Title: Unnatural Disaster Author: Michaela Rating: R for language and adult situations. Spoilers: Consider anything within the first five seasons fair game. http://members.aol.com/FanficWrtr/index.html MickiRae@aol.com Summary: It's hard enough when your mistakes come back to haunt you. Harder still when you're a federal agent. Hardest yet when your partner's help is the first thing you need, but the last thing you want ... ********************** There's something about the quiet of an apartment that has been without its occupant for a week -- an utter stillness; invisible and minuscule dust particles hang in the air, as if they are unwilling or unable to settle without activity to motivate them. Everything, even time itself, seems suspended, taking on a sepia-toned watchfulness reminiscent of old photographs...waiting. Waiting to be reclaimed and brought back to the present. Dana Scully knew this was a fanciful notion -- that time and dust and everything else had carried on while she was away, whether it be an assignment, or a vacation with family, as it had been this time. And yet, whenever she returned to her home after a long absence, she always found herself anticipating, then relishing, this feeling. That her apartment had retreated to some strange time warp the moment she'd walked out the door, holding still, just waiting for her to return. It had missed her. A silly thought, but comforting in its way. Home was a refuge, existing only to shelter her. Ironic, she admitted, considering how many mutants, psychopaths and nefarious shadow-world figures had managed to find their way inside. And the apartment had yet to lend her any assistance in fighting them off. But Scully, practical even in her whimsy, had never seen fit to blame the apartment; she'd never considered moving to a more secure location. After all, this apartment was still just a collection of rooms, hardly at fault for the danger that surrounded her job. So she added a new lock or two on occasion, and let her home protect her the best it could. It would be unfair to ask for more from a home that seemed to give enough. Scully nudged the door closed behind her with her hip, and let her suitcase and carry-on bag land with a muffled thump beside her, taking a deep breath, savoring that hushed, almost reverent, feeling of welcome. Except it wasn't there. Something was different. Time had not stood still. Activity had not ceased. Someone had been in her home. She fumbled instinctively for a moment behind her back, underneath her sweater, before remembering she hadn't worn her holster. She hesitated, feeling awkward and irrational. Everything appeared normal; her door had been locked, no sign of forced entry, and nothing appeared disturbed. There were no sounds that should not have been there -- the distant staccato of a dog barking, the faint hum of traffic, the slight vibration of the building's air ventilation system. There was nothing out of place. No object obviously missing, moved or ransacked. Everything was as it should be. Still... Something was strange. The apartment felt different. The air seemed displaced, somehow. As if someone had, rather recently, moved within these walls, among her things, inside her haven. As if her apartment was giving a warning in its own quiet way. Silliness, Scully thought. She shook her head briskly, untethering these irrational fancies. And then she laughed aloud, the sound ringing through the still-quiet apartment, as the answer came to her. Mulder. Of course. He had a key to her apartment, and he'd agreed to collect her mail. Promised not to touch the plants, though. She'd learned that lesson early on, when she'd returned from a vacation to find that Mulder, in a memorable display of zealousness about the responsibility left to him, had managed to kill each defenseless bit of greenery with overwatering and lethal doses of MiracleGro. They stood a better chance being neglected for a week and coaxed back to life when Scully returned. She smiled at the memory, made a mental note to water the plants as soon as she finished unpacking, and carried her luggage to the bedroom, where that disturbing disquiet returned to her in a rush. Something was wrong. Something was strange. But she'd be damned if she could figure out what it was... The bed was made, its no-nonsense blanket and pillows stretched smooth across the mattress. Blinds slanted open just slightly to let in sunlight but little else. The polished wood of the dresser gleamed; atop it, the incongruous assortment of cologne bottles and forensic journals appeared seemingly as she'd left them a week before. The lamp shade on her bedside table was pale gray. It used to be white. Scully frowned and stared hard at it. It was funny sometimes, how something could be in your home, you could see it every day for years, and yet never really *see* it. Never entirely notice its details. Just take for granted that it was there. Admittedly, she'd never paid much attention to the lamp by her bed -- it was something her mother had given her years ago, and it served no purpose beyond the functional ... allowing her to read in bed, or to see by when she got those inevitable late-night phone calls from Mulder. It was not decorative. It was not a Martha Stewart kind of lamp. And, of course, she'd never cared. But now ... it appeared to stand out against the creamy paint of the wall. Caught her eye. It had never done that before. Hadn't the lamp shade been white, almost an ivory color? Has it always been gray? Have you really never noticed that before? Scully allowed herself another smile and shook her head. Of course it had always been gray. Time, absence and the irrational sense of suspicion she'd felt earlier had simply heightened her awareness of her surroundings and caused her to notice the shade's color on a conscious level for the first time in ages. It had always been gray, she told herself firmly. Scully made a small sound of frustration in the back of her throat. This was irrational, and pointless to boot. What possible reason for changing her lamp shade could there be, and who would do it if there *were* a reason? Mulder? Would he have bought her a new shade? The thought seemed ridiculous, beyond ludicrous actually, and she immediately began to dismiss it. A lamp shade? Right. But then, when Scully thought about it, this was the same man who'd given her a Super Bowl video after a near-brush with death, and an Apollo 11 key chain on her birthday. So maybe in some strange, Mulderthink way (she loved Mulderthink ... didn't always understand it, but always enjoyed the trip) maybe there was some bizarre significance to giving a lamp shade as a welcome home gift. There were times when Scully wouldn't put *anything* past Fox Mulder. And anyway, the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that the lamp shade used to be white. Which meant that Mulder replacing it with a gray one was the only answer. The only answer, she repeated to herself. She shook her head and picked up the cordless phone, punching in Mulder's number automatically as she walked to the kitchen, noting that her mail was dutifully stacked on the table top. On the third ring, as she reached for the watering can, her partner answered in his usual laconic manner. "Yeah?" "Hi. I'm home." "Hey, Scully. Survived the torture of sun, surf and relaxation, I take it?" She smiled, knowing he couldn't see it, but would hear it in the tone of her voice. "Yeah, well, it was tough, but I persevered somehow," she replied, filling the container with tepid water. "Your strength of character is admirable. Got any tan lines, Scully?" His voice dropped to that leering, want-some-candy-little-girl? tone he used when he was tossing innuendoes her way. She chuckled, then tried to cover with a stern tone. "I do not tan, Mulder. I am a redhead. I burn. And anyway, I used sun block and a hat." "You know, Scully, you've never adequately proven to me that you *are* a true redhead. It could be Clairol, for all I know. I'm not sure I should take your word for it." She rolled her eyes, even as a little thrill went through her. A flirting Mulder was equally exasperating and titillating. And the idea of proving once and for all to Fox Mulder that her pigmentation, hair and otherwise, was perfectly natural just led her traitorous mind into all kinds of delicious and dangerous thoughts. "I thought you said I'm the only one you trust?" she teased instead, trying to concentrate on watering a wilted fern that had taken her absence very personally. "You are, Scully," he said with sudden seriousness, and she caught her breath for a moment. It could still surprise her, even after five years, how his moods spun so mercurially; flirtatious and teasing one moment, utterly earnest the next. It made her dare to wonder, late at night when she might allow herself more unguarded thoughts of him, if his seemingly casual flirtations were more meaningful than he let on. "Well, if you do end up in that proverbial desert searching for the truth, I'll bring the shovel and lend a hand," she said, steering away from those thoughts. The silence on his end was suddenly too weighty, as he absorbed that statement. She hurriedly tried to bring a note of lightness back to the conversation, afraid of revealing too much in what was, after all, only supposed to be a casual phone call. "Although, as a *redhead,* I insist on bringing sunscreen." He laughed, caught off-guard and impressed with her rejoinder, and she smiled into the phone. "By the way, thank you," she said. "I do my best. Your mail is all present and accounted for, and I want to be the first to congratulate you." "For what?" "You may have already won ten million dollars," he said with mock-seriousness, drawing a soft laugh from her. "Just try to remember who your friends are, Scully." "I always do, Mulder," she replied, plucking dead leaves from the fern. "But that's not the only reason I'm thanking you." "Oooh, I get bonus points? What for?" "The gift, Mulder. It's a very ... unique gift, but I've learned to expect nothing less. And it's actually very lovely, thank you." "Did I leave a certain magazine at your house?" he asked, sounding puzzled and feigning a worried tone. "It's not mine. I bought it for Frohike." "The lamp shade, Mulder. I don't know what made you think of it, but it looks nice. You may want to consider moonlighting as an interior decorator. Thank you." The silence at the other end of the line was heavy again, but not with expectation. It was confusion, pure and simple. Scully could practically see his eyebrows drawing together in that familiar frown as he puzzled over her words. She swallowed suddenly, feeling unbalanced, awkward. "Um...Scully?" he began hesitantly, not sure what to say. "You didn't buy me a lamp shade." It was not a question. She put the watering can down on a nearby table, automatically sliding a magazine beneath it first to protect the wood. She moved mechanically, her feet already dragging her inexorably back toward the bedroom. "I didn't know you wanted one." Mulder was floundering, she could hear it. The reply was the first to pop to mind, inane at best. He was completely at a loss. She could relate. "I didn't know I wanted one, either," she said after a moment. What a ridiculous conversation, and she suddenly wanted to be off the phone, pretending that she'd never made the call, because obviously the vacation had done her no good at all, she was losing her mind or her memory or something; the lamp shade had always been gray and she had just made a complete fool of herself in front of her partner. And yet she couldn't bring herself to hang up, though her embarrassed and flustered brain was demanding it. Suddenly she wanted Mulder there, very badly, and she didn't know why. The plastic telephone receiver creaked its protest by her ear as her fingers tightened around it. "Scully?" She stared at the lamp from her bedroom doorway, unsure of what to do. Make some contrived but possibly believable excuse to Mulder to cover her own absentmindedness, or double check the locks on all the doors and windows? It was an utterly helpless feeling, because she wasn't sure whether she was being cautious, or paranoid. She wasn't sure of anything at that point. But she'd hesitated a moment too long. She'd sent Mulder, whose instincts could be uncanny any time and downright "spooky" when it came to Dana Scully, into full-alert mode. "I'm on my way, Scully." The line disconnected with an abrupt click. Scully held the receiver for a long time. ************************************* Mulder had barely succeeded in talking himself out irrational panic as he brought his car to a stop, much too quickly, at Scully's apartment building. He could not have explained this rush of disquiet had he been asked -- she had not screamed for him, or appeared to be in any kind of danger, or even asked him to come over. And yet, here he was, racing to her door with a knot in his gut the size of Miami and an ominous sense of foreboding shadowing every long-legged stride. But for a single and unsettling moment, he had not recognized the woman on the other end of his phone, a woman whose every nuance he'd memorized with the zealousness of a religious convert with his first Bible. Frankly, Scully had been his faith for years, and he'd surrendered himself a long time ago, just in time to reclaim the soul he had never realized was lost. She'd found it for him. No, she'd found it *with* him, and kept him as safe as he'd allow her to on the journey. Fox Mulder, Altar Boy of Lost Souls. Can I get an "Amen"? He took the front porch steps in two leaps. His heart was racing, but it could not be blamed on the quick sprint from the car. It was the sudden sense -- an absolute certainty -- that he would not find Scully on the other side of her door. Instead he'd find another shattered window, blood-smeared table and smashed phone, irrefutable evidence that she'd been ripped from his life again. Mulder briefly wondered if he should stop and vomit first, so as not to spoil the crime scene. A theory that did not hold water with Fox Mulder, a man who had conjured up and believed theories far stranger than this. It was not "just a damned phone call." Because Dana Scully had not *sounded* like the Dana Scully he knew. She'd sounded rattled -- flustered, off-balance and entirely unsure of herself. And if that wasn't a reason to worry, Mulder couldn't think of a better one. He'd spent five years of his life listening to Scully puzzle over evidence she couldn't explain with science, rage against conspiracies too large to see, cry over victims both unknown and loved, calmly carve a man's ego to shreds with the tone of her voice alone, even laugh at one of Mulder's lesser attempts at humor. Scully had spoken to him in terror, in pain, in anger, in laughter, in bone-numbing weariness. He knew her voice. He'd *never* heard her sound like that. Mulder skidded to a halt in front of the solid panel of her apartment door, resenting its barrier and punishing it by pounding louder than necessary with his fist. He listened for something -- anything -- on the other side of the door, and was rewarded with silence. That irritatingly irrational panic flared once again in his gut and he raised his hand to batter the door again, maybe even try to beat it off its hinges, when he finally heard the muffled tread of footsteps approaching from inside. "Scully, it's me," he called through the door with a kind of forced normalcy that grated in his own ears. A pause, then the metallic rasp of the dead bolt sliding free and the rattle of the chain. She appeared before his eyes in measured slivers as the door swung open, first her arm and the curve of her waist, then the hollow of her collarbone above a v-necked T-shirt that Mulder's mind dimly registered as a shade of blue just darker than her eyes, then her face, framed by a halo of red hair. He tried to draw a breath, felt his lungs expand to agonizing proportions as he realized he'd already been holding it. Not seeing her for a week was bad enough. Then wondering, irrational or not, if he'd ever see her again ... That was just torture, too much even for a man as skilled in self-flagellation as Mulder. The relief upon seeing her was acute, and as finely-honed as a razor's edge. He felt a little giddy. Light-headed even. Mulder managed to release the breath he was still holding without making it sound too much like a ragged sigh, and reached deep down into his personal repertoire for a careless, hangdog grin. He stretched his mouth around it, decided it felt reasonably natural so it must look that way, too, and opted to keep it. He felt like grinning like an idiot and hoped this wasn't too close to the mark. Not that it made much difference. She had yet to look him in the eye anyway. "You okay?" he asked inanely. "I'm fine, Mulder," she said, and turned, walking back into the living room but leaving the door open behind her. Stay or go, suit yourself, was the unspoken message, and he opted for choice one, stepping inside. He watched her carefully. Her voice had sounded strange -- it was one of those "I'm fines" that set him on edge even more than they usually did. An almost sing-song quality, like the one she'd forced out after he'd found her in Donnie Pfaster's apartment. It was an "I'm fine" that encouraged him to push his luck, because Scully might just let him in if he managed to stumble across the right thing to do, or say. Odd that Scully was the one person in the world who actually made him feel comfortable in his own skin, and yet, when she was distant like this, he could still feel as if he were tiptoeing through land mines around her. One wrong move and boom! ... He might lose an appendage. Maybe his heart. "So what's going on, Scully?" He quietly pushed the door closed behind him, almost wincing as the latch clicked loudly in the too-quiet apartment. Scully was carefully picking dry leaves off a fern, standing in profile with her head bowed, the sun from the window igniting flares of gold and red in her hair. "Nothing. Unpacking." Her words were clipped, cautious about revealing anything, it seemed. Mulder hummed a noncommittal reply before stepping forward into the room, letting his eyes wander over it. Nothing seemed unusual here. So why was she acting so strangely? "I...uh, came over to see if I did leave that magazine here," he ventured further. "You know, since Frohike can't have you, he's managed to content himself with redheaded models dressed in medical scrubs. If I don't bring him that magazine, he may just implode. Love is so cruel." He couldn't tell if she smiled, the graceful fall of her hair hid her profile. She continued to harass the fern, running out of dead leaves and now working on the live ones. "No creative literature here," she said softly. "Not even a Victoria's Secret catalogue. Tell Frohike I'm sorry." "Scully, if you wanted to torture that plant, you could have just had me take care of it while you were gone." Her fingers stilled, and she snatched them back as if she'd been caught in the proverbial cookie jar, clasping them carefully in front of her instead. He watched, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown; this was entirely out-of-character. She wasn't looking at him, she seemed awkward. What the hell was going on? Mulder decided to act. She obviously wasn't going to offer anything up on her own. "You mentioned something about a lamp shade." He'd analyzed every syllable of their phone conversation on the way over, just to be sure he wasn't being more paranoid than usual, and he'd decided that was definitely when things had become odd, when she'd begun sounding so strange. She turned to face him then, pivoting quickly, and he could finally see her eyes. He plumbed their blue depths, trying to mine whatever emotion he could from them. But they were carefully shielded, and then she swept her lashes down over them, looking at the