the trunk if asked; he took his
place in the back seat without complaint.

In a world where ergonomic-correctness was the only
consideration, front seat privileges would go to the tallest.
But when the Agent-in-Charge is the woman with whom you spend
your days, and hopefully soon, your nights, personal comfort
takes a back seat.  Literally.

By the time Mulder had compacted himself into the seat, Sheila
had resumed her breathless exposition.  ". . . the officer I
talked to said they'd leave the body up for us to take a look at.
Said we probably wouldn't believe it unless we saw it.  They're
not even sure what's holding the guy up, why the skin didn't just
rip away and let him fall, but no one is real anxious to
extricate the body.  One rookie actually passed out at the
scene." She glanced back over her shoulder.  "You're not
squeamish, are you Agent Mulder?"

"Me?  There was that time I watched 'Suddenly Susan' right after
I ate, but no, not normally."

"That's good, because otherwise you might want to stay in the
car."  

Solomon paused, and Mulder sensed it was less for dramatic effect
than to give them time to prepare for what she was going to say
next.  

"When they found Randall Harper, he'd been nailed to the ceiling
by his testicles."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I read a magazine article last week, all about the importance of
self-esteem and learning to love your flaws.  By the way, did you
know you can buy flesh-colored pieces of plastic to stick in your
bra to give you cleavage?  I guess they figured if the article
didn't make you feel better, you could call the 800 number in
the advertisement and get yourself some plastic boobs.

So, say I spend $19.95 to fill my bra and my new voluptuous look
snags me a date with Mr. Right.  What's he going to think when I peel off my
clothes and my breasts peel off with them?

You can't change who you are.

I heard that a thousand times growing up, but it took me a long
time to believe it.  A long time and a lot of painful
experiences.  There was that awful near-poisoning when I tried to
paint my teeth.  The Summer of Green Hair.

After way too many of those incidents, it finally began to sink
in.  I'm never going to be beautiful by traditional standards.

Okay, not by any standards.

I'm never going to be a great artist or an exalted composer or a
world-class ballerina.  I won't be setting any records at the
next Olympics.  My brain will not be preserved in a jar after my
death so future generations can unlock the secret of my genius.

I laughed when Trent told me we were going to be a real-life
superheroes.  I envisioned coming in to work wearing long-johns
and boots, with a big "S" emblazoned across my plastic-enhanced
chest.

Trent told me we're going to save the world.  I told him we have
to finish updating the card catalog first.  He told me I lacked
vision.  I told him he was delusional.

Then he handed me this journal and told me to start taking notes.
I would be his scribe, his faithful companion, his sidekick, and
soon we would be something we'd never in our wildest dreams
imagined we could be.

I have to admit he was right about that part, because before
this, I never imagined myself as a murderer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Our first noble deed was buried in a two-paragraph article on page 12A of
the Post-Dispatch.  Trent's "Cleaning Up the Earth, One Piece of Scum at a
Time" publicity campaign hinged on the assumption that someone would give a
damn about Scum #1.  Trent moped around for a couple of days, complaining
incessantly about the lack of detail in the report. Superman, he insisted,
would never stand for being ignored.

Yes, but Superman wore his underpants on the outside of his
clothes and schmoozed the newspaper's ace reporter.  He was bound
to get more attention.

Trent is optimistic our latest project will grab a page-one
headline.  It has better demographics.  More creative flair.
Everyone will be talking about the anonymous do-gooders who are
saving this filth-ridden world.  Tomorrow, he says, we'll be
heroes.

In the meantime, Mrs. Schnepf, Library Hag, wants the top shelves
dusted, and I seem to have misplaced my dust-obliterating ray
gun.  Damn the luck.

As superheroes go, men have it made.  Superman flies, has nifty
x-ray vision, train-stopping strength, and bullet speed.
Batman gets all the kick-ass gadgets, a really nice car, and a
cute sidekick, though what he and Robin do in the privacy of
their home is no one's business but their own.

Wonder Woman?  She gets a piece of rope, some bullet-proof
bracelets, and a plane no one can see (everyone just nods
politely and tells her what a nice plane it is).  Wonder Woman, I
hate to be the one to break this to you, but an invisible plane
is less than useless if the pilot isn't invisible.

With my impending superhero status, I wonder if I'll suddenly
become immune to PMS. Maybe a big bottle of Midol is included in
the "just-for-women" superhero starter kit.  God knows, if I were
in Wonder Woman's go-go boots, I would beat the crap out of every
male on the planet on a monthly basis, starting with the jerk who
designed my costume.

A real female superhero, I've decided, would wear old blue jeans
with a torn back pocket, and a faded University of Tennessee
sweatshirt.  She would make it her personal crusade to destroy
every bathroom scale, every pair of pantyhose, every jar of
exfoliating facial cleanser and every high-heeled shoe in the
known universe.  

She would never, ever climb a ladder armed with a rag and a can
of furniture polish.

Charmin Jane Zullman: "Cleaning Up the Library, One Dusty Shelf
at a Time."

I think I need a new slogan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two were sitting in swings. One was propped against the ladder of
a bright yellow slide.  Another looked infinitely lonely sitting
partnerless on the teeter-totter.  A young officer greeted the
agents at the front door, but his colleagues appeared to be
taking recess on the playground of the Pollywog Preschool.

One of the idle officers, a burly, no-necked tree trunk of a
man, rose to meet them as they entered the fenced yard.  Just
seeing that brush cut and lantern jaw sent Scully's memory
reeling backwards to a particular high school tormentor who had
taken great delight in harassing a bookish redhead.  Now, as this
officer's gaze slithered over her body and took mental
measurements, she couldn't help but wish for him the same bloody
nose she'd bestowed on Kenny "the Hand" Hansen seventeen years
ago.  She was more subtle in her methods now, holding up her
badge like a shield and blanketing every word in the thick frost
of authority, but she was hoping for the same deterrent effect.

And if that wasn't enough to dissuade the man, Mulder was clearly
marking territory in the presence of a perceived rival.  Good
God, if he'd been an alley cat, she'd need new shoes by now.  As
it was, she'd have to have her partner surgically removed if he
stood any closer.
                   
Yet, somehow, Dirk Squarejaw was missing all the signals.
"Agent Scully."  He shook her hand firmly, and held on a beat too
long before releasing his hold on her.  "Sergeant Rusty Griggs."
The smarmy smile he flashed was laden with seductive promise, and
designed, no doubt, to melt her into a gooey little puddle of
blushes and giggles.

Dana Scully giggled for no man, and certainly not for the likes
of Sergeant Griggs.  All the heat he was giving off only tempered
the steel of her resolve.  She ignored him and looked pointedly
at the other officers who were still lounging on playground
equipment.  "I take it you're all finished here?"

"We were just . . ." he made a quick, desperate gesture for his
officers to stand. "Agent Solomon asked us to wait for you."

"Well, we're here now, so why don't you tell us what you found."

"Better take a look for yourself."  He waved her toward the
doorway to the kindergarten room.  "We left the body untouched."

As the entourage moved inside, Scully found herself an unwilling
participant in a absurd dance.  Griggs would edge toward her,
Mulder would step between.  The officer would slow his pace
in an attempt to maneuver around her, and Mulder would match him
step-for-step.  A hand would momentarily guide her forward, only
to be bumped away by another hand.  Cartilage crushing became a
more appealing option with every brush and nudge: a good
roundhouse punch might take out two noses in one time-saving
swing.

"Oh, my God."

Those were the first words Nelson Abbott had spoken in half an
hour, but he meekly put voice to the thoughts of every one of
the agents as they entered the room.  Mulder took a step away
from Scully, as did Griggs.  Something about the sight before
them had the males of the group craving personal space.
Sheila Solomon, who had been carrying on a lively one-sided
conversation with some of the investigating officers, was,
for once, speechless.
                   
If she didn't know better, Scully would have sworn gravity had
made a mistake and allowed the obese, naked body of Randall
Harper to fall up, leaving him sprawled on the ceiling.  One fat,
white leg was stretched straight, the other bent at the knee with
a foot planted solidly against the plaster.  His arms were spread
wide, his fingers frozen by death as they clawed against the thin
layer of paint.  Other than the two nails which had pierced his
flesh, there were no visible means of attachment, but for reasons
Scully couldn't immediately discern, the body remained firmly
anchored.  

She made a slow circle around the room, examining the body
from all angles.  "What's holding him up there?"  She didn't
expect an answer, and except for a shrug from Sergeant Griggs,
didn't receive one.  "There are no strings or other visible
restraints, but the body doesn't seem to be pulling away from the
ceiling.  Well, something's got to be holding him up, otherwise the
testicles would have ripped away and he would have fallen."  She
didn't realize she was thinking aloud until her stream of
consciousness was interrupted by the collective groan of the men
in the room.

She pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and spoke to
Griggs, who had overcome his discomfort and drifted back into
close proximity.  "Sergeant, could you get me a ladder?"

"Sure thing.  Roy, get the ladder for Agent Scully."

Since Griggs had delegated the errand, Scully was left to
contemplate Randall Harper's body while the Sergeant was
conspicuously contemplating hers.  Mulder was across the room,
poring over the notes of one of the officers, apparently
oblivious to the fact that Griggs was whispering information
about the case into Scully's ear as if telling sexy secrets.
Scully had already begun to turn on her heel, anxious to dispatch
the hulking nuisance with the censure burning on her tongue, when
Mulder's voice sliced through the quiet murmurs in the room.

"Sergeant Griggs, I need clarification on something.  Could
you help me out here?"  Evidently, Mulder wasn't so unaware as
she thought.  His eyes never left the notes he was studying as
he called to Griggs, but Scully could feel him guarding her,
possessing her, even from across the room.

His proprietary behavior was sweet, in an old-fashioned way.  A
little like having a pet caveman.  It was also beginning to annoy the hell
out of her.  Always before, Mulder had stood on the sidelines, supporting
and encouraging but never interfering as she battled the dragons of
prejudice and sexism.

Scully began to climb the rickety, wooden ladder Roy had set up
for her, but as she ascended the splintery steps, her mind was
occupied with other things.  She was thinking she should commend
the officers who had painstakingly gone over every inch of the
ceiling in search of fingerprints.  She was also wondering if
dropping hints to Mulder about his behavior would suffice, or if
the situation called for less subtlety and more action; maybe
she'd just dump his chivalrous ass atop a white steed and send
him riding off into the sunset.  She berated herself for putting
on a skirt instead of pants this morning, and was certain Griggs
was taking in the view.

The handling of bodies was routine and she didn't spare a thought
for the consequences of touching this one.  She reached upward to examine
the cold, dead flesh of Randall Harper. Her fingers barely grazed the man's
shoulder, but in that instant of contact, Dana Scully found herself thinking
of nothing at all except the pain that raced like wildfire across her skin
and sent her tumbling from the ladder.

____________

The police work on this case was above reproach.  The officers
had lifted hundreds of prints from the walls, even a few from the
ceiling near the light fixture, in the ever-so-slight hope that
among the prints of the teachers and janitors and students of the
Pollywog Preschool, they would find one belonging to a killer.
The staff had been interviewed, then sent home.  Only the
facility's director remained on the premises, and she had asked
permission to stay in her office until the body was removed.
Despite their unfortunate first impression, Griggs and his men
had done their jobs with competence and sensitivity.

Mulder's seething hatred of Sergeant Rusty Griggs, therefore, had
nothing to do with the man's ability as an investigator.  If his
performance on this case was an indication of the sergeant's
merits, he was a good cop.  Mulder would make sure the man's
tombstone said as much.

At the moment, Griggs was impatiently rattling off the
information the agent had wanted clarified, even though both men
knew no clarification was necessary.  Every time the sergeant's
gaze would slide across the room and wander up Dana Scully's leg,
Mulder would drag Griggs' attention away from her by pointing out
a smeary fingerprint on the wall, an overlooked wood splinter on
the floor, or the incorrect spelling of the word "hirsute" in the
description of Randall Harper's body.  At that last observation, Griggs made
a noise akin to a snort and abandoned Mulder to return, swaggering all the
way, to Scully. 

The sergeant was standing right by the ladder when it happened,
yet when the sparks showered around Scully like fireworks,
when her legs buckled, when she fell, it was Mulder who reached
her first.  He didn't remember crossing the distance; one second
he was standing across the room with a handful of paperwork and
the next he was kneeling on the floor, holding his partner, and
being assaulted by the same painful electrical shock that had
jolted her.

"What the hell?  Agent Scully, are you all right?"  Griggs
sounded appropriately panicked and concerned for a fallen
officer, and Mulder might have been touched if Griggs had thought
to inquire about the welfare of both trembling agents.

But Griggs was nothing more than background noise.  Mulder was
busy having a silent conversation with the woman in his arms.
Her eyes were open wide with surprise, colored dark with fear,
reflecting her worry for him.  Before he could reassure her, or
she him, a shout from Sheila Solomon brought to light another,
more urgent concern.

The 300-pound body of Randall Harper was falling, and Mulder and
Scully were at ground zero.
____________


Dana Scully used to believe football players were overpaid, but
spending time at the bottom of a 700-pound pile of men had given
her a new appreciation for the job demands of a quarterback.
Then again, no quarterback had ever been tackled by a lecherous
cop, a jealous partner, and a dead, naked pervert.

Definitely time to ask for a raise.

She wasn't sure if it was a residual electrical charge or a
phantom of memory that was sliding across the hair on her arms
like sandpaper sleeves.  The shock was evidently being passed
from one person to the next; Mulder had suffered its effects when
she tumbled into his arms. Griggs, she surmised, experienced
the same unpleasant jolt when he threw himself over her and her
partner to shield them from the falling body of Randall Harper.

Knees and elbows and feet collided as the trio wriggled from
beneath Randall Harper's body.  It took eternal seconds for
Scully to free herself from the tangle and identify the owner of
the hand that had settled possessively over her left breast.
Randall Harper was a pervert, even in death, though considering the
bits of flesh he'd left dangling from the ceiling, he wasn't going
to be getting past first base in the afterlife.

With a graceless wobble usually reserved for toddlers playing
dress-up in their mother's shoes, Scully stood and made her way
across the room.  She waved away the offers of assistance from
well-intentioned officers, and only stopped when she reached
her destination.  The obsolete contraption of twisted pipe had
been painted in rainbow hues and demoted to decoration, but the
cold cast iron radiator served Scully's purpose.  She brushed her
hand across the metal and, as she expected, a hot spark jumped
from the tip of her index finger.

"Mulder, you need to ground yourself."  This time when she said
those words, she wasn't speaking metaphorically.  "Sergeant
Griggs, you too."

Out of respect for the incomparable sound of fat and flesh slapping
against linoleum and flailing humans, silence held reign in the room
until Scully, with her softly-spoken instructions, wrested control. Now
the room was buzzing with discussions, theories, and a steady stream of
profanity from one bewildered officer who seemed to have misplaced the
rest of his vocabulary. In this dissonant chorus, one voice rang above
all the others.  

Sheila Solomon was issuing orders like a drill sergeant, sending
uniformed officers dashing off in so many different directions
there was only a blur of blue as Scully approached the woman at
the center of it all. "Agent Solomon, what's going on?"

Sheila Solomon had already demonstrated the strong constitution
necessary to stomach gruesome crime scenes, so Scully was a bit
surprised when her simple question so rapidly changed the pallor
of the woman's dark skin.

"Oh.  Agent Scully, I'm sorry."  It was like living through their
first meeting all over again, with Sheila awkwardly tripping over
an apology.  "I didn't mean to . . . I mean I know you're in
charge.  I thought, well, it looked like you were indisposed and
I figured you'd want to get the coroner over here to bag the
body." The woman's hands were fluttering around, pointing and
gesturing at nothing and no one in particular.  "Officer Jenkins
is calling for the paramedics, just in case, and I sent Agent
Abbott to the laundry room to look for fabric softener sheets,
and --"

"Thank you, Solomon."

" --and I sent . . . .  Sheila sputtered to a halt, then eked
out breath for one more word. "What?"

"That was good thinking.  Thanks."  Scully offered the woman a
quick but sincere smile, then walked away from the flabbergasted
agent.  Halfway through her limping journey to the body of
Randall Harper, Scully stopped.  "Fabric softener?"

The open-mouthed astonishment on Solomon's face dissolved into
the sheepish look of a woman who'd been caught passing out cookie
recipes at a bra-burning rally.  "I carry them in my pocket
sometimes, to prevent static.  I thought they might be helpful
under the circumstances."

"Couldn't hurt."  If Scully's words fell short of actual praise,
she figured there would be plenty of time for compliments after
the work was done.

____________

"Are you still working on that?"  The food at this hotel was
decent, but the portions were decidedly stingy and Mulder had
been staring longingly at the remnants of Scully's dinner for the
last fifteen minutes.

Her noncommital "Hmm" wasn't quite the invitation he was hoping
for, but hunger made him desperate.  His hand slipped quietly
over the tablecloth, covertly making its way toward her
abandoned plate.  The crispy edge of a french fry was teasing his
fingertip when Scully pushed the plate aside, laid her paperwork
on the table, and announced her discovery. "Balloons the Clown."

"What?"  Mulder fumbled the pepper shaker he'd grabbed as an
alibi for attempted food theft.

"Randall Harper."  Scully pointed to Harper's mug shot, then
handed Mulder a photograph of the same man decked out in a bright
yellow suit, wearing the requisite orange wig and red foam nose.
"a.k.a. Balloons the Clown."

"I've never trusted clowns."

"You don't trust anyone," said the woman who was the exception to
all his rules.

"I *especially* don't trust clowns."

"At least in this case you would've had good reason for your
prejudice.  Harper performed his balloon tricks at schools and
daycare centers all over the city.  That's how he made contact
with the children he allegedly molested."

Scully had showered and changed after they checked into the
hotel, but she still looked worn down by the day.  Mulder
debated briefly about saving his theory until morning.  But
as much as he wanted unrestricted access to his partner's leftover
french fries, he wanted her company more. "Have you ever rubbed
a balloon on your head and then stuck it to the wall?"

"That's not one of your weird foreplay rituals is it?"

She was letting that rich, seductive tone filter into her voice
more often these days.  Unfortunately, it never failed to provoke
a corresponding stutter from him.  "No, no.  Um, no.  Just follow
for a second.  The static electricity from your hair holds the
balloon to the wall, right?"

"Mulder, if you're suggesting--"  Mulder watched the evolution of
expression on his partner's face as she made the connection from
what he had said to what he hadn't.  As her mind grabbed onto the
argument, she physically grabbed onto the table and leaned
forward.  "A balloon is one thing, but Randall Harper was a huge
man.  There's no way a static electrical charge would be powerful
enough to hold him to the ceiling."

"Isn't lightning a form of static electricity?  Lightning is
pretty damned powerful."

"Yes, but the discharge of energy lasts only a fraction of a
second.  Harper's body was suspended from the ceiling for hours.
Without some sort of mechanism to create a steady current, it
would be impossible, and even then I'm not sure it could be
done.  Or, more importantly, why anyone would go to all that
trouble to stick a dead man to the ceiling."

Mulder began sifting through papers, looking for clues among the
upside-down scribbles of the investigating officers.  "Did the
police search the attic?"

"Thoroughly, and found nothing at all to account for the
suspension of the body or the electrical charge. Hopefully the
autopsy will give us more to go on."

"Is that an electromagnet in your pants or are you happy to see
me?"

"Something like that."  His joke earned him an indulgent smile
before she looked away. She watched the traffic outside, studied
a paint chip on the window sill, and scrutinized the work of
her fingers as they plucked a loose thread on her jacket. "If we
don't find some connection to the Oliver case, we'll have to
throw Harper back to the St. Charles PD. I may have already
wasted a day of four agents' time investigating a non-related
case. Mulder, what if I screw this up?"

Her anxiety wasn't unexpected; Scully was being asked to prove
her mettle as a supervisory agent.  No, it wasn't her self-doubt
that surprised and humbled Mulder.  It was her willingness to
reveal it to him.  Still, he knew better than to answer her
vulnerability with any sort of coddling reassurance.  "I'll trade
you my connection theory for the rest of your fries."

"I think I'm doomed to suffer indigestion either way."  She
groaned for effect, the sound tinged with the slightest sigh of
relief.

"Someone out there," he made a sort of all-encompassing gesture
with a ketchup-laden fry, "is playing Good Samaritan."

"By killing people? I must have missed that part of the story in
Sunday School."

"By killing *bad* people. Look at the victims. Tony Oliver,
heartless murderer, killed by having his heart removed. Randall
Harper, a molester who lured children with balloon tricks, stuck
to the ceiling of a daycare center with a static charge and a
couple of nails through the nuts."

Scully leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her
chest. "Okay, since you're theorizing, care to tell me how your
Good Samaritan managed to extract Tony Oliver's heart without
leaving a mark on the body, or how he was able to get Randall
Harper out of prison undetected?"

"I admit my theory has a few holes," Mulder said between bites.
"What do you expect for cold french fries?"

"I want to finish looking over these files tonight. I think I'll
head on upstairs." 

As Scully placed the pictures and papers back into Harper's file,
it occurred to Mulder that when they left the crime scene that
afternoon, she had no such file. He knew the answer before he
asked the question, but a little troll of self-torture forced him
to ask anyway. "Scully, where'd you get all that?"

"All what?" She was sorting and stacking, oblivious to his
agitation.

"The Harper file."

"Oh, Sergeant Griggs dropped it by right before I came down to
dinner."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She jerked her head up as if slapped by his accusation, and in
her voice there was ice. "I just did."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"Something like, 'Here's the file you requested, Agent Scully.'
Made my heart go all aflutter."

He put a hands over hers to still the angry motions.  "I'm just
concerned, that's all.  The guy was being a real jerk at the
crime scene."

"Yeah, well," she pulled away from his caress.  "There was a lot
of that going around."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing.  I'm going upstairs."

Before she could lift herself out of her chair, Mulder had his
hand wrapped around her wrist, gently but firmly holding her in
place.  "You expect me just to step aside and let some guy paw
all over you?"

"No one, and for the record, that includes you," she told him as
she slipped free of his hold, "puts his paws on me without my
consent.  I had things under control with Griggs.  Your manly
posturing was unnecessary and...."

"And?"

"You promised you'd keep our work and personal relationship
separate."

"So you think I was unprofessional."

"I didn't say that, but petty displays of jealousy will only
undermine you on the job."

Perhaps it was the fierce rumble in her voice, or the way her
eyes narrowed with anger, but he didn't believe she was terribly
concerned about *his* image at the moment.

"It's not me at all, is it?  You're worried that you'll seem
unprofessional." 

"Mulder, this case is important to me, but how can I expect the
other agents under my supervision to trust and respect me if they
don't see that from you?"

Mulder glanced around to make sure they were still alone in this
section of the restaurant, though he continued to speak softly in
the hope she would drop her defenses if he did. "I think
you're being oversensitive, Scully."

Before she could rally a response, he quieted her with a touch of
his finger on her mouth.  "It's true, I didn't like the way
Griggs was treating you, but here's a news flash for you. I've
never liked it when another man started sniffing around.  My
response to Griggs today was no different than it was four years
ago in Toledo when Agent Wilkerson kept looking down your shirt,
or last December when Bud in Accounting 'accidentally' brushed
his hand against your ass in the elevator.  My behavior hasn't
changed, but our relationship has." As if to prove the point,
his hand was making tender, loving strokes against her cheek.
"And today, for the first time, you were watching me to see how
I'd react to a competitor. Believe me, Scully, I'm the same
possessive, insanely jealous partner I've always been."
              
"That doesn't change the fact that Solomon and Abbott have
probably already figured out what's going on with us." Her mind
was still in the battle, but her body had surrendered and was
leaning into his touches.