floor. He thought he detected a faint pinkening along her cheekbones, and her lips twitched in a smile that he could only interpret as embarrassed. Embarrassed? "Mulder, what color is the lampshade by my bed?" He should have been prepared for the question. They'd discussed lamp shades on the phone, he'd already determined that was the turning point of the conversation, and he'd just brought it up again himself. So why did this completely throw him? "Umm..." He tried to remember. He had an eidetic memory, that was true enough, but what people didn't always realize about the so-called "photographic memory" is that it works most reliably when you are actually paying attention to something, like reading a textbook or a case file or memorizing what your partner is wearing every single day for five years. The peripherals get a little blurry around the edges. Interior decorating had never been a strong interest for him, as his own apartment would attest. Her gaze met his again, and now he could see that this question, no matter how absurd, was important to her. So he concentrated. "White." Scully exhaled in a loud rush of air that startled him, closing her eyes as if he'd just given her the answer key to all of the universe's mysteries. Then she opened them again, impaled him with a blue-eyed stare. "Are you sure?" she asked suddenly. "Yeah, reasonably sure, Scully," he replied, feeling flummoxed. "Keeping in mind that I've been in your bedroom maybe a handful of times -- " She shot him a look that was almost amused, as if daring to make a joke, and he felt compelled to obliged her -- "and I'm fairly sure it was white. Though I must say, for the record, that on one of those occasions I was stoned out of my mind on an hallucinogenic soft-water cocktail, and on another I was more interested in seeing what color your bra was." The stern glare she shot him could have melted steel, and he found himself ridiculously relieved to see it. Normalcy had its appeal once in a while, even to Fox Mulder. ``So what's going on, Scully?'' he asked again. She sighed, and gestured vaguely toward her bedroom. He made a few tentative steps toward it, past her, and he paused, glancing at her to gauge her reaction to him taking the lead. She nodded slightly, and he continued. When he paused in her bedroom doorway, it was with an investigator's habit for trying to absorb a scene as one large picture, although his eyes inevitably fixed on where the lamp was. Except it wasn't. He glanced to the floor beside the bed -- there it lay, unplugged from the wall socket, systematically dismantled, presumably with the screwdriver and pliers that were on the rug nearby. Mulder felt a chill sweep down his spine. She was checking for bugs. She thought the lamp was bugged. God knew, it wouldn't be the first time one of them had attracted the attention of surveillance equipment. He turned slightly to at her, the question in his hazel gaze apparent, not daring to speak. Scully shook her head to the negative. ``I didn't find --'' she began. He put a finger to his lips and she stumbled to a halt. He let his eyes sweep carefully around the room before returning his gaze to hers, and the meaning there was as plain as if he'd spoken aloud. The lamp might be clean, but the rest of the apartment could be infested for all they knew. She nodded slowly, meaningfully. Message received, loud and clear, but not for anyone who might be listening in. Mulder gestured back toward the living room, and she tilted her head inside the bedroom. Parameters established, they went to work. Two hours later, after they'd entirely disassembled Scully's apartment, she let out a frustrated curse and dropped bonelessly onto her couch, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes and rubbing at the weariness there before dropping them limply at her sides. Mulder turned from the window, where he'd been gazing between the slits in the blinds at the traffic outside, having already finished his search. "There's nothing here, Mulder," she sighed. He turned, giving her that cocky grin that usually managed to summon a smile out of her. "Why, Scully, you sound almost disappointed. Don't tell me you have a secret yen for being bugged by shadowy conspirators. That blows my birthday present to you this year all to hell." She gave him that trademark "Why do you bother to tease me when I'm this tired?" look, the one with the tolerant smile. "You mean, I should hold out and hope you'll remember it two years in a row?" she retorted. He chuckled and stepped over to sprawl onto the other end of the couch, his legs stretching in front of the coffee table, those heavy boots of his threatening the safety of her feet. She tucked them beneath her as a precaution. "Seriously, Scully, you sound like you were hoping the place was bugged. And I'm sitting here trying to figure out why." "Why do you need to figure it out, Mulder?" Scully snapped, her tone surprisingly defensive. He looked startled, a little wounded even, and she managed a reasonable facsimile of a teasing smile. "I mean, doesn't a woman have a right to a little unhealthy paranoia once in a while, or do you and the Gunmen have that particular commodity locked?" "I'm serious," he said, without even trying for an answering smile, and she pressed her lips together, firmly tamping down the frown – or the tremble – that threatened there. "So am I," she said tonelessly. "I just felt the need for a little…precaution. That's all." "That's not all, Scully. What made you feel like that?" But she could not say those things to him, though Mulder of all people would likely understand. He seemed to understand pretty much everything where she was concerned. The words just wouldn't force themselves out. Because they didn't sound like her at all. They didn't sound very controlled. And Scully, above all else, was highly protective of the veneer of control she polished to a fine shine around herself. "I don't know, Mulder," she replied breezily, and it was a tone he clearly interpreted as "This discussion is over now. I'm done." She pulled herself to her feet, tugging absently at her sweater. "I guess I was just on vacation a little too long. I must be suffering from conspiracy deprivation and felt the need to imagine one. Now I know why you don't take vacations." He was silent, and she could feel the reproof in it. She chose to ignore it. "I was going to order some Chinese. Do you have food in your apartment or are you going to let me play hostess?" She was already halfway to the kitchen, and tossed the words carelessly over her shoulder. Mulder warred with himself, torn between leaving her to her own devices out of this hurt disappointment he was feeling and the need to stay a little longer and make sure she really was okay, maybe try a second attempt at getting her to tell him what was wrong. Staying near Scully won out in the end. It always did. *************************** Scully was having an abysmally shitty day. Of course, the day had hardly begun. And it was admittedly unfair to label a day abysmal when she'd only been awake for about two hours of it. Not to mention, ``shitty'' wasn't the most intellectual of adjectives, anyway. Still, ``abysmally shitty'' just seemed to fit, so Scully decided to go with it. ``Good morning,'' Mulder offered from his usual chair, elbow-deep in paperwork he'd neglected during her vacation, despite his genuine intent to finish it before her return. ``Right.'' The answer was unnecessarily terse, even for Scully at this hour, conjuring a surprised expression from her partner. ``Something wrong, Scully?'' ``No.'' Hmmm. Nothing there to offer any insight. ``Traffic bad?'' he persisted, still fishing. ``No.'' She moved to her desk, back to him, and he could see how tight and high her shoulders were pulled, practically climbing to her ears. For whatever reason, she was drawn as tense as an archer's bow and likely was as dangerously armed. Of course, he chose to view this as an immediate invitation to jump right in and determine the cause. Curiosity killed the cat, and it had severely maimed Mulder on any number of occasions. ``Hit a small child on your way in? Drive over a puppy?'' he asked with a half-comical, half-challenging tone that was sure to garner a reaction. ``Mulder,'' she snapped, turning on him with an almost feral quickness. ``I am not a morning person. I have *never* been a morning person. In five and half years, you have never seemed to grasp this fact. What will it take? What can I do – short of electric shock therapy – to stop this insatiable need you seem to have for engaging me in conversation first thing in the morning?'' Stunned. Mulder was stunned. It was a physical reaction – he actually took a step backward from her tirade, as if he could somehow escape the words by pure geography. But distance of any measure wouldn't have protected him from the vitriol of her tone. Scully drew a long, deep breath in through her nose, then expelled it from between her lips as soundlessly as possible, not wanting it to sound like a sigh. ``It still doesn't explain why you – or Byers, for that matter – feel the need to keep me apprised of Mr. Jerse's whereabouts,'' she continued. ``He's *escaped*, Scully.'' ``I understood you, Mulder. I'm not a imbecile.'' Her tone became sharp, biting. There it was. A slight crack in the veneer. ``I didn't say you were,'' he replied, wincing at the almost childish petulance in his own voice. ``But the Gunmen thought you should be aware of it. And I happen to agree, particularly considering your history with this case – '' He stopped abruptly, cut short by the soft but hissing sibilance of her sharply drawn breath. The stare she pinned him with could have cut glass, it was that hard and fiercely bright. He barely managed not to squirm under its intensity, from the unexpected violence of her as-yet unspoken reaction, almost quivering in the air between them. ``And what *history* might that be, Agent Mulder?'' she challenged in a tone so sweet it was venomous. ``Just exactly what history might you be referring to?'' Mulder glanced at the floor, sure for one astonished moment that there must be land mines there, knowing that he was inevitably about to step in one and blow himself to pieces. If he hadn't already. He was pretty sure he had. ``Scully –'' She rose from her seat abruptly, startling him into rearing back instinctively in his chair, as if he expected her to come flying at him with nails and teeth like some outraged virago. Instead, she bound him to his chair with one frighteningly cold glare, tugged at the jacket of her suit, and walked quickly for the door. ``We'll have this conversation later, Mulder,'' she said, the syllables falling like shards of ice on his ears. "Maybe.'' ************************* Scully was inordinately proud of the fact that she managed to walk all the way down the hall from the office, into the women's restroom, make sure she was alone, and firmly lock herself into a stall before she vomited. Sometimes you took those small victories wherever you could get them. She was trembling. A fine, clammy mist of sweat had broken out on her skin, though whether from shock or the exertion of bringing up a paltry breakfast she couldn't be sure. If a mirror had been immediately handy, she wouldn't have wanted to look at it, quite certain that her complexion was on the distinctly unflattering side of gray. Jesus Christ. It was less a blasphemy than a feebly offered entreaty. Scully eased herself up tentatively, bracing one hand against the side of the stall as she reached over quickly to flush the evidence of her weakness away, commanding her shaky knees to hold her upright. Ed Jerse. Not a name she wanted to hear. Not from Mulder. Of all people, *not* from Mulder. Not like this. Not when she already felt so vulnerable and caught off-guard. Not when it was a part of her life – a part of herself – she'd rather forget. Not when it was something she had never wanted to share with Mulder, lest he see something in her that she wasn't ready to reveal Scully cut off that line of thinking with a muffled curse, swiveling and pushing her way out of the stall, weaving her way to the sink. She looked into the mirror and assessed the damage – pretty much what she'd expected. Pasty skin, faintly coated with moisture. Wide, startled eyes and dilated pupils. Hair everywhere but where it was supposed to be. Lovely. She turned on the faucet and continued to stare at her reflection as the water ran hot, determining how to start the repairs, both in front of her and back in the office. She had not handled herself well. That was certain. She'd managed to jump down Mulder's throat, which was unfair, and by that act, undoubtedly tip him off as to how deeply the news had disturbed her. Not that it usually took much with Mulder to clue him in where she was concerned. He had become disturbingly skilled at seeing past her stoic facade over the past five years. There were times when Scully looked at him, at how he was responding to her in even the most mundane situation, and realized she had very few places left to hide. She could never quite decide whether to fly into a blind panic at that or not. Habit said run. Instinct said stay. So she tried to stay. But it was fitful most of the time. Old habits die hard. And rear their ugly heads in times of stress. Times of stress. Scully wiped a dampened paper towel across her cheeks and tried to apply her most analytical problem-solving skills to the question of why this particular event was causing such a violent reaction. She had faced far worse than Ed Jerse in her day – far worse – and had been left less shaken by the circumstances or the aftershocks. True enough. That certainly did tend to make a person wary. But Ed was neither first nor last in a long line of questionable individuals who, for reasons diverse and numerous, had found Scully's presence in the world unacceptable. Ed didn't possess a singularly exceptional trait to make him stand out in that group. He was no Eugene Tooms, for instance. He had been bizarre, to greatly understate the issue. Ed certainly hadn't been planning to make chicken feed or stew out of her, like the residents of a certain small Arkansas town she could name. The list went on and on: Donnie Pfaster, Samuel Aboah, John Barnett, the always charming Milford Haven PTA, Virgil Incanto, Robert Modell, a few shape shifting aliens (if you believed that sort of thing) and…well, hell, there was an entire underworld of powerful, shadowy figures who couldn't seem to make up their minds as to whether they wanted Dana Scully dead or alive. Alex Krycek on at least one occasion. Duane Barry. Leonard Betts. Scully turned the water to cold and brought handfuls to her lips, rinsing away the bitter taste of bile, hoping to also cleanse the more pervasive taste of death that memories of the disease could conjure. For obvious reasons, she didn't like to dwell too much on that time in her life, when fate lurked just around the corner and hope was too cruel and fickle a companion to trust for long. She didn't like to ponder what she had become during some of those darkest moments of her life. Scully slammed the door closed on that particular train of thought – since it was being damned uncooperative – and turned her attention to the mirror before her instead. The hot water had managed to trick some color into her cheeks and she no longer had that deer-in-headlights stare. A few drops of water and the use of her fingers to smooth her rebellious hair back … Cool and Collected Scully was once again present and accounted for, at least in body if not entirely in spirit. Okay. Damage control. How to handle the situation. Her nature vied for her usual brand of unswerving honesty while the rest of her rebelled against the concept of honesty when applied to herself. Dana Scully was honest, but rarely candid, if one could appreciate the distinction. Nonchalant. That was the answer. Make a brief apology for her icy behavior, lay the blame for it at Monday's doorstep – though how often a morning could bear the brunt of inadequate excuses and remain at all credible was debatable – and then simply rebuff any further attempts to discuss the topic. That would work. Eventually. God knows she'd done it before. She didn't know how to do otherwise. **************************** Having determined a course of action that she could live with, Scully's stride was purposeful as she made her way back down the hall to the office. Still, she noticed her steps slowing as she approached the door. By the time she reached it, she'd tapered off to a near crawl. A moment of doubt flickered unbidden through her mind – maybe it would just be easier to tell Mulder the truth – before she shook it off. The truth wasn't a quest she wanted to pursue at this moment, in this particular situation. My, wouldn't all the government conspirators be jealous of Ed Jerse's favored status? ``— and exactly which village idiot thought that one up?'' Scully paused before the fractionally open door, hand hesitating against its cool surface, arrested by Mulder's scorching tone. She recognized that pitch in his voice – it was Mulder at his most indignant and outraged and lethally sarcastic. A moment of silence, and then, ``And you thought that was a *good* idea?'' Translation: I would never allow you to breed and pollute the gene pool. Ouch. Scully braved a peek around the door and found Mulder pacing in front of his desk, telephone to his ear, nearly wrapping the cord around his hips as he moved. The receiver in one hand, he was carrying the rest of the telephone by its cradle in the other, jabbing it perilously in the air to punctuate his words. Scully bit her lip and found herself wanting to smile for the first time in several long minutes. ``No, see, what I don't understand, Dr. Paulding, is how you could *possibly* justify a psychological analysis like that in a court of law. Beyond the fact that it's ludicrous, it runs dangerously close to the criminal.'' Scully arched an eyebrow at that – interesting. Mulder was irate, and poor Dr. Paulding, whoever the hell that was, didn't stand a chance in hell. She racked her brain trying to remember if she'd read the name in any of their recent case files. Not that she could remember. Must be a new one. She started to push the door open further. ``This man killed his downstairs neighbor. He tried to kill a federal agent not long after. He told you he believed his tattoo – `` Mulder fairly spat the word ``-- was telling him to do these things. And you felt that a minimum security psychiatric hospital was the best possible placement for him? Dr. Paulding, does the name Son of Sam ring any kind of bell for you?'' Oh. Not a new case file. Not a current case file. An old one. A very familiar old one. One closed 18 months ago. One she'd closed 18 damn *minutes* ago. She tamped down her instinctively outraged flare of temper and took a deep, quiet breath. Mulder was silent for a moment, listening to the doctor's response, already shaking his head in vehement denial to what he was hearing. ``He tried to *kill* her, Doctor!'' Mulder all but roared into the phone. ``Because he was hearing voices. One voice, actually. And one not particularly fond of women, as I recall from the police reports. So he tried to murder Agent Scully and toss her into an incinerator like the *last* one he didn't like! And you thought it would be perfectly reasonable to have him – '' He was cut off by something the doctor was saying, and Scully watched Mulder's profile, hoping to hear the answer by reading it in his face. Although frustrating to the extreme, she was drawn by morbid curiosity to the details of what had happened to Ed Jerse after she'd yanked him, burning arm and all, free from the incinerator's hungry flames. The police arriving afterward, the questions and the paperwork and the ambulance and Mulder's reaction … it was all a blur in her mind, and one she'd purposely not clarified later. Now, confronted with it, she found it was like one of those tabloid headlines at the supermarket checkout stand, with the lurid headlines you were ashamed to read but couldn't help sneaking covert peeks at when you hoped no one was looking. Maybe that was a good idea. Pretend it was all some excessive, unbelievable tale that had happened to someone else. She could stay objective that way. However, it was hard to remain entirely dispassionate, Scully discovered, when the man reacting so furiously to the situation was Mulder. When he was responding with such protective outrage. She found herself vaguely ashamed of having such an annoyingly sappy reaction to it and still strangely thrilled by it nonetheless. He cared. Of course, she'd never doubted that. Well, maybe a few times, but almost never and not for long. He cared. He had his ways of showing it. It was just nice to get a more obvious hint once in a while. Hair swipes and absurd gifts could only make it for so long before a woman – a partner, she corrected herself hastily – needed a little more in the way of a cue. He'd called Ed Jerse's psychiatrist. To find out how the whole mess started. And then ream him a new asshole for the mere possibility of it putting Scully in jeopardy. Almost any red-blooded American woman would admit, under duress if necessary, that this was intensely … sexy. Agreed. ``Did *you* review the police reports, Dr. Paulding? Did you read Agent Scully's account of what happened in his apartment and in the basement? Did you review the extremely limited autopsy report on his downstairs neighbor, whose cause of death can't even be officially determined because there was nothing left of her but is assumed to have been unspeakably brutal due to the amount of blood found on the walls, the floor, and even the *ceiling* of her apartment? Did you – '' Scully stopped listening. It was safer that way. Because all of a sudden, a breakfast that no longer resided in her stomach was threatening to defy the universal constant of time and try to come up all over again. She didn't want to hear this. She stepped into the room, making sure he heard her, knowing that he would stop when she came in. Not because he was ashamed of calling the doctor, but because he was saying things he didn't want her to hear. Not like that. She was right. His voice cut off in mid-sentence the minute he heard her come in. He gazed at her solemnly, hapless Dr. Paulding no longer existing in his world though the man was still arguing a mile a minute against his ear. He tugged the corners of his mouth down in an almost comical expression of apology and she shook her head slightly, indicating no real harm done. ``Doctor, we need to continue this later. I'll call you back.'' The doctor's reply was, if Mulder's expression was any indication, a rather vehement assertion that the conversation would not be repeated under any circumstances. The click of the line disconnecting – undoubtedly with a slam at the other end – was loud enough for Scully to hear and to cause Mulder to wince. ``Making friends and influencing people again, Mulder?'' Scully asked mildly. ``Dr. Paulding apparently has some serious reservations about my lineage and possibly some … Freudian issues with my mother, if I am translating his colorful euphemisms correctly.'' ``You've actually provoked a clinical psychiatrist to swearing? Your unique charm is reaching new heights.'' He flashed an aw-shucks grin at her, then let it linger at the corners of his mouth to dilute the more serious emotion in his eyes. ``You okay, Scully?'' She mentally tried on an ``I'm fine'' for size, and discarded it when even *she* recognized how false it would sound. Instead, she shrugged and nodded, an unmistakably nonverbal ''I'm fine.'' Mulder raised his eyebrows. ``Bad morning, Mulder, that's all,'' she offered when it became apparent he wasn't going to accept silence. ``You mentioned that.'' His tone was carefully neutral, one either of them might use on a skittish witness who was reluctant to speak to a federal agent. His eyes, however, voiced a thousand other replies.. ``Yes.'' Her response was equally bland. Years of questioning suspects had certainly made her aware of how to successfully navigate an interrogation from the receiving end. Say as little as possible, reveal nothing. Mulder stared at her a moment longer, willing her to give him more. She wouldn't. She rarely did. ``So … did you want to hear what Dr. Paulding had to say?'' He lobbed the next volley gently. ``Certainly,'' she replied, after a moment's pause. ``As it pertains to the evaluation of Ed Jerse's mental state after the crime, I would be interested in the doctor's analysis.'' Unspoken command: Don't bring me into this, Mulder. Do not in *any* way make this conversation about me. This topic is strictly limited. Fair enough. It was a start. Sort of. ``Well, as I mentioned earlier, Jerse was sent for psychiatric evaluation when it became clear ergot poisoning was not the cause of his homicidal behavior. His psychiatrist, who would eventually testify to the same in court and win Jerse a guilty by reason of insanity verdict, determined that his actions were a result of adult-onset paranoid schizophrenia..'' Scully raised an eyebrow at that, even as she dissected it with clinical precision. Ed – Mr. Jerse, her mental editor supplied – was a little old for the norm on that one, but it wasn't entirely unheard of. It was generally accepted that adult-onset schizophrenia was due to hormonal and chemical changes in the brain as the patient aged. Outside stressors might exacerbate the imbalance. Paranoia was typical for the disease. Auditory and sometimes visual hallucinations were certainly par for the course. Homicidal behavior was definitely unusual, but not out of the question, particularly if the onset was sudden and acute. It was an intriguing diagnosis, from a pathological point of view, and one she would have been interested in studying further. Like *that* was going to happen. She nodded to cue Mulder to continue. ``He was placed in a psychiatric hospital, maximum security, while being treated by Dr. Paulding. He apparently responded very well to both therapy and medication and, after a period of observation, Dr. Paulding and the clinical board of the hospital recommended he be downgraded to minimum security while he completed his treatment. Model patient. Very involved in group therapy. Recognized his crimes. Repentant and wanting to pay his debt to society. Et cetera, et cetera.'' Mulder made it abundantly clear what he thought of singing Ed's psychiatric praises. ``Then a week ago, Jerse walked away from yard duty. In a search of his room after they discovered him missing, they found where he'd been stashing his meds. He hadn't been taking them for several days, hid them under his tongue until the nurse left or something. Amazing they still fall for that. Now he's missing.'' Scully chewed on the inside of her lip, mulling that over, her gaze turned inward. Then she looked up at Mulder. ``Okay.'' ``Okay?'' he echoed. ``That's all you have to say?'' ``That's all I have to say. Thank you for telling me.'' She swallowed hard for a moment and prodded herself to continue. ``Thank you for calling to get that information. It was very considerate of you.'' Considerate? Mulder felt a slow burn flare in his gut. What the hell? As if he'd handed her a cup of tea instead of information on a psychopath who had tried to kill her. ``Aren't you the least bit curious as to why the authorities didn't think to mention to you that he'd escaped?'' Mulder obviously was – curious and angry as hell. ``I wouldn't expect them to,'' she replied, and her tone contained a warning that he was violating the terms of their treaty. She rose suddenly, smoothing the front of her jacket and taking a deep breath. ``Well, I'm going to the commissary to brave the coffee. Do you want anything?'' Subtle, Scully. Very subtle. Next time you want to change the topic, put up a billboard. ``No. Thank you,'' he added as an afterthought. Oh, look, it's Masterpiece Theater, all formality and perfect European civility. When do I retire to the study for cigars and brandy? She stopped at the door and turned around, obviously waging some internal battle about whether to say more. Mulder watched, impatiently fascinated, waiting to see which side won. ``Ed Jerse has a wife and children,'' she said finally, looking at her shoes and not him. ``You might check to make sure the authorities warned *them.* They would be the ones concerned by his escape.'' (Not me. Definitely not me.) She left, and reappeared half an hour later with hot coffee – for two – and a renewed intention of keeping the rest of the day impersonal. Ed Jerse did not make an appearance in their conversation again that day. Of course, he'd been busy elsewhere anyway. ****************** If God was merciful, there would not be a message from her mother on the answering machine. Okay, so that sounded unduly heartless. And yes, He had issued that commandment on honoring thy father and thy mother, but surely he hadn't meant honoring one's mother by having to endure an hour of catching-up small talk and benign maternal concern when one has had an Abysmally Shitty Day. All Scully wanted to do this evening was unplug the phone, set the CD player on random play and sink into a bathtub so silky with bubbles she could slip beneath the surface and not reappear for oh, say 10 years. She contemplated her music selection and what might suit her mood as she unlocked her door, juggling her briefcase and a stack of files that her overdeveloped work ethic had demanded she bring home even as the rest of her brain had loudly declared its refusal to participate in anything bordering on professionalism for the rest of the day. She pushed her way inside and kicked the door closed with one foot, dumping the briefcase on the floor with a loud thump that was satisfying enough to make her sigh. Thank God. Home at last. Away from noisy downtown traffic and ringing phones - quick look at the answering machine, thank you, God, no messages - and autopsies and follow-up reports and questions that you didn't want to answer. Okay, strike that. There would be no thoughts of Ed Jerse tonight, and for that matter, no thoughts of Mulder either. Not even the really *good* thoughts. Instead, she would wrap herself in the cocoon of her apartment, concentrate solely on her needs and try to remember who she was underneath a suit. She was pretty sure a small ecosystem must have taken root on her legs, since she couldn't actually remember the last time she'd shaved them. There was some sort of exotic body mud concoction sitting unopened in a jar in her bathroom, something she'd purchased a lifetime ago with every intention of treating herself long before now. There might even be a candle or two sitting around. Home sweet home. Her refuge. Her haven. The last place on earth that was solely hers. Strike that thought, too. There would be no thoughts whatsoever, repeat *none*, about that ridiculous lamp. She dumped the files on the coffee table, nudging them into a perfect upright stack out of habit, before turning her attention to more important matters. Like kicking off her shoes. Ah...much better. She loved her shoes, loved that subtly self-empowering sexiness she felt when she wore them, even appreciated their usefulness in gaining some attempt at height in a virtual redwood forest of tall FBI agents, not to mention Mulder, but damn if she wasn't ready to kick them off and maybe thrown them out of the nearest window at the end of the day. Stocking-footed now, she absently freed the buttons of her jacket as she made her way to the stereo, her brain reduced to a primitive chant focused solely on creature comforts. Music. Bath. Wine. Candles. Ugh. Fire good. She smiled faintly, amused by her own whimsy, flipping through CDs with one hand while shrugging out of her jacket. Eric Clapton, Etta James, maybe a little Verdi for variety's sake. She swept up the remote and thumbed the music on, working her way over to the shelf where she kept the butane lighter and starting on the buttons of her blouse. Damn tiny buttons. She stopped in front of the shelf, reluctantly setting the remote aside beside a row of photographs as she attacked the buttons with two hands. One, two, three...she absently counted them to herself as she wrested each one free, brain simply too tired to tackle activity any more constructive. There. Make a mental note not to wear the blouse again. Pick up the lighter. Don't forget the remote. She scooped up the remote control and her gaze caught on the framed photographs sitting sentinel nearby. A few studio shots - her mother and father for their 25th anniversary, one of Charlie in his uniform - but mostly candid moments, arms slung casually around shoulders, smiles and laughing eyes, a perfect moment of happiness caught in a split second to be remembered for a lifetime... The remote slid from nerveless fingers, landing with a clatter she didn't hear. Scully stared, first in confusion and then with dawning horror, at a photograph of herself with Bill, a picture taken before the cancer, before a chasm of blame and disagreements had made them into something distantly polite, both of them laughing into the camera, tipping glasses of something red and sparklingly alcoholic upward in a toast, she resting her head on his shoulder and one arm looped around his neck. Happier times. One of the last she could really remember with Bill. Back when she still thought he was fairly close to perfect, for a big brother. Now there was a charred hole where Bill's face used to be. A cigarette. Burned through his face. Burned through a man's face. Ed Jerse. Fuck. He had been in her home. The thought was eerily reminiscent of her homecoming yesterday, the feeling she'd had when she entered her apartment and had sensed an unknown presence. But this time she had her gun. Silent and wary, she eased a hand to her waist to unsnap the gun from its holster and slip it free with a faint whisper of sound that only increased her edginess. Its weight was solid and reassuring in her grasp, and she flexed her fingers around it repeatedly, a strangely effective calming ritual. Then she began a methodical, militaristic sweep of her home. Arms forward, two-hand grip, letting the gun track her line of sight as her eyes swept cautiously over the room. Her breath seemed overloud and trapped inside her ears, as if the very air of the apartment had taken on weight and substance around her and she could simply absorb the information she needed through osmosis. She could feel her pulse thudding at the base of her skull. She canvassed her apartment like it was an FBI training course. Precise, careful steps, always on the lookout for an ambush point. Check the corners. Secure all points of entry. Locate backup. No backup here. She took a deep breath, let it catch at the back of her throat, and lunged into the bedroom, the last unconquered territory in her search. The lamp was back. Sitting there, as innocuous as any common household appliance and somehow as insidious as a snake. The lampshade taunting her with its maybe/maybe-not color. Scully barely managed to keep from shooting at it, so greatly was she startled, as if it were a live thing and a genuine threat. She released her breath in a whistling, gasping whimper, not sure if she was terrified or somehow relieved to find tangible proof that she was not, in fact, imagining the menace of the previous day. Ed had left her a message. The photograph: I've been here. The lamp: And it wasn't the first time. She felt bile rise in the back of her throat, fought it with every ounce of her self control. She would not vomit twice today. She absolutely *would not*. Unacceptable. She confirmed that the rest of the apartment was clear, then double-checked the door locks and window latches. Realized anyone could see her through the open blinds and yanked each set closed. Realized that in the creeping darkness of twilight, someone might see the lights on in her apartment, maybe even her silhouette against the blinds. She turned to the wall switch and slapped it down. Scully stood there in the darkest puddle of inky shadows, her breath harsh and frayed, plotting her next move. She'd secured the location. Eliminated disadvantage. Removed herself as a potential target. Her gun was at the ready. When had her home become a tactical assault sequence at Quantico? Oh God. She raised a hand to the light switch, mentally berating herself for taking overreaction to a new, paranoid level, and gritted her teeth when she saw her hand faintly trembling in the shadows, hesitating. The more primitive, reptilian portion of the brain that demanded hide-or-flight maneuvers warred with the higher-reasoning division clamoring for reason. She hated this. Hated it. She felt out-of-control. Paranoid. It was like that damn subliminal-killer-TV case all over again. Seeing enemies in every shadow. It wasn't, not really, she could be honest enough to admit that. There were definitive clues here to warrant concern, unlike that case; tangible evidence she could touch - not that she wanted to go near the lamp or the photo again, but this was a purely rhetorical argument anyway. Still, that case, or rather her reaction to it, had shaken something fundamental in her. It had made her question her own responses to threats, perceived or real. Was it real? Or was it just some bizarre psychosomatic reaction to stimuli? Was it truly threatening, or was it simply something that reminded her of three months of her life still largely unclaimed? Was it real, or was it a tumor-induced hallucination? When had she entirely substituted rationality in place of her instincts? Fuck it. She flipped the light switch on with a willfully steady hand. There. Debate over. She forced herself to return to the photograph on the bookshelf, eyeing it warily as she approached. She shivered, but she could feel sweat pooling at the small of her back, below the waistband of her trousers. She stopped in front of the picture, staring into the burnt hole that had been her brother's image as if she could see past it to the man who had done it. No, thank you very much for that kind offer. Scully allowed her instincts to rule for one more moment. She called Mulder. ***************************** For the second time in as many days, Mulder found himself careening toward Scully's house with heart in proverbial throat, but this time she'd actually *said* something tangibly frightening, so he broke the speed limit with relish and allowed himself an extra large helping of panic just to be on the safe side. "He's been here, Mulder." Her tone had been flat. "Who?" Forgive him if he'd been a little slow on the uptake, but she'd opened with that cryptic little remark right after he'd said hello. He'd become fairly skilled at reading between the lines where Scully was concerned, but he still sometimes required more than one actual line. "Ed Jerse." Socked in the gut. Momentary pause to catch the breath. "Are you all right? Is he there now?" "... he's not here. Now. He was ... before. Not now." How was it possible for Scully to sound so disconnected? Had she hit her head? Had someone hit her? Had *he* hit her? "I'm coming over." "Okay." "Is your door locked, Scully?" "Yes." "Don't open it until I get there." She had hung up without replying. And now here he was, driving the car up onto the curb outside Scully's apartment, throwing it into park, lunging from the car and running for her door with no concern this time for appearance. There was a threat. It had a name now. He let himself pound on the door this time, shouting her name surely loud enough to alarm the neighbors. Excess, thy name is Mulder. The door opened cautiously, its owner remaining behind it, and it was all he could do not to barrel the rest of the way