"You could tell Nelson Abbott the sky was orange with purple
polka-dots and that's what he'd believe, and Solomon was busy
passing out fabric softener and talking to anyone who would
listen. I'm sure she wasn't paying attention to any sort of
death glares I might have been casting toward Rusty Griggs."

"I'm sure Griggs noticed."

"Scully, I was not even a blip on Griggs' radar."  Mulder pulled
back for a moment, just long enough to drag his chair around so
he could sit beside his partner. He wanted her to feel the heat
of his breath in her ear as he talked. He wanted to feel every
one of her sighs and shivers. "Everything's fine. Believe me.
But if it'll make you feel better," he began dropping kisses
every word or two, here and there, on her cheeks, her forehead,
her chin. "I promise to be your perfect, platonic partner--"

"Subordinate." She whispered against his mouth before their lips
met.

Mulder aborted the kiss to chide her with mock sternness. "Don't
push your luck. I promise to be Dana Scully's perfect, platonic
*partner* in the presence of my colleagues for the duration of
this case."

Scully's fingers, which had been twirling through Mulder's hair,
came to rest as she cradled his face in her hands. "You have no
reason to be jealous. You know that, don't you?"

"I could use some convincing. Perhaps a physical demonstration
of your troth?"

"Well, okay." She kissed him, just a flirt of a kiss on his
mouth, released him, pushed her chair from the table and stood.
She faced him and with the solemnity such an oath deserved, drew
an X over her chest with her index finger. "Cross my heart,
you're the only man I want."

He looked up at her, hoping he didn't look as pathetically
desperate as he felt, but pretty certain he did. "You're
wounding me, Scully."

"Then I'll have to kiss it and make it all better." Her fingers
brushed through his hair to smooth the damage she'd done to it.
"After this case is over."

She collected her files, though not the dinner bill, and walked
away with a cheerful, "Goodnight, Mulder."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Archie Boggins, a Cow Insemination Technician, has the worst job
in St. Louis.  So says the perky, doe-eyed, Wonderbra'd host of
"Good Morning St. Louis." Evidently Bitsy, Muffy,
whatever-her-name-was, tirelessly scoured the city and outlying regions in
search of someone whose idiocy might equal her own.  She found him in
Archie, who seemed to take a disturbing amount of pleasure in shoving his
arm up a cow's ass. Little did I know when I left for work this morning that
within a few hours I'd find myself coveting Archie's job.

When I was promoted from Library Assistant III to Library
Associate I, there was more to it than the new, glamorous title
and the opulent lifestyle that accompanied the 27-cents-per-hour
raise. Library Associate is, as I proudly pointed out to my
parents at the time, a supervisory title. But I'd take cow crap
any day over having to reprimand my best friend.

Trent's page-one story was usurped by the mayor, who allegedly
committed an indiscretion while visiting one of his constituents.
The mayor insists that even exotic dancers have civic concerns
and that he was only spending time with Twirly O'Toole to get
input on the city's beautification proposal.

On any other day, our heroism would have made headlines, but who
can compete with Twirly O'Toole?

I shared Trent's frustration at being denied herohood
for another day, and felt the same disappointment with the
brief, undetailed article on page three.  And while I wanted to
express aloud my opinion of the mayor and his need for input, it
was Trent who lost his temper first.  Unfortunately, it happened
at the exact moment Mrs. Schnepf waddled her way upstairs to
deliver her daily dose of prune-faced joy. She actually managed
to open up those squinty eyes when she heard some of the words
Trent was throwing around. Now, the blue-haired demon has
ordered me to write up a reprimand for Trent's file and to make
sure he signs it. I am, after all, his supervisor.

Schnepf will be watching to make sure it gets done today. And,
as she constantly reminds us, she has eyes in the back of her
head.

She doesn't really, though.

Not yet anyway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


A dingy, dust-encrusted corner of the basement was, in Fox
Mulder's opinion, prime office real estate. The more inconvenient
and inhospitable, the better. He'd never stopped to wonder if
Scully felt the same. His partner always stood out like rare art
against the backdrop of clutter and mismatched furniture of the
X-Files office, but here, in a room filled with dark wood and
gleaming brass, she was framed like a masterpiece.

As Scully toured her temporary office, Mulder went on his own
journey of discovery. He captured and catalogued the delight,
the awe, the yearning that flitted across Scully's features as she
took in every opulent detail. In this unguarded moment she
revealed to him the secret she'd been keeping all these years:
she wanted an office like this.

She stroked her hand over the polished mahogany desk, inspected
the pictures and plants, admired the panoramic view from the
corner windows, but it was the chair that pulled at her like a
magnet. No matter where she wandered in the office, she always
made her way back to hover by that chair.

"Go ahead, Scully. Try it out."

"I don't know, Mulder." Even as she feigned reluctance, she was
inching closer to her goal. "Once you've experienced folding
metal, there's really no going back." When at last she sank into
the welcoming cocoon of deep-tufted leather, she looked
blissfully happy. Perfectly comfortable. She looked like she
belonged in that chair.

Recognizing his motives as selfish didn't diminish Mulder's
desire to yank that audacious piece of furniture out from under
his partner's butt before she started developing career
ambitions. He already had plenty of incentive to solve this case
and get Scully back to D.C. as quickly as possible, but severing
her love affair with that chair would be a nice bonus.

Unfortunately, a chair wasn't Mulder's only frustration. Scully had
already told him what his assignment for the day would be, but when
Solomon and Abbott arrived for a  briefing, she told him again. He
didn't like it any better on second hearing, and argued just as vehemently
now as he had over breakfast. "Scully, the people at Infinity Aerospace
aren't going to tell us anything about what Tony Oliver did for them.
We'd be wasting our time."

"The executives at Infinity had a motive for wanting Oliver dead.
We can't investigate the man's murder without questioning the
prime suspects."

"Wouldn't it be better to--"

"Dr. Jacob Erwin in Infinity's Research Department is expecting
you and Agent Abbott at 10:00." And that, it was clear, was the
end of the discussion.

If it had been anyone else in that chair, he would have argued
until next week about the uselessness of the assignment, but this
was more than a debate with his supervisor. This was a test.
Scully was watching him for a reaction, but more importantly, so
were Solomon and Abbott. Everyone in the room exhaled when he
gave his conciliatory nod.

He might quarrel with Scully's priorities, but no one could
complain about a briefing that lasted less than ten minutes.
Solomon wasted no time on idle chit-chat with her coworkers. She
took the request from Scully and literally ran with it, right
past an agent offering fresh coffee, to the computer lab where
she could search for connections between Oliver and Harper.

Abbott, however, was a man in need of guidance.

Mulder led the way to the front desk to requisition a car, then
tossed the keys to Abbott. "So, Nelson, how far is it from here
to Florissant?"

Abbott uncrumpled the paper he had clutched in his palm.
"Infinity Aerospace is in St. Louis proper."

"Yes, but Tony Oliver's widow lives in Florissant."

"Agent Scully said--"

"We'll head over to Infinity this afternoon. I think we'll learn
more about Tony Oliver from his wife than we ever will from Dr.
Erwin. Don't you?"

"But--"  

Abbott's gaze darted from the wrinkled paper in his hand, up to
Mulder, and back again. Mulder recognized the telltale glimmer
of panic in the poor rookie's eyes and fortified the young
agent with a pat on the shoulder and a confident declaration.
"Agent Scully knows how I work. She won't mind."

"Are you sure?"  

Mulder plucked Scully's note from Abbott's sweaty grip and tossed
it in a nearby trash can. "Trust me."

____________

"What, in God's name, is that?"

After a day filled with unpleasant surprises, Sheila Solomon's
sudden, shrieking intrusion into the hushed morgue didn't even
merit a flinch from Scully. Though not at such decibels, Scully
had asked the same question when she'd discovered the dark liquid
leaking from Harper's ear canal. Sheila got her answer
immediately. It had taken Scully three hours of lab testing to
confirm that the sticky brown substance she'd found in Randall
Harper's cranium was mud.

"Mud?" Now that the oozing mess in the scale had been
identified, Solomon approached Scully and the body on the table
with less trepidation.

"3.85 kilograms of what is, as far as the lab has been able to
determine, mud from the Mississippi River bottom. Mr.
Harper's brain was somehow removed and replaced with mud, but I
still need to figure out how it was done." She didn't bother to
mention that for most of the day she'd tried to figure that out
and had failed, despite repeated, meticulous examinations.

Scully didn't doubt her fatigue was obvious, but she could have
deluded herself if Sheila, who still looked morning-perfect at
six p.m., hadn't confirmed it. "You look like hell. Are you
about finished here?"

"Almost." Scully looked at the body, the glob of mud in the
scale, the scattered instruments, and realized that "almost" was
overly optimistic. "Maybe another hour, then I have to head back
over to the Bureau." Which would be at least a thirty-minute
drive from the Coroner's office. Her hopes of eating dinner
before midnight were beginning to fade, especially now that a
conversation with the effusive Agent Solomon was in the offing.
"What are you doing here? Did you find something?"

Scully debated sitting in the nearby plastic chair, and while
her aching muscles begged for the reprieve, she remained
standing. If Solomon had to converse across a 300-pound cadaver,
she might be tempted to go with the abridged version of her
report.

"I pretty much came up empty. Both Harper and Oliver were Vets,
but Harper served in Vietnam and Oliver was in the Gulf War. No
commonalties of birthplace, schools, girlfriends, zodiac signs
..." 

Solomon's voice trickled away as Scully began replacing organs
into the body cavity.  The wet slurp of Harper's liver sliding
into place was the only sound in the room until Scully prompted
the distracted agent.  "Go on."

Sheila unlatched her gaze from the lung in Scully's hands and
began to shuffle through her notes.  "Oliver's father and
Harper's mother died on the same date, but two years apart, and
both men bought their cars at the same Ford dealership, but
different models from different salesmen in different years."

"You got all that from a computer search?"

"And a few phone calls."

"You could have made one more and saved yourself a trip all the
way over here."  Scully nodded toward the cell phone on the
counter--the one that had brought so much bad news earlier
in the day.  She'd repeatedly thrown acid glares at the damned
device while she worked, furious with it for ringing in the first
place, livid because it didn't ring again.  It was a wonder it
hadn't burst into flames from the heat of her loathing.

Sheila laid her papers on the counter and began to pace.
Contrary to her normal, confident stride, her steps were
tentative.  Nervous.  So was her voice.  "I wanted to talk
to you about something.  In person."

With the turn in the conversation, Scully stripped off her latex
gloves and obliged her body's desire to sit.  "Okay."

"Why are you here, Agent Scully?"

"Here?  The morgue?"

Solomon stopped her restless pacing, but kept a room's width
between her and Scully.  "No.  St. Louis.  This case.  Why are
you here?"

"Agent Solomon, I've had a really bad day."  Scully corralled
some maverick strands of hair and tucked them back into her
ponytail.  "Help me out and cut to the chase."

"I heard a rumor that you're being considered for the vacant ASAC
position."

Scully was secretly pleased to note that Sheila Solomon did,
indeed, have sweat glands, though the woman's anxiety was wasted
on this particular rumor.  "I'm not sure where that came from,
but--"

"I don't mean to imply..." Sheila added quickly, because it
seemed a requirement that she include an apology in every
conversation.  It came as no surprise when she launched into
another one. "It's not that I don't think you're a good candidate
for the job, and if you get it, I'll certainly give you my full
support, it's just that--"

"You want that job for yourself."

Apparently emboldened by Scully's reaction so far, Sheila crossed
the murky sea-green tile and sat down beside her supervisor.
"I've worked hard for the Bureau, and I've done well.  You know,
I hear all the crap about how I only get promoted to fill an
Affirmative Action quota--they could promote a black or a woman,
but if they promote a black woman it's like getting a double word
score in Scrabble."

Scully would have laughed, but she knew the bitter truth of what
Sheila was saying.  If a woman failed in the Bureau, there were
always whispers that she'd failed because she was a woman.  If
she succeeded, those same small minds speculated that she'd been
given an unfair advantage.  The sexist obstacles were treacherous
enough without having to contend with the pitfalls of racism.

"Nothing--" Sheila pounded her fist against her thigh for
emphasis, "--has been given to me that I haven't earned, Agent
Scully, and I think I've earned this promotion."

If this woman ever decided to give up law enforcement, her
passionate speech-making would be a boon to the ministry.  At the
moment, however, she was preaching to the converted.

"When this case is finished, Agent Mulder and I are going back to
D.C.  Until your SAC suggested I use that vacant office, I didn't
even know there was an open position, but I assure you, I have no
plans to pursue it."

All the pent-up nervousness spilled out in a rush of words.
"Thanks, Agent Scully.  I feel so much better."

This female solidarity was fine, up to a point, but Scully felt
it was time to gently reassert her authority.  "Don't thank me.
I appreciate your candor, but if I had been seeking that
promotion, I wouldn't have stepped aside just because you asked
me to."

"I know.  I've been watching how you work, and I have to admit,
you'd make a hell of an ASAC.  That's what had me so worried."

Scully wasn't used to such frank admiration from another agent.
This seemed as good a time as any to change the subject.  "Have
Agents Mulder and Abbott reported in yet?"

"They weren't back when I left."  Sheila stood and looked at her
watch.  "That was about an hour ago.  They ought to be back by
now."

Scully pulled herself to her feet and grabbed a fresh pair of
gloves.  She eyed her cell phone, considered the conversation
that would ensue if she called Mulder right now, and decided that
with rank should come the privilege of procrastination. "Sheila,
do me a favor and call the receptionist at the Bureau.  Ask her
to have Mulder and Abbott wait for me in my office."

"Do you need me there, too?"

"No.  I'll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight, Agent Scully."

Solomon's departing pleasantries were drowned out by the moist
gurgle of mud being poured from a scale, and the chatter of
Scully's own thoughts as she rehearsed for her meeting
with Mulder. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a Twinkie that did me in.

I'd always thought immunity to senseless tears was somehow
connected to breast size, otherwise someone with a drawer full of
"My First Bras" would weep uncontrollably every time she walked
past Victoria's Secret.  I've never misted up during a greeting
card commercial, never sniffled through a mushy movie, and I've
certainly never been overcome by a piece of cream-filled sponge
cake. 

The last time I cried honest-to-goodness tears was the night of
my senior prom when Uncle Cletus ran over my foot with his 1975
Buick.  In retrospect, I believe something more divine than Uncle
Cletus' size 14 wingtips was pressing down on that gas pedal.
God, in His wisdom, knew the young, impressionable minds of the
Class of '88 weren't ready for Charmin Jane Zullman in a
hoopskirt.

When you're swimming in Pepto-pink taffeta and your foot is the
size of a basketball, crying is not only allowed, it's expected.
But when you start blubbering over snack food, it's time to check
your medical plan for the inpatient psychotherapy deductible.

There were a lot of heartfelt apologies during Trent's
disciplinary conference, though I don't think it bodes well for
future promotions that I was the one doing the apologizing.
Trent, bless his heart, literally and figuratively held my hand
through the whole miserable ordeal.  His only comment on the
reprimand I'd written was that his ten-year-old nephew had
better penmanship.  When he signed at the bottom, I pointed out,
as I often do, that he writes all loopy and flowery like a girl.
We were back on familiar ground and I knew we were going to be
okay.

We spent the rest of the afternoon plotting our revenge on Old
Blue Hair.  At 4:30, I hand-delivered Trent's reprimand to
Mrs. Schnepf; I wanted to take one last look at those beady mud-
colored eyes.

When I got back to my desk, there it was: a package of Twinkies,
its wrapper decorated with little hearts drawn in felt-tip
marker.

It was the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.

All right, it's the only romantic thing anyone has ever done
for me.

Trent was nowhere to be seen, thank goodness, because I sat at my
desk and cried like a baby until well past 5:00.  I'm still not
sure why I cried.  Maybe it's because Trent showed me today that,
despite everything, nothing has changed between us.  Or maybe
it's because I couldn't stop tracing those tiny hand-drawn hearts
on a Twinkie wrapper, and thinking nothing will ever be the same.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Get out of my chair, Mulder."

There was no affection in her tone. No teasing. No anger.  Her
words were without color, the expression on her face just as
neutral.  He'd never known Dana Scully to be this unreadable, but
Mulder was troubled by the implication.  He eased away from the
big leather chair and joined Abbott on the sycophant side of the
desk.

Scully let silence fester while she sorted through phone messages
and notes. The waiting was making Abbott restless, and he fussed
with his tie -- twisting it, letting it unfurl, abrading Mulder's
nerves with the silk-on-silk noise.

Mulder entertained the fleeting notion that his weary partner had
forgotten  her responsibility to initiate the discussion.  He
was poised to remind her when she set aside the papers,
straightened in her chair, and erased any doubt that the delay
was intentional.  Scully clearly knew who was in charge.

"I got a call today.  A couple of calls actually."  The monotone
still controlled her voice, but anger crept into her eyes and, at
the moment, those eyes were focused on a suddenly pale Nelson
Abbott.  "Can you guess what they were about, Agent Abbott?"

"No, ma'am."  The words were mouthed more than actually spoken.

"The first was from Dr. Jacob Erwin at Infinity Aerospace.  He
was upset, understandably so, at having wasted his morning
waiting for the FBI agents who never arrived for their
appointment."

She hadn't yet released Abbott from the choking grip of her
glare, and continued, heedless of the young man's struggle to
find a voice for his excuses.  "At that point, I was concerned
that two agents under my supervision had missed such an important
appointment.  Well, more than concerned."

For the first time she cut her glance toward Mulder, and laid
herself bare for him to see how he'd hurt her.  "Very, very
worried." 

Just as quickly, her focus was back on Abbott.  "I immediately
started to dial Agent Mulder to find out if you two were okay,
but before I could punch in his number, my phone rang again.  I
thought my conversation with Dr. Erwin had been unpleasant, but
it was nothing compared to the discussion I had with Julie
Oliver.  Well, discussion isn't really the right word.  It was a
little too one-sided for that.  Oh, wait, I took some notes."

She didn't need her damned notes and Mulder knew it.  She'd drawn
blood and was merely taking extra time to watch the youngster
suffer. After some prolonged paper-handling, she produced a page
of handwritten scribbles.   "Here they are.  Mrs. Oliver said
that two FBI agents," she looked up from her notes to confirm
with Abbott.  "That would be the two of you, correct?"

Nelson remained frozen, so Scully continued without his assent.
"She said the two of you showed up at her house asking questions
about her husband.  Specifically, about alien abduction
experiences, connections with satanic cults, whether he'd ever
demonstrated any abilities with telekinesis, teleportation, that
sort of thing.  Is this true?"

In a last-dying-breath kind of rattle, Nelson managed a "Yes."

"Was any of this your idea, Agent Abbott?"

Mulder finally threw the drowning man a lifeline.  "No, Scully,
it wasn't Abbott's idea.  Give him a break."

She spared Mulder a curt nod of acknowledgment, but Scully wasn't
quite finished with Abbott.  "This kind of insubordinate conduct
merits a written reprimand."

"Yes, ma'am."

Now, in Mulder's opinion, she had gone too far.  "Scully,
that's--"

"But under the circumstances, I will only insist on your
assurance that it will not happen again.  When I give you an
order, you will follow that order regardless of what another
agent may suggest.  If you don't, I won't hesitate to take the
appropriate disciplinary steps.  Is that clear?"

"Yes, ma'am."  Abbott's fingers began to relax their white-
knuckled grasp on the arm of the chair.

"I'd like to speak to Agent Mulder privately.  I'll see you at
eight o'clock tomorrow morning, Mr. Abbott."

"Yes, ma'am.  Thank you, ma'am."  What Abbott lacked in
grace-under-pressure, he more than made up for in escape speed.
The door banged closed behind him with a thunderclap of
sound: a warning to all those within hearing of the storm to
come.

____________


PAPER SAINTS 6/15

A memory sprang from its grave to claw at Mulder's conscience--a
boyhood recollection of sitting with his mother as she cried,
bowed by the weight of the things she'd lost.  He'd listened to
the fading sounds of a car's engine, a softly sobbed benediction
for a dead marriage, and in the silence that followed he heard
his mother's heart breaking.

Mulder had spent a lifetime running from that terrible sound, and
he feared if he gave this silence any quarter, the noise
would come again.  Louder this time.  Multiplied by two.

"For what's it's worth, Scully, we did try to get in to see Dr.
Erwin this afternoon, but . . ."

He paused to allow her into the argument, but she was
stone-still.  Watching, but not speaking.

"He kept us waiting for hours, then left for the day without
meeting with us." The scientist had undoubtedly taken delight in
ensnaring the agents in waiting-room hell, complete with
static-garbled Muzak and a decade-old copy of the Ladies'
Home Journal.  At the very least, such humiliation should
have earned Mulder a "Serves you right," from Scully.

Again, she ignored the opening he handed her.

"I guess I don't have to tell you that Julie Oliver wasn't very
helpful.  Things started off badly when Abbott sat on her cat
and pretty much went downhill from there."

He shifted in his seat when he discovered the focus of Scully's
gaze wasn't on him, it was *in* him.  He could feel her peeling
back the layers of him in search of something.  Didn't she know
that if she would just talk to him, tell him what she wanted, he
would give it to her?

"Okay, Scully, this is the point in the lecture when the
supervisor tells me what an arrogant, presumptuous asshole I am.
Bonus points if you work in the words 'delusional' and
'lunatic.'"  He smiled.

She didn't. 

"And then I would apologize and you would say--"

"I don't know what to say to you, Mulder."

Scully didn't normally shy from arguments, but this time she
abandoned her typical, forthright response along with that
comfortable leather chair.  Mulder knew she wasn't just soothing
an irritated temper when she took her slow stroll to the windows.
She was putting physical distance between them, and with every
step, fraying the connection he'd so carelessly damaged.

She could have her anger; she'd earned the right.  Distance, on
the other hand, was not something he would let her have.  He
stood and moved behind her to share the reflection in the glass.
Outside, a million city lights sparkled in her honor, but Mulder
wondered if she was really seeing the view, or if she saw, like
he did, the image of a man desperately wanting, but desperately
afraid to touch the woman he loved.

"You're angry with me." That was profoundly obvious, and he
winced when he heard himself say the words.

Her hands were clutching at the windowsill, her eyes looking at
anything but his reflection, yet she managed to wound him with
agonizing precision--a single, whispered word her only weapon.
"Disappointed."

Air became like water.  Mulder fought against the current of
guilt to drag his arms upward and rest his hands on her
shoulders.  "I'm sorry, Scully."

She nodded.  There was acceptance in the gesture, but no
absolution.

"I tried talking to you about this meeting with Erwin, you know."
He stroked her shoulders, attempting to curry her favor with a
massage.  "But, you weren't willing to listen."

"That's not true, Mulder."  There was an unaccustomed tightness
to her voice, as if she were talking around anger, or choking
down tears.  "I listened, but I didn't agree.  Regardless of
your feelings on the matter, you should have followed my orders."
She brushed his hands away and pushed past him to return to her
desk.

It was a complicated dance she'd designed, but Mulder followed
her lead and settled back into the guest chair on the opposite
side of the desk. They were in their original positions, ready
for the next verse to begin.

"You're right, Scully.  I was wrong.  But none of this was really
Abbott's fault. He was just doing what I told him to."

"Just because he's easily misled doesn't excuse him from his
responsibilities." 

Scully was tough, but it was toughness softened at the edges by
compassion.  That, Mulder realized, was what had bothered him
about Abbott's reprimand.  It wasn't undeserved punishment, but
it had been delivered so uncharitably that the memory of it
made Mulder cringe.  He broached the subject with due caution.
"It's just that...you seemed awfully...don't you think, maybe,
you were a little bit too--"

"Agent Scully, you have an urgent phone call on line three."

When the receptionist opened the office door to deliver her
message, Mulder contemplated his odds of surviving the same mad
dash for freedom that Abbott had successfully accomplished.  He'd
studied Scully as he launched into his defense of Abbott, saw her
straighten in her chair, and realized about half a word past too-
late that criticism was a bad idea.