through. Instead, he fidgeted restlessly until he could make it through without bruising his shoulders and slipped inside, grabbing the door with a hand and pushing it closed to reveal the woman hidden from view. "Are you okay?" He let his gaze roam over her, searching first for immediate signs of injury. None to be seen. "I'm fine." Mulder thought maybe it was the first time in their history he was actually *glad* to hear her say those familiar words, instead of frustrated by them. Because at least it was delivered in a tone he recognized - tired and noncommittal - not so strangely disjointed. "What happened, Scully?" He could breathe now. Think somewhere close to logically. He took her in piece by piece now, absorbing the pale skin, finger-combed hair, her face averted, revealing nothing in profile. Her blouse was buttoned crookedly, off by one button, closed hastily and without attention. When had it been unbuttoned? Jesus, had she... "Was he here when you got home?" "No." She turned her back on him, walked toward the far wall of her living room. She gestured vaguely to the shelf there, to a row of photographs. He moved behind her and let his gaze find the answers she wasn't providing. Rattled and out-of-sorts, he had to look twice before he noticed it. Noticed it, but didn't really understand it. "Scully, what is this?" He started to reach for the picture frame, stopped immediately. Evidence. She turned her head to meet his eyes at last, and he watched the shutters close over their blue depths, almost seeing the individual slats turn shut and gradually hide the view behind them. "Ed did it." "All right." He had a thousand questions - how do you know? What is it exactly that tells you this is Ed and not, say, our cigarette-smoking friend? -- but he sensed it was not the time to second guess her. She tilted her head slightly, waiting for more, and when he didn't offer it, her eyebrow raised slightly, though what that particularly reaction meant, he didn't know. He nodded his head slowly, a gesture meant to coax more information. "He did something similar with a picture at his apartment." She looked away again, reaching out to nudge a candlestick on the shelf an infinitesimal distance. "It was a picture of himself, with his children. He burned out his own face." He waited to see if she would volunteer more. She didn't. He glanced once more at the picture. "Who is in this photograph?" With you. "My brother. Bill." Another long silence, and not one of those comfortable pauses he was used to between them. "And the lamp's back." Of course, he didn't understand. He couldn't know that she'd hidden the lamp in her closet the night before, spooked by its presence. "I had taken it out of my room last night. It's sitting there again now." Her eyebrow quirked up again. "I didn't put it back. He did." He mulled over that one, almost chewing on it, and was actually startled when she asked, "Why the lamp?" "What?" "Why a lamp, of all things? ... Never mind," she said quickly, shaking her head. She didn't want to consider it. She didn't want *Mulder* to consider it. Come to think of it, she really didn't want him near this topic, the Ed Jerse Topic, at all. Hadn't she pretty much come to that conclusion earlier today? "We need to call Skinner," he said suddenly, moving toward the phone. "We need to start an investigation. Get you protection." "Excuse me?" Maybe it was naive, but she had truly never anticipated he might come to that conclusion. Never thought he might go in that direction. She'd never actually thought about what direction he might go in, or even that he had to go in one at all. She'd just wanted him there. It felt safer that way. And now he was suggesting, what, FBI involvement? An official investigation? For one of her least favorite experiences. Her second -- count it, *second* -- personal X-file. Sure, she wanted that like she wanted to swim in a sewage pipe with Flukeman. This was a serious mistake. Mulder stopped to look at her, puzzled. "Scully?" "I do not want Skinner called," she said quietly. "He's going to find out eventually, and we could use his help getting this -" "He certainly is *not* going to find out." She crossed to her dining room table, leaning her hips against it oh-so-casually, her body language fiercely contained. "Eventually, the file is going to cross his desk, Scully." "Actually, I highly doubt it." She folded her arms in front of her, meeting his gaze evenly for the first time since he'd arrived. Giving nothing away. "Why?" Mulder asked, and he was fairly sure he was not going to like the answer. "There isn't going to be a file, Mulder. There isn't going to be a case. There isn't going to be any record of this filed within the Bureau or any other federal agency for that matter." He still wasn't sure if he liked her answer. Mostly because he couldn't even fathom it. What the hell was she saying here? She wasn't going to investigate this? The goddamned psychopath had found a way into her house and left a message that, at the very least, was disturbing, if not overtly threatening. Was it about pride? He knew her well enough to know that investigations regarding anything remotely near her personal life rankled her to no end. She was a private person, he understood that. He accepted it and even admired it while it drove him slowly insane most of the time. "We can keep it quiet, just within the X files, maybe call in a favor over at ISU, keep paperwork to a minimum. I just don't see how we can keep Skinner out of it, really, or why we'd even want to." "Mulder, I'm not being clear enough. I -" and she stressed the pronoun "-- do not plan on making this incident a federal matter. It is *not* a federal matter. It is not a crime against an on-duty federal agent. It is a case of breaking and entering the home of a private citizen. I will file the appropriate city police report and they will take appropriate measures in their investigation." Yup. He'd been right. He sure as *hell* didn't like her answer. "Ed Jerse attacked you after identifying you as an FBI agent - " He was going for the full-court press now. "Ed Jerse committed and was convicted of that act 18 months ago. Tonight's incident - which is still alleged, no matter what my beliefs are on the matter -- do not statutorily relate. As far as the law is concerned, an as-yet-unidentified intruder broke onto private property. Period." Her voice had risen, just a notch or two, but sharply enough to sting. "Scully, why are you doing this?" He sounded wounded and very, very tired. "Why are you taking it so personally?" she retorted peevishly, before she could allow herself to feel at all regretful for putting that tone in his voice. Why? Oh, I don't know. Why could that be? Maybe because I could have killed that sick son-of-a-bitch for what he did to you the first time, and now he's back and I'm feeling just a little furious and more than a little terrified at what else he could do? And maybe because I can't believe you aren't feeling the same way? Maybe that I don't even know how the hell you *are* feeling about this, because you won't share it with me, particularly whenever this asshole's name is attached to the question? And don't even get me started about all the questions I have about *him* that I'm afraid to have answered... Instead of launching that unappealing diatribe, he looked away from her, head slowly shaking, before turning toward her again. "You aren't going to let me help you, are you, Scully?" So softly disappointed, that voice. It made her ache, and she tried not to let her voice shake when she answered. "I didn't ask for your help, Mulder. I don't need help." He automatically flipped through his own Mulderized English-to-personal-abuse dictionary for the translation: I don't need *you*. Hurt, he threw his hands up in the air. Frustrated, he stepped on a land mine and it blew up in his mouth. "Jesus, Scully, why the hell did you call me then?" And he found himself plummeting downward into the stereotypical-but-somehow-strangely-accurate Great Gender Gap, where a jagged floor of miscommunications and cross purposes waited to impale him. Despite the complexity of their relationship, the subtle nuances and textures that made their pairing so unusual, he'd fallen into a fairly typical gender snare: When a woman, particularly a friend or mate, presents a difficult situation, most men want to act immediately and solve the problem. This is the manner of assistance that makes sense to them. Most women, however, don't want *action* from their male counterpart. They want empathy. Understanding. They want to handle the solution themselves. Help is not necessarily what they're asking for. Miscommunication. Cross purposes. Too bad none of Mulder's human behavior courses were springing to his aid at this moment. He was absolutely in the dark on this one. She regarded him icily, frozen where she stood by the unexpected vehemence of his words, and what they had suggested. Her upper lip curled up ever so slightly, just enough to be disdainful, not enough to be a true sneer. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of extracting that much emotion. "Frankly, Mulder, at this moment I cannot imagine why I called you. Sorry to bother you. I'll see you tomorrow." They stared at each other wordlessly a moment, both too busy juggling their own emotional baggage to identify what the other was carrying. Neither of them willing, or able, to take a step toward the middle. He left, the door slamming behind him with enough force to make the pictures on her shelf quiver. The burnt picture fell over with an accusatory slap. She glared at it. "Yeah, well screw you, too," she growled. She wasn't sure if she was talking to Mulder, or to Ed. ****************** Scully knew, with the instincts of a trained agent and with born intuition, that she was being watched. It was nothing concrete, nothing definite that she could point to and say, "Aha! There!" (should she be inclined to say such a thing while standing in line at the deli or among a pack of briefcase-laden pedestrians at a crosswalk, and she was *not* so inclined), but she knew all the same. It was a presence indefinable but ever-present – a sensation that tickled the hairs on her scalp, a flicker in her peripheral vision too elusive to track when she turned her eyes its way, the gut-certain knowledge that there was a face in a crowd that had been in many other crowds in many other places. It was an intensely disturbing feeling, invasive and grossly intimate, one that made it difficult to sleep, made her want to stand under the punishing, hot needle spray of her shower just to rinse the greasy residue of an unknown gaze. That unknown gaze had been with her for a week now, and Scully wanted to scream. She and Mulder had achieved an unholy and unspoken truce the day after he'd left her apartment, the unspoken part being exactly that – the events of the previous day would not be mentioned – and the unholy part being that they were barely speaking, period. Oh, the common civilities of the workplace were still there: muttered good mornings, coffee, polite interest. Nothing more. Absolutely nothing more. Scully did not update Mulder about the police investigation into the break-in at her apartment, and he did not ask, a fact that both hurt and relieved her. The relief was obvious, the hurt took a little more rationalization. She told herself that it rose from the fact that by not asking, he had undoubtedly gone and looked up the police report himself, despite her request to stay out of it. That's what she told herself. The police had arrived that night at her apartment, taken her statement, carried off the lamp and the photograph (good riddance to both at that point) and asking her if anything else were different or missing. She'd thought of her missing coffee mug and the camisole at that moment, debated mentioning it and decided against it. She couldn't remember where she'd last seen her coffee mug, anyway, and it seemed like such an insignificant object. She determinedly ignored the fact that she was now quite certain she'd worn that camisole in Philadelphia, on a night that was more than significant to the investigation. The obvious follow-up would then be, "Did Mr. Jerse know you were wearing it the last time he saw you?" and that led to a line of questioning about other things Ed Jerse knew about her, and *that* was something she definitely did not want in an official document. When I started working for the fucking X-Files. Haven't you been paying attention? There are some things just better left unmentioned. Discretion is the better part of valor, and all that. Then the men and women in blue had dusted for fingerprints, assured her they would notify the state police who were investigating Ed's escape from the psychiatric facility, and cautioned her to lock her doors and windows, take extra precautions, be on the look-out for anything suspicious, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Oh, that will be really difficult to adjust to, Scully had thought, barely keeping the smirk off her face. Looking over her shoulder had become so natural the past five years, she was surprised she hadn't developed repetitive motion disorder. And Tuesday morning, she'd gone back to work, business as usual, and there had only been one brief mention of the incident, necessitated by circumstance. Scully had walked into the office and forced herself to walk to his desk; Mulder did not look up at her, his good morning was cool, and the knot in her gut twisted around her legs and hobbled her good intentions. She'd stared at his bowed head for a moment, presumably buried in a case file, and watched the florescent light glint on his hair. Listened to him breathe. Pride warred with common sense. Common sense won – not always a foregone conclusion in the Scully family, where self-possession and pride seemed to ride herd on chromosomes. She'd fished into her pocket and withdrew a freshly minted silver key, laying it carefully on his desk with a tiny clink. He'd looked up at her finally and she'd seen something flicker in his eyes, before withdrawing into a murky flatness, enough to allow her a flash of insight Had it really gotten so bad so quickly? "It's a new key to my apartment," she'd said, keeping her tone neutral. "I changed my locks last night." Had that been relief in his eyes? Relief for what? That I changed the locks, or that I'm still letting him in? Too difficult to tell; when he'd blinked, his eyes were guarded again and his eyebrows lifted marginally in a question. "There was no sign of forced entry, so it seemed wise to change the locks, just in case," she'd continued inanely. The sound he had made in the back of his throat was cryptic, but was most easily interpreted as agreement. He'd picked up the key, twisted it between long, graceful fingers and stared at it almost pensively before dropping it into the breast pocket of his shirt. Then he'd returned to his work, saying nothing. She'd stood before him, feeling somehow like a child being punished by silence rather than scolding, and gazed down at the top of his head until she could feel indignation and renewed pride rearing ugly heads once again. She had welcomed them like lovers. They did not speak of anything marginally related to Ed Jerse again. They did not speak of anything marginally close to *anything* of import. There was a wall between them, and neither seemed inclined to find the door; if anything, Mulder seemed to prefer it exactly as it stood. Scully felt the withdrawal more keenly than at any point in their relationship since she'd first walked into the office five years before, young and green and most assuredly unwanted. She felt like a stranger; it was a waking dream, a foreigner in familiar territory. It was threatening as hell. This isn't what I wanted, Scully insisted. I just wanted him away from the Ed Jerse topic. Away from these things that I cannot explain to him, that I don't *want* to explain to him. That doesn't mean I want him out of my life entirely. But she could not change the fact that she did not want Mulder to be a part of this. She could not consider what he might see in her, what might be revealed … to both of them. There were things about her that she wasn't comfortable letting Mulder see, and to be honest, she didn't want to look at them either. Even honest women create an image of themselves for others to see, and they prefer to wear that image on the inside, too. So Dana Scully found herself facing the latest challenge in her life on her own, and this was a state of affairs entirely of her own making. She wouldn't talk to her mother about it, and she simply *couldn't* talk to Mulder, and whereas normally it might have made her feel self-sufficient, it really only succeeded in making her feel alone. There were those moments, though … Those few moments where she would catch Mulder off-guard, swiveling to face him when he wasn't expecting it, and he was watching her. His face unfathomable and his eyes strange, a light within them almost cunning, like a jungle cat sizing up its prey. Watching her. Waiting … for what she did not know. It wasn't really threatening but she did not like it. She felt like an insect pinned to a board, like one of her own medical cadavers waiting to be sliced open and catalogued for parts. It was openly predatory. It was vaguely familiar. It was elusive. As soon as she noticed him watching, the look smoothed away like chalk markings under an eraser, and he would withdraw, returning to his work, ignoring her with a totality that was frightening. They could not continue like this. It would destroy them and everything they had built upon, if it hadn't already. But Scully was at a loss as to how to fix it, since what each of them were so set upon brooked no room for compromise. And now, as Scully walked to her car after yet another day of looking over her shoulder for Ed Jerse or Mulder's unsettling mixture of attentiveness and utter lack of concern, she felt it again. The prickling at the back of her neck, the utter certainty that she was, indeed, being watched. And this time, her viewer was close. Close enough to know. Unbidden, a line from Shakespeare danced macabre through her mind. Wicked, indeed. She would trust her instincts on this one, because something was Definitely Not Right. Not slowing her steps, she concentrated on giving away nothing in her body language and focusing on the sounds and sights around her. The parking garage was ridiculously insecure; rows of nondescript sedans surrounded her, the marginal fluorescent lighting flickering in some areas, casting uncomfortable shadows in others. I must remember to complain to building security, she thought almost idly. There appeared to be no one else in the garage. Ahead of her, anyway. She shifted her briefcase from one hand to another and chanced a casual glance over her shoulder. No one back there, at least no one innocently making the trek to his or her car. Anyone else? She subtly changed the cadence of her steps and – there. The slight scuff of a shoe against concrete, behind her and to her left. Good. Whoever it was wouldn't see her carefully easing her hand toward the holster on her right side. She dropped her briefcase near the fender of a particularly ugly beige Ford and cursed her own clumsiness, just loudly enough for her audience to buy the act. Feinting downward as if to pick it up, she swiveled instead with her gun drawn and ducked partially behind the car. She saw a blur of darkness fly behind a vehicle nearby and trained her gun there. "Federal Agent! Step out where I can see you, and put your hands in the air!" "Uh ... don't shoot." Disbelief almost comical on her features, she watched first hands, then a familiar face, appear slowly from behind a beat-up sedan. The man rose to a singularly unintimidating height. "Frohike?" He grinned sheepishly, his shoulders lifting his raised hands with them in a shrug. She glared at him a long moment more down the length of her gun barrel, angry enough to consider shooting him on principle alone, then exhaled a mingled sigh of frustration and relief and holstered the weapon, moving from behind the car. Frohike made a few cautious steps toward her, lowering his arms. "Why are you following me, Frohike?" she demanded. "Do you *enjoy* being shot?" Frohike's dignity compelled him to attempt a protest. "Look, I was simply taking a walk in the same part of town where you..." Not buying it. She wasn't even bothering to *pretend* to consider it. He couldn't blame her. He was dressed all in black – had even donned his favorite black leather vest for the occasion -- a jumble of surveillance equipment strapped across his chest, night-vision binoculars hanging around his neck. He faltered into silence. "Why are you following me, Frohike?" she repeated, stern and impatient and reminding him uncomfortably of his mother, which was a comparison he'd certainly *never* made before about Dana Scully. And, after a good bottle of Jack Daniels, he planned on never making it again. "Listen, Scully, Mulder told us about what's going on with J--" "Mulder?" she repeated, and her voice dipped into the arctic range. "Mulder's behind this?" "He's worried about you." "Why? Why he is worried? What the hell did he tell you?" she snapped, and now she was burning hot with a sudden solar flare of temper that made Frohike step back. Wow. She was really kind of sexy when she was scary. He'd file this away for later. "He told us about Jerse." "And why did he do that?" Her face was frozen, her eyes burning, and Frohike was most definitely sweating. "He, uh …" Later, he would have to remember to kill Mulder for putting him in this position. Of course, if he waited until later, he doubted there would be anything left of him, if Scully's reaction was any indication. "He needed to brief us for the assignment." She didn't even bother to ask the question aloud, simply arched an eyebrow and bored a laser beam through his skull with the force of her blue eyes. What assignment? Frohike gathered the shreds of his dignity around him and looked her straight in the eye. "He asked us – Byers and Langley and I – to watch you. To keep you under surveillance. Since you refused federal protection." His voice was low, proud and serious about his duty, and against the thousand scathing replies flying through Scully's head about the quality of their "protection" given that she'd just nailed his ass in a parking garage, she bit her tongue. Hard. It was difficult remaining angry at Frohike, particularly when he had that quietly noble air about him that was so at odds with his usual flippancy. When it was so obvious that he took this perverse little role very seriously. Protecting her. She fought the almost maternal smile threatening at her lips, and almost succeeded And it wasn't *his* fault he was standing there looking so utterly ridiculous in his surveillance equipment and strange ninja-wannabe clothing. The smile faded. Frohike watched her carefully, knew what she was going to ask. He sighed, shaking his head. "He's at home, Scully," he volunteered, before she could speak. Mulder was definitely in for it, and he wasn't entirely sure he didn't deserve it. She nodded her thanks, bent down to pick up her briefcase, and then rose to face him again. "Don't follow me." The order was ice-cold. She started toward her car. "Wouldn't dream of it." He meant it. She was still very scary. And still very, very *hot*. "Good night, Frohike," she said more gently, over her shoulder. "Agent Scully?" he called, and she paused, turning once more to face him. "Don't shoot him again." The enigmatic little smile she gave him was enough to make him consider *two* bottles of Jack Daniels. *********************** Dana Scully stared hard at the door in front of her, glaring at the "42" there as if it were responsible for the man who lived behind it, and considered her options. Knock. Kick it down. Knock. Kick it down and hope that he was standing on the other side of it when she did. Scully knocked, allowing herself the luxury of using the flat of her fist and more force than was necessary, enough to shake the door in its frame. Then she waited, tense and coiled like a snake, as if she planned to spring as soon as it opened. Maybe she did. And she waited. Nothing. "Mulder!" Her voice echoed down the dim corridor and merged with her renewed efforts at the door, staccato bursts of sound that rung in her ears. No curious neighbors peeked out from nearby doors; undoubtedly, they'd learned some time ago that it was safer to ignore the strange and too-often violent action prevalent at Mulder's door. She wondered what would happen if an ordinary, garden-variety burglar surprised her partner in his home – would his neighbors even bother to call 911, or chalk it up to another strange visitor to the Fed in apartment 42? Dammit, now she was worried. She knew he was home, had seen the lights on as she'd parked her car, and trusted Frohike's information. God knew the Gunmen seemed to have more luck knowing Mulder's whereabouts than she did half the time. Why wasn't he answering the door? What the hell had he stumbled – no, correct that – what had he run full speed into this time? "Fuck," she whispered under her breath, dipping her hand into a coat pocket for her key ring and unsnapping her gun holster. She resolutely ignored the gruesome images of him bound, gagged and bloodied that insisted on dancing behind her eyes and concentrated on finding the key to his apartment and maneuvering it between suddenly trembling fingers. Only minutes ago, she'd wanted to kill him. Now she wanted to protect him from unseen threats. Such shifting surges of emotion and adrenaline could not be good for her, and it certainly wasn't improving her coordination. She should be used to it by now. "Mulder?" she called once more, her tone drastically different now. Still angry, but striated with concern. The muffled clicks of someone fumbling at the locks on the other side of the door startled her; she'd been so intent on getting the key and her fingers to cooperate that she hadn't heard movement from inside. She paused, keys in one hand and the other hand hovering slightly near her holster, just in case. "Scully?" He appeared surprised. Obviously Frohike hadn't given him a warning phone call prior to her arrival. Her regard for the little weevil rose exponentially. "What the hell were you doing in there?" She stared up at him, taking in the rumpled hair, the five o'clock shadow dimming his jaw, his glasses slightly crooked on his nose, as if he had been spending a lot of time pushing his fingers up behind them and rubbing at his eyes. He hadn't even changed out of his work clothes, had merely dragged the tie from its choke hold around his throat and pulled his shirt tails free of his pants. He was working on something. Hard. He was being driven. She'd seen it too often not to recognize the dragon slayer. Unlike most slayers, though, Mulder preferred not to wear full armor. Instead, he stripped to the skin and offered himself as a tasty snack, opting to battle the dragon from the inside like a super-industrious Jonah in the whale. Scully forced herself not to care, and shoved the instinctive concern for him out of the way. Mulder's monsters could wait. Tonight, it was going to be about *her*. "Scully? What's going on?" He was disoriented. She'd seen it before, when he waded into nightmares and was dragged abruptly to the surface of reality again. She would not care. She would not. "Well, for starters, Frohike's still alive, no thanks to you. I almost blew his goddamn head off," she snapped, pushing her way past him into his apartment. "Scully?" "If you say my name one more time, I *will* shoot you again. Fuck Frohike." He closed the door and turned to face her. His eyes seemed clearer now, as if he'd shaken off most of whatever he'd been surrounded by. He still had the audacity to look confused, though. "I'm sure he'd be happy to," Mulder commented, tossing a quip out and seeing how it was received. "Mulder, I am warning you. Do not get cute with me right now. Do not get coy. And, for your own health and safety, do *not* pretend nothing is going on. Don't you dare." His eyebrows rose slightly toward his hairline. "All right," he agreed calmly, in that soothing, neutral tone reserved for hysterical witnesses or bridge jumpers. Scully bristled. "So explain yourself," she demanded. He placed his hands on his hips and she literally saw his Agent Face appear before her eyes. "What would you like me to explain, Scully?" "Dammit, Mulder!" He flinched, and she stepped toward him, face flushed and fiercely angry. "I would like you to explain why you felt the need to ignore me and step into something that is none of your business. I would like you to explain what possible excuse you could have for giving this same information to the Lone Gunmen, who – and I can't believe I have to actually remind you of this – have no business knowing anything about me. Above all, Mulder, I would *love* for you to come up with something remotely resembling a rationalization for this invasion of privacy and complete nullification of *my* wishes so that I can look at you without wanting to slap you." He was quiet for a long time, and she saw a muscle jump in his jaw, as if a thousand possible words were vying for dominance in his mouth. "So Frohike's the one who blew it, huh?" he said finally. "He's not as good at this spy stuff as he'd like to think." Scully turned away from him before he could see the hurt in her eyes. She raised her face to the ceiling, took a deep breath. She did not turn back to him when she spoke, her voice low and as cold as she could make it. To hide the tears there. "You aren't taking me seriously. I thought better of you than that." "I have never taken you anything but seriously, Scully." He sounded so somber, so utterly earnest, a bedrock of feeling in the simple words. "It is the reason I did what I did. Because I take you very seriously." She pivoted to face him, her gaze wary and searching on his face, hunting out whatever information might help her unravel this knot in her gut. Her hands were still clenched in fists, but they weren't white-knuckled anymore. "So you invaded my privacy and went against my wishes because you feel I need protection? That's your rationale here?" she asked softly, her tone and her face inscrutable. But she did not seem violently enraged anymore. She stepped closer to him, craning her neck slightly to hold his gaze. He obviously half-wondered if there was a trap in her question that he wasn't seeing, but not being able to see it clearly, he apparently opted for total honesty. "That's my rationale, yes." A smile hovered on her lips, and he breathed again. "That's not a bad rationale," she conceded reluctantly. "Condescending and implying that I can't take care of myself, but overall, sort of sweet. In a caveman kind of way." "Want me to drag you around by your hair?" "Want me to kick your ass?" she replied sweetly. "Don't tease me, Scully," he quipped, visibly relieved to feel the earth renewing a normal orbit in his universe. She sobered immediately, pointing a finger at him to enunciate her point. "Don't ever pull that shit again." He raised his arms supplicatingly and she put her hand down. "I mean it, Mulder. Your intentions were…well, they were good, but remember what they say about the road to hell being paved with them. It stops now. Call off the Gunmen." "I can only imagine that Frohike has already been well and truly frightened since you found him out, Scully. I don't think they'll dare start back up, regardless of the motivation I might offer." "Don't offer one." Her voice had gone cool again, but only in warning, for emphasis. "I understand, Scully. No more stake-out. No more watchmen. I hear you." "Good. I hate repeating myself," she said finally, taking a deep breath and making it clear the subject was now officially closed. She let her eyes roam the apartment now, searching for clues as to what Mulder had been doing before she arrived, now willing to let her concern for him have some precedence. Her gaze settled on his coffee table, where files, photographs and yellow legal pads with black scrawls entirely covered its surface. It would look disorderly, except there was a pattern to it. One she recognized. Mulder had been assigned a profiling case. When had that happened, and why hadn't he told her? And what the hell was Skinner thinking letting him do it without warning her so that she could keep him from burying himself alive? She stepped around Mulder and toward the table, bending down to pick up a photograph. A crime scene. Brutally bloody. No body in sight. Not even a taped outline. But the blood … She Shook her head and picked up another. Stopped. Stared at it harder. An incinerator. An *extremely* familiar incinerator. And the final puzzle piece fell into place. "You're profiling him." A statement, not a question, in an awful voice Mulder had never heard before. "I'm looking into Jerse's background, yes." "You're *profiling* him." She did not look at him. "And that means that, as part of it, you are profiling *me.* As a potential victim. As a former victim." "Scully, I'm trying to find a way to catch him. It's not about how I know you, or how I see you." She whirled on him, face flushed red. "Bullshit, Mulder! You are trying to look through his eyes. You are trying to know him, to see what he sees. And that includes *me*!" "This isn't about you –" "Don't," she warned, lifting a hand palm outward to stop him. "Don't feed me lines like that. I have known you for years. I have watched you go down this road before. And I know what you do to walk that path. You've been doing this all week, haven't you?" The strange watchfulness in his eyes that she had noticed all week, it suddenly made sense now. "I'm trying to catch him," he repeated softly, moving closer to her. She stepped back quickly, and the look on his face at that moment would have broken her heart if she hadn't been looking away, at the picture, at the carpet, at anything but him. "I don't want you to do that," Scully said heatedly. "You don't want him to be found?" He sounded horrified. "That's not what I'm saying," she snapped, her fingers clenching tightly and crumpling the photograph within them. "I don't want *you* to catch him. I don't want you to try. I don't want you involved in this. Not then. Not now." "I need to do this, Scully." "It's not what I need." "What do you need?" The question was soft and gently asked, and she ventured a glance up into eyes that had gone a woodsy brown with concern. "I need …." She trailed off, unsure of what to admit, unwilling to voice what she did know. "Scully, talk to me," he whispered urgently. Her lips trembled slightly and she stood on the edge of a precipice ready to jump, on the verge of admitting everything, to pour her heart out and to hell with the damage it might cause. "Come sit down and talk to me." He reached for her hand and first disentangled the photograph from it. Automatically, he smoothed it with his long fingers, gave it a cursory inspection and then brought his eyes back to hers. And watched something grow cold and hard in her eyes. "What would you like me to tell you, Mulder?" she said acidly. "If Ed exhibited any of the classic signs of psychosis? If he mentioned his mother? Did he tell me he was a bed wetter or started small fires as a child? What he might have revealed to me during sparkling dinner conversation? Something you can put down on your notepads and analyze?" "No," he protested, stung. "I want to know what you are feeling. Not him." "You're going to profile him no matter what I say to you," she spat, looking pointedly at the picture he had salvaged in his hands before returning her gaze to his. "Anything I told you would be one more thing you would use to do whatever the hell you want to do, regardless of my feelings on the matter. Same as always. It's just easier to have me on the home team, playing along, isn't it?" "That's not fair and you know it." "None of this is fair, Mulder. Don't you get it? When you decide to profile someone, you *become* them. And you are going to try to become Ed Jerse. You are trying to beat the enemy by *becoming* the enemy. And what that makes you is *my* enemy." Silence hit the room like a shock wave, nuclear winter falling around them in the hush. They were both shocked by the words, by the lie and the utter truth of her statement. Mulder took a deep, quavering breath. "I will never be your enemy, Scully." "Not while you are still you," she agreed. "But when you do this –" she gestured broadly toward the coffee table "—when you are in this, I cannot see you for who you are, only for what you are trying to become. And I don't know if I can trust you there, not when it's him involved. Not when it's *me* involved." He turned away from her, but not before she saw the hurt in his eyes. He stared up at the ceiling for a long moment. "I think you should go, Scully," he said finally. His tone was forcibly neutral, utterly without inflection. "Yes, I think I should." Soft and regretful. She let herself out, and on either side of the door, the overloud click of the latch catching made them both flinch. ************************ He had not promised her. Mulder reminded himself of this as he turned back toward the door of his apartment, the metallic rasp of the latch ringing in his memory long after the accusing squeal of tires notified him that Scully had left the area, and left quickly. He absolutely had not promised to stop profiling Ed Jerse. In her fury, she had forgotten to extract the vow from him, as she had demanded that he call off the Gunmen. Had she not become so flustered, so horrified and outraged, she undoubtedly would have commanded the same promise of these darker activities, and she absolutely would have believed him when he gave his word. And he would have been flat-out lying. For the first time Mulder could remember in their years together, he would have boldly lied to her face, making a promise that he knew he wasn't going to keep. With utter conviction and no small share of guilt, he would have broken a vow to the only woman whose faith he'd ever wanted. But he had to do this. The alternative – letting her invite danger through her door by simply pretending it wasn't knocking there – was unthinkable. The consequences should that occur were unacceptable. Scully hating him for his betrayal was an acceptable, if devastating, alternative. But she hadn't remembered, and he hadn't been forced to lie. So he would be able to keep the guilt and remorse to a fairly tolerable level, which might be a refreshing change of pace in his life. Because he wasn't going to stop now. Not now and not ever. Not until Ed Jerse had been put down. All right, Eddie, you sick fuck, where were we? He moved back to the coffee table, laying the slightly crumpled incinerator photograph with the others, in no seemly order but in no way random, either. It was a pattern that only Mulder understood, his own way of crawling into the psyche of the damned and making it home. Each profiler had his own particular technique that defied explanation; Mulder was no exception. Hazel eyes scanned the photographs, alighting on whatever detail might draw them, letting his subconscious drive the movement, noting nothing singularly, absorbing everything. Already the room, the very air around him, seemed darker, tinged with blood and a vibrantly chilling hostility. After just a few days of practice, slipping into Ed Jerse's skin didn't take long. The Gunmen had outdone themselves on Mulder's behalf…and Scully's. Not only did he now possess every item of paper, evidence and scrap of information unearthed during the original investigation, he also had before him things that had never made it to