As she completed her call, her attention clearly diverted to some
new piece of information, Mulder thought perhaps he should send a
thank-you note to whomever it was giving him this reprieve.

"That was Sergeant Griggs."

Or maybe not.

"He got another strange report that he thought we might want to
check out.  A woman was admitted to a local hospital tonight with
some sort of ocular displacement anomaly."

"Meaning?"  

"Her eyes have been moved."

"To where?"  

"The back of her head."  She was reading her notes as she spoke,
occasionally glancing up, flirting at the notion of eye contact.

So he baited her, hoping to lure her into a bona fide
conversation.  "You're kidding."

"I'm really not in a kidding mood."

Humor was too much to wish for, but at that point Mulder
appreciated any exchange that didn't involve awkward silences or
hidden meanings.  

"Who's the woman?"

"A librarian from West St. Louis University.  Emma Schnepf."

"Gesundheit."

With a heavenward glance and an impatient sigh, Scully scolded
him for his mockery of the poor, itinerant-eyed Ms. Schnepf, but
beneath the exasperation, Mulder sensed a thaw in the chill that
swirled around his partner.

"Griggs said she was so hysterical that the doctors had to sedate
her.  We'll go see her in the morning."  In one graceful swipe of
her arm, Scully slid files and notes into her briefcase.

Mulder stood when she did, and with a grand gesture, offered his
hand to carry her briefcase. Mulder's display of gallantry was
charming in its obviousness, or at least he hoped she was
charmed. "We?"

"I don't want you getting lost again."  Instead of putting the
strap of the case in his hand, she slipped her own hand into his
grasp, squeezed once, and then pulled away to head toward the
door.

Unfortunately, Mulder was already lost as he searched for
the meaning behind Scully's furtive touch.  "Scully, are you
okay?"

"Fine."  She stopped and turned to face him, offering a weary
attempt at a smile, but not quite succeeding.  "Just tired.  It's
been a long day."

He nodded in sympathy.  As far as he was concerned, this was a
day to forget.  "How'd the autopsy go?"

"Well, we now know for certain that Randall Harper had a dirty
mind."

"What?"  

Scully was one riddle after another tonight, and apparently
not anxious to elaborate.  "I'll tell you about it on the way
back to the hotel."

He crossed the distance between them and gently tugged the
briefcase from her grip.  "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine," she said to the third button on his shirt.

He brought his free hand to her face and, with a tender caress,
coaxed her to look him in the eyes.  "What about us?  Are we
okay?"

Any reassurance, even a half-hearted attempt at one, would have
been better than the nothing answer she gave him.  From the
first kiss she'd been cautious in this relationship, but he'd
never seen doubt in her eyes until this moment.  He set down the
briefcase and pulled her into his arms.  "You know how I am,
Scully.  I can never color inside the lines."

Scully didn't give herself over to the embrace.  He could feel
her anxiety surging through the cold hands that rested on his
chest, could hear it in the splintered remains of her voice. "Not
even when I'm the one drawing them?"

He tried cajoling her with kisses against her hair, hoping the
intimate touch would disguise his panic.  "It's an authority
thing with me.  Don't take it personally."

"Okay."  When she slipped out of his arms, he discovered even
sweet noises of reassurance couldn't mask the sound of shattering
hearts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I expected to see anthropologists lurking in the dense, fuzzy
forest of Liz Claiborne sweaters, watching in astonished awe and
capturing the monumental event on film as Plain Charmin Jane
strayed from her familiar mall habitat of Waldenbooks and Radio
Shack to visit the cosmetics counter at Saks.

Fortunately for the viewers of The Discovery Channel, the only
witness to my harrowing expedition into the strange, colorful
jungle of lip colors and blushers was a very earnest,
mannequinesque blonde who purported to be my very own personal
beauty advisor.  She probably would have agreed to be my very own
personal lap dog if I'd spent any more money, but her commission
on a three hundred dollar sale should be enough to buy her
another bucket of the perfume she bathes in.

Three hundred dollars may sound like a lot to spend on makeup,
but each and every product I purchased is an essential element in
a complete skin care system.  If I'd dared to walk out of that
store without a tube of Dewy Fresh Lip Emollient in Dusky Mauve,
the entire infrastructure of my face would have collapsed.  I know
this, because my personal beauty consultant told me it was so.

Besides, you can't put a price on self-confidence.  She told me
that too, right before she handed me my receipt.

Despite Cosmetician Barbie's assurances to the contrary, I'm not
at all confident in my ability to reproduce the smoldering sex
kitten look.  I'm hoping to manage lukewarm sex mouse. That
should be sufficient to impress a 26-year-old virgin whose
arsenal of seduction consists entirely of Twinkies.

Not that I'm an expert in attracting the opposite sex, but I did
have a nagging suspicion that the only beauty tip I ever got from
my mother-- "You can never go wrong with aqua blue eye shadow"
--was woefully outdated.  Now, armed with moisturizers,
foundation and smudgeable eye pencils, I'm ready to conquer my
insecurities and offer myself to Trent.

I never thought I'd be smearing expensive colors all over my face
in an effort to woo my best friend.  Yet here I am, practicing
with lipliner, staring at Twinkies, and counting the hours until
morning. 

Tomorrow, I'll tell him everything I've been secretly feeling
and there will be no interruptions.  No reprimands to write.  No
shelves to dust.  No Mrs. Schnepf poking her crispy-haired head
into our private world.

A message from Trent told me it had been another successful day
in the superhero business, but I didn't truly believe it until I
drove to the hospital to see for myself.  Honest to God, it was
like being dropped in the middle of a surrealist version of
"Sesame Street," featuring a short, chubby Muppet with a blue
face and weepy eyes. Even from a distance I could see goopy
trails of hair spray and mascara oozing through her hair.  A
professional beauty consultant would have recommended waterproof
mascara. It is, after all, only a few dollars more and the travel
bag is your free gift with purchase.

I walked into that hospital expecting to gloat, to laugh, to
swell with pride at having neutralized the library menace, but
now I realize that all the makeup in the world can't conceal the
shame that comes from hurting an innocent person.

I want to think about Trent and rehearse whispering sweet
nothings.  I want to apply dusky mauve lipstick without getting
it on my teeth. Damn it, I want to forget all about a
frightened woman who, because of me, will spend her life
in seclusion, watching TV through a tangle of blue hair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If asked to recount any part of the conversation she'd had with
Mulder during the drive to the hotel, she couldn't have done it.
He hadn't commented on her distraction, so either she'd
camouflaged her inattention well, or he'd been too immersed in
his theory to notice.

It was true she was only half hearing him, but Mulder was at the
very center of Scully's thoughts as they walked down the long
hallway toward their rooms.  His comments and questions were
nothing more than background noise buzzing behind the louder
argument she was having with herself.

When her brain registered an affront, however, she rewound her
memory to hear him say, "There's no reason to waste more time
examining Harper's body.  You're not going to find anything."

She reeled on him and lashed out with a voice made rough by a day
of dead-ends and disappointments. "Mulder, believe it or not, mud
does not magically appear inside someone's skull."

It was impossible to debate with Mulder when his enthusiasm and
intelligence combined for a mixture of eager puppy and mad
genius.  Even when his notions were eclipsed by common sense and
the laws of science, his zeal didn't wane.

"I think maybe it did this time.  We've got prisoners
disappearing from locked cells, bodies stuck to the ceiling with
static electricity, internal organs removed with no trace of
surgery." When he got to the heart of his theory, he leaned close
to her, as though personal magnetism would draw her to his way of
thinking. "Magic is about the only thing that would explain any
of this."  

She shrugged in surrender and resumed the journey to her room.
"Okay, I'll put out an APB on David Copperfield and we can go
home."

"I'm serious, Scully."

Although Mulder was trailing behind her down the hall, she didn't
acknowledge him again until she unlocked her door and put the
threshold between them.  "Then find some proof.  Get me a sample
of pixie dust or a witness who saw a woman flying away from the
crime scene on a broom, because until I have something more
concrete, I'm going to have to rely on mundane things like
autopsies and fingerprints."  She had one hand on the doorframe,
the other on the door, and was being none too subtle in her
desire for the conversation, like the door, to be closed.

"But the librarian bothers me."

She suspected that if she'd written "Go Away!" in flashing neon,
he still would have shouldered his way into her room.

Scully stayed by the door as Mulder paced, hoping he would wander
close enough for her to shove him into the hall. There were only
two things that could happen if he didn't leave her room soon,
and she didn't want to deal with the fallout from either
until this case was over. "Can't we talk about this in the
morning?"

"Are you sure you don't want to go get something to eat?"

As he stood in the middle of the room, asking the most innocent
of questions, she realized she'd been had.  He didn't want dinner
and he didn't want to discuss this case.  He was camping out in
her room because he was as determined to talk to her tonight as
she was determined that he leave.

She closed the door, but continued to play the game they'd
started on the remote chance Mulder really had no ulterior
motive.  "No.  Thanks, Mulder.  I'll just call room service."

He scooped up the receiver and poised a finger over the buttons
on the phone.  "I could call room service for both of us."

Though they were separated by yards and yards of faded gold
carpeting, she could feel him, slowly, steadily backing her into
a corner.  "Mulder."  There was warning in the word.

He took step after fearless step until he was close enough to her
to embellish his question with a kiss.  "Are you trying to get
rid of me?"

"And here I was about to accuse you of being a poor detective."

He pulled back and feigned insult.  "You think I'm a poor
detective?"

"Goodnight, Mulder."  She reached behind her and twisted the
doorknob, anxious for Mulder to make his exit.

His hand over hers arrested the movement.  "Tell me what's
wrong."  A knife-edge of pain in his voice cut off her denial.
"And don't tell me it's nothing."

Scully managed to escape from the cage he'd made around her with
his arms. She couldn't be near him, couldn't touch him if she had
any hope of getting through this without falling apart.  "I've
been thinking . . ."  Her watery whispers were only dragging him
closer again, so she started over with more volume to buoy the words.
"I've been thinking about what happened today, and I owe
you an apology, Mulder."

"For what?"

He was indulging her need for physical distance, but in their
emotional tug-of-war he was using his eyes to throw her off
balance.  She knew it was cheating to say this without looking at
him, but it would be worse to leave the words unsaid.  She
compromised by confessing to the door hinge just over his
right shoulder.  "I've been lecturing you constantly about
keeping our professional life apart and separate from our
personal life, so I guess it's ironic that I was the one who
broke the rules."

Her avoidance ploy didn't work for long, and he leaned into her
line of vision to tease, "Did we do something indiscreet that I
missed, and if so, would you mind doing it with me again?"

Damn him.  He knew what weapon she was wielding and he was still
making himself a target for no reason but to force her to look
him in the eye as she pulled the trigger.

"You told me I shouldn't take your behavior personally and
you're right, Mulder.  I shouldn't.  In fact, when I asked
you to join this investigation, I should have anticipated that
you might disobey my orders if you disagreed with them."

"Look, Scully, I'm really sorry about--"

"No.  Don't apologize.  It's my fault." She nearly suffocated on
the truth of the words.  "When you did your rogue agent act
today, I took it personally.  I was angry and I was hurt and it
had nothing to do with the fact that I was your supervisor and
everything to do with the fact that I expected you to behave
differently for me.  Especially now."

He tried to interrupt, no doubt to defend her, but she wouldn't
allow it. There was no defense for what she'd done.  A month ago
she would not have felt betrayed by a kiss, because a month ago she
could only imagine the taste of him on her mouth. "So, I feel I
should apologize to you."

"Okay, if you really feel you must.  I'd be happy to offer some
suggestions on how this apology could play out." Before she
realized he'd moved, he was holding her, chuckling at his own
joke but clinging to her with a force that was sending a different
message. 

"We tried," she said. "And I don't regret that."  She was begging
herself not to cry, but one tear was stronger than her will and
left its wet imprint on the front of Mulder's shirt. "I'll never
regret that."

"Don't do this, Scully."

"But, I don't think..."  She stretched upward to kiss him, to
steal a memory of something precious that couldn't be hers.  "I
don't think this is going to work."

____________


He could have persuaded her.

He could have explained to her, very carefully, very slowly, with
words and kisses, the flaws in her logic.

He could have undone every objection, every button, in his way.

He could have whispered promises to her, in loving words, in the
soft sigh of sheets against her skin.

As she fell asleep in his arms, he could reminded her that
anything worth keeping was worth the struggle it took to attain
it.

But in the end, he'd been a coward.

For the duration of a lonely, sleepless night, Mulder's mind had
tortured him with beautiful images that could have been, if only
he'd found the courage to stay and fight, rather than retreat.

Scully had asked him to go and, like a fool, he'd obliged.

In the nine intervening hours, two things had happened.  Scully
had decided to forget their ill-fated attempt at romance had ever
happened, and Mulder had decided to remind her, constantly, of what
she was missing.

Their hands collided in pursuit of a packet of sugar.  He brushed
his arm against her ankle while retrieving a clumsily dropped
napkin.  As she spoke of the case, of her request to Solomon and
Abbott to continue the computer search with the inclusion of Emma
Schnepf, of the unseasonably humid weather in St. Louis, Mulder
watched her with such rapturous intensity that he felt an
artist's pride when a blush painted her cheeks.

She seemed riveted by the undissolved lump of creamer floating on
top of her coffee.  "You'd better finish your breakfast, Mulder.
Your eggs are getting cold."

He shoved his plate aside.  "I'm not really hungry."  Yet his
eyes stalked every move his fidgety partner made, as if waiting
for a vulnerable moment to pounce and devour.

Finally relinquishing her hold on the napkin she had studiously
twisted into knots, she reached for the bill.  "Then we should go."

"I want to talk to you."

Impatience nudged her across the vinyl bench until she sat
perched just on the edge.  "We talked last night."

Mulder leaned back in the booth, draped an arm across the top of
the seat and made a conspicuous display of his intention to
linger.  "You talked last night.  Now it's my turn."

Scully consulted her watch, looking for an ally.  "We have to get
to the hospital to see--"

"I already called.  We can see Emma Schnepf at nine."  He stifled
his amusement as Scully punished her traitorous watch with a
frown.  "That leaves plenty of time for you to finish your
coffee and for me to say what I need to say."

"Mulder, don't you see?" Her voice was nothing but warmth. Scully
was being infinitely gentle in giving him the boot.  Even so,
the bruise went soul-deep.  "Talking about it is only going to
make it more difficult."

"Then don't talk.  Just listen and drink your coffee."  He
pushed her coffee cup toward her until she had no choice but to
pick it up to prevent a messy spill.

"You didn't sleep well last night, Scully."

She paused, mid-sip, to question him with those sleep-deprived
eyes. 

He reached across the table and brushed his thumb lightly over
her cheekbone.  "You get these little dark circles right under
your eyes when you haven't slept enough."  When she flinched, he
soothed the insult with a more insistent caress and
unquestionable sincerity.  "Don't get me wrong.  You're still
very, very beautiful.  But I know you.  I know your face."  He
continued to explore her skin with his fingertips, even though it
felt dangerously like trespassing.  "It tells me everything you
won't.  Like when you're tired.  When you're hurt.  When you're
lying."  Mulder took his hand from her face, but continued to
lean across the table, his face distanced from hers by the width
of the coffee cup she held like a shield in front of her mouth.
"Do you love me, Scully?"

She lowered the cup to take up her preferred defense:  verbal
deflection.  "I thought you were doing all the talking."

"Do you?"  

And though it took some prodding to get the admission, there was
nothing hesitant in the way she answered.  "Yes."

His gaze traveled across her features and he read every nuance
in the language that was uniquely hers.  "See?  That's the
truth."

For the first time all morning, she smiled.  "Loving you has
never been the problem.  But, before we..."  He could tell she
was trying to pick out words that wouldn't be arousing reminders
of all those out-of-control kisses, all the illicit touches.  She
conceded defeat with a frustrated wave of her hand, letting
memory fill in what she couldn't say aloud.  "Before, I could
work with you without those feelings interfering with my
judgment."

"So you think it would be best if we went back to the way we were
before."

"Yes."

"Working together as partners.  Friends.  Nothing more."

Relief at his apparent agreement overflowed into her voice.
"Yes."

"And you think you can do that?"  He didn't give her a chance to
draw breath for an answer before he leaned across the table
again, and told her of his daring plan.  "Because I think it's
only fair to warn you that I'm going to make it very difficult
for you to do that.  In fact, I'll bet you that by this evening I
will have made you crazy with wanting me."

"The crazy part is probably right," she murmured, only loud
enough for him to hear the tease.  For a moment she said nothing,
until the intimacy to which they had both grown accustomed began
to wrap them in its close embrace.  "Mulder, you have to let this
go."

"I will, just as soon as you can look me in the eye and tell me
you don't want me."

She sighed, then lifted her hands to cradle his face.  Her voice
was strong and brutally honest -- "Mulder, I don't want you."

The lie was written all over her face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Yo, C.J., you have a smudge or something on your face."

First of all, I'm a realist, and fully aware that nothing I can
smear on my face is going to turn me into Cindy Crawford. I
wasn't expecting sonnets or serenades, but I don't think a modest
compliment is too much to demand for my three hundred dollars.  I
could have rubbed my nose on an inkpad and done this well.

And secondly -- "Yo"?

"Yo" has never before made an appearance in Trent's vocabulary.
I'm not sure it's made an appearance in anyone's vocabulary in
the past five years, but when uttered by a skinny, freckle-faced
white man, it is clearly and altogether wrong.

His wardrobe is always some bad-drug-experience combination of
colors, and the psychedelic glare from his shirt may well have
blinded him to my embellishments.  However, I suspect it is the
gossip buzzing through the library that has mutated my polite,
observant coworker into a self-absorbed lounge lizard.  For God's
sake, the man is actually swaggering.  He's been slinking through
the stacks all over the library, listening for reaction, and
returning with reports.

The library slaves have been liberated from their support-
stockinged oppressor by a man they would never suspect as their
Moses.  I suppose I can't blame Trent for basking in the glow of
his, of *our* accomplishments.

I thought Trent and I were going to be equal heroes in the world-
saving business, but while Inflated Ego Man is flying high, I'm
feeling less and less like Wonder Woman, and more like a
neglected, dispirited version of Lois Lane.

I guess I shouldn't have come in early to vacuum the office
carpet in the hope I would be lying naked on it later, but I did.
I shouldn't have been hurt when Trent wasn't overcome with lust
at first glimpse of my dusky mauve lips, but I was.  I probably
shouldn't even ask him to give up his glory and fix Mrs. Schnepf,
but I will.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"What are you doing, Mulder?"

They were alone in the elevator, so there was no particular
reason for him to be pasted against her back.  She tried to step
away, but he slipped an arm around her waist to anchor her in
place. "Hold still.  You have a loose thread on your collar."

A thread he was planning to cut away with his teeth, apparently,
though his aim was quite poor and he peppered her neck with off-
target nibbles before severing the offending string just before
the elevator doors slid open.

Scully emerged from the elevator a cooly professional FBI agent.
Her partner, as focused and stoic as he'd ever been, was at her side.
The nurse who directed them to Mrs. Schnepf's room would never
suspect that Scully's collar hid wet evidence of Mulder's kisses.

Maybe she could fool the world, but Scully couldn't fool herself.
Mulder was occupying more space than ever in her thoughts, and
those thoughts were springing to mind at the most wildly
inappropriate times. He was convinced that a no-holds-barred
seduction would overcome her reluctance, but if it was only a
matter of making her want him, a certain hospital elevator would
have been stopped between floors.

After years of decrying their neglect, her hormones had risen in
revolt and thrown her straight into the willing arms of her
partner.  That loss of control had nearly cost her the most
satisfying relationship she'd ever known.  How could she and
Mulder maintain balance in their partnership if sex became a
bargaining chip in an argument?  Could they shed their
professional disagreements with their clothes?  Was it fair to
unite their bodies when their minds were divided over a case?
Contrary to popular feminist theory, sometimes a woman can't have
it all. 

It wasn't too late to save a productive partnership and a
priceless friendship, but Mulder was going to have to forget the
foolhardy notion of making love to her. Maybe, eventually, given
enough time and taking into account the possibility of old-age
senility, she might forget it herself.

Just when it seemed nothing could drive those tantalizing visions
from Scully's mind, the nurse opened the door to room 811.
Suddenly, unraveling romantic entanglements seemed trivial when
compared with the problems of Emma Schnepf.

A thin hospital robe was stretched haphazardly around the woman's
pear-shaped body.  The chubby cheeks of her youth had been
weighted by age and gravity until they hung in heavy jowls from a
weathered face. Her frown, so deeply imbedded in wrinkled skin
that it couldn't have been carved overnight, was a monument
to year after bitter year of unhappiness.

Life had left some cruel marks on Emma Schnepf, but none as cruel
as what it had erased.  Where her eyes should have been were two
flawless patches of porcelain skin, crowned with the steep arches
of pencil-drawn brows.

"Who's there?"  The woman shuffled around on house-slippered feet
until her face was to the window, and her small, dark eyes were
peering at the agents through a fuzz of blue-tinged hair. In a
voice the tonal equivalent of fingernails scraping slate, she
demanded, "Who are you?"

"I'm Special Agent Scully."  As awkward as it seemed, Scully held
her badge up to the back of the woman's head.  Amazingly, the
trauma didn't appear to be affecting Emma's vision; her gaze
tracked across the print on the ID, then raked over both agents.
Scully gestured to her partner, "This is Agent Mulder.  We would
like to ask you some questions about your injury."

"I'm tired of answering questions." Her shrillness was bridled by
a frustrated sigh.  "I want someone to answer a few questions for
me.  I want someone to tell me how this happened and what they're
going to do about it."

"That's why we're here, Ms. Schnepf."  Scully hoped to put the
witness at ease with that blend of confidence and compassionate
bedside manner that had served her so well since medical school.
She was rewarded instead with a lecture that, if Mrs. Schnepf
could have contorted her body to accomplish it, would surely have
been accompanied with a stern shake of a gnarled finger.

"That's *Mrs.* Schnepf."  The retort, bellowed toward the window,
seemed to amplify as it bounced back to Scully.  "You young women
have no appreciation of what it means to submit yourself to a
husband.  Back before all those women's libbers started telling
girls it was okay to wear trousers and to do men's work, a woman
was honored to take her husband's name.  She was proud to be a
Mrs."

Scully chanced a glance at her partner, who seemed much too
amused with the old woman's rant, and far too anxious to hear how
his pants-wearing, gun-carrying physician of a partner would
respond.  No response was required, though, because Mrs.
Schnepf's rambling had taken a sad, reflective turn.

"Thank the good Lord my Milton isn't around to watch me suffer.
It would just break his heart to see me like this."

While Scully moved to Emma's side to get a better look at her
face, Mulder took up the questioning.  "I take it this condition
came upon you suddenly?"

"I was watching the evening news on television, and I
blinked.  All of a sudden I couldn't see anything but my own
hair."  She raised a hand and snapped her fingers, "Just like
that.  The doctors, they say there has to be a medical cause, but
feel this."  With surprising accuracy, the woman reached for and
grabbed Scully's wrist.  She dragged the agent's hand to her
eyeless face and pressed their fingers against the skin.  Much to
Scully's surprise, even the eye sockets were gone, replaced with
smooth bone.  "It's like I never had eyes there at all.  You tell
me what kind of disease can do that to a person."

"I don't know, Mrs. Schnepf, but I'm sure the doctors are doing
everything they can."  Scully's reassurance sounded pitifully
hollow.  Nothing in her own medical training or experience could
explain this, and she'd venture to say she'd seen more medical
oddities than the physicians in this hospital.

"The doctors don't know beans about what happened.  They're using
a lot of fancy words and running a bunch of expensive tests, but
they won't tell me anything."

Before the woman could dive into the mire of her consuming,
albeit understandable, self-pity, Mulder distracted  her
with a question.  "Do you know of a man named Randall
Harper?"

She considered for a second before answering.  "No. Should I?"

"What about Tony Oliver?"

"No, sir.  Did this happen to them, too?"

"Not exactly, but I think your cases might be related."

Emma Schnepf brushed her fingers over her scalp to pull away some
of the teased strands that had fallen in front of her eyes.  "Did
that witch put some sort of hex on them, too?"

"Witch?"  The agents asked in unison, though there was a marked
surplus of eagerness in Mulder's version of the question.

"Those doctors can take their tests and their fancy words and
stick them up their fannies."  With two backwards steps the stout
little woman was heel to toe with Mulder, bowing her head down so
she could peer up into his face.  "I know what happened to me,
and I know who did it.  I was cursed by a witch."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm sure Marcy Tinker thought it was a great idea to congratulate
the high school football team on their state semi-final victory with
kisses. A week later, Mono Marcy and all the starting members of the
team were home in their beds, drinking 7-Up and eating chicken noodle
soup while third-string quarterback and math club vice-president, Bucky
Mankewitz, was leading the Mighty Ocelots to the worst defeat in school
history.  Marcy survived the ordeal with aplomb.  After all, she didn't
knowingly spread germs to every boy in a letter jacket.

I, on the other hand, can't shake my pom pons and feign innocence.
At the time, it seemed like a good idea to use these newfound powers
to serve poetic justice to Mrs. Schnepf, but because of my selfish
actions, I may have lost everything.

Trent just returned from one of his rumor gathering excursions
with two disturbing pieces of news.

The FBI is here.  A couple of agents were in Mrs. Schnepf's
office, talking to her assistant.  Trent couldn't hear what they
were asking, but I know the agents wouldn't be here at all if it
wasn't for me and my asinine revenge fantasy.

I was ready to fall prostrate on the clean carpet and beg Trent's
forgiveness when he hit me with newsflash number two: he's
discovered the woman of his dreams.  She's beautiful, obviously
intelligent, possesses a fantastic little bod, and I figured out
fairly quickly, she's not me.

It wasn't my most tactful moment, but I felt compelled to point
out to Trent that a woman like he was describing wouldn't give it
up for a scrawny, plaid-wearing geek.

"No problem," he told me.  He knows exactly how to woo and win
the FBI agent who has stolen his heart, but he needs my help.  So
it looks like I'll be spending my afternoon listening, taking
notes when necessary, and reviewing every glorious detail of
Trent's plan to break my heart.

It only cost me three hundred dollars and every ounce of my self-
worth to finally understand what Freud was talking about.

Sometimes a Twinkie is just a Twinkie.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Scully was under a spell.  She was mesmerized by the perfume of
old books and the siren song of fluttering pages. The bindings,
each more beautiful than the next, promised rare prose and wisdom
within.  She couldn't resist a nostalgic stroll down the aisles of
the library. Others could cherish their memories of alcohol-soaked
sorority bashes or football games on chilly autumn days, but the
dearest of her college memories revolved around a place very much
like this one.  Suddenly she was nineteen again, cozy in a careless
mix of flannel and fleece, studying in a sunny nook she was sure no
one else had ever discovered.  Maybe this would be the day a handsome
graduate student would walk up to her and say--

"Hey, Gorgeous, ready to go on a witch hunt?"

No absurd daydream from her youth could compete to the reality of
Dana Scully's adult life, but at least, after all these years, one of
those old fantasies was coming true.  A handsome man was definitely
making a pass at her right in the middle of the library.

She might have construed Mulder's warm whisper as simple
compliance with library etiquette, but librarians rarely insisted
on full-body contact and ancillary ear nibbling as a means of
maintaining proper decorum.

Her fantasy suitor always got lucky behind shelves of art history
texts.  Mulder, for his effort, got a gentle shove backwards.
"Gorgeous?"  Her distaste for the endearment was evident in the
sour twist she gave the word.  "That's a little smarmy, don't you
think?"

"Only if it's not true."  Such unabashed flattery sounded odd
coming from Mulder, not because she didn't believe his sincerity,
but because he'd always made his admiration for her clear in
non-verbal ways.  

Scully was years out of practice for accepting compliments, and
felt herself blushing even as she rerouted the conversation.
"Did you get the address for--" she mimed quotation marks to
demonstrate her doubt, "--the witch?"

"Mrs. Schnepf's assistant was most forthcoming with information
once you wandered out here."

"Somehow I thought she might be."  The young woman in the
administration office barely acknowledged Scully's presence
as the agent waited by her desk.  She was, instead, engrossed in
a phone conversation, chirping on in glorious detail about her
date with someone named "Chopper."  But when Mulder stepped up to
the desk, the caller was abruptly shunted into "on hold"
oblivion and Victoria-but-you-can-call-me-Tori was more than
eager to answer their, well, Mulder's questions.

"Jealous?"

"Of course not.  We needed the information and she looked like
the type who would respond to your brand of smarmy charm."  It
was a one-two punch she'd perfected: playfully jabbing him in the
ego, then walking away before he could retaliate.

This time, Mulder recovered quickly.  He grabbed her by the wrist
and pulled her to him so that the side of her body was nested
against the front of his and her ear was bathed in the humid heat
of his breath.  "And what do you respond to?"

Logic and self-preservation had convinced her that a romance with
Mulder was a bad idea, but they couldn't quite overcome the shivers
the intimate press of his body induced. She tried to step away before
Mulder could register her trembling and discover her resolve was built
on a fragile foundation. "If you have to ask, then--"

Her escape plan was thwarted when Mulder wrapped an arm around
her waist and pinned her in place.  "What do you need from me,
Scully?"

"Mulder, we can talk about this later."  Later, and elsewhere.
They had this aisle all to themselves and chances were slim
anyone would wander by in search of ancient Spanish literature,
but despite the torrid library liaisons her imagination had
conjured, public displays of affection made her nervous.  More
nervous, obviously, than they made her partner.

"Anything," he said with a kiss and a promise.  "Anything you
want."

"I want..."  She wriggled from his hold and stepped out of reach.
Even through the lusty fog in her brain she could see the
precipice that loomed before them and the necessity of stepping
back before she and Mulder took an irreversible plunge.  "I
need you to accept my decision about our relationship."

"Scully, I --"

She held out a hand to forestall his approach and his argument.
"I don't want to risk what we have together just to satisfy our
baser urges."

"Is that what you think this is about?  Sex?"

"Are you telling me it's not?" It was true that Fox Mulder and
Dana Scully rarely read from the same page, but for Mulder to
stand there, looking wounded, and imply that he hadn't been
thinking about sex was stretching credibility more than any X-
File ever had. 

"Truthfully, Scully, I would have had sex with you the day I met you.
So, no, this isn't really about sex at all."

What he was saying made a certain amount of sense, but she
remained dubious. "Then why are you trying so hard to get me into
bed?"

He inched toward her again, cautiously crossing the distance
she'd put between them.  "Because I'm hopelessly, irrevocably,
flat-on-my-ass in love with you and I want to know you in every
way I can possibly know you."

Her rebellious arms disobeyed her mandate to push him away and
pulled him closer instead.  She had to admit, "You're very smooth
at this seduction thing."

"I've been practicing all my little speeches for years now."

She should have known Mulder would be as tenacious in this
pursuit as he was in all others.  It alternately frightened and
thrilled her to recall all the times he'd believed in the
impossible, and made her believe it, too.  If Mulder believed
in this romance, what good would it do for her to point out the
impossibilities?  Besides, she wasn't sure she could argue
convincingly, fixated as she was on his lower lip.  "I just need
some time.  Can you give me that?"

"You make up the rules, Scully.  I'm not going anywhere."  A
self-satisfied chuckle rumbled through that vow, and she knew
Mulder was celebrating his easy victory in the campaign to change
her mind.  

There were still questions, serious questions they had to
address, but unless she took control of the situation and soon,
she'd find herself debating the merits of abstinence while
wearing nothing but a post-coital smile.  She pulled her arms
from around his neck and levered him away with her elbows.
"Okay, rule number one, we're not going to discuss this again
until this case is solved."

"No discussing."  He nodded his agreement to her terms, then
proceeded to finger the lapel of her jacket.  "Is that it?"

"And rule number two," she brushed his wandering hand from the
front of her suit.  "No more touches or kisses or innuendo, not
until we've come to some decisions."

"What if I accidentally brush up against you?"  He, of course,
was anxious to illustrate exactly what this accidental brushing
might entail.

She foiled his advance by spinning him toward the exit. "I mean
it, Mulder."  

He pretended to pout.  "So my attempts to make you insane with
lust aren't working?"

A bright flash of red hair and neon plaid pulled Scully's
attention away from her partner, but the slender young man at the
end of the aisle darted away before she could get a good look.
"Let's go, Mulder.  I think we just frightened some poor
Spanish Lit major away from his Don Quixote."  She was a
couple of strides past Mulder, out of earshot, before she quietly
confessed, "I never said they weren't working."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I was eight, I decided I would no longer be Charmin Zullman,
and announced to my teachers and family that from that day on,
they should refer to me as Marcia Brady.  Mr. Wallace, soft-
hearted curmudgeon and second grade teacher, sat me down and
explained that Marcia Brady was a television character.  She
wasn't real.  That it was okay for me to admire Marcia and use
her as a role model, but I was damned to be Charmin for eternity.
He didn't use the word "damned," though I'm sure he thought it.

In 1978, my role model choices were limited.  There was my
mother, of course.  I loved my mother, loved curling up against
her squishy body while she read to me, loved sitting on the
kitchen counter to help make sugar cookies, but I had no desire
to slip into her white sneakers and become a second-generation
nurse's aide at the Shady Rest convalescent home.  Aunt Gloria
had role model potential until she left my uncle for a guy who
sold velvet Jesus paintings out of the back of truck.

That left television as my best and only source of role model
material, and that's where I met Marcia.  She flounced into my
living room every weekday afternoon at 4:00, tossing her groovy
hair, smiling her groovy smile, wearing cool mini-skirt and
knee-sock ensembles, enduring broken dates and broken noses with
teary-eyed grace.  

Though I finally realized I was too deficient in tossable hair to
transform myself into Marcia, I did learn some valuable lessons
from her. That's how I know this "Pygmalion" idea of Trent's is
doomed to failure.  Oh, it might work out okay for Trent, but
according to the Brady Model, a nerd makeover is bound to backfire
on the unselfish benefactor who made the metamorphosis possible.

Take Molly, for example.  Marcia Brady, equal in her benevolence
to both jocks and dorks, befriended poor, slump-shouldered,
bespectacled Molly and remade her into a self-assured high-school
queen, complete with mod sweater vest and borrowed knee socks.

As you might guess, the story took an ugly turn when the newly
beautiful and appallingly ungrateful Molly weaseled her way into
a date with a visiting astronaut, leaving poor Marcia to languish
at home, dateless and suffering.

Now here I sit, thumbing through stacks of "Cosmo" and "GQ,"
searching for the perfect new look for Trent, choosing between
brown hair and blonde, green eyes or blue, casual twill or
polished linen, and knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that I'll
be the one left home alone on Friday night.

It all ended well for Marcia.  Molly realized the weaseliness of
her ways, showed up at the Brady house on date night with astronaut
in tow, and asked Marcia to join them.  (In the perfect "Brady
Bunch" world, no one questioned the wisdom of sending two nubile,
underage girls out on the town with a 30-something fly boy.)

I wish I could feel confident that this episode of my life will
turn out as well, but in reality, there are no guarantees of a
happy resolution to every crisis, no assurances that the weasels
will be redeemed, and no Marcia Brady to distribute knee socks and
advice.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dana Scully was a woman who relished order in a universe of
chaos.  She knew all the rules, all the protocol, and was
outwardly impressed by those whose conduct mirrored her own
professionalism.  

She would never confess it, but Mulder had discovered a secret
about his partner after dragging her through mud and brush in a
dense Oregon forest during their first case together. She liked
breaking the rules.  Rebellion brought color to her cheeks,
lifted her voice to a rusty soprano, excited her. For years Mulder
shamelessly courted his partner's impulsive side, finding an
infinite number of ways to boost her heart rate her with his
unconventional approach to law enforcement. He'd long since worked
past any guilt he felt at turning his by-the-book partner into an
FBI rebel.  The rebel, he realized, had always been lurking in that
claustrophobic prison of protocol, just waiting for an accomplice
to engineer her escape.

But that was work, and the rules he broke were the impersonal
blatherings of desk jockeys whose experiences with things beyond
rational explanation were limited to minivans and PTA meetings.
Mulder had been more respectful of the guidelines Scully set
for their relationship.  The potential losses were too great, the
promised rewards for his forbearance too sweet to risk in an illicit
attempt to ravish her at work.  If his newly intensified seduction
was making her uncomfortable, and he knew it was, she had no one to
blame but herself.  She had changed the rules, removed the rewards,
and was now going to have to cope with a desperate non-conformist
with nothing to lose.

Eventually, Scully's hastily constructed denial would crumble,
and then Mulder would spend night after night demonstrating to
her the joy of reckless abandon.  Or she might tire of his
persistence and end his crusade with a sharp knee to the groin.
Either way, the urgency of his desire would be tempered.

In the meantime, the vermin-infested home of the "witch,"
Fallon Kendall, provided a bracing chill for his libido.  Mulder
wasn't averse to clutter.  He found it soothing to roost in cozy
piles of laundry and old newspapers.  But there was a distinction
between clutter and filth, and this place was teetering on the line
between filth and toxic landfill.

Scully was balanced on the edge of a couch cushion, trying to make
as little physical contact with the environment as possible.  Mulder
was sitting primly with hands in his lap after making the earlier
mistake of draping an arm across an ant trail.  Cockroaches scuttled
across the room, confident they would go unmolested by the human
inhabitant of the tumbledown house trailer.

If Scully got little thrills from disorder, she ought to be
positively orgasmic in this place.  Clearly, she wasn't.

"There are witnesses who saw you arguing with Emma Schnepf in the
library." There was a sharp edge in his partner's voice, which was
understandable in light of Miss Kendall's open hostility
and Scully's earlier skid across the linoleum. She'd been
both murderer and victim of a fat, ooze-infused beetle.

"Yeah.  So what?"  Insolence smacked out around a glob of
chewing gum. "That doesn't mean I rearranged her face."

After meeting Fallon Kendall in person, it wasn't difficult to
understand how Mrs. Schnepf had formed her "witch" hypothesis.
The young woman was a perfect illustration for a modern horror
tale.  Her head had been shaved except for a few untamed wires
of black hair that sprang from the crown of her head.  Any pallid
skin not cloaked in billowing black fabric was decorated with
tattoos and piercings.

She looked every inch the malevolent witch, which is why Mulder
was convinced she wasn't.  She was a caricature and it had been
his experience that solutions rarely swept in on brooms and
presented themselves so obviously.  On the other hand, he wasn't
ready to dismiss her as a suspect based on a first impression.
"Mrs. Schnepf claims you cursed her."

She shifted her thickly-lined eyes toward Mulder.  "I called her
an ugly, fat bitch."

"But you didn't put a curse on her."

Fallon pressed her shoulders against the ragged wicker of her
chair, and responded with a regal air of offense.  "She was a
hateful person and she refused to help me, but I wouldn't do that
sort of thing to anyone."

"Are you implying that you could do that sort of thing if you
wanted to?" Mulder asked.

"Look, I told you I didn't do anything.  I went to the library to
get some books back.  The old bitch wouldn't help me.  I left."
Silvery bracelets tumbled up and down her arms in a noisy jangle
as Fallon's gestures broadened. "End of story until you two
showed up on my doorstep."

A plump, gray mouse had been contentedly gnawing on an edge of
the wood paneling in the living room; its presence hadn't escaped
Mulder's notice, but the  rodent seemed rather innocuous compared
to the other creatures swarming across the floor.  To another
animal, one that had been lurking out of sight in the kitchen,
the mouse must have seemed an appetizing lunch entree.  The
thunderous flapping of wings startled the agents and both
reflexively reached for their weapons until they realized the
only one in danger was the lithe little mouse who found refuge
behind a beanbag chair.

"You have a pet crow?"  This latest jolt to Scully's adrenalin
did nothing to improve her mood; her disenchantment with
Fallon Kendall was evident.

The meal-deprived bird circled the room, then landed atop the
television next to Fallon.

"A raven.  She hangs out here. You got a problem with that, too?"

"It's a federal offense to keep a migratory bird confined as a
pet." Scully rattled off the arcane law as if were the most
common of knowledge.  She surprised him sometimes.  Mulder's
brain was a veritable warehouse of information and trivia, but
his partner was as brilliant in her own right, and just as adept at
proving it to anyone who needed reminding.

Fallon pointed a black-nailed finger toward the gaping,
screenless window behind Scully's head.  "There's the window,
Sherlock.  She can leave whenever she wants."

Mulder cringed in sympathy for Fallon, who was too conceited to
recognize the line she'd just crossed.  Scully did not tolerate
that kind of disrespect, but the lecture Mulder was expecting
Scully to deliver didn't occur.  Instead, his partner was leaning
over the arm of the couch, looking at something on the floor.

Their suspect appeared supremely bored, more interested in
winding chewing gum around her finger than in anything the agents
were doing.  "So, you got any more questions or are you just
gonna sit and stare at my floor?"

Scully slid off the couch and bent to retrieve one of the
newspapers from the floor.  "Mulder, look at this."

He stood to peer over Scully's shoulder, tracking her finger to
the circled headline on the page when, in a sudden explosion of
noise and motion, a nightmare intruded on his waking world.

The raven came diving from its perch, screeching a warning,
ripping through the paper in Scully's hands.  Scully was
desperately, ineffectually batting at the bird, and attempting to
shield her face from the sharp beak and slashing talons.  Mulder
pulled her behind him, blocking her with his body. He lashed out
at the swooping, darting animal, but managed to connect with only
the faintest of blows before the raven flew out of reach then
charged again.

The slap of heavy wings against the air.  The harsh cry of a
frenzied bird.

Fallon's clattering bracelets.  Her hateful, incomprehensible
curses.  

Scully's gasps and grunts, muffled behind protective arms.

Newspaper crunching beneath shifting feet.

The whoosh of wind as the raven flew past them one last time on
its way out the window.

One by one the sounds insinuated themselves into Mulder's
perception, underscoring the scene like discordant, experimental
music.  In the quiet that followed the attack, a tiny, soft noise
trespassed.  Hushed as rose petals falling on silk, Scully's
blood spilled with gentle plops on the front of her jacket.
____________


"God, Mulder, I can't see at all."

Scully felt the impact when the raven first flew at her face, but
she'd been focused on warding the creature away, on protecting
herself and her partner from the diving attacks.  Pain didn't
assert itself until the bird flew away.  Scully was appalled to
discover that the wounded-animal whimper, that pathetic mewl she
heard, had come from her own throat.

Blood, thinned and salted by sweat, poured around the makeshift
dam of her fingers, traveled in messy trails down her cheeks,
splashed vivid patterns onto the muted beige of her jacket.  She
felt Mulder's fingers trying to pry her hands from her face, but
with blood searing her eyes like acid, she was unwilling to yield
and continued to rub her eyelids.  She didn't know where her
partner found the wet cloth he pressed into her fingers, and
considering their surroundings, she wasn't sure she wanted to
know.  Finally, with some determined assistance from her partner,
she managed to wipe away the worst of the blood and, for the first
time since the frightening mass of talons and feathers had
hurtled through the newspaper in her hands, Scully opened her
eyes.

And immediately closed them.

She wouldn't be trying that again.  Not until the bleeding
scratches and gouges around her eyes were cleaned and dressed.

Mulder hauled Fallon Kendall to the car; the woman's heavily-
booted footsteps pounded under her wails of civil rights abuse.  The
rant was cut off suddenly by the slamming of the car door.

When Mulder returned, it was clear to Scully even though her eyes
Were closed, that he'd left his agent persona back at the car.  The
man tenderly washing her wounds, murmuring reassurances, and nervously
rifling through a first aid kit, was an endearing bundle of love
and worry she didn't have to see to appreciate.

His medical prowess, however, left something to be desired. When she
opened her eyes for the second time, Scully found herself lost in
a cloud of white gauze.

What Mulder lacked in skill, he made up for in sincere bedside
manner.  Despite her complaint of blindness, he confidently
defended his treatment. "These cuts have to be dressed, Scully.
You know that."

"I know that, but I think some Band-Aids would suffice."  She was
hesitant to pull away the bandages he'd so carefully wrapped
around her, but she had visions of the neighborhood children
screaming in terror.  She didn't want to be immortalized in local
lore as the "Blood Mummy from Trailer 13."

Mulder cooperated, albeit reluctantly, and pasted plastic bandages
around her right eye in a haphazard decoration.  The gauze over her
left eye had to stay.  He insisted on that.

If the beak gouge at her temple had been inflicted a centimeter
to the right, Scully might never have had the pleasure of seeing
Mulder with both eyes again.  When she thought about it, it
didn't really matter if his dressings were sloppy or overdone.
So what if she had to spend an hour or two admiring Mulder through
some lovingly-applied gauze?

"Is this okay?" Mulder asked as he made a final adjustment to her
bandage.

"It's perfect."
____________

Their entrance into FBI headquarters was nothing if not
dramatic.  Fallon led the way, prodded along by Mulder.
Apparently concerned that her look was too understated for
government peons to appreciate, she made sure to spit her
antisocial dogma at anyone with the misfortune to pass them in
the corridor.  

Mulder, the least conspicuous of the group, was almost
embarrassingly free of physical damage from their traumatic visit
to Fallon Kendall's home.  He had come away with just one
souvenir.  Beneath his suit coat, preserved in the cotton fibers
of his shirt, was the small, bloody handprint of his partner.
She had indulged his need to provide support and had wrapped an
arm around his waist as he guided her from Fallon's house trailer
to their car.

Scully didn't require him as a crutch any longer.  She was by his
side, striding down the hall like some battle-torn
general--bloodied, bandaged, exuding authority from every pore.
The other agents were openly staring, but there was an
unmistakable message in her body language that said, "Don't ask,"
and no one did.  

When they passed the ladies' room, Scully ducked inside to make
whatever repairs she could and to examine her wounds.  They'd
argued briefly over the necessity of a trip to the emergency
room. Mulder had relented, but had extracted a promise that she
would check herself over and give him an honest assessment.  She
wouldn't be completely forthcoming, but he had plenty of experience
compensating for Dr. Scully's tendency to downplay a self-diagnosis.

Mulder steered Fallon to the left, down a small hallway toward
the interrogation room, and straight into the path of a door-
slamming fury in a navy blue suit.  He propelled Fallon out of
harm's way but Mulder couldn't avoid the collision; Sheila
Solomon crashed into him, then barreled on like a runaway
locomotive.   

Instead of offering an apology, Sheila managed to out-bluster even
the effusive Fallon Kendall as she disappeared around the corner.
"God damn, son of a bitch!  Just who the fu--"

"Sorry about that, Agent Mulder.  She got some bad news, and
she's kind of upset."  The muttered excuse came from a white-faced
Nelson Abbott who was peeking warily around a doorframe, and looked
as though he'd already borne the brunt of Sheila Solomon's wrath.

"Have a seat in here, Miss Kendall.  I'll be right back."  Mulder
waved the young woman into a sparsely furnished interrogation
room and closed the door.  Turning back to Abbott, he asked, "Bad
news about the investigation?"

"No.  Nothing like that."  Abbott ventured into the hallway, and
Mulder noticed the man's gaze darting nervously in the direction
Sheila had gone.  There was no sign of her, no sound of
clattering heels coming in their direction, but Nelson still
whispered the information like he was passing on state secrets.
"She lost out on a promotion today."