official eyes. Most of the information was of a highly personal nature, and undoubtedly illegal in its recovery. Medical records for the entire Jerse clan, color copies of family photo albums and scrapbooks (Mulder didn't ask…), transcripts and records of Jerse's therapy and ongoing evaluation at the institution, which were very much protected by doctor-patient confidentiality, but nonetheless still sitting here on his coffee table. The Gunmen, while patriots of the highest order, were not exactly law-and-order men under the best of circumstances. This situation had not evoked new feelings of nationalism or respect for the rules. They had been thorough and relentless. Subsequently, Mulder knew more about Ed Jerse's public and even semi-private life than Ed probably did. Of course, what Mulder was interested in was unlikely to be found in those files. At least, not directly. Mulder leaned back against the couch, swinging his legs around until he could sprawl across it lengthwise, reaching over with one long arm and snagging the file on top of one perilously leaning stack. What's behind door number one? Ah … family medical records, as noted by one Dr. Anthony Douglas, the Jerse's general practitioner even before Ed first appeared in this world at – Mulder paused, rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and supplied the answer without referring to the file, which he'd mostly memorized – yes, a whopping 10 pounds, 3 ounces, 22 inches long. Shit. And a vaginal birth at that. Forty eight hours of labor. Mrs. Jerse had to have enjoyed that. No wonder Jerse was an only child. Aside from an unusually bloody and belabored introduction to life, Jerse appeared to be an unremarkable child in most respects. Having already reviewed the academic records, Mulder knew that he had been a mediocre student, earning slightly above average grades in a standard high school curriculum and later in a general "liberal arts" major at the University of Virginia. His physical development was only slightly more remarkable, according to the records "supplied" by Dr. Douglas. Sat upright, crawled, walked, spoke in sentences … all developments within the prescribed time frames laid out by pediatricians. Ear infections, immunizations, a bout of chicken pox at the age of seven – Jerse's mundane childhood was virtually a cure for insomnia, it was that mundane. Except that was wrong. Mulder knew it was wrong. Because even an active, growing boy is not as clumsy as Ed Jerse's medical records made him out to be. Child abuse. Mulder would have predicted it, had the evidence not been making its accusatory presence known in the file in his hands. Most of the monsters that hunted and were hunted had a history of child abuse, by one or both parents. It was right up there with the holy profiling trinity of bedwetting, animal cruelty and petty arson. Man's only predator is man, Mulder thought idly. But unlike the rest of the food chain, we *create* most of our predators. Who hit you? Who started creating you, Ed, until you decided to finish the job yourself? The mother? It was the obvious choice, since Ed obviously had serious issues toward the female sex. Hatred toward the mother? Punishing her through other women? Trying to dominate "her" as she had dominated him? It goes back to the mother. Mulder grimaced even as he considered it. Shit, he fucking *hated* Freud. But even that misogynistic German bastard was right some of the time. So Ed hated his mommy even as he wanted her. How Oedipal and predictable. Because she abused him? Physically, it would seem. Sexually? Possibly. Nothing in the records here would indicate as much. Don't trust the psychiatric evaluations on this one. Ed was obviously skilled at lying to them. He'd been placed in minimum security, after all. Mulder shook his head. It didn't quite fit, and his subconscious was nibbling, tickling him with the promise that he was overlooking something. Don't rule out the father. What about the father? He sat up, spread the Jerse family medical records on the coffee table over the standing piles, snatched up the family album photos. The pictures…so normal. Mother, Ed, father. Father, Ed, mother. Ed and mother. Ed and father. Ed and … He scooped up the medical records again as inspiration seized him, pushing Ed's records aside in favor of the mother's. Judi Lynn Jerse. Born Judi Lynn Andrews, Jan. 2, 1941, in Richmond, Virginia. Married July 3, 1960, also in Richmond, to Gary Norman Jerse. Scant months later, the young woman became the patient of Dr. Douglas, her husband's physician. Judi Lynn Jerse, who had an inordinate number of household accidents during the five years of marriage before the birth of her son. Judi Lynn Jerse, who had a blissfully clean bill of health once the child was born. A child who was literally *crawling* into "household accidents" by the time he was 10 months old. Mulder lowered his eyes to the family photographs once again, leafed through them although he already knew them by heart. Just to be sure. Body language was everything. Eyes, so expressive in other circumstances, do not translate their emotions to photographs as well. They are flat and unreliable when viewed in two dimensions. But body language – the human equalizer – rarely lies. Most do not read it well, and therefore do not know how to hide it. In photographs with his mother, Ed often clung to her, a hand slipped into the crook of her elbow, fingers twined in her hair, perhaps his leg entangled with hers. Symbiotic. With his father, he sat ramrod straight, minimal contact, very posed. And in the photographs with both parents, there Ed sat, wedged between his parents in every picture. A buffer. Holding onto his mother, who had the child ever so slightly angled toward the father. A shield between herself and her husband. And, after Ed's birth, seemingly no pictures of the couple alone. Did she use you, Ed, to keep him from hitting her? Did she literally throw you in the line of fire, offer you up as the new punching bag? Was she willing to sacrifice you to protect herself? Did she tell you that was your job, to protect her? Yeah, I think she did. So you hated her. And loved her, because when it was just the two of you, things were good, weren't they? She loved you .. or at least, seemed to, since we can't assume she loved you enough to protect you. She loved you because you were her dark-haired, dark-eyed little health insurance policy, weren't you? But you were smart, too, weren't you, Ed? Because you knew that she was using you … to save herself. So you loved her. And you hated her. Probably more than you hated him for hitting you. Is that why you kill women, Ed? To give your mother the punishment that you took for her? Are you making up for the torture she got out of once your father had a new target? Is it the domination? Oh yeah, definitely domination. Wanting to control that bitch as she controlled me – Oh, fuck, bad slip. Mulder yanked himself out of "monster mode" fast and furiously, physically launching himself up and off the sofa as if to further distance himself from it. He'd used the first person. Shit. Shit shit shit. It was too soon, too soon to fall that quickly into Ed's mind. He needed to understand Jerse to bring him down. He did *not* need to become Jerse. He could not allow himself to identify with Ed that closely, not if he could help it, and he sure as hell planned on trying to help it. Because Scully didn't trust him not to. <"You are trying to beat the enemy by *becoming* the enemy. And what that makes you is *my* enemy."> He heard her voice in his head as loudly as if she stood before him, hissing those hurtful words into his face once more. "Shut up, Scully, god dammit," he groaned, his voice muffled by the hands he had pressed over his face. < I don't know if I can trust you there, not when it's him involved. Not when it's *me* involved.> Mulder yanked his hands away, glaring fiercely at nothing, picturing Scully standing there in her diminutive and fiery glory, face red and angry and accusing. His hands clenched into fists, seeing her in his mind's eye, imperious and demanding, her voice strident and eerily singsong, telling him what to do like she *always* did – "Bitch!" he spat, reaching down and sweeping the papers off the coffee table even as he was lifting it and hurling it across the room. The crash as it hit the far wall jarred him. Brought him back suddenly from a place he had already thought he'd left. "Oh fuck," Mulder whispered, sinking to his knees among the wreckage of files, holding his hands out before him, uncurling his fingers and watching them tremble. Oh, God, is that how Ed saw her? Is that how he had seen her, right as she'd encouraged him to go to the hospital, to get help? Right before he'd tried to kill her? Revulsion rose like a cresting wave in his throat, forcing him to gulp several times, his analytical mind endeavoring to keep him from puking all over the papers. He would need them again later, after this moment passed. This moment of unspeakable regret, for looking at Scully – his Scully – through the eyes of a monster. He wanted to call her, to apologize or to be redeemed or just to reassure himself of the woman *he* knew, he wasn't sure which, maybe all three, except he knew damn well he couldn't. Because she would try to make him stop. He wanted to stop. God, please, he wanted to stop. He could not stop. The phone rang, jarring him so suddenly that a choked sob escaped his throat. He took a shuddering breath, realized he was in no shape to speak, let alone hold a conversation, and decided to let the machine pick up this one. "Mulder, it's me." Something was wrong with her voice again. She was in trouble. He was already lunging for the phone. "Mulder, I…please…" There was a loud thump, the receiver hitting a hard surface maybe, he wasn't sure. But then there was nothing at all. *************************************************** In times of stress, in times of true trial and tribulation, there are few things that will comfort. Religion provides a balm to the souls of some, for others it is the strong circle of a trusted pair of arms. Others still might find relief in a long, cleansing crying jag, or perhaps a screaming fit. For Dana Scully, the first option was one that she still had some trouble turning to, despite of, or perhaps because of, the events of the past few years. Putting matters in God's hands was still tough – she had enough trouble letting mere mortals take the reins once in a while. The second option she personally had blown to hell just twenty minutes before when she'd left her partner's apartment, which was the whole *reason* for the stress in the first place. And options three and four were bound to annoy the neighbors and herself. In her opinion, this left her only one sensible, viable and conveniently available alternative. Wine. And plenty of it. At least a whole bottle, if she remembered the contents of her refrigerator accurately. Scully opened the door to her apartment, hand now habitually hovering near her holster, scanning the living room for signs of disturbance. Yes, she'd changed the locks, but found there was no harm in a little precaution. Though she did a quick walk-through of the rooms just to be sure, her intuition had already assured her she was alone. She did not feel that unsettling sense of disquiet she had felt during Ed's previous visits. Ed. Ed Fucking Jerse. She rolled her eyes, a grimace marring her features, and removed her suit jacket, though she left her gun holstered and at her waist. Again, a little precaution never hurt anyone. Scully made her way to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, letting the light from inside bathe the small, dark room in an unearthly glow. Ah, a rich, deep pinot noir, opened but hardly touched. More than enough to ease the tension knotted between her shoulder blades. Leaving the refrigerator open to light the way, she opened a cupboard and curled her fingers around the delicate stem of a wine glass, her movements stilted and autonomic, her attention turned inward to the disaster documentary playing behind her eyes. Jesus, what the hell had happened back there in Mulder's apartment? In the course of minutes, she'd been ready to kill him, kill *for* him, forgive him and forsake him, love and hate twining for a moment into something razor-sharp and able to draw blood. She had hurt him. All because of Ed Jerse. Just like the first time. Scully had seen the hurt, the mystifying aura of betrayal, like a spurned lover, lurking in those hazel eyes when she had come back from Philadelphia those many, many months ago. She had squirmed in her seat at the uncomfortable, unwarranted but undeniably *real* sensation that she had, in fact, transgressed. She had felt, for one strange and absurd moment, like an adulteress. And that had made her defensive, and they had not spoken of Ed again – not that they really said too much then either. And now Ed was making his encore performance, and the script was nearly identical. She had no idea how long she stood there, frozen in the wintry light and shadow of her kitchen with the wine bottle in one hand and a glass in the other, staring into a disaster not entirely of her own making, before a knock at the door roused her. Three strong raps. Businesslike. Purposeful. Not now, Mulder. I can't bear it, she thought, eyes closing to ward off sudden tears. She did not move, hoping that if she were quiet, he would take the hint. Knowing that, given the current state of affairs, he would not. Instead, he would knock again – much louder this time – maybe calling her name, just an edge of panic tingeing the syllables. Use the key, if he still received no answer. Break it down, if he were sufficiently motivated. To be a part of Fox Mulder's world meant to accept his tenacity and not let it drive you mad. To expect it. To even treasure it as part of the whole. And yet, his tenacity regarding Ed Jerse just might tear them apart. How could she learn to accept that? Apparently, *he* had. How had he managed it? Or maybe he didn't feel ripped in two as she did. There was no repeated entreaty at the door. Scully swiveled, suddenly terrified that this was finally it, that for the first time in five years, Mulder would not take a second chance at the barrier, both literal and figurative. She moved swiftly through her apartment, navigating the darkened rooms by memory, discarding the bottle and glass somewhere along the way -- she didn't remember exactly when or where, but felt sure she must have done it competently since she never heard the sound of breaking glass -- then she was staring at the solid, unyielding wood of her front door. And that disturbing tickle at the back of her skull started again. Not Mulder. He would never have given up on her, not so easily. Fool, she scolded herself, that she could ever have believed it. That was another thing about Mulder's tenacity: He kept going and going even when he deserved better than what he was getting. It was a cruel weapon, more than one woman in his tragic life had wielded it with hateful glee, and Scully herself was capable of picking it up if she weren't mindful. Maybe she already had. But Mulder had not knocked on her door. She was sure of it. And that meant someone else had. And the tickle hinted that her visitor might be less than friendly. Is that you, Ed? Part of her wanted to throw the door open, toss caution to the wind, and simply run headlong into whatever might be waiting on the other side. A week of uncertainty had taken its toll. Nothing could be worse than the torture of not knowing what was going to happen next. Right. So, she peeked through the peephole, but saw nothing but a fish-eye's view of her empty hallway. Anyone could be lurking on either side of her door frame, out of range, and Scully idly contemplated asking her landlord if she could install security cameras the entire length of the hallway. That would be nice. Make home a prison. Hardly the time to be debating it, it certainly did nothing for her current situation. She was blind on two sides, an ambush waiting to happen if she walked through her door. She took measure, sliding the gun free of its holster, holding it with two hands in front of her, considering … All right. She took a deep breath, reached for the door handle, wrenched it open and stepped back. She dropped to the floor, gun aimed high. Chest high. Fatal shot high. Nothing. No one barreled through her door. Her eyes flicked downward. A package. Technically, more like an envelope. One of those large, padded types in which you could send CDs or video tapes. She frowned. A trap? Go to the door to pick up the package and be accosted by someone standing just on the other side of the door frame? She rose quietly, her arms parallel with the ground, holding the gun precisely in place at chest level. She moved closer to the doorway, one more quick, cleansing breath, then she threw herself through, over the envelope on the floor, spinning in mid-stride to face her own door, the opposite wall of the hallway solid and reassuring at her back, gun sweeping quickly in a wide arc to cover the hallway. Nothing. Scully made a mental note that a little precaution could also make you feel really, really stupid. But at least she was still standing and unharmed. She lowered her gun, but didn't put it back in the holster, and stepped slowly toward the envelope laying so innocently on the floor in front of her door. She could see her name – just "Dana" – scrawled in thick black ink across its front. She nudged the edge carefully with the soft leather toe of her shoe. It didn't seem heavy. She pressed her shoe against it once more, this time prodding at the envelope's softly padded body – nothing too big in there, the largest item seeming about the size of her hand and with a noticeable give to it. Not metal. Not even plastic. So, unless Ed – instinct, reasoning and some vague memory of his handwriting on a morning-after note told her the package was from him – had discovered a unique form of explosive, odds were the contents of the envelope were not deadly. Dangerous, of course, considering the source, but not immediately or directly fatal. Scully pushed it the rest of the way into the apartment with her toe, took one last look around the hallway, then went back in and shut the door, locking it firmly behind her. First order of business: The envelope, if it really was from Ed, was evidence. So she'd better treat it accordingly. Scully went to her medical bag and pulled out a pair of latex gloves, smoothing them over her fingers and snapping them against her wrists, the simple, familiar ritual offering some measure of comfort. Just evidence. Just another case. Let's play that game for a while. She brought the envelope to her kitchen, nudging the light switch on with an elbow and the refrigerator closed with a knee. On the clean countertop, she laid it down, studying its size, shape, the handwriting. It had been delivered, so there might be trace evidence – a fingerprint, hair, fibers that might, after a long and drawn-out investigation, reveal the sender's location. She returned to the living room for her medical bag, hoping she had some of the larger plastic evidence bags inside. She did, and pulled out a scalpel, too. Damage the envelope as little as possible, she reminded herself. Taking a deep breath, she made a thin, neat slice at the top of the envelope, above where the flap was sealed. If he'd used his own saliva, that would be DNA evidence, she thought clinically. *Ed's* saliva, the less helpful portion of her brain supplied. Scully eased a gloved finger inside the incision and carefully widened the opening, then, not wanting to touch anything until she could see it, she took a chance, turned the envelope upside down and dumped it all onto the counter top. What the hell? A gold wedding band, plain, no inscription. An assortment of military medals. She