"That's got to be tough, but I'm sure there will be other
opportunities for her.  She's a good agent."  Mulder had his hand
on the doorknob and was poised to reenter the interrogation room
when an offhand comment from Abbott stopped him cold.

"Maybe she should talk to you.  Guess you'll be needing a new
partner, huh."

"A new partner?  What's wrong with the one I have?"  Mulder felt
like he'd strayed into the joke just in time for the punch line
and was wondering if polite laughter might have been a better
response to such a ridiculous statement.

"Nothing, except it'd be a hell of commute for her from St.
Louis to D.C."  Now Abbott really was attempting levity, but cleared
his throat and continued in more sober tones when Mulder reacted with
a frown.  "Scully's going to be the new ASAC here.  The SAC told
Sheila that Agent Scully has been highly recommended by the brass
in Washington, and that she's his first choice for the job."

Mulder began shaking his head before Nelson stopped speaking and
continued as he emphatically denied the rumor.  "I'm sure Solomon
is mistaken.  Scully would have told me if she'd been approached
about a job like that."

"Yeah, Sheila said Agent Scully sounded surprised when they
talked about it yesterday."

"They talked about it?"  Mulder had been hearing this
conversation and responding to it, but now he was starting to
feel the words twisting like snakes in his stomach.

"Agent Scully told Sheila she wasn't interested, but it sounds
like they're going to make her a really nice offer.  She'd be
crazy to turn it down."

Abbott kept talking but Mulder only heard his own heart
Pounding and his blood ringing in his ears, so when Abbott paused
for a reply, Mulder had to ask him to repeat the question.

"Where is Agent Scully anyway?"

"Getting cleaned up."  Mulder was pleased by how impassive he
sounded, but he didn't let go of the doorknob--it was all that
was holding him up at the moment.  "We ran into a little trouble
when we were interviewing Miss Kendall.  Want to sit in on the
interrogation?"

"Sure.  That'd be great."  Either he was truly eager to
participate in the interview, or just looking for a place to hide
from Sheila Solomon, but Abbott didn't hesitate to enter the
small room when Mulder opened the door.

Mulder lingered in the hallway for a moment to collect his thoughts
and in that collection he found things dark and painful. He recalled
the violence Scully had endured and the injuries she'd suffered
because of her work with him. He heard again every scream and
stifled sob.  He was shown a clear mental picture of her sitting
comfortably in a big leather chair, safe and happy.  And he
remembered that just yesterday, following a never-mentioned
conversation with Sheila Solomon, Scully had tried to let him
down easy.  
____________

The door slammed open with the deafening report of a gunshot.
Warm water splashed across the front of her blouse as Scully
leapt away from the sink and spun to face whatever hulking menace
might come storming from behind the tiled partition.

The noisy new arrival, it turned out, wasn't hulking at all and
not particularly menacing, although Scully didn't feel entirely
comfortable in a confined space with an irate Sheila Solomon.

"Perfect.  This is just too God-damned perfect."  That was all
Scully got by way of greeting before Sheila stomped into one of
the stalls and shoved the door closed with wall-rattling force.

If their situations were reversed and Scully was the one attempting
anger management in a bathroom stall, she would not appreciate some
colleague loitering by the door, spouting therapeutic drivel.  She
decided to get cleaned up as quickly as possible and let Sheila work
it out for herself.

Scully had barely dipped her hands below the surface of the warm,
sudsy water when she heard Sheila begin to cry.  At first it was
only sniffling and the punctuated breaths of someone trying
to swallow a sob.  Scully cupped water in her hands and brought
it to her face, letting it dribble through her fingers and rain
loudly into the sink.  If she splashed around enough, she could
pretend she never heard the dainty sounds.  But when Sheila's
timorous weeping gave way to unrestrained hiccups and curses, the
cast of Riverdance could have paraded around the sink and it wouldn't
have masked the noise.

"Sheila, are you okay?"  Scully thought briefly about fetching
Mulder to handle this.  Clearly, Sheila was not okay, and maybe
someone with a psychology degree would have more sense than to
blurt out inane questions. Scully decided to cut herself some slack.
After all, she'd just had her face pecked by a raven. She tried again.
"Is there anything I can do?"

"Go away, damn it."

Granted, Sheila's demand might have carried more impact if it had
been less soggy in the delivery, but Scully was willing to oblige.
She needed to do something with her hair, and then she would
leave Sheila to her breakdown.

Scully's jacket was a total loss, but now that the blood had been
washed away, her face appeared salvageable. With a fresh bandage
over the puncture by her eye, a loading dose of Tylenol, and a
quick dalliance with a comb, she could emerge from the bathroom
feeling a little less conspicuous than when she'd dragged in
as ruffled and bloody as an alley cat.

She was just a few strokes of the comb from a clean getaway
when Sheila emerged from the stall and blocked her escape route.
The woman's dark face was streaked with tears and she was wiping
at her nose with a ragged piece of toilet paper.  The polished
facade she wore so effortlessly had fallen away and she was
revealed to Scully as a brittle, fierce woman, old beyond her
years.  "I hear congratulations are in order, Agent Scully."

The sentiment was offered without warmth and it had hardly
been a day worth celebrating, which begged the question: "What
are you talking about?"

"That job you said you didn't want, it's yours for the taking.
Looks like you're the one who broke the glass ceiling."  Sheila
stuck out a hand for Scully to shake, but the gesture was a
mocking one and Scully ignored it.  Solomon continued speaking,
saccharine sweet.  "I've been stuck here in St. Louis, so I
haven't been able to kiss any D.C. butt, but evidently you've
been puckering up around all the right people.  Your A.D. can't
say enough nice things about you.  I wouldn't be surprised if SAC
Powell doesn't ask you to marry him after he offers you the job."

"That's enough, Agent Solomon!"  Two days of frustration over
baffling autopsies, wayward partners, office gossip, witch
wannabes and deranged birds were expelled with enough heat that
Solomon seemed to whither.

Scully turned toward the mirror to finish her grooming.  She took
a couple of unmerciful swipes at her hair with the comb, then
fished her ruined jacket out of the adjacent sink and stuffed her
comb into the pocket.  "If they want to offer me the job, fine,
but so far the only person who's mentioned it to me is you."  She
made eye contact with Sheila's reflection in the dusty mirror.
"I told you yesterday that I wasn't interested."

"I know what you told me, but that doesn't seem to matter
because the position is pursuing you.  Powell is convinced he can
persuade you to stay."

"Then Powell needs to talk to me about it, because until he does,
this conversation is pointless.  Pull yourself together, Solomon.
Take the rest of the day off if you need to, but don't bother
coming back until you can discuss your concerns with me without
the hysterics." 

Tension arced between the two women, but Sheila was visibly
calmer.  She nodded and stepped out of Scully's way.  There was
even a trace of compassion when she asked, "What happened to
you?"

"Oh this?"  Scully brushed her fingers over the bandage by her
eye.  "Must've been that glass ceiling crashing down in my face."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here's a little secret for all you gorgeous people who find it
entertaining to ridicule the beauty-challenged.  Ugly people make
fun of you, too.

Ugly girls hold pizza parties for events like the Miss USA
pageant.  For us, beauty pageants are the Super Bowl and the
World Series compacted into two spectacular hours.  There's
nothing quite like watching 51 perfect models of womanhood teeter
across the stage in high heels and swim suits while you and your
unattractive friends chant "Trip, trip, trip, trip."  And when
the contestants glide to the microphone to make their
introductions, it's like shooting fish in a barrel.  "Hi!  I'm
Miss California, Tawny Ignacio-Wellington! (The best contestants
always have hyphenated names -- it demonstrates that, despite
their inferior intelligence, they aren't actually the product of
inbreeding.)  I'm 21 years old, a senior at Stanford University
majoring in Communications!  After graduation I plan to become a
television reporter and continue my volunteer work distributing
abandoned puppies to crippled children and elderly shut-ins!"

Even when Miss Ohio takes off for the victory stroll, leaving
Miss California in First-Runner-Up Hell, there are no signs of
hair, smile, or boob droopage on Tawny, which confirms my
suspicion that all major body parts are either fake or glued in
place.

Last week, I stumbled across a pseudo-documentary about
the lives of supermodels that made beauty pageants look like
think tanks for nuclear physicists.  Woe is the poor supermodel
who must rise at 6:00 a.m. and spend hour after $20,000 hour
lying on a rock formation on the Mediterranean coast.  Pout,
smile, pout, smile--well, you can see how taxing that would be.
And just when you think you're a roll of film away from finishing
another grueling assignment, Buddy, the makeup guy, has to come
over and brush sand off your ass.  I can only thank God I'm a
homely librarian and don't have to deal with the constant
nuisance of fabulous wealth, expensive clothes, and pesky
assistants who will bring me bottled water and wisk my butt
on demand.

Did I mention I'm not terribly sympathetic to the plight of
beautiful people?  So, naturally, I'm not crying rivers for the
beautiful FBI agent who, Trent claims, is being sexually harassed
by her co-worker. Could be I'm bitter because I was hoping to be
pawed by my own co-worker today, but I really don't think her problems
are any of my business.

Trent said the guy was all over her and no matter how often she
pushed him away, he'd come back at her.  She's an FBI agent, for
God's sake.  I say let her fight her own battles and save the
heroic intervention for someone who actually requires it.  Trent
insists his new beloved is just an itty-bitty thing who needs
our protection from the Goliath who is pursuing her.

I'm all for saving the world, but I'm not going to follow Miss
FBI Agent all over St. Louis, brushing away every inconvenience
that lands on her shapely tush. Besides, there's a beauty pageant
on TV tonight.  This time, Trent's on his own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You like Rancid Pork?"

For more than an hour, Mulder tossed questions at Fallon Kendall.
He inquired about Randall Harper, about the argument with Emma
Schnepf, about the raven that attacked Scully at the very instant
she discovered evidence implicating Fallon. And Fallon provided
plausible answers to every question, though with an attitude that
wavered between belligerence and indifference.  Yes, she had circled
the newspaper article about Randall Harper's death, but only because
she kept a murder scrapbook. That might be unusual but not illegal.
Yes, she'd argued with Emma Schnepf when the librarian wouldn't retrieve
the heirloom books that were given to the library by mistake, but she knew
nothing about what happened to Mrs. Schnepf later that evening.  And
ravens were unpredictable birds, known to attack humans on occasion, but
they were also notoriously untrainable and could never be made to attack
on command.

Frustration surged and ebbed, voices rose and overlapped, and all
the while, Nelson Abbott remained a silent, nearly forgotten observer
in the corner of the room.   Then, out of nowhere, he asked Fallon
if she liked rotten meat.  It wasn't unusual for an interrogator
to throw a suspect off balance with an out-of-left-field question,
but this one wasn't even in the same town as the ballpark.

"You listen to Rancid Pork?"  Enthusiasm filtered into her
doubtful tone, and the ragamuffin witch who had been slouched at
the table was infused with energy.

Abbott pushed away from the wall and took a seat across from
Fallon.  "I saw your t-shirt.  Sure, I know that band.  My cousin
plays the drums."

The t-shirt Abbott had seen was black, like the rest of Fallon's
clothes, and ripped at the collar, but when Mulder looked closely
at the faded design he could see the words "Rancid Pork" written
in maggots. 

"Oh man, you're kidding me."  Mulder wouldn't have believed
Fallon Kendall could be star struck by anyone, and certainly not
by a man as exceedingly average as Nelson Abbott, but here she
was, swooning across the table between them.  "I go see them every
time they're in town.  Do you think you could, you know, maybe mention
me to your cousin?"

Nelson glanced conspicuously at his watch, then shook his head
forlornly.  "I'd call him this afternoon, but it looks like we're
going to be here awhile."

"Look, I answered the geek's questions."

Opportunity to take offense passed before Mulder realized he was
the geek.

"And we appreciate the cooperation," Nelson told her in a voice
so rich with sincerity it was a wonder he didn't gag.  "But I was
hoping there might be something else you could tell us that would
aid in our investigation.  Anything you might have failed to
mention before, or thought was unimportant."  And with a small,
but meaningful nod toward the "Rancid Pork" logo on Fallon's
shirt, he added.  "I sure would be grateful for the help."

"You'll tell your cousin to look for me next time his band plays
in the city?"

"Definitely."

"Then maybe I should tell you about my grandmother."

____________


"Her grandmother was a what?"  Her question was a rote response;
revelations of this sort didn't surprise her any more.  No,
the unsettling flutter in Scully's stomach wasn't caused by
anything Mulder had said.  It was the way he said it.

"A sorceress."

Subdued.  Mulder was subdued.  The man who would pace, rock on
his toes, nearly dance at the mention of anything remotely
paranormal, was slumped in a chair in her office, theorizing on a
magical case solution in a novocaine mumble.  In the hope that a
debate would revive him, she threw an obvious hurdle in his way.
"But you said the grandmother is dead."

"Died a little over a month ago."

Rarely had she found it necessary to prompt him. "But?"

"Fallon's family has practiced sorcery for generations."

"So Fallon Kendall is following her heritage by randomly zapping
people with hocus-pocus."  Scully wasn't just prompting, she was
acting as spokesperson for the irrational team.

"No, not Fallon."  Finally, Mulder's spine seemed to solidify and
he sat up straighter in the chair.  "I honestly don't believe Fallon
had anything to do with this, but she said her stepmother donated
some of her grandmother's reference books to the University library.
I think someone at the library, either an employee or a patron, got
hold of those books and has been casting a few spells of their own."

"So we just need to dash over to the library, get the name of the
last person to check out 'The ABC's of Sorcery,' and put an end
to this reign of terror."  She offered him a smile that he
struggled, but failed, to return.

He shrugged and said, "Who knows?  It may be as simple as that."

She shook her head.  "Nothing we do is ever as simple as that."

He was watching her, always watching, even when his body sagged
and his speech dipped low, his gaze never drifted from her face.
He was examining her like an artist memorizing a subject's face
for a future painting.  All the intensity he normally put into
theorizing was blazing through his eyes, sending her a message
she couldn't read and was afraid to decipher.

When he wouldn't look away, she stood and turned toward the
window to evade his stare.  The twinge of pain by her eye reminded
her to ask, "What about the raven?"

"The displaced soul of Fallon's grandmother, of course."

"Of course.  Silly me."

When he laughed, she considered it a breakthrough, and daringly
turned to face him again.  At last his eyes had found a new
target. They were focused on the chair she'd deserted.

"So," she asked, "what made Fallon Kendall so chatty all of a
sudden?  I figured you'd be in there all day."

"Believe it or not, it was Agent Abbott who got through to her."
Mulder sounded as amazed to be making the statement as she was to
hear it.

"Nelson Abbott?"

Mulder seemed to be enjoying the memory as he described Abbott's
strategy. "He started talking about her favorite band, and let it
slip that his cousin was the drummer."

"That's quite a coincidence."

"It would have been," Mulder lifted himself from his chair and
collected the jacket he'd draped over the back.  "But it turns
out his cousin is the drummer for the Greater St. Louis Bagpipe
Brigade."

Now Scully really was astounded.  She never would have thought
Agent Abbott capable of convincing deceit.  "He lied to her?"

"He allowed her to make an assumption."

"That sounds like something you would do," she teased, then
waited for Mulder's clever retort.  She didn't expect the
thoughtful answer he gave.

"With the right supervision, the kid might turn out okay.  You're
lucky to have him working for you."

Her brows drew together, asking a personal question while making
a professional statement.  "I'll be sure to commend him."

Mulder acknowledged the statement with a nod, but ignored her
unspoken question and was making movements to leave.  She had no
choice but to abandon their wordless communication.  "Mulder, is
something wrong?"  

He cocked his head, even affected surprise that she might find
something odd in his behavior.  He set his coat down, and walked
around the desk to pull her into a light embrace.  He gave her a
brief, dry kiss and an assurance. "Everything's fine."  Just as
quickly, he had his suit coat back in hand and was on his way to
the door.  "We'd better get going before the library closes."

She waved vaguely toward the computer on her desk.  "Just give me
a second to finish this incident report.  I'll be right there."
The leather chair felt cold and hard when she sat down.

"Scully?"  Mulder was standing all the way across the room, but
his gaze was moving across her body like desperate hands.  He left
her with a compliment: "You look good sitting there."

____________

Doubt was wedged between them like a third passenger in the car,
and try though he might to ignore it, Mulder felt it pushing him
further away from his partner.  Every unasked question and untold
secret was a wiggly child crying out for attention. Mulder had to
roll down the window to escape claustrophobia in what had once
seemed a roomy sedan.

If Scully minded the diesel-scented wind that whipped through the
car, she didn't say.  She seemed content to study the
underbellies of trucks and dream of the soon-to-be someday when
her beautiful bottom would be nestled in a leather chair
instead of bounced across America in a bucket seat.  She was
brilliant and determined and tough and diplomatic and way past-
due for a promotion like this.  Whatever sin she'd committed in
youth, her years of penance in the company of Fox Mulder had
finally atoned. 

Mulder had his faults, but when it mattered most he was an
honorable man.  Chivalry demanded he make this easy for her, kiss
her goodbye, wish her well, let her leave....


.... Did he actually believe she would leave him? Had he
managed to divine a "Dear John" letter from an unsubstantiated,
second-hand piece of gossip?  Even a daredevil conclusion leaper
like Mulder should have been wary of that jump. Yet, when she'd
peeked behind the facade of assurances and fabricated smiles
he'd thrown into place, Scully found a martyr where this morning
had dwelled a persistent Lothario.

It all made sense to her now.  Nelson Abbott, maybe even Sheila
Solomon, had spilled the beans about a still-mythical job offer
and Mulder had gone diving headlong into self-pity.  Sure, she
could throw him a lifeline as she always did, refuting his
assumptions with actual facts and cooing a few pretty promises
about forever.  

Or she could let him flail awhile longer and say nothing....


....Nothing at all.  Not a single word.  The guy in the Frito
Lay truck in the next lane had more entertaining cargo: at least
there was snack food on board.  Mulder was trapped in stop-and-go
traffic with a broken radio and a non-communicative partner.  He
wondered if Mr. Frito Lay would take pity and toss him a bag
of Ruffles.

Was this what he had to look forward to?  When searching in vain
for something to fill the void in their lives, did lonely people
turn to potato chips?

He stole a glance at Scully, saw the bruises and bandages on her
face, and recoiled from the sharp pinch of his own conscience.
This was about more than promotions snf neglected libidos. Scully
had an opportunity to escape the hazards of a partnership, a life
spent with him.  If she was giving him a taste of loneliness by
staring out the window, he needed to learn to love the flavor as
much as he loved the woman....


.... It was a bitter taste of her own medicine.  She'd asked
Mulder to vacate her personal space.  Insisted, in fact, that he
give her some distance to make clear-headed judgments about the
future of their relationship.  Regardless of his underlying
reasons, he'd only done as she'd asked.  She'd been looking to
assign blame for her discomfort and Mulder had been an obvious
suspect, but she found the guilty party when she opened the
vanity mirror.

When she'd been injured, she eyed herself with the detachment of
a physician assessing a patient.  Every morning she made sure the
agent in the reflection was groomed to a professional standard.
It had been a very long time since she'd lingered in front of a
mirror just to consider if she was attractive or desirable.
Mulder thought she was beautiful; she didn't need proof from a
piece of glass. Without him, she would have to rely on her own
critical eyes to judge, and they were finding all the flaws, the
freckles, and the shallow hints of future wrinkles.  Her nose was
too straight, her eyebrows uneven.  Add an encounter with a raven,
and she looked like a escapee from an Edgar Allan Poe tale.

Maybe, though, that wicked bird had done her a favor.  It had
attacked not just her face, but her complacency.  Had reminded
her that life can be as fragile as the wall of an artery.
Tomorrow she could be dead and Mulder would be left with memories
of lectures, not lovemaking.  Her caution with him was nothing
more than cowardice in a prim disguise.

The man brooding in the driver's seat was only being the man
she'd fallen in love with. The same noble, self-sacrificing,
wounded soul who had drawn her in.  A man who had lost so much
so often that he thought love came with an expiration date.  He
needed reassurance and he certainly deserved a better companion
than the ugly coward looking back at her from the mirror.

Scully stared hard at the image and it began to shift in her
perception, to soften and fill with color, until she could
finally see a brave and beautiful woman.  Just the kind of woman
who would be impulsive enough to make love to her partner
tonight....


....He was surprised when she reached across the seat to slip
her hand into his.  He memorized the touch, this preliminary
gesture to their farewell kiss....


....He seemed surprised when she touched him, but he clung to
her hand.  If he liked the preliminaries this much, he was going
to be amazed by her follow-up.
____________

"Charmin.  Like the toilet paper.  Zullman."

Mulder felt an immediate kinship toward the woman with the toilet
paper name.  Never mind that he had nothing obvious in common
with someone who could cross-index, the bond of badly-named
children had forged many of the friendships in his life, starting
with Bunston "Bunny" Perkins in the second grade.  In fact, this
woman shared Bunny's habit of talking to people's eyebrows to
camouflage a painful shyness.

"Ms. Zullman, we're looking for a book previously owned by Mrs.
Nedra Kendall.  It didn't have a title, per se, but contained
information on home remedies, herbal medicine, possibly allusions
to sorcery or the occult."

The librarian shook herself free of the deer-in-headlights
paralysis that had gripped her when he opened his badge, and
hunched down behind her computer terminal to key in the
information.  She did nothing to advance the notion that
librarians were more charismatic than their mousy stereotype,
though it was clear from the smeared vestiges of makeup that she
was trying for glamour even if genetics had left her incapable of
achieving it.  

It was no wonder she refrained from looking at Scully when his
partner added, "The donation was made about two weeks ago."
Scully's beauty was obvious to everyone except Scully, and it
would be impossible to convince her that her looks alone could
intimidate someone as exceedingly ordinary as the woman slumped
at the computer. 

The librarian's only extraordinary feature seemed to be her
voice. Melodic and deep, it was the kind of voice that would undo
a man's control if he didn't know the face that went with it, but
the more Charmin Zullman talked, the more that voice quavered and
faltered. "We didn't...I would remember if we'd shelved something
like that."  She looked toward the shelves as if hoping the book
in question would materialize.  A pair of dangling silver
earrings began to jangle against the woman's jaw, and Mulder got
the impression that a visit from FBI agents in the Rare Books
Department was more excitement than Charmin Zullman was equipped
to handle.  

"We get a lot of books we can't use," she said. "We...I...we usually
box them up for storage, or sell them at the surplus auction on
campus."  

"Would something donated so recently be placed in storage
already?"  As Scully asked the question, the bandage by her eye
flapped loose.  Mulder reached to help her secure it but she
waved off his assistance and made the repair.

"Maybe.  It's possible." Finally Charmin addressed Scully
directly. Perhaps catching a glimpse of Scully's complexion flaw,
temporary as it was, put her more at ease.  "What happened to
your eye?"

With a glance, Mulder and Scully agreed not to elaborate on the
strange circumstance leading to her injuries.  In this case,
Scully's rote response to such questions was as good as any.
"It's nothing.  It's fine."

The librarian looked like she wanted to say more, but a comically
suave voice drifted into the office.  "We have a small storeroom
in the attic. Maybe what you're looking for is still there."

There were brazen colors splashed together in more combinations
on this man's shirt than Mulder had ever seen in one place. Just
watching the small man in motion was enough to induce vertigo,
and for once Mulder was grateful his color blindness didn't let
him see the whole picture.  Scully provided welcome shade when
the man came gliding to a halt at her right elbow and leaned in
to tell her, "I could show you if you want."

"You go ahead, Scully.  I'd like to ask Ms. Zullman a few more
questions."  