lifted one gently in her fingers, turning it over. Purple Heart. Okay. A silver circular ring with a few keys on it – looked like regular house keys, maybe an office key or two. No help there. A man's wallet, leather, fairly generic but obviously well used. And, judging by the scrap of paper peeking out, it appeared to still have its contents intact. Aha … Alex, I'll take "Big Huge Clue" for 200, please. Scully picked up the wallet by the edges, hoping she wasn't smudging any prints that might be on it, and carefully flipped it open. Oh my God. Oh God. She dropped the billfold quickly, but it was too late. Her brother Bill's grim, unsmiling visage had already stared out at her from his driver's license, accusing her with his military glare behind the clear plastic. Bill's wallet. Bill's ring. Keys. Medals. Bill. His … Oh God. Ed had … Ed had taken Bill's things. Ed had taken Bill and maybe – Scully stopped herself before she could finish that train of thought. She mustn't think it or she would start screaming and never be able to stop. She couldn't afford to lose control now. Bill … *Bill* couldn't afford for her to lose control now. She fumbled on the wall beside her with one blindly groping hand, searching for and finding the cordless phone. First order of business: Find out if Bill was really missing, or harmed in some way, or if this was just one incredibly inconceivable mistake. Second order of business: If the first order of business didn't work out well, call the police. Third order of business: Call Mulder. Swallow pride and accept his help. This was no longer about her. She hesitated, staring down into her brother's eyes, then at the wedding ring. She and Bill might have their differences, but he was utterly devoted to family. That ring had not left his finger since the day he and Tara married. To remove it would take nothing short of … Scully punched speed dial one on her telephone, her initial plan revised. Mulder first. Pacing fretfully, phone wedged between shoulder and ear as she listened to the phone ring on Mulder's end, she put a hand to her forehead, felt the latex clinging and humid against her skin, and yanked the glove off, throwing it across the room. Her eyes fell on the pile of Bill's possessions and saw for the first time a lump of cloth wrapped with a rubber band that had fallen free of the envelope as she'd dumped it and slightly away from the rest of the items. She moved reluctantly closer, at lightning speed mentally cataloguing every personal item she could remember her brother carrying … Heedless of evidentiary procedure, she grasped the object with the very tips of her unprotected fingers and used her gloved hand to remove the rubber band and unwrap the cloth. On the phone, Mulder's short but sweet message soliloquy was drawing to a close and she wracked her brain, trying to come up with something to say to his machine, let alone to him. She paused as the machine beeped her cue, coiling her courage as she unwrapped the cloth in her hand. "Mulder, it's me," she said softly. What the hell was she looking at? What the hell … "Mulder, I …" Torn between wanting to say the right thing and trying to reconcile what she was staring at, she fumbled. "… please …" Her medical brain supplied the answer the rest of her mind had been trying to deny. No no no no no no She didn't realize she'd dropped the phone. She knew nothing except that she held her brother's tongue in her hand. *********************** It took some time for the sound to register, to pierce through the muffled cotton of her ear drums and find its way, dulled and incomprehensible, into her numbed brain. Dimly, she became aware of blue and red lights washing liquid over her eyes, the indistinct muddle of voices around her, the occasional electronic squawk of a radio sounding as if it came from some great distance. None of it meant anything to Dana Scully. Except one sound, a voice calling from somewhere far away. "Where the hell is she?!" More voices raised in argument, then that one strident tone again. "She's my partner, dammit! I'm a federal agent. Let me the *fuck* through!" Mulder. He sounded angrier than she'd ever heard him - the anger that is born of terror. For the first time in what seemed like years, she noticed her surroundings, saw her apartment trafficked by a dozen officers and technicians, grim and urgent in their business, and realized she was sitting, nerveless, on a chair in her living room. Now she vaguely remembered calling Mulder, her garbled plea on his answering machine. Later, she must have phoned the police, though that memory was only a series of hazy impressions underscoring a horror that was entirely vivid. Bill. Bill Bill Bill -- Then Mulder's face was there, appearing out of nowhere, as he crouched in front of her. She could not seem to focus on him - his face seemed to swim before her eyes, so she lowered her gaze to the point where his throat disappeared into the V of his loosened shirt collar. She could see the faint outline of his pulse pounding there. Somehow, it was steadying. "Scully?" He sounded so haggard, and the trauma there registered on a deep, instinctive level that urged a response from her. "Mulder." Whose voice was that? It sounded so raw. "Are you hurt, Scully? Are you all right?" She felt his hands over hers, the fingers long and warm and painting anxious whorls over her knuckles. Sensation returned in a rush and now she felt the sharp stab of her nails biting through fabric into her knees. She concentrated on relaxing her hands, turning them palm up to slip against his, seeking his fingers with her own, weaving them together. "Mulder, I ... " She trailed off. She hadn't known what she was going to say anyway. "How are you?" he asked in a low voice. "Not good," she breathed, and surprised herself. Where had that come from? She'd meant to reassure him, to reassure herself. If it startled her, her admission absolutely floored Mulder. He rocked back on his heels, a quick intake of breath signaling his surprise, as if she'd admitted to having a gunshot wound to the abdomen. He rose quickly, placing her hands gently in her lap. "You're in shock." His voice was above her now, and she fought an unsettling sensation of vertigo to lift her eyes. He cast about the room for a victim before pointing to a grizzled man in police blue. "Get a blanket. She's in shock. You haven't even had a paramedic *look* at her!" "Mulder -" Reluctantly, she stopped herself. It was true. She was freezing, actually trembling with it, and she knew that her face must be bloodless, lips blue. It was not surprising, her doctor voice reasoned. Shock was a natural reaction to trauma, physical or emotional. She would have to submit to being a patient for the moment. A blanket was produced -- from her bed, Scully observed idly - and Mulder draped it over her shoulders, tucking it tightly around her, before resuming his crouch before her. She felt his fingers at her chin, tilting her face upward to meet his eyes, then they lifted to brush an errant strand of hair behind her ear, almost as she might have done it. There was some measure of comfort in the gesture; he seemed to recognize her need to pull herself together. "Do you want to tell me what happened?" he asked softly. "They didn't tell you?" she asked, letting her eyes flit to the police and technicians hovering around her kitchen doorway, evidence bags in hand. She quickly looked away, focusing on him instead, on his chin. Eventually, she might be able to look in his eyes. "I, uh, didn't wait around to hear it," he admitted. "I was just trying to get in here." To you. Scully offered him a tremulous smile, appreciating the sentiment behind the words and wanting him to know it. Then she took a deep breath. "Ed has my brother." "Bill." It was not a question. In fact, in Mulder's mind, it was suddenly, maddeningly, obvious. Fucking obvious. The photograph. He should have seen it coming. "Yes." "What happened? What makes you think that he has Bill?" She knew he didn't doubt her, he was merely piecing together the facts. "He sent me his things." There was more to be said. Somehow, she was going to have to force the words past her lips. "Mulder, he ..." Deep breath. "He sent me his tongue. Bill's tongue." "What???" Even Mulder, monster hunter to the stars, had not seen that coming. His shock was actually comforting, as if it somehow justified her own. It centered her. If Mulder was startled, then she could be calm. That's how it worked. That's how they worked. They balanced and counterbalanced. He had unwittingly offered her a chance to take control of her situation. "I should restate that," she said in a voice she now recognized as her own. Agent Scully, not Victim Scully. "He sent me *a* tongue. Among a package of my brother's belongings. His very personal belongings. The assumption is that the tongue is also ..." She faltered again. Mulder squeezed her fingers, communicating his understanding. "Is that when you called me?" It was such an innocent question, but Scully turned it as a battering ram on herself. Mulder did not have a monopoly on self-castigation. -- Yes, Mulder, that's when I called you. Right after I treated you like shit for what you were doing, I started to call you to ask you to keep going. It is so much easier to ask for help when it's not me needing it. "Yes," she said softly. "I called you when I realized it was Bill's things in the package. When I realized that Bill is in danger. I called you to ask for your help." He was silent, and she could not look at him. She felt as if she wore a scarlet H for hypocrite, and would not blame Mulder for wanting to stamp it on her forehead himself. "I want you to keep going. Keep profiling Ed. Profile me if you have to. Do whatever it takes to find my brother. And Ed Jerse." There was a silence so thick the din around them could not pierce it; Scully felt it weigh on her shoulders like a palpable presence. Finally, she dared meet his eyes, and the emotions there puzzled her. Not anger at her hypocrisy, no hostility or disgust aimed at her. Instead, he seemed ashamed ... and just a little bit terrified. She reached out and brushed her fingers against his jaw, a simple gesture meant to comfort. He was tormented and she could not understand why, but instinctively she wanted to fix it. It was their age-old dance. Balance and counterbalance. "Scully, I..." Now his gaze skittered away for a moment. "I didn't stop profiling Jerse. You didn't ask me to, and I didn't." Her startled exhale whistled sharply from her lips, and he hurried to continue. "It's too important, even if you hate it. Even if you hate it," he repeated resolutely. Even if you hate ME. There was no way that Scully, skilled in the art of deciphering Mulderspeak, could have missed the implication there. It unraveled her. She sighed, scooping his hands into hers and twining their fingers, dredging up a tired smile for his benefit. The expression of gratitude on his face for the gesture made her feel two inches high. "We are a sorry pair, aren't we, Mulder?" she said, bone weary and heart sore. "Pretty pathetic," he agreed amicably. "But you have to admit, we've really made our own special brand of dysfunction work for us, don't you think?" "True enough." She chewed on her lower lip thoughtfully for a moment, then took a deep breath and gave him her steadiest, most professional face. "So where do we go from here?" "Well, Agent Scully, we bring this investigation under the control of the Bureau," he said matter-of-factly, following her lead. "We analyze the evidence, we review the past and present case files, and we create a profile of our suspect." He made it sound so easy, so manageable. Standard operating procedure. Scully adored him for it, even as her mind whirled with the call she was going to have to make to her mother, a woman who had already known too much suffering in too few years. And so much of it at her own daughter's doorstep. Scully thought of the tests that would be run on her brother's things, on that awful piece of flesh, and knew she could not be in the lab, even if her presence wouldn't already go against every ounce of investigative protocol. But she would read the reports, and that would be hard enough. And then Mulder's profiling. Of Jerse. Of her. She swallowed hard. "I'm going to hate this," she said without an ounce of self-pity. She was simply stating fact. Mulder nodded. "Yes. You probably are." She rose carefully to her feet with Mulder hovering at her elbow, testing her steadiness. Scully shook him off, but tried to gentle about it. She had to stand on her own now. There was no more time to be soft. " I'm sorry about that," he continued more softly. "I'm sorry about all of this." "I know," she whispered, "I know you are. So am I." *************************************************** He watched her. He watched her, excising the information he needed layer by layer, each detail more compelling than the next. She stood before the window, a fierce afternoon sun forcing its way through partially tilted blinds to paint bands of heat across her body, her face revealed in strips of light - eyes, nose, lips. Ordered bursts of brilliance where the sun touched her hair. She gazed beyond the imprisoning glass, expression unreadable, eyes sweeping left, then right, left again. He wondered if she really saw anything at all, or if she were only registering a possible break for freedom. Her hands moved absently over the blinds, index fingers sloughing dust off the slats in perfect little furrows. He imagined that if he peered closely, he could see the minute but telltale damage of cuticles worn ragged by nervous fingers. He watched her at the window, eyes far away and searching, the deliberately economic and ordered movement of her hands, and he knew that Dana Scully wanted to be anywhere in the world but with him. It hurt. "Scully," Mulder said after endless minutes of this, dropping the file he hadn't been reading onto her dining room table and taking off his glasses. She didn't respond, and he sighed, rubbing his hands over his face before trying again, louder this time. "Hey. Scully." She swiveled her head slightly in his direction to acknowledge him but without taking her eyes from the window, her hands never ceasing their restless pursuits, and he marveled at how loudly body language could communicate what a person might never actually voice. "Come sit down." Casual, as normal as possible, ignoring the knife in his gut. "You're making * me * tired." "I don't feel like sitting down," she replied tonelessly. "I'm fine over here." Well. Okay. He would try not to take that personally. This wasn't going to work, though, with her over there, distancing herself physically as well as mentally from the task at hand, and him over here trying to pretend he didn't notice. "At least move away from the window," he said, gruff now, another twist of the knife. "Or should I just paint a bull's eye on you and make it easier for Jerse?" That got her attention. She yanked her head around sharply enough to snap vertebra and glared icicles at him, even as her fingers were jerking away from the blinds as if they might be extensions of Jerse himself, about to turn traitor and grab her. But she did not argue. Without a word, she moved away from the window and joined him at the table - at the opposite end, chair pulled back, barely perched on the seat's edge, feet tiptoed into a sprinter-pose, as if she might bolt at a moment's notice. Mulder stifled a sigh. It was a start, at least. "Scully - " "I do not appreciate being a prisoner in my own home." "You aren't a prisoner." She didn't even deign to arch an eyebrow at him, merely flicked her gaze toward her front door and the federal agent they both knew stood watch on the other side of it. When the FBI took over an investigation, they *really* took over an investigation, particularly when a fellow agent was at risk. And despite the growing number of female agents and a virtual university of sensitivity training seminars, the Bureau was still an essentially patriarchal organization. You did not threaten agents. And you sure as *hell* did not threaten women. Mulder would not tell his partner how many strong, strapping male agents had lined up to assist in the investigation upon hearing that Special Agent Dana Scully was in danger. It would only make her more uncomfortable than she already was. Her personal life as the center of attention was not her favorite flavor. "You're not a prisoner," he repeated. "You aren't being held. Only watched." "Oh, well then, that's different," she muttered sarcastically. "Are you finished?" he asked quietly. She looked up at him with a frown, then almost as quickly her anger faded. She looked almost ... sheepish, which is not a look one saw on Scully's face very often. She had apparently just recognized her attitude, and didn't like what she saw. Ever so slightly, she relaxed in her seat. "Yes." Her voice was soft. "I'm sorry." "Don't be. I know this isn't easy." "Still, I have no right to take it out on you." She looked down at her fingers, rubbed the pad of her thumb over a hangnail on the opposite hand, smoothing the skin there. "It's not your fault any of this happened," she continued in a soft voice, not looking up. He froze, staring at her bowed head. "Scully, you don't think this is *your* fault, do you?" He was shocked. Of course, he should have predicted it, it was a perfectly normal reaction but ... Jesus... She lifted her head, and there was a faint sheen of tears in her eyes. The knife twisted again. "Isn't it? I'm the one who went home with Ed. I'm the one who - " "This is not your fault," he said hotly. "You accepted an invitation to dinner. The only bad guy here is Jerse. That's all." Scully shook her head. She obviously regretted bringing it up, apparently not wanting his help or support on this particular subject. The knife took up permanent residence inside his abdominal cavity. "None of this is bringing my brother home. Let's just do what we have to do here." "It's not your fault," he repeated stubbornly, willing her to accept it. "You don't have a monopoly on guilt, Mulder," she whispered. "Guilt won't help Bill either, or you," he said finally. She sighed. "So let's do what will. Let's start. Profile Ed. Profile me. Just get it started." Great. Now she was rushing toward the thing she'd dreaded most to avoid something even more troubling. They just couldn't win for losing, could they? He pressed his lips together and pulled the file back toward him with his fingertips, angling a notepad nearby, pushing a felt tip pen into perfect parallel alignment at its edge. The glasses returned to his nose. He calmly rolled up his shirtsleeves. He felt Scully watching him, felt her observing every move and understanding it, even as it disturbed her. She had seen him do it often enough. This particular ritual he reserved solely for the role of "mindhunter" - it focused him, it always had. Mulder glanced briefly at the open file then pinned her with a level, neutral gaze. "Tell me about when you first met Ed Jerse." The statement seemed to startle her. Maybe she'd been expecting a question, but he wasn't going to give her the opportunity to answer anything with a "yes" or "no." He needed information, description, as much as possible. "I followed your suspect into the tattoo parlor," she said carefully. "Ed ... Mr. Jerse was there, arguing with the owner about his tattoo. He wasn't pleased with it. The store owner called me over and asked me what I thought -" Mulder made a small sound in the back of his throat, interrupting her. "No, *tell* me about it. What did the place look like? What were you thinking about? What struck you?" He began scratching doodles on the notepad, just random slashes of black on the page, immunizing her now to the action so that she wouldn't freeze up when he really started taking notes. Scully pushed herself against the back of the chair, folding her hands and placing them deliberately on the table. Her gaze shifted to somewhere just over his shoulder, though whether she was avoiding looking at him or simply picturing the moment in her mind's eye wasn't immediately apparent. "I ... The shop was dark. Really dimly lit. Grungy. Not unclean exactly, but I remember wondering how many health code regulations might be violated." She smiled a little, almost embarrassed, and he returned it, encouraging her to continue in this vein. So much could be revealed by description, and by what Scully revealed as she gave it, unwitting or no. "The owner was busy, talking to ... I wanted to wait. Talk to him alone. I noticed the tattoos displayed on the wall. I remember hearing the owner say to Ed, 'Everyone gets the tattoo they deserve.' I started looking at the ones on the wall, wondering if there was one that I deserved." He scribbled the questions on the notepad for further pondering. "Did anything catch your eye?" he murmured. "A snake eating its tail. The tattoo I eventually got. I noticed it right away. It was like infinity, an unending circle, but not. Eventually the snake would eat its tail until it disappeared altogether ..." Mulder chewed on the inside of his lip, preserving his neutral expression and busying himself with writing on his notepad. He had known what the tattoo pictured, had read about it in the records from Scully's hospital visit, when she'd been tested for ergot poisoning. But to hear her describe it, what she'd seen in it ... Had she been looking for infinity, or had she been afraid of disappearing? Through the cancer? Or something else? "So the owner asked me to come over, to look at - Mr. Jerse's tattoo ..." "Scully, why don't you just call him Ed? That's what you called him then," he said, meaning to put her at ease. It didn't. For reasons he didn't entirely fathom, she flared. "I *prefer* to call him Mr. Jerse. Or not call him by name at all." He held up his hands in mock surrender, held her gaze until she looked away, then waited for her to continue, returning to his idle scratching on the notepad. Waiting for her to continue, on her own terms. For now. Nothing would be accomplished if she stayed on the defensive. "I went over to look at the tattoo. The owner wanted my opinion on it, and I told him I thought it was quality work -" Mulder opened his mouth, but Scully stilled him with a glance, knowing what he wanted and revising her narrative. "The tattoo was of a woman. Sort of a girlie, comic-book woman...like you see stenciled onto old B-52 bombers. The ones from World War II, with names like 'Savannah Sweetheart.' Voluptuous. Sexy. And strangely wholesome. I remember noticing how red the lips were, the blue of the eyes. It took me a minute to notice what was written under it. 