As she followed her escort to the stairs, Scully cast Mulder a
look that expressed precisely how she felt about being sent to
the storeroom with a drooling, orange-headed troll.  It was going
to be another very quiet car ride to the hotel.
____________

"Is there any organization to this place at all?" Scully asked.
There were books stacked on the floor, books stacked on shelves,
boxes of books stacked on other boxes, but there wasn't a label
or Dewey decimal number to be found anywhere.

Her companion stifled a sneeze, then answered, "The newer stuff
has less dust on it."

At least he didn't append the word "babe" to the end of his
statement, though the wink he gave her lent the same nauseating
effect. Scully stepped around books and boxes to reach the next
set of shelves, and like a faithful spaniel, Trent Crowley came
bounding after.  Her flat, disinterested tone hadn't dissuaded
him so far, but she hadn't given up on the approach.  "Do you
keep a record of donations?"

"The office logs in what we receive, but if a book doesn't go on
the shelves, we don't track it."  The two redheads were squeezed
into a small clearing between the towering shelves and Trent
adjusted his voice to heighten the skin-crawling intimacy,
murmuring library policy like pillow talk. "We barely
have enough staff to take care of the important work.  If it
might be useful for research, we put it up here.  If not, we
throw it in the auction pile. So, what does the FBI want with
some old book?"

"It may be evidence in an investigation."  Scully scrambled
over another mound of books, pulled open a newer box,
and started piling the contents in the empty space where Howdy
Doody would otherwise try to stand.

"I just sorted through a box of romance novels that someone
should be arrested for writing." Trent squirmed and fumbled jokes
on his side of the makeshift barricade.  "Murdering the English
language?  Get it?"

She had no real hope of finding a needle of evidence in this
haystack, but Scully shuffled through the old titles on the off
chance serendipity would intervene.  "Do you remember seeing
anything that looked like a book of chants or spells?"

"We get that kind of thing all the time.  Weather logs, recipes.
Everyone thinks their crazy aunt's diary is a rare book.  We
just pitch those things in the auction box unless they're in
really bad shape, and then they go right in the trash."

Even though she could think of no modern practicality for some of
the books she was sorting through, the idea of destroying them
seemed murderous.  "Isn't it a little heartless to throw something
like that away?"

"Books are just things, you know."  Somehow Trent maneuvered into
the spot she'd tried to obstruct and knelt beside her.  He spoke
in the awed whisper of a supplicant.  "People are much more
important."  

Her mind shouted an alarm when Trent's hands began rising toward
her face, but before she could issue a warning the campus clock
above their heads took up her cause, ringing out its disapproval in
five thunderous shouts.

"Put these away for me."  Scully stood, dropped a heavy stack of
books into Trent's outstretched arms, and navigated through the
maze to the door. In the past eight hours she'd fended off a
raven in a house trailer hovel, a hysterical FBI agent in the
ladies' room, and a pint-sized librarian in a cluttered belfry.
No way in hell was she working overtime.
____________

"It'd be here if we had it," Charmin Zullman stretched up on
tiptoe to scan the high shelves.  "I don't see anything like you
described."  

Mulder considered mentioning the price tag hanging from the back
of her sweater, but saw no reason to heap embarrassment on such
frail shoulders. "Have you worked here long, Charmin?"

"A little over six years."

She seemed more relaxed like this, with her eyes aimed at rows of
books instead of at him. Though Mulder preferred face-to-face
discussions, he compromised by edging forward to converse with
her profile.  "So, you must be pretty close to Emma Schnepf."

"No."  Her mouth snapped open, then shut as if trying to gobble
her abrupt answer from the air.  Failing that, she shaped a more
politic response. "I mean, I know her in a professional capacity,
but I don't . . . we're not friends or anything."

"Is she well-liked by the staff here?"  His own encounter with
the Head Librarian had been enough to answer that question. An
affirmative answer would surely be a lie.

The truth came with a tactful disclaimer.  "Not really, but I
don't think she deserved what happened to her.  Everyone laughed
at first, but it doesn't seem as funny to me now."

"Can you think of anyone who might have disliked her enough to
cause her harm?"

"Probably everyone who works here at one time or another," she
admitted.

"What about you?"

The implication made her bold enough to face him.  There was a
flash of fear and fire in her eyes, only for an instant before it
dimmed again.  In that instant, Charmin Zullman was almost
pretty. "Just because you don't like what someone does, it
doesn't make it okay to hurt them."  It was a Sunday School
exhortation given by a woman who looked the part, from the plain
barrette in her hair all the way down to her sensible shoes.

He changed the subject before she could start quoting
Commandments.  "Who in the library would have access to donated
books?"

"Tori in Mrs. Schnepf's office takes the donations." Charmin
crouched low, relocating her search to the bottom shelf and
speaking to Mulder's knees.  "She leaves them in a closet
downstairs until Trent goes to get them.  Everybody on staff
sorts through the boxes now and then, just to see what's come
in."

"Mulder, are you about finished here?"  He could hear the
frustration in Scully's voice and knew, even before he turned
around, that she hadn't unearthed the missing book.  What she had
found in abundance were the cobwebs and dust balls that clung to
her hair and clothes.  Professionalism and a healthy dose of
self-protection stopped him from telling her how cute she looked.

"I think so."  It was difficult to tug his gaze away from his
partner, but Mulder focused again on Charmin, or at least on the
top of Charmin's head.  "I don't see the book here, but if it
turns up, give me a call, okay?"

Her grip was limp, her palm clammy as Charmin reached up for
business card and shook the hand Mulder offered.  She was
curious, despite her meekness, and mustered nerve enough to ask,
"Do you think the book you're looking for has something to do
with what happened to Mrs. Schnepf?"

He was amazed Scully could demonstrate such gentle authority
while caked in dust, yet she dispatched the young woman's
question with tactful grace.  "I'm afraid we can't discuss the
particulars of the case.  We do appreciate you staying late to
help us."

"Sure, okay."  With anxious steps, Charmin slipped past the two
agents and returned to the particle board shelter of her desk.

Scully stepped close to Mulder and spoke in confidential,
library-appropriate tones.  "It'd take days to go through that
storeroom, and I doubt we'd find the book."

"I'm sure we wouldn't."  He couldn't resist the urge to pull a
particularly large piece of fuzz from her hair.  "Someone has it.
We just have to figure out who."

Never one to heed protocol if there was a more expeditious
option, Mulder yelled across the room. "How many employees work
in the library?"

His respect for Charmin Zullman ticked up a notch when, rather
than shushing him, she yelled right back.  "Probably about 30
full-time staff, but we have a lot of student assistants and
work-study helpers."

"How could we go about getting an employee roster for the
library?"

"You'd have to get that through the campus personnel office, but
they close at 4:30."

"Damn."  He pounded the side of his leg with his fist, keeping
time with the ideas marching through his brain.  He could get the
Chancellor's number, call him at home, demand that the records be
opened regardless of the hour, or better yet, bribe the Gunmen to
hack into the system.

Scully made a suggestion:  "I'll call Abbott and Solomon and
they can meet us here in the morning to question the staff," but
it was assimilated into the noise of his thoughts.

"There's got to be a way to narrow this down, Scully.  According
to Charmin, Emma Schnepf wasn't exactly Miss Congeniality.  There
may be a whole lot of people walking around here with grudges,
and all of them had access to that book."

"It's still a long shot that this book Fallon told you about has
anything to do with what's happened."

Leave it to Scully to pull the ripcord of reality just when he
was starting to enjoy the fall.  "You've got a better explanation?"

"No, but that doesn't mean there isn't one."  Their unsupported
arguments could easily slide into an articulate version of "am
not, am too" and they both knew it.  Scully was the first to
reach out in truce with a light brush of her fingers over his
bicep, with a quiet acknowledgment of her obvious fatigue.
"Look, it's been a long day, and I think we need to get to bed
early."

He didn't begrudge her the extra rest.  God knew she'd earned it
today, but he felt suddenly rejuvenated by a new idea.  "I could
get some basic personnel information from the campus directory,
and then run a cross-check on the names.  If someone has a record
..."  Scully's hand lingered on his arm, and she was watching
him expectantly, apparently waiting for an answer to a question
he hadn't heard.  "What?"

She smiled, and he was certain she was enjoying a private joke at
his expense.  "You're slipping, Mulder," she said.

"What are you talking about?"

"Never mind."  She shrugged like it was nothing, but he was sure
he'd missed something, especially when she promised, "I'll
explain later when I have better visual aids."
____________  


It doesn't take much to attain celebrity status in my hometown
of Bucksnort, Tennessee.  Jeff Butts was awarded the key to the
city because he was told to "Come on down!" on "The Price is
Right." So what if he was left scuffling his boots on
contestant's row for the duration of the show?  He did receive a
year's supply of Rice-A-Roni, which on the Bucksnort scale is
analogous to an Academy Award. Pauline Murphy strutted around for
two years, regaling everyone, time and time again, with the story
of how Garth Brooks' bodyguard borrowed an extra chair from her
table in a Nashville restaurant.

But the most famous of all in Bucksnort township was Donna Sue
Quisenberry, owner and artist-in-residence of the Curly-Q Beauty
Emporium and style consultant to the stars.  "When destiny bites
you on the patootie, reach back, grab it by its scrawny little
neck and hold on."  That was the sage advice she imparted to the
star-struck crowd packed into the junior high gym on the evening of
her homecoming.  On that fateful night when she opened up the
Curly-Q to give a desperate out-of-towner an emergency tint and
set, Donna Sue made her grab for destiny and headed to Hollywood
as a hairdresser for the "Dukes of Hazzard" television show. All
thanks to the enthusiastic recommendation of the aunt of one of
the producers, a woman who just happened to have a hair meltdown
in Bucksnort, Tennessee.

The show ended seven months later and Donna Sue returned to
Bucksnort. She traded in her old mobile home for a new double-
wide and hung a picture of herself, tucked against the armpit of
Tom Wopat, over her television.  She was just as friendly as
ever, just as interested in local gossip. She still rang her
cowbell at football games and put mustard on the french fries at
the Pixie Freeze, but after spending those months in California,
she would only drink bottled water.

Destiny had changed Donna Sue Quisenberry and some said, with her
new high and mighty Evian-drinking ways, not for the better.

I thought I could help Trent create a better, safer, more
beautiful world, and I thought I could do it without changing.
As appealing as Trent made it sound, I had decided I wasn't cut out
to be a superhero.  I wanted to be a saint. Lowly, humble,
unaffected by the whims of a fickle world, unmoved by
promises of power and wealth.

But I think saints must be constructed from stronger stuff.
A saint would have called the cable company to report the error
when they failed to bill her for HBO.  A saint would have
reminded the cashier to scan the price on her Corn Pops instead
of exulting in the thrill of free cereal. A saint wouldn't hurt
her boss out of spite.  She would never lie to FBI agents.

Still, someone as abused and beaten as Agent Scully needs
help, even if that help comes from a paper saint like me. Trent
said that Agent Mulder has made her so afraid of men that she ran
away when Trent accidentally brushed against her in the
storage room.  I saw it for myself -- she flinched when Agent
Mulder tried to put his hand on her face, but later, when she
came back to talk to her partner, she actually reached out and
touched him like she was asking for forgiveness or something.  It
was exactly the kind of conciliatory behavior I read about in
that "Redbook" article about spouse abuse.

Trent promised this will be the end of it.  Just these last
two things, a new life for Agent Scully and a new look for Trent,
and then we're going to destroy that book.  He offered me a new
face of my own but I turned him down.  I'm pretty sure by the
time I get destiny pried off my patootie, I won't recognize
myself anyway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully was prepared for any contingency, or so she believed
until she began searching her suitcase.  If called to give an
emergency briefing at headquarters, she could slip into an
appropriately professional combination of rayon and linen and be
ready in fifteen minutes.  An impromptu midnight crawl through
dense underbrush?  She'd be outfitted in denim and chambray
before Bigfoot could lumber half a dozen steps.  Heat or cold,
rain or snow, she was prepared for anything.  Anything except
this.  There was nothing in her luggage, nothing at all,
suitable for seduction.

There were pajamas, of course.  Practical, prudish pajamas that
were too shapeless and faded to encourage any man to come hither.
Or she could be more overt and slink into Mulder's room wearing
navy blue high heels and red lipstick and while that would
certainly convey the message she was trying to get across, she
wasn't quite ready to part with her fantasy of being slowly
unwrapped, one button at a time, by Mulder.

Her credit cards were calling to her, trying to persuade her to
shop first, seduce later.  She had waited this long and
a few more days wouldn't hurt.  She could go to the mall and buy
just the right blouse to layer over just the right skirt to
whisper against the silk of new, color-coordinated lingerie on
which would linger the faintest hint of expensive, carefully
chosen perfume.  She could feed Mulder his favorite meal, food
she would spend all day preparing, and then take him to the bed
she'd dressed in Egyptian cotton sheets.

It would be elegant.  Extravagant.  Perfect by anyone else's
standards.  Completely and altogether wrong for Fox Mulder and
Dana Scully.

Mulder had fallen in love with a woman who wore plain satin bras
and cotton panties and who spent most of her nights sleeping in
sagging motel beds beneath cheap, over-bleached sheets.  A woman
with scratches and scars and sensitive skin that itched at the
mere thought of sleeping in lace.  The woman Mulder loved was
beautiful to him, even when she wore a comfortable old pair of
pajamas.  

Scully tucked her insecurities beside her navy blue heels,
closed her suitcase, straightened her pajama top, and made her
way to the connecting door with confident strides.

The first time she made love with Mulder, it would be on a
sagging bed with cheap sheets, surrounded by file folders and
suitcases and cheap oil paintings of the Gateway Arch. For them,
it would be perfect.

Would have been perfect, at any rate, if Mulder had been there to
answer the door.

____________

"Mulder, where are you?"

He knew before he answered the phone that those were the words he
would hear.  Mulder had prepared two separate responses depending
on the tone of voice Scully used.  If she was angry it meant
she'd already discovered where he'd been and who he'd pissed off
while there, in which case he would try to woo her with glittery
trinkets of logic tied up in ribbons of apology.  If she was
merely curious, he could tuck the pilfered personnel files under
a contrived story and a large, thin-crust, pepperoni and mushroom
pizza.  He wasn't certain how to respond when the words drifted
in on a disappointed sigh, though he was reasonably sure pizza
wasn't the answer. "Is something wrong, Scully?"

"I'm just feeling anxious, I guess."

The curious spin she put on the words had Mulder maneuvering
through subtext even as he maneuvered through the late evening
traffic, but this much was clear:  she didn't know where he'd
been.  He opted for a nonchalant approach to the conversation,
speaking in a sleepy, Bing Crosby voice that would have her
envisioning him in a cardigan on an errand to fetch orange juice.
"I'm on my way back to the hotel now. Is your head still
bothering you?  Do you want me to pick something up for you?"

"Just hurry back." 

That slightly breathless, very sexy hint of urgency was
unintentional.  Of course it was.  Just a random collision of
words and fatigue and his own wishful thinking that really
shouldn't make his heart race or leave his voice stranded
between octaves.  "What's going on, Scully?"

"Where are you?" she asked again.

He halted at a stoplight and started searching in all directions
for a Pizza Hut.  "I...."  Then again, she hadn't asked where
he'd been, only where he was.  It was a mighty thin straw he was
grasping, but he was a desperate man.  "I'm about half a mile
from the hotel.  Should be there in five minutes."

"Good, because I'm not really in the mood for phone sex."

Apparently, St. Louis drivers won't give a guy a break, even when
rational thought has been sucked out of his ear.  The man in the
car behind Mulder laid on the horn until the agent finally
blinked away the erotic mental pictures and saw the green light
in front of him.

Sandwiched between the impatient noise of car horns and his own
squealing tires was a contrite "Sorry, Mulder.  Are you okay?"

"Have I...did I miss something?"

"If you can get back to the hotel in one piece, you won't miss a
thing," she teased.

Teased!  She flirted from time to time, sometimes volleyed an
innuendo he served, but she never initiated such a bold tease
and he knew it had to be a tease.  She would never...would she?
"Scully?"

"I've been thinking, Mulder, about that, um, talk we're planning
on having when we get home.  If it's all right with you, I'd like
to have that talk tonight."

Oh, sure, he could try to coax his gaping mouth to form words,
but there was no telling what nonsense might come babbling from
his brain at the moment.  He heard Scully say his name, but
couldn't reply.  He was too thoroughly enjoying his carefree ride
through a thousand pleasant sensations to bother with such
trivialities as language, at least until a painful realization
overpowered his rapture and forced Mulder to confess, "I'm not
sure that's a good idea."

"I don't want to wait any longer.  It was a mistake to wait this
long when so many things can happen."

Things could happen, all right.  Things like fabulous jobs in
faraway cities.  Mulder could taste anew the bitterness that had
poisoned his day and he spit it into words.  "It's nice of you
to offer, Scully.  Really.  But if this is your way of telling me
goodbye, I think I'd be better off with the memory of a hearty
handshake."

"You think I'm going to say goodbye?"  This would be much easier,
he realized, if she would sound angry or defensive instead of
sad.  

He softened his tone in deference to hers.  "Aren't you?"

"No, I'm not, and if you were worried about it, you should have
asked me."

He couldn't resist adding one last sour twist to sting her
conscience. "I was waiting for you to tell me about your new
job."  

"There is no new job," Scully offered with a weariness that
indicated limited tolerance for the topic. "The only person who's
said anything to me about it is Sheila, so right now I'm treating
it as rumor."  She added the admonishment, "Like you should
have."  

He failed to find something more articulate to say than, "Oh."

"The SAC hasn't made me an offer, but if he does, I won't
accept."

"Why not?"

"Because I enjoy the job I have now.  I'm challenged by it in
ways I couldn't possibly be in the ASAC position.  Because there
are things I want to accomplish in my work with the X-Files
before I put them behind me.  Because I have a partner I count on
and who counts on me."  Scully's voice dropped to a low, slow
whisper, as if she were sharing secrets with a lover, and Mulder
smiled when he realized that was exactly what she was doing.
"Because I'm crazy about this guy who lives in D.C. and I want to
be close by so I can remind him that I love and need him if he
ever forgets again."

"Sounds like a very lucky man."

"He could get luckier if he'd get his ass up to my room."

Mulder thought he could get used to some Scully-style pillow talk
on a daily basis, but he had to be sure she understood what she
was giving up in exchange.  "These ASAC opportunities don't come
around every day, Scully.  They won't offer again."

"I don't care about titles and fancy offices."

He was picturing her in that office now, though, draped across
that huge, sturdy desk, digging her fingernails into the polished
mahogany as he...or better yet, squirming, bare and eager for
him, in that leather chair.  "Admit it, Scully, you really like
that chair." 

"There are other things I can sit on."

And while he was on the subject of thanking God, Mulder would be
eternally grateful for the parking spot right in front of the
hotel.  Maybe the Almighty was just protecting the innocent
from Mulder's erratic, lust-impaired driving.

"Scully, are you sure this isn't phone sex?"

"It's been five minutes, Mulder.  I may have to start without
you."

He fumbled with his keys and the thin stack of personnel folders
as he climbed out of the driver's seat, but he didn't relax his
grip on the phone and refused to entertain the notion of ending
the call.  If this was all a dream, he didn't want to risk having
a noisy dial tone wake him up.  "Just don't describe it for me,
Scully.  As it is, I'm going to have to hold these folders in
front of me when I walk through the lobby."

"Mulder?"  Oh, that voice.  The things she was doing with that
voice.

"Hmm?"

"What folders?"
____________

The noise was muffled by phone static, but Scully could hear
Mulder's footfalls on the marble as he crossed the lobby.  Quick
and anxious at first, then slowing to a stop as he pondered the
question he'd yet to answer.  If the length of his silence was
indicative of the amount of trouble he'd caused, Mulder had been
a very bad boy during his absence.

"Mulder," she repeated. "What folders?"

"I hadn't planned on going back out, and I was going to tell you
but I could hear your shower running.  You were so tired that I
figured I could just run right over there and maybe stop and get
you a pizza on the way back."

She had to hand it to him, he was good.  He could almost make her
believe that his only motivation for wreaking whatever havoc he'd
wreaked was his all-consuming compassion for her.  Almost.
"Right over where?"

"I called over to the personnel office of the University, just to
leave a message, but a clerk answered and he said he was working
late and I could come over and look through the files if I
wanted.  Oh, look, they sell that candy you like in the gift
shop."

Scully made a mental note about the candy, but didn't let any
sweetness infiltrate her tone. "Mulder?"

"I did find some very interesting things, Scully."

She could hear him walking again, and regardless of the toes
he'd stepped on--and she had no doubt toes had been crushed
--she couldn't help being curious. "For instance?"

"For instance, Tori, Mrs. Schnepf's assistant, was reprimanded
last month for using the computer in her office to surf
pornographic and subversive web sites.  And Trent, your buddy up
in Rare Books, received a reprimand the very same day Mrs.
Schnepf developed her roving eye problem.  And Jagan --"

"Just tell me this.  Am I going to be getting any phone calls
tomorrow from angry University officials?"

"There's a remote possibility you might hear from the Director of
Personnel." The way he drawled out the word "remote" made her
believe the possibility wasn't remote at all.  "And don't be
fooled, Scully.  Felicia Lovejoy is not nearly as charitable as
her name suggests.  But everything should be fine as long as we
get these files back to the personnel office before seven
tomorrow morning."

"Well, Mulder," she feigned a yawn.  "It sounds like you were
planning to read files tonight.  If I'm interrupting...."

"I read through them all in the car before I started back to the
hotel, but if you'd like to read them, I'd be happy to drop them
by for you."  

"That's considerate of you."  She could hear the elevator
doors opening at the end of the hall and the unison sound through
the receiver.  In the instant she'd expected to be most
frightened, she felt awash in well-being.  Even her headache was
gone.  All this time she'd thought Mulder was the cause of her
headaches, only to discover he was the cure.

"The door's unlocked," she told him at the same moment he turned
the knob.  Here they were, less than ten feet apart, and they
were still holding their phones.  "Just bring them on in and put
them on the table.  I'll get up early and look them over."

He acted as if he didn't notice her at all and dutifully laid the
files where she'd asked, then turned away just long enough to
close and lock the door. Still, he didn't look at her.  Not
immediately.  He made her wait for eye contact, and she had a
delicious hunch he was going to take his time with a great
many things tonight.  His gaze slid slowly over the carpet to her
bare feet, then up her pajama-clad legs, to the bottom button of
her shirt where it lingered for a moment before progressing
upward, button by button.

"Planning on turning in early, are you?"  His voice was in front
of her and whispering into her ear; it wrapped around her like
velvet.

"If I can ever get off the phone."

"Well, then I should hang up."  He moved slowly, too damned
slowly, to stand in front of her.  "I wouldn't want to keep you
out of bed."  Finally, his eyes met hers as he wished her
"Goodnight, Scully."

He lifted the phone from her hand and laid it with his on the
night table beside them.  She turned the words into a promise.
"A very good night, Mulder."
____________

He'd been given permission to stare and he was damn well going
to take advantage of the opportunity.  The lights were dim but
he could see her freckles waiting in pale disguises for a
sunny day.  There was a tiny chicken pox scar on her left cheek.
Her lips would part ever so slightly when he looked at them, then
close again when his attention wandered.  Then he saw something
he'd failed to notice before.   "Scully, what happened to your
face?"

She gave him an adorably dubious look.  He wondered if she would
allow him to describe her using a word like "adorable," but
thought it best not to press his remarkable run of good luck.

"I know it's been a long day, but remember?  Fallon Kendall's
face-pecking raven, allegedly possessed--"

"--with the spirit of her grandmother.  That's still a damn good
theory, by the way, but no."  He gestured toward the spot he'd
bandaged earlier in the day.  "I mean your face looks better.  It
looks fine, actually."

"I'll have to thank the management for putting such poor lighting
in these rooms."  She smiled self-consciously and fingered her
hair forward to cover the imperceptible wound.

He couldn't recall ever seeing this woman fidget before.  He was
going to have to clear that "adorable" thing with her post haste.
He rested his hands on her shoulders to still her and felt the heat
of her skin warming his palms.  "Are you nervous?"

"I'm anxious."  

He didn't intend to rush anything tonight but two words and a
hungry look nearly unraveled his plan.  She would like what he
had in mind, he was certain, and that certainty was all that kept
his shaky resolve intact. Mulder reached for the top button of
her pajamas and thumbed it open.  The fabric drifted back against
her skin,  revealing more than before -- flesh and curves to
touch and taste and he vowed to return for a thorough
exploration.  But, for now, he was savoring the way she swayed
toward him when his hands moved away and the restless sounds of
her breathing. His fingers took an idle stroll down the
smooth cloth to the next button.  "Anticipation can be a good
thing."

"Yes."  Despite her murmured assent, she was edging nearer,
willing him to speed through a process he was determined to
prolong.  At the breach of every button, Mulder paused to admire
the skin he'd uncovered.  It was a beautiful sight, to be sure,
but even when the last button slipped free, dark cotton still
covered her breasts. Mulder was a patient man but even a saint
would be pulling that shirt off Scully by now.

The fabric was soft and slipped over her skin noiselessly, fell
to the ground without a sound when he pushed it from her
shoulders.  She would be softer, he knew.  Soft like the sounds
she made, like the smell of her.

His fingers danced over the tops of her breasts and the sensation
was hot and cold at the same time, ice and fire, elemental and
dangerous.  Soft, yes, but this was nothing like he'd expected.

Scully leaned closer, pressed herself fully against his hands and
brushed her lips against his.

Pleasure gave off a brilliant spark, but it was pain that caught
fire.  A pain that Mulder could only describe in screams,
blistered across his hands, scorched his mouth, and left desire
like a cinder in its wake.
____________

End "Paper Saints" part 11/15


PAPER SAINTS 12/15
by Jill Selby (jillselby@yahoo.com)

Classification:  XRA/MSR
Rating:  PG-13
Spoilers: None
____________

PAPER SAINTS 12/15

She could define the passage of time with equations and
ostentatious words, but the concept was actually quite simple;
time moved at an unvarying pace.  It was not elastic.  It did not
creep or crawl, leap or fly.  Stars could explode, entire worlds
could die and time would not pause to mourn their passing.  One
second took up no more room than its predecessor, required no
more space than the next to come.

If Dana Scully had been able to think rationally, she could have
consoled herself with the knowledge that time wasn't really
losing momentum as Mulder's fingers fumbled with the buttons on
her pajamas.  She would have been certain it hadn't stopped for
something so inconsequential as a kiss between new lovers.  She
would not have wasted precious prayers begging for the last few
seconds to rewind and allow Mulder to unkiss or untouch or undo
whatever he'd done to cause his hands to blister and his lips to
burn and bleed.

Maybe it was science that was wrong. Perhaps physicists, with
their measurements of light speed and distance, had failed to
recognize all the variables.  This half-naked, panicked scientist
might be the first to prove that minutes grew fat and
lethargic when nourished with arousal or fear.  As Dana Scully
watched Mulder sink to the floor, as she pulled herself to his
side through a murk of molecules, she dimly wondered if they gave
Nobel Prizes for such discoveries.

"Let me look at your hands."

He made no move to comply.  His left hand was cradled to his
chest, blackened fingers curled inward like the shriveled legs of
a dead spider.  His right hand was making awkward swipes at his
chin, but a few bloody drops escaped to splatter ribbons of red
across his tie.

She fought back the instinct to take hold of his wrists and
instead tugged at him with her voice.  "Please, Mulder, let me
look."

She could scoop handfuls of sticky mud from a skull and not be
repulsed.  She could pull decaying flesh away to reveal the
rancid remains of a dead man's heart and not gag on the stench of
death.  Now, though, the bile climbed in her throat and she
clamped a hand over her mouth and nose to keep from retching.
The sight of Mulder's ruined hands raised toward her in vain
hope of healing, and the pungent smell of his burned skin made her
sway.  She fell to her knees because she needed a closer look and
because her legs wouldn't hold her anyway.

"You okay?"  The charred skin of his lips caught and tore.  His
mouth bled more profusely--the price he paid for asking the
question.  

The honest answer was "No."  She wasn't okay.  How could she be,
seeing him like this?  But her fingers prodded at her lips, still
soft and smooth, still moist from where she'd licked them in
anticipation of a kiss.  She looked down at her breasts and they
weren't burned.  The only effect of Mulder's touch could be found
in the lingering symptoms of her earlier arousal.  Physically,
she was fine. 

She nodded in reply and forced herself not to cry in front of
him. "I'll call for an ambulance."  She hoisted herself to her
feet, though it was difficult on trembling legs and without him
as an anchor.  Touching him had become so habitual she had to
remind herself not to touch him now.  Not now and maybe never.

The second hand dragged over the face of her watch and mocked
Scully with time's reluctant passage as she waited for the
operator to answer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hell was a popular theme with Reverend Donald Bolton of the
Bucksnort Christian Church.  He would flail around in his
powder-blue leisure suit, warning all unsaved souls in the
congregation of their imminent demise, and then we would
sing "Just As I Am" for as many verses as it took for
the Spirit to move someone to come forward to accept salvation.
Hell, Reverend Don informed us, wasn't just fire and demons.
Hell would contain all the things that frightened us most during
our life on earth.  It would be a personalized nightmare from
which no sinner could escape.

I figured if Satan were to design a Hell for me (and I'm
becoming more convinced that's where I'm headed) I would be
doomed to an eternity spent in junior high gym class.  There
would be a locker room there, ripe with old sweat and shower
mold, and populated with bouncy, bosomy girls who somehow
managed to look voluptuous in their zip-up rompers.  On me the
same outfit would have armholes that gaped open when my arms were
down and shorts that crawled up my ass when my arms were raised.

In Hell, the gym teacher would never excuse girls from class
because of cramps and I would, of course, always have cramps.

In Hell, the most popular girls would be team captains and though
it would come down to a choice between me and Annie "Big Fat
Fanny" Columbus, I'd be the last one picked when we divided into
teams for dodge ball.  Annie's gift for making amusing armpit
noises would invariably give her an edge.

In Hell, we would be required to do a chin-up before graduating
from the course, so I'd fail every time.  I would remain
there, forever ridiculed by cheerleaders and dodge ball
prodigies.  Poor, bottom-heavy Annie and I would pass the time
together, sister souls in perdition's gymnasium, but she would
hoard her precious secret for making armpit music, lest I use it
to gain popularity. Annie would be poor company, but at least I
wouldn't be alone.

Trent has been transformed from diminutive, freckle-faced fashion
victim into a California dream.  Tall, muscular and tanned, with
sunkissed blonde hair and surf blue eyes, clothes that coordinated
and a smile that dazzled.  I could console myself with the surety
that discerning women would see through the artificiality and
quickly unmask the geek within, but it doesn't really matter.
Gorgeous men, no matter how inwardly geekish, don't look twice at
Charmin Jane Zullman.

Turns out Reverend Don was mistaken about quite a few things.  He
was wrong, for instance, when he told Barbie McNeely that no one
would find out about their tryst in the organ loft, and he was
wrong about Hell, or at least about one important fact.  You
don't have to be dead to go there.  And much to my surprise,
Hell is not at all comparable to gym class.  I didn't think it
was possible, but I've fallen into something even worse.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Persistence was a trait Scully had previously regarded as
positive.  The woman who would gladly sift through notes, pore
over journals and poke at cadavers rather than surrender to
ignorance, found the hospital staff's persistence to be anything
but admirable. For seven hours and 48 minutes, Dana Scully had
been a prisoner in quarantine, guarded by nurses in biohazard gear
and one surly doctor who refused to listen to reason.

When tactful negotiation failed, Scully resorted to bitter
complaint.  Admittedly, she lost credibility when she told them
of the raven attack only to discover her injuries had completely
vanished, but Scully did not relent.

She demanded frequent updates on Mulder's condition.  She
insisted to anyone who was within earshot that she wasn't a
public health hazard. She recalled her panic at the hotel when
a paramedic wrapped a gentle hand around her wrist to pull her
away from Mulder, yet the man suffered nothing more serious
than surprise when Scully tore away from his grasp and threw herself
out of reach. Though the EMT had corroborated her story, she
continued to be handled with as much compassion as would be
afforded a rabid skunk.

She tried cajoling the nurses, intimidating the doctor with her
medical degree and FBI credentials, bartering for phone
privileges with promises to sit still for inane questions about
her hygiene and laundry habits, but when the questions had all
been asked and the samples taken, she was still condemned to stare
at the walls in the tiny, spartan room until the lab confirmed
what she'd been saying from the onset.

An intern, the apparent holder of the short straw, stepped
cautiously into the room.  "The doctor says you're free to go,
Agent Scully."  

Scully strode forward but the intern blocked her
way and said, "There's just, um, this one restriction."
____________

Mulder was studying the colorful swirls of nonsense created by
his new friend, morphine, when Scully arrived.  Sort of.  She was
standing at the door, barred from entering his hospital room by
the furry arm of a gorilla-shaped orderly.  Scully said
something--a growling, hissing statement of some sort--and the
arm dropped away from the door, but Scully did not move. She
remained stuck to the place she was standing even when Mulder
raised a bandaged hand to beckon her closer.

"I can't come in, Mulder.  This is as close as I'm allowed to get
to you for awhile."

"Why?"  The word skidded across the salve on his lips and spun
into a whine.  

"They're afraid I'll hurt you again and, frankly, I'm a little
worried about that myself."  She tossed an irritated look toward
Gorilla Boy, who was still prowling around behind her.  "This is
probably for the best, until we can figure out how I did this to you."

Mulder's wandering mind paused at the divine image of his
partner's bared body.  He savored that vision for a few seconds
and was jolted with a reminder of the pain he'd felt when he
touched her.  Yet even in his drugged state, he was certain
of this: "It wasn't your fault, Scully."

She nodded and said "I know," because on the surface she might
believe it was true, but with all his senses gloriously
heightened by medication, Mulder could smell her self-blame.

"This doesn't change anything," he assured her.

"It changes everything if we can't fix my...whatever problem it
is we're having here.  We can't work together and we certainly
can't--"  She braced her hands against the doorframe and bowed
her head. A tear fell, shimmered in a thin beam of morning sun
and landed on the toe of her shoe.  Mulder found himself lost in
contemplation of that tiny souvenir of grief. He was slipping,
slipping toward sleep.

"You need to rest, Mulder," he heard her say from the fringes of
his slumber.  "We'll talk about everything later.  I have
somewhere I need to go, but I'll be back in a little while."

He tried to ask Scully where she was going, but he closed his
eyes and there she was in his dream, in his bed, in his arms, and
he didn't want to think about her being anywhere else.
 
____________

Scully stopped at the hotel just long enough to shower, change
and collect the personnel files Mulder had borrowed.  She read
those Mulder had flagged and, yes, there were a few mild
reprimands and lukewarm evaluations, but nothing in any
employee's file to indicate a tendency toward terrorism.
Nevertheless, the circle of clues was closing in around the
library.  She called Abbott and Solomon and they promised to meet
her soon to help question the library employees.

Solid detective work brought Scully to the library's front door, but
it was intuition that drew her upstairs to the Rare Books Department.
If asked to define the connection between those awkward young
librarians and Mulder's injuries, Scully could not have given an
answer.  She was loath to yield to something as indefensible as a
hunch, yet as she climbed the marble steps she felt more
confident with every stride that the answer was within reach.

She reached the landing and a man said, "Oh, there you are."

Scully glanced behind her to see if the man at the counter was
talking to someone else, but she was the only other person in the
room.  

"I was just heading over to the FBI office to find you," he said
with a smile.  

True, Scully was exhausted and preoccupied with worry, but she
would remember a man who looked like this, even if her own
preferences leaned toward tall, dark, and paranoid.  It was as if
he'd been sculpted into creation rather than born.  But gorgeous
or not, this man was a stranger and the familiarity with which he
spoke to her was unsettling.  "I'm sorry, have we met?"

Scully expected someone so perfectly formed to glide across the
floor, but the man's stride was more of a heavy-footed lope that
didn't quite fit his body.  He extended his hand and she shook
it; his grip was strong if a little sweaty.

"You're Agent Scully, right?  Trent described you."  From the way
this man was taking visual inventory of her body, Scully had a
good idea what kind of description Trent had shared. "He said I
should come to see you."

"About?"  Scully crossed her arms over her chest to obstruct his
view.  

"I have the book you're looking for."

There was a loud thump, a "damn it," and Charmin came
limping out of the office, rubbing her knee and radiating waves
of alarm.  Scully pushed past the handsome wall of muscle in
front of her and confronted the woman behind the counter.  "I
thought you didn't know where the book was, Miss Zullman."

Charmin looked at the man and shook her head.  An angry shade of
pink tinted her unadorned face. "I...he...I didn't--"

The problem with the man's gait was that his feet were
disproportionately large, Scully decided.  He clomped around the
counter and hooked an arm across the librarian's shoulders.
"Charmin didn't know I had it, did you, baby?" He squeezed the
fragile woman against him, though neither seemed comfortable
with the embrace. "I was over here visiting Trent--
old college roommate, great guy.  Anyway, I saw the book in the
storage room and grabbed it because it looked interesting.  I
mean, it didn't look like it was anything special."  He shrugged
and Charmin slipped from under his arm. "You know, just a
bunch of scribbled charms and spells.  Might make an interesting
conversation piece, but that's about it.  Trent was telling me
how you were over here yesterday asking questions about it, and I
just felt terrible about taking it."

The man continued to peruse Scully like a lunch menu.  She hid
her irritation behind a bureaucratic monotone.  "I would
appreciate it if you would turn the book over to us, Mister--I'm
sorry, I didn't get your name."

"Tr--Tremaine.  Ken Tremaine.  And sure, you can have the book.
But it's at my apartment.  If you want, I can drive you over
there.  It's not too far."

"I'll follow in my own car, Mr. Tremaine," Scully told him.  "And
why don't you give me your address, just in case we get
separated."

"Sure."  He smiled a bright, toothy grin that, like so much else
about Ken Tremaine, seemed too perfect to be genuine.  "I'll jot
it down for you, Agent Scully."

Ken leaned over to write.  From where she was standing, Scully
couldn't see what he was writing, but his smile grew in
counterbalance to the frown forming on Charmin's face.

"Don't..." Charmin began, but Ken brushed a kiss against her
temple and she gave up whatever argument she was about to make.

He murmured into the young woman's ear, "Do you have that other
information ready for me, baby?"

The papers in Charmin's hands rattled as she tore them from a
bound notebook and laid them next to Ken. Her voice was as
unsteady as her hands had been.  "Are you sure you want to do
this?"

Ken patted Charmin on the head like an obedient pet and
explained to Scully, "Charmin's putting together an outline for a
project I'm working on.  She's been a great help to me even
though she thinks I'm wasting my time.  There."  He lifted his
pen from the paper with a flourish.  "That should do it."

The moment when a rollercoaster reaches the top of the hill and
begins its descent, when gravity lets you go and you feel
yourself floating, when elation and fear slide down your throat
like cold, sweet tea--that's what Scully was feeling.  Her legs
would not hold her.  She grabbed for the counter but would have
fallen if not for the strong arms that caught her.

"Are you okay, Agent Scully?"

"Yeah, I think so." But she did not loosen her grip on Ken's
biceps.

He pressed his cheek against her forehead.  "You feel a little
warm."

She shook her head and managed to peel herself away from the man
holding her so tenderly.  "No, it's nothing."  She touched her
fingers to her cheeks to cool the blush burning there.  "Nothing.
We should go to your place."  Her embarrassment blazed hotter
when she realized what she had implied and that Charmin was
standing a few feet away, watching.  "For the book."

"For the book," he agreed with a wink.

She looked around for the piece of paper he should have given
her.  "You never gave me your address," she reminded him.

Ken offered Scully his hand instead, and she took it.  "Maybe
you should let me drive.  I'll take you anywhere you want to go."
____________

End "Paper Saints" part 12/15


PAPER SAINTS 13/15
by Jill Selby (jillselby@yahoo.com)

Classification:  XRA/MSR
Rating:  PG-13
Spoilers: None
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PAPER SAINTS 13/15

When I was eight years old, I asked my mother about
the big blue box she kept tucked away in the bathroom
cabinet. She had never lied to me and I had no reason
to distrust the answer she gave.

Two months later, on Christmas morning, I unwrapped
the Barbie doll I never asked for. Mother explained
that every little girl needed a Barbie. Again, I had
no reason to doubt her. I figured I would eventually
grow to like braiding Barbie's slippery hair and
wedging her feet into itsy-bitsy stiletto heels.

I never did bond with Barbie, but on the day my mother
hosted the Church Ladies United luncheon, I was
prepared to pretend. I certainly didn't want to ruin
my mother's important day with an embarrassing display
of Barbie apathy.

I twisted Barbie's hair into a braid that kept falling
apart until I smeared it with Elmer's glue. The poor
dear only had a stewardess outfit and a bridal gown to
wear, neither of which seemed appropriate for
sleeping, so I stripped her naked and laid her beside
My Little Pony on the Kotex Barbie mattress.

So, there she was, on brazen display beside the finger
sandwiches at the Church Ladies United luncheon:
Bestiality Barbie, bound with glue to a maxi-pad.

The incident was entirely my mother's fault. If she
hadn't lied about the purpose of a feminine hygiene
product, or thrust Barbie upon me in the first place,
she would have been spared the mortification. It will
came as no surprise, however, that I was the one punished.

The Barbie incident, while leaving a permanent imprint
on my psyche, did not cure me of the desire to conform
in order to impress a loved one. I spent last night at
Trent's luxurious new apartment, drinking wine,
listening to romantic music, and cribbing notes so he
could more easily "save" the poor, abused Agent
Scully.

Need a dozen roses at any time during the rescue? Turn
to page 36. Don't bother with page 40 unless you have
a lot of locust repellent handy, and with your seafood
allergy you'll want to avoid the spell that transforms
hominy grits into crab souffle. But if you want to
turn an FBI agent into your mindless love drone and
break your best friend's heart in the process, the
spell on page 78 should do the trick.

We were helping a woman in peril, Trent reminded me
when I questioned the purity of his motives. So while
Trent was busy learning how to walk with extra-large
feet, I reviewed every spell in the book, thinking
such devotion would be recognized and rewarded.

Trent cuddled up to a couch cushion and fell asleep
without offering a word of thanks or a kiss goodnight.

As he slept on, I drank wine straight from the bottle
and took a few self-indulgent minutes to cry.
Everywhere tears landed on that old book, ancient
brown ink bubbled up and trailed across the page.
Page 52 was a total loss by the time my pity party was
over, but there was no way were using that spell again
anyway.

This morning, just before he zapped Agent Scully with
page 78 and forgot I existed, Trent or Ken or whoever
the hell he was, said to me, "You did a good thing."

But what's so good about watching the love of my life
walk away with an artificially smitten FBI agent stuck
to him like Barbie glued to a maxi-pad?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully thought it must have been a beautiful boat in
its day, but in the name of progress it had been
festooned in gaudy neon and glitter. The sun,
embarrassed to be spotlighting such a spectacle,
ducked behind a cloud.

"You live on a riverboat?" Scully asked the handsome
man beside her. A nervous giggle invaded her voice and
it disturbed her to hear it, but she couldn't seem to
swallow it or calm her pounding heart.

"Isn't it cool? It's a floating casino." Ken seemed as
awestruck as she by the audacious facade of his home.
"I took the High Roller suite on the top level. I'll
show you," he said as he clomped around the car to
open her door.

No matter how she tried to reign in her wandering
thoughts and focus on the investigation, her mind kept
taking her to bed with this stranger. She knew going to
his room would be a bad idea. "I'll just wait here while
you get the book."

He shook his head and smiled. Ken Tremaine had the
whitest teeth she had ever seen. "You don't really
want to wait out here."

He tugged on her hand and she followed him across the
dock, still protesting weakly. "I should call Mul...."
Ken put his finger to her lips to stop the word
and when he pulled his hand away, Scully couldn't
remember what she was going to say.

If not for the faint creaks and thumps as the boat
nudged the dock, Scully could have forgotten they were
on a boat at all. The interior was something straight
out of Vegas with every sort of gaming table and row
after row of slot machines. "Where is everyone?" she
asked as they passed through the deserted lobby. The
casino was likewise abandoned.

"I gave them the day off," Ken said, and Scully
accepted the answer as though it made perfect sense
for a hotel guest to dismiss the staff on a whim.

She trailed two steps behind as they climbed the
curved mahogany staircase. Deep down in the rational
part of her brain an alarm was ringing, or perhaps it
was her cell phone, but it could scarcely be heard
while her libido was prattling on about Ken Tremaine's
ass.

The air seemed to get thinner and hotter as they
climbed the two flights of stairs. Scully's clothes
were sticking to her skin and she found herself
twisting at the buttons of her jacket to get free of
the constricting garment before she suffocated.

Ken opened the door to his room and ushered her
inside. "Are you too warm?" His voice, his words, the
looks he was giving her, all raised her temperature by
degrees.

"A little," she admitted.

"Let's get you something else to wear then." But
instead of going to the closet, Ken went to the
bar and picked up an old book. He mumbled something
Scully couldn't hear.

Scully felt a tickle against the skin of her arm, the
sensation spread across her body, and she watched in
amazement as her conservative navy blue suit melted
and morphed into something else entirely.

------------

"You had your phone call, Agent Mulder. Now go back to
sleep," the nurse said, not unkindly, but it still
made Mulder bristle.

"I'm not in prison. I need to get in touch with my
partner."

"I'm sure she'll call when she gets a chance." The
nurse patted the pillow to entice him to lie down.
"Right now you need your rest."

Resting was the last thing Mulder would be doing, but
he settled down long enough to convince the nurse she
could leave.

Solomon and Abbott had melted into a corner of the
room, obviously uncomfortable about being there, but
in need of direction before they could go.

Mulder sat up and swung his legs over the side of the
bed. His hospital gown bunched up around his thighs,
but modesty be damned at a time like this. "You talked
to everyone at the library?" he asked the agents.

"Of course," Sheila said. "Two people in the lobby saw
her leave with a man."

"Did it look like she was being forced to go with
him?"

"Um, no," Abbott said and was suddenly fascinated by
his shoestrings.

"What aren't you telling me?" Mulder snapped.

Sheila shot a look at her partner and moved
across the room to stand by Mulder's bed. "They said
she looked like she really wanted to go with him."

There was an air of accusation in Sheila's statement
that made Mulder furious, on any number of levels.
"What's that supposed to mean?"

"The librarian at the check-out desk said the guy was
very attractive and that Agent Scully was following
after him like a puppy. That she was practically
drooling." Solomon folded her arms and stood in the
queenly pose of someone who had gained the upper hand
over an adversary. "Look, Agent Mulder, I don't really
care what your partner does or who she does it with,
but it's the height of unprofessionalism to take off
in the middle of a case for a quickie with a stranger.
Actually," she glanced at her watch, "it's
been over three hours, so maybe not such a quickie."

If Mulder could have made a fist with his bandaged
hands, he would have used it on Sheila's smug face. As
it was, Nelson Abbott had to race across the room to
create a human shield for his partner when Mulder
launched himself off the bed.

Abbott spun on Sheila and commanded, "Shut up, Sheila,
And wait for me in the hall," then barked an order at
Mulder. "You, get back in bed."

Mulder sat down, more from the shock of hearing a
forceful command coming from Agent Abbott than out of
compliance with the order itself. Solomon left the
room, but did not seem humbled. As for Abbott, his
shoulders drooped and he took a deep, shuddering
breath; his first stab at authority had apparently
worn him out. "I'm sorry for that, Agent Mulder. Agent
Solomon's behavior was uncalled for."

"Yes, it was," Mulder  agreed, still edgy with anger
and feeling renewed bursts of pain in his fingers.
"Scully would never do what Sheila is suggesting.
She's in trouble, and we've got to find her."

Abbott nodded but his hands fluttered in hopeless
gestures. "She could be anywhere. Her car is still at
the library and no one saw what the guy was driving.
Where do we even start?"

"With me." The quiet answer filtered in from the
doorway. Mulder and Abbott looked up to see Charmin
Jane Zullman trembling at the threshold. "Start with
me."

------------
End of chapter 13/15


PAPER SAINTS 14/15
by Jill Selby (jillselby@yahoo.com)

See Part 1 for summary and disclaimer.

Classification:  XRA/MSR
Rating:  PG-13
Spoilers: None
E-mail the author for missing parts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PAPER SAINTS 14/15

I met my inner-Goddess at a lunchtime seminar held in a musty conference
room in the library basement.

Others went to be enlightened. I attended for the free food as I was certain
no self-respecting deity would voluntarily waft around in my psyche. A
handsome young professor, who was somehow an expert on inner-goddesses,
greeted me at the door and assured me that yes, indeed, my body was a
repository for a she-god. I had only to summon my goddess and she would
infuse me with boundless wisdom.

"Okay," I said. "I heard there were sandwiches."

The seminar began and Dr. Nicebutt explained that our inner goddesses would
not speak until the room was completely silent, which begged the question:
Why did they serve potato chips? Finally, after much frantic mastication,
something akin to a hush was achieved. Remarkably, out of the stillness, a
heavenly voice called to me.

Okay, it was more of a whiny, emphysematic growl, but a sickly goddess was
better than nothing, I figured.

She didn't say much that first day. It was more of a get-acquainted thing.
"I'm your inner-goddess. Pleased to meet you. You think they'd let us have
another one of those brownies?" That sort of thing.

I was polite and made room for her in my life even though I got the
impression she didn't like me much. We stayed out of each other's way and
limited our conversations to dinner choices and our mutual admiration of
George Clooney. Clearly, neither of us was fully invested in our
goddess-receptacle relationship.

But since this whole mess with the book started, my inner-goddess has given
me very little peace. I haven't enjoyed a single thought without hearing
some muttered dissent rumbling through my brain. Last week she started
protesting more loudly. This morning, her objections escalated into
high-decibel shrieking.

She didn't like what Trent did to Agent Scully. Not one bit. I tried to
point out that while it might have been a mistake, there wasn't much to be
done about it after the fact. There were no do-overs in spell casting.

Excuses and apologies did not appease her. She just kept on
bitching.

Then something amazing happened. Emma Schnepf came waddling up to my desk
wearing a smile that reached all the way up to her beady eyes -- the ones
that had miraculously shifted back to their appropriate place on her face.
She believed she was cured because the witch who hexed her had been
arrested.

I knew the truth behind her recovery. Unfortunately, so did the goddess.

I drove to the hospital with the voice of that wretched banshee queen urging
me on. When I paused at Agent Mulder's door to mull my options, I heard a
screech like a Siamese cat being stuffed down a laundry chute -- a sound I
hoped never to hear again after the Mr. Whiskers incident of 1979.

I was subsequently interrogated, made an accomplice to the theft of surgical
scrubs and an FBI agent's hospital escape, and rocketed through the streets
of St. Louis in a Honda Civic stuffed with three unhappy Feds and a
self-satisfied goddess.

The next time someone offers me a free lunch, I'll opt for a stale pimento
cheese sandwich from the vending machine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully had one hand on the hem of her dress and one hand wrapped around a
greasy hamburger. Ken had offered to prepare her a meal of his favorite
foods and for some reason she had expected something more elegant than
pepperoni pizza, blueberry pancakes, and a bag of White Castle burgers.
Nevertheless, she politely accepted what he offered and cast him shy smiles
around bites of burger.

Ken surely missed the smiles since his gaze was glued six inches to the
south. "Do you like your dress?" he asked. "I saw it in a movie and I knew
it would look spectacular on you."

Scully thought it best not to ask which movie as she glanced down at the
ragged strips of feather-trimmed suede that clung to her body in a sort of
"Ginger Rogers as Pocahontas after being ravaged by bears" fashion
statement. 

Despite the airy attire, she was perspiring. Outrage was radiating from her
soul, but its heat could not match the fire Ken's presence was stoking in
her.

"Would you like some wine?" Ken reached for her hand and helped her to
stand, then drew her across the room to the small bar in the corner. The
book she'd come for was sitting open on the counter. She only had to take it
and leave, but she took a glass of wine instead.

The glass vibrated in her hand as she read the scrawled words on the page.
The title mentioned love, but there was no tenderness in the text. Only
desire, primal urges, uncontrollable need. Through the filter of those very
feelings, Scully's mind formed a question she could not force herself to
verbalize.

Across the bar, Ken raised his glass. "To us."

"To us," she parroted. Scully lifted her hand to complete the toast, but the
crystal goblet tumbled from her trembling fingers. Dark wine splashed over
the book and stained the page she had been reading. The seductive words
began to melt in the mire.

Ken grabbed a handful of napkins and began dabbing furiously at the ruined
page, but the ink ran and smeared. The words disappeared and with them, so
did the spell they had created.

With artificial passion gone, Scully was consumed by fury. "You bastard!"
she hissed at Ken. "Put your hands up and step away from the book."

Ken stared, shocked into silence for a second, then his confident smile
returned. "And if I don't, what do you think you'll do?"

Scully's hand flew to her back. Instead of a gun, she found a clump of beads
decorating the back of her dress. She reached for the book but Ken hand
intercepted her and, with crushing force, wrapped his hand around her wrist.
When she attempted to pull away, the grip intensified. The snap of breaking
bone surprised them both and Ken let her go.

Scully sank to the floor, cradling her hand against her body, trying not to
cry out. No matter how she tried to force her mind to think of escape
possibilities, she could think of nothing but the pain coursing up her arm.

Ken knelt beside her and stroked her bare shoulder with clammy fingers. She
had no desire to be touched by him, but used his bulk to lever herself off
the carpet. He stood with her and, with endearments and apologies, tried to
coax her to show him the wrist he'd broken.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I didn't remember." Scully backed away and Ken
allowed it. He didn't interfere when she gathered the book into the crook of
her undamaged arm.

He began crying then and through the hiccups, she heard more apologies and
talk of Superman.

It was a pitiful display, but Scully was not in a pitying mood. "Do you have
a telephone, Mr. Tremaine?"

"I'll take you to the hospital," he said.

"That won't be necessary. Just tell me where your phone is."

"No, wait," Ken said. He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and
dabbed at his nose and eyes, then extracted a piece of paper from the same
pocket. 

"What's that?  What are you doing?" Scully insisted and tried to grab the
paper, but Ken spun away and continued to mumble words Scully couldn't quite
hear. 

And as he read, Ken's weeping ceased and his whole demeanor brightened.
"Now," he said as he stuffed the note back into his pocket. "Now I can take
you anywhere you want to go."

Scully's search for a phone became unimportant. Even the pain in her wrist
seemed insignificant as she was lifted off the ground and carried out the
door, across the deck of the ship. She fought against the unyielding cage of
Ken's embrace and tried to recall her suicide intervention training as Ken
climbed the railing. The muddy waters of the Mississippi River churned
below, impatient for their plunge.

The cabin door burst open and she heard Mulder call her name, then scream
it. Ken jumped with Scully still struggling, still locked in his arms.

From her view in mid-air, she watched her partner run across the balcony and
climb the rail with arms outstretched. He would try, even if it killed him,
to catch her when gravity threw her down. Except gravity wasn't playing its
usual game. 

Scully did not fall and neither did the man holding her. If anything, they
were rising higher, further away from the man crying out to her from the
boat.

They were flying.

____________

"Shit."  Sheila Solomon spoke the prevailing sentiment, and passed the
binoculars to Mulder. Scully was flying the psycho skies with a
well-disguised Trent Crowley, and there seemed to be nothing anyone could do
about it. 

Mulder's yelling, Charmin's pleading, even a contrite phone call to Fallon
Kendall asking for help had yielded no useful results. Mulder could not
afford to call in a police helicopter or a sharpshooter to knock Trent out
of the sky, not while he was carrying such precious cargo. The only hope was
that Trent would tire of aerial acrobatics and land somewhere.

The heat from Mulder's burned hands made the rest of his body feel cold and
the scrubs he wore did little to protect him from the breeze. Yet, he didn't
even acknowledge the question when Abbott asked, "Do you want a coat or
something?" 

He could tend to his own discomforts when Scully was safely on the ground.

Trent made another lazy loop through the Gateway Arch. With the aid of
magnified lenses, Mulder could see the fear and the anger on his partner's
face. He caught a glimpse of purple skin ringing the wrist she kept tucked
in a nest of feathers around the neckline of her dress. In her other hand
she held a book.

Charmin had told them that Trent was infatuated with Scully. If it was true,
Mulder had to believe the man wouldn't hurt her. He allowed himself to rest
in the comfort of that thought for a moment before another problem came
swooping in from the west.

A glossy black raven screamed out a battle cry just before it slammed
against Trent Crowley's back. The impact didn't seem to hurt Trent. It did
seem to surprise him, though, and he momentarily lost his hold on his
hostage. When Trent yanked Scully out of free fall by her damaged wrist, her
cry carried on the wind to wound Mulder.

____________

Scully could see that a crowd had gathered along the waterfront. Apparently,
they were not so engrossed with the spectacle of a flying man that they
could ignore the view they had up her dress. If not for the wolf whistles
coming from the spectators and the throbbing in her wrist and the fact that
she was being held aloft by a lunatic, Scully might have enjoyed the freedom
of floating on the wind. With the right companion and the appropriate
attire, it could have been an exhilarating, sensual experience.

It was anything but that today. She gasped in unison with the crowd as the
raven turned its attention to her. Ken tried to bat the bird away and that
was her first instinct as well, but she kept her free arm tight against her
to protect the book. She refused to drop it while there was a chance a
bystander could pick it up and use the power it contained.

The raven slapped at her with its wings. It pecked at her arm with its beak
and slashed her with its talons. Ken was guiding them back toward the boat,
but the bird stayed in pursuit, frenzied in its desire to knock the book
from Scully's hand.

Blood and sweat slickened her grip and finally, when she could see Mulder
standing on the dock below, Scully let the book slip from her hand. As the
book pinwheeled toward a watery grave, the bird screeched and soared away in
triumph.    

Scully's ears were ringing from a combination of pain and vertigo. If Ken
released her, she would gladly follow the book into the cold river on the
chance the water would soothe her rather than drown her. Her preference,
though, was for a landing on solid ground.

Unfortunately, Ken wasn't through flying yet. He was yelling, "C.J., get the
book!" and pulling Scully into the sky once more. Except the grip that had
hurt her and the arms that had held her so securely began to weaken and
wither.

Scully looked up at the man who was dragging her through the air and found
he had changed. Gone was the impossibly handsome Ken Tremaine. The limp
grasp she slipped from belonged to Trent Crowley.

She looked at the asphalt looming below, and as she began to fall, Scully
regretted wishing for solid ground.

____________

Scully was falling, but it was Mulder who saw his life flash before his
eyes. There would be no life for him. Not after this.

His partner plummeted to earth like a missile and Mulder ran to catch her.
Something in him knew he couldn't break the fall enough to save her. The
greater part of him rejected physics in favor of a miracle.

The miracle, such as it was, came billowing into Scully's trajectory like a
gaudy angel. The wind caught a colorful silk banner announcing the casino's
grand opening and blew it beneath Scully. When she hit it, the poles that
held the sign bent, but did not break. The fabric twisted and tore and
tangled around her. Sequins the size of dinner plates ripped away and rained
down.

"Scully!" Mulder called up to her. "Are you okay?" he asked, even though she
clearly wasn't. She was clawing at the fabric, trying to find purchase, but
the thin material was tearing beneath her fingers. Mulder's miracle was
looking temporary at best because his partner was still two stories above
the pavement.

Sheila Solomon was screaming into her cell phone. If anyone could drag an
ambulance to the scene by sheer force of will and words, Mulder felt sure it
would be Sheila. Abbott and Charmin had dashed down the pier to recover the
book Scully dropped. With his useless, bandaged hands, Mulder wasn't the
best choice for a savior, but he was the only white knight in the vicinity.

____________

Scully gritted her teeth against the bolts of pain shooting through her
arms. If she'd been able to articulate her thoughts, she would have reminded
Mulder of how he received his burns in the first place. She would have
debunked his plan with a logical argument: if she didn't kill him simply by
landing on him when she fell, their skin-on-skin contact would do the trick.
She would have told him she didn't want to live if living meant he had to
die. But she couldn't get her voice to do more than groan and Mulder stayed
planted beneath her with his bare arms raised.

With a snap, one of the cords holding the sign broke and Scully's silk
cradle dropped another ten feet. She found herself clinging, literally, by
threads. Mulder quickly repositioned himself and was ready again to catch
her.

"Let go, Scully. I've got you," he promised and made no mention of the fact
that his body would be incinerated in the process.

"No," she said and tried to pull herself further from his reach, but her
arms were too tired and the fabric she held too fragile.

"Damn it, Scully. Just let go!"

Scully considered her options. Just letting go wasn't one of them, but
falling was inevitable. If she turned her body to the left, the banner might
serve as a makeshift slingshot and propel her away from Mulder. He would
live out his life hating her for her choice, but at least he would live.

"I love you," she whispered through the rustle of silk as she twisted to the
left.
____________

End "Paper Saints" part 14/15


PAPER SAINTS 15/15
by Jill Selby (jillselby@yahoo.com)

See Part 1 for summary and disclaimer.

Classification:  XRA/MSR
Rating:  PG-13
Spoilers: None
E-mail the author for missing parts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PAPER SAINTS 15/15

In the 70s there was a comic strip called "Love Is ..."
in which a pudgy naked couple provided weekly
affirmations for lovers. "Love is ... being glad she
belongs to you." "Love is ... bringing him the evening
paper."  

Love was a little sexist in the 70s.

A more appropriate caption might have been "Love is ...
marrying a guy even though he has no visible
genitalia," but I guess the underlying message was,
boob-less girls have to take what they can get.

It so happens that love is nothing like a cute cartoon. It
isn't always sweet and it doesn't always speak in polite phrases.
In fact, love sounds a little pushy and rude when it's
desperate.

Love might show itself with kisses and hugs, but it's never
more obvious than when it starts jumping around, making clumsy
grabs for its wounded partner.

Love wears baggy scrubs and ugly feathery dresses. It
sacrifices personal safety to save its mate. It bleeds
and it burns. 

I'm not sure if love is blind, but apparently, love is deaf
as a post.

Agent Abbott shoved the soggy book into my hands and went
running down the dock, yelling at Agent Mulder to
wait. Wait, and he would catch Agent Scully if she fell.
The players on the field in Busch Stadium could have heard Agent
Abbott screaming, but I don't think Agent Mulder heard a thing.
He didn't turn around or budge from his place on the parking lot.

In the meantime, Trent was hovering overhead, burping
out strange giggle-sobs. Love does NOT sound like that.
How pathetic that I had once equated love with that person.
I clutched the book to my chest and asked him to please land
somewhere. 

When Agent Scully dropped the spell book, it landed on
a small beam that was poking out from under the pier. Some
of the pages dipped into the water but nearly as
many were dry. I didn't know if the spell we used on
Agent Mulder was among those intact or if it had been washed
away by the murky water. With the banner unraveling beneath
Agent Scully, there was no time for research. I gave Trent
another warning to come down right that very second.

The Flying Idiot blew me a kiss and darted through a low-hanging
cloud. When one of the ropes holding Agent Scully's
safety net gave way, so did my patience.

I held the book over the water to show Trent I meant business.

"You wouldn't do that, C.J.," he said to me. "You love
me too much."

And from the parking lot I heard, "Damn it, Scully.
Just let go!"

Mom always told me, when there's a choice to be made,
err on the side of love.

I gave the book my best superhero fling and it hit the river
with a resounding splash. Then immediately bobbed to the
surface and began floating downstream. This kind of
thing never happened to Wonder Woman.

So, with a decided lack of finesse, I dove into the river
and paddled after the book. Nothing, and certainly not
Trent's whining from on high, could have kept me from
drowning that stupid book and the ruinous spells it
contained. I held the book under the surface until
every last page was soaked. Only then did I let it go and,
in a farewell gesture of disapproval, it knocked off my
shoe on its way to the bottom.

Trent squealed for my help as he spiraled toward the
water, but the river patrol was closer and I had
officially hung up my cape.

In the parking lot, another rope snapped and Agent
Scully fell safely into the arms of her partner.

And Charmin Jane Zullman, erstwhile saint and
superhero, was fished out of the river by Agent
Nelson Abbott. 

As I stood on the dock, listing because of my missing
shoe, dripping mud, smelling like fish and wet sheep,
Agent Abbott wrapped me in a blanket and gave me a cup
of coffee. And do you know what he said to me?

"Charmin. That's a pretty name."

Love Is .... 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Need a hand there, boss?" Mulder asked as Scully
struggled to pack the last of her clothes.

"I'm fine," she said, but that didn't stop him.

He pressed his body against her back and ran his
fingers across her stomach. "How about a hand here?"
His fingers inched higher. "Or here?"

When Charmin Zullman destroyed the spells, the
injuries to the hexed instantly disappeared. Since that
moment, Mulder had seemed determined to touch Scully
as often and as intimately as possible.

Scully, however, was at a distinct disadvantage in the
touching department. Even after Trent's superhuman
strength abandoned him, Scully's broken wrist stayed
broken. Her left arm was decorated with a variety of
gouges and cuts, and the puncture wound on her face had
returned in all its scabby glory. She was a wreck.
Mulder was not deterred.

He had been attentive and sympathetic, but his
sympathy did not stop him from taking advantage of the
situation. "Is this what you're wearing on the plane?"
he asked in a tone that suggested disapproval.

"There's nothing wrong with what I'm wearing."

"Nothing except that you have a button unbuttoned right
here." His fingers slipped the top button of her blouse
free. "Oh, and this one, too. Really, Scully, this
shirt is just falling apart."

It had taken her ten minutes of left-handed fumbling to
button her shirt in the first place, yet her
indignation unraveled into raspy moans when Mulder
touched her skin.

One hand danced along the lace edge of her bra, while
the other dispensed with the remainder of her buttons
and pulled the shirt off her shoulders.

With her arms bound in silk and plaster and bandages,
Scully turned to face her partner. "I thought we agreed
to wait until my cast came off."

"Verbal agreements aren't binding, Agent Scully. We
didn't even shake on it," Mulder said as he toyed with
the cast on her right hand. "But if this is bothering you,
just say the word and we'll stop."

For a few dizzying moments, she couldn't say anything
at all without running the risk of biting Mulder's
tongue. As they kissed, the ache in Scully's wrist was
numbed by a tonic of pleasant sensations. Mulder backed
her against the bed and pulled her blouse completely
away before bearing her down on the mattress.

Proving he truly was a master of multi-tasking, Mulder
tugged at the zipper of her skirt while quizzing her
about her exit meeting with the SAC. "How did it go
with Powell?" 

"Well, let's see, our best piece of evidence is sitting
on the bottom of the Mississippi river. There are two
bodies in the morgue whose deaths seem to have been
caused by autopsy since, except for Harper's detached
testicles...

Mulder grimaced.

"Sorry." Scully soothed him with kiss. "Except for
that, there was no other evidence of trauma. And let's
not forget all those tourists who claim they saw the
agent in charge of the case wearing a skimpy leather
dress and flying around the Arch. At least Sheila
Solomon is happy because I'm no longer under
consideration for the ASAC job here in St. Louis."

"Hmmm, that's a shame."

What was a shame was the fact that Mulder had ripped a
perfectly good pair of pantyhose in his haste to get them
off her legs. 

"Does all this mean Trent and Charmin are off the hook?" he asked
as he nibbled and kissed his way up her body.

"Not ... oh, God ... not completely."

"Remember, Scully, we can stop at any time," Mulder
reminded her, each word accented with a kiss along the
curve of her breast. He nudged at the lace of her bra.
"That cast will be off in six weeks or so, and if you
want to feel more fully participatory in the
experience...."

"I wouldn't be where I am today without some ability to
improvise," she said and felt the immediate effect her
words had on Mulder.

"And where are you today?"

"Stuck in a dead-end job in a damp basement office with
no desk. But I do have an excellent benefits package."
She opened her thighs wider and pushed against him.
"Now, you wanted to know about Trent and Charmin."

"Not particularly," he confessed as their bodies began
moving in a gentle rhythmic prelude.

"I'll tell you anyway. Once Trent recovers from his
fall into the river, he'll be working part-time as a
busboy on the riverboat to make restitution for one
day's lost revenue and the damage to their sign. And
he'll have to find a new day job. They both will. Charmin
told Mrs. Schnepf the truth and she wasn't entirely
forgiving about what they did to her."

"Raise up for a second." Mulder made quick work of the
hooks of Scully's bra and tossed the garment aside. His
lips made a dozen tantalizing near misses before they
found their target.

"Take off your clothes, Mulder."

Mulder's mouth abandoned its play long enough for him
to say, "Not now. I'm investigating. And you haven't
finished telling me about Charmin."

"Just the shirt, and then I'll tell you."

Mulder's unbuttoning prowess was severely impaired now
that Scully was topless, squirming, arching beneath him.
She was doing everything in her power to work him into a
frenzy, even as she continued with her wrap-up of the case.
"Agent Abbott really went to bat for Charmin," she said,
and paused to moisten her lips with a good, long lick.
"He's going to help her get a job as an archivist for the Bureau."
Scully raised her bandaged hand and began to work at Mulder's
belt buckle. "To tell the truth, I think Nelson is smitten."

At that, Mulder paused in his undressing. "Smitten? With
Charmin?"

"Don't sound so surprised. There's someone for everyone,
Mulder. Even paranoid, alien-chasing conspiracy theorists
sometimes get the girl."  And the girl was getting impatient.
When her hand drifted down her stomach to the lace edge of
her panties, then beneath it, Mulder attacked his clothing with
renewed vigor.

Having finally won the tussle with his shirt, he came to
rest against her, chest-to-chest, skin-to-skin. Every breath
and satisfied sound from either vibrated through them both.

"You know," Scully sighed, "I was afraid we'd never
have this. That we'd never end up here."

"Oh, Scully," Mulder said at the closure of a kiss.
"We're just getting started."
 
____________

End "Paper Saints" part 15/15


Author's Notes:  

"Chocolate and Pointy Sticks and Cows, Oh My!"

This story was started during the summer between the 5th and
6th seasons. I abandoned it, cursed it and came back to it
countless times, but I wouldn't have finished it without the
encouragement and good-natured stalking of the members of the
Scullyfic list. This story is dedicated to them.

--

"I Beta-Read 'Paper Saints' and I Didn't Even Get
a Lousy T-Shirt"

Since this was such an extended project, it would be difficult
for me to name every person who volunteered as a beta reader.
If I made a list, I would undoubtedly leave someone out. If
you are among the wonderful, selfless people who helped me
with this story, know that I love and appreciate you.

--

"Thanks for the Memories (and the Experience)"

Although I still love the show, this will be the last fanfic
story I write. My experiences in fanfic taught me a lot
about the craft of writing. I gained skill and confidence.
Now I'm keeping busy with professional writing projects.
Despite what some people say, writing fanfic is not a
waste of time. If you learn from it, you profit.

It would be impossible to put a value on the friendships
I've made through fanfic, but I do know I have amassed a
fortune in that commodity. The show will end and my stories
will disappear, but the friendships will go on.

From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.

Jill