'Never Again.' It ..." She hesitated, frowning to herself. Mulder nodded slowly, prompting her, reassuring her that he wanted to hear whatever she had to say. Of course, that wasn't really the problem, was it? He wanted to hear. She didn't necessarily want to tell. Nonetheless, she pushed forward. "It was such an odd statement. I wondered what kind of a man would put such a blatantly sensual image on his arm and then negate it with the message. I looked up at him and - he wouldn't meet my eyes." She stopped, frowning pensively into the distance. She was realizing something. "He wouldn't look at me. He kept his head down. And he wouldn't look at me. Just sort of peeked at me out of the corner of his eye. I thought he was shy." Mulder was scribbling into his notebook now. [Submissive in front of a female who is "judging" part of him. Shamed. The tattoo has definite Oedipal overtones. Sexual and wholesome.] "It was strange," she continued, "because then he initiated conversation with me once we were alone. The owner left the room, I was looking at the tattoos again, and he started talking to me. Offered 'some advice from a stranger.' Told me I should be sure about it before I got a tattoo. When I asked him if he got the tattoo he 'deserved,' he didn't say yes and he didn't say no. He just said he'd been ... impulsive. I said something about wishing I could be impulsive sometimes. He said, 'Be careful what you wish for.'" [The male authority figure in the room leaves, Jerse reasserts his personality. Connecting to the woman in the room. Wanting to initiate contact with her. Wanting to connect with her over something in common. Wanting her to see him, notice him, like him. Need him.] "He started flirting with me a little bit, I guess. One of those 'What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?' conversations," she said, a touch wryly. Mulder grimaced sympathetically and she seemed to appreciate it, offering him a little smile. Rewarded, he resolutely ignored the green-eyed monster starting its distant hammering. "I lied to him. Told him I was visiting my aunt in the neighborhood. I'm not sure why I lied to him. I suppose I just -" she sighed a little wistfully " - I just didn't want to be Special Agent Dana Scully that day." The green-eyed monster and the knife in the gut were competing for dominance. "He asked me out to dinner. I said no. I thought about saying yes, but ... I couldn't." Her eyes met Mulder's briefly, a startlingly intense moment that said something profound but indecipherable and somehow quieted all the demons. Then she bit her lip and looked away. He didn't pursue it. "It wasn't a good idea. So I declined. He gave me his card, extended the invitation for a later date." Scully stirred in her seat, reaching up a hand to rub the back of her neck. Though she'd relaxed somewhat, she'd still been holding herself so tensely, as if afraid to truly let her guard down. Was she protecting him, or herself? Was he ready to know the answer? "Did you want to take a break, Scully?" he asked gently. She started to shake her head, then apparently rethought it, pushing herself out of the chair. "Yeah, for a few minutes. I was thinking I should call my mother again. She ... well, you know ..." Mulder nodded. What could you say about a woman who would, in all likelihood, bury her second child in one decade, and nearly see a third one suffer the same fate? He wasn't sure who he felt more sympathy for - Margaret Scully, for losing a son, or for her daughter, who was inevitably placing the blame at her own doorstep, even if it didn't belong there. The knife in his gut won. The phone rang just as Scully laid her hand on it, and she jumped. She lifted the receiver to her ear, managing a half-smile at her own skittishness for Mulder's benefit. "Hello?" The silence in the room suddenly took on a palpably menacing quality. He was halfway across the room before she even uttered the next syllable. "*Ed*???" ************************** "Hello, Special Agent Scully. This is a blast from your past." For one expectant moment, Scully had the oddest feeling that her alarm clock now would blare its obnoxious morning wake-up call and rouse her from what was surely a nightmare, leaving her exhausted but otherwise unharmed on sweat-soaked sheets. Of course, the slippery ripple of disgust and fear snaking up her spine dashed her hopes almost immediately. "Ed???" she gasped, shocked despite her best intentions. She should have known. She really should have known. Of course he would call. He would need to gloat, to brag. Mulder had taught her well. A fleeting whisper of sound that she felt more than heard told her Mulder was already on his feet and moving behind her. "Oh, does that mean I can still call you Dana? I'm touched." An eternity of seconds passed while Scully felt her own blood roaring in her ears, as Mulder picked up the cordless phone nearby, one finger held to his lips and his eyes glinting cautionary warnings, soundlessly thumbing the 'on' button and bringing the receiver to his ear. Undoubtedly, the phone tap crew was already plugged in and listening. There would be quite the audience for this horrific little exchange. Great. Things had just gone from hunky to dory in no time, she thought bitterly. The growly voice, warm and brusque, was her father's. She drew from it. "Call me whatever you want. Just give me my brother." Cool and forceful. Ahab, issuing orders with calm assurance that they will be obeyed without question or thought. "I'm afraid I can't do that," Ed replied, and then he laughed. *Laughed*. "And even if I could, I wouldn't. I don't think you'd enjoy it very much." Scully flared, fury and terror spiraling out of her throat in something that would have been a scream of outrage had there been no syllables spoken. "Listen, you prick, you return Bill right now or -" "Shut up!" Ed snarled, in a violent tone so shockingly different from the oiled malevolence of before that it took all her willpower not to physically respond to it. A muscle ticked in her jaw, she felt it and bit viciously into the tender flesh of her tongue to control it. Mulder was moving toward her now, the phone still cradled to his ear. "Now you listen to me, you bitch! I'm in charge here, and if you don't treat me with *respect* --" he spit the word out and now she flinched "-then something *very* bad is going to happen to your -" Click. "No--!" The half-formed protest flew from her lips before her brain could even process that the line was dead. What the hell ... ? Her gaze flicked from the receiver still clutched numbly in her fingers, then lowered with ever-increasing dread to the phone's base on the table. A strong, lightly tanned finger held down the toggle, breaking the connection. Strange how shock could bring the tiniest details into such sharp relief - the faint sprinkling of golden hair between the knuckles, the bone and lean sinew of its length, the white flush at the finger's tip and under the nail betraying how forcefully it was pressing down. Mulder's finger. Mulder's hand. Her gaze snapped to his and he stood beside her - when had that happened, had it been while Ed was screaming? -- and he gazed down at her with such an inscrutable expression on his face, his body language so casual and relaxed that her own body insisted she tremble her fury in counterpoint. "You son of a bitch," she said in a low, dangerous voice, turning to face him and not releasing him from the gun sights of her eyes. "Scully-" he began calmly. "What the hell did you think you were doing?" she hissed, inching forward until she was most definitely in his space, her neck tilted back to a painful angle, the tips of her shoes touching his and her breath scorching his chin. "I am trying to capture Ed Jerse." So simple, so calm, so unaffected by her anger. Light glanced off his glasses, effectively hiding his eyes and preventing her from reading the emotions behind them. Would she have been able to anyway? Or was he entirely unrecognizable at this moment and the glasses were just a mercy God had provided to keep her from confirming it? "By hanging up on him?! Where the hell did you learn that fucking trick?" She drew herself up stiffly, fury making her tall and terrible. "This man has a hostage, Mulder. My *brother*. Where the *hell* do you get off hanging up on him when I'm - when *we* are trying to get him back?" Mulder tilted his head slightly lower, their foreheads almost touching, and the glare slid off his glasses. Oh, the look in his eyes was unbearable. So sad ... pityingly sad. His tone was as gentle as he could possibly have made it. "There is no way at all that Bill is still alive. You know that." Bastard. She turned from him and slammed the phone into its cradle with enough force to crack the plastic at its base, forcing Mulder to yank his hand away fast or lose the finger still there. He was only partially successful, if the wince on his face were any indication. Remorse and cold satisfaction waged a bloody battle in her heart and remorse won. But barely. There was a part of her that wanted him to hurt. *Needed* him to so badly she could taste it. Needed him to share this fierce agony inside her. Scully turned back but did not meet his eye. She reached carefully for his hand, expecting him to flinch away, God knew she wouldn't blame him, but he didn't, and her heart splintered a little more. A wordless sound of regret escaped her as she examined his finger, inspecting the dent in the tip of his nail bed, the blood blister already forming underneath. "It's all right, Scully," he said softly, his breath ruffling her hair. "I know you didn't mean to." She laughed, harsh and ugly, lifting her face to his and for once letting him see the tears threatening at the corner of her eyes. "Oh yes, I did." He offered a crooked grin, the forgiving one. He understood. "I was trying to be nice. I've got nine other fingers to protect." Her tiny chuckle surprised her only a little. Their relationship was like the sea, fiercely raging storms and serenely playful calm, with the transition between them so swift it threatened capsizing half the time. They had earned their sea legs over time, had learned to weather the worst of it and make the most of the best. The tsunami of this situation, though, had her frightened. Even seasoned sailors had to go overboard sometime. Scully continued to examine his hand, her fingers stroking lightly over the injury, as she spoke. "I have not given up on my brother, Mulder." "He's ... gone. The lab tests -" "The tests could not conclusively determine if the tongue was removed postmortem," she interrupted smoothly. "If his blood pressure were low, maybe due to administration of a drug, if the procedure were done in such a way -" "Scully," Mulder said softly, using his uninjured hand to tilt her chin upward, to meet his eyes. "You and I both know that Ed does not have the skills to do what you're suggesting. The excision was likely made just after time of death...or during." She swallowed hard against the bile in her throat. Even a seasoned forensic pathologist would have balked. The tongue was so intensely personal - many a veteran police officer or morgue official had run for the nearest bathroom during mutilation cases involving tongues. And when it was your own brother ... Scully looked away, turning slightly to glance at the phone. Strange how it seemed an eternity had passed since the line had been disconnected, but it must have only been, what? A minute? Maybe two? "I don't understand why you hung up the phone, Mulder," she said carefully, trying to be calm, trying to be professional. That was the way to handle this, to get through it with both of them intact. She had not released her grip on his hands, the need to stay connected too strong. "Please explain that to me." "He had control of the conversation," Mulder replied simply. "I needed to remove that control and give it back to you." "But wouldn't it make more sense to let him think he *has* control? Won't he slip up if he's arrogant, sure of himself?" This was easier. This was two partners discussing the best strategy for capturing a suspect. This she could do. "Normally, maybe. But he's already in control, there's no denying that right now. And that's not a good place for a man like Jerse to be. I'd rather have you in charge, or at least seeming to be. You, a woman. *The* woman. It's what he responds to. It's how he's *most* predictable." He paused and his gaze dropped briefly to the phone, his gaze almost hungry. Hunting for monsters. "Besides, he's going to call back. He never would have stayed on long enough for a trace before. Now that he's not in the driver's seat, we might be able to keep him on, get the trace." She chewed on her lower lip, mulling that one over. My God, he was so good at this fucking awful job. And today, she could be thankful for that. Tomorrow, on some other case with someone else involved, she could hate what it did to him, but today ... He pulled his hands from hers finally and settled them, heavy and reassuring, on her shoulders, gaze locking with hers. "Now listen," he said rapidly. "We don't have long. He'll be calling back any second. Stay in control. Use his name - a lot. He seems to respond to it. Be cool. Almost condescending. Like talking to a child. He may try to bait you but don't let him, no matter how hard that might be. And don't talk about your brother. He gets off on that, it gives him control. Move the conversation away from that. Get him to talk about you, what he wants from *you*." She frowned immediately. "I know. But it's what has to happen." Scully nodded her understanding and closed her eyes, running his words over and over in her mind.. Cool. Control. Cool control. A mantra. She could do this. She reopened her eyes and brushed a hand lightly over the injured finger still resting on her shoulder. "You need to put some ice on this," she said calmly, as if a stalker who'd kidnapped her brother weren't about to torture her courtesy of AT&T. She was an agent with a partner, a physician concerned for a patient. She allowed herself to bask for a moment in the admiration blatant in his eyes. "Afterwards. I'd really hate to be rude and miss his call." "You're the Emily Post for psychopaths, Mulder?" she retorted, thankful for his attempt to lighten the atmosphere as much as it could be. "That's an interesting -" The phone's shrill ring interrupted her. She didn't jump this time, but pinched the bridge of her nose. "Show time, Scully." He was reaching for the cordless, discarded nearby, watching her closely so the line would connect simultaneously on both phones. Scully took a deep breath, summoned a mental image of her father at his most authoritative in her mind's eye, and picked up the receiver. "Hello, Ed." The Queen of England could not have been more icily cool and self-assured. "You made her very angry." His tone was angry still, but more subdued somehow. She stared at Mulder, watching for any visual clues that might help her along the way. "It was my cordless phone," Scully replied, cocking an eyebrow at Mulder, who shrugged almost comically. "It cut out. Who's angry, Ed?" "*Her*. The one who told me not to trust you in the first place." Scully fumbled for a second, but found the answer even before Mulder started gesturing urgently at his arm. Oh yes. The tattoo. The *talking* tattoo, she corrected herself. "Ed, your tattoo burned off. It can't talk to you anymore. Of course you know that." Silky, patronizing, a mother with a four-year-old who insists there are bogeymen hiding under the bed. Mulder was nodding his encouragement. "No, She's still here. She stayed faithful to me. *She* stuck around. She's right here." For a moment, Scully tried to imagine the mutilated mass of flesh that must remain of Ed's arm, then stopped herself. "Ed -" "Look, I can't stay on the line, I'm sure you have it tapped." Scully felt disappointment like a blow in her chest but Mulder pantomimed for her to continue as best she could. "Ed, you sound very confused. All this talk about line taps and tattoos that talk -" "I just called to tell you that I'm coming for you." Scully's eyes locked with Mulder's. Something terrible and frightened leapt between them. "When are you coming, Ed? Where? Here?" "I'm not allowed to tell you. But soon." His voice had an earnestness that chilled her. He sounded almost childlike, an eerily enthusiastic tone somehow as malevolent as the violence of the earlier phone call. Perhaps more so because of its eagerness. "Personally, Dana, I'm sorry about it. I think you had potential for something special. But She says you have to be punished. And She's never been wrong." "Ed, maybe *She* and I should have a little talk," Scully retorted bitingly. Mulder was shaking his head. But it was too late. Ed chuckled, and she wondered if evil could seep through phone lines. She certainly felt it in the air. "Oh, I think She might like that, Dana. In fact, She's looking forward to it." The phone went dead. Scully slammed it down and Mulder winced in sympathetic memory. "I'm sorry, Mulder, I blew it, but if I had to listen to that sh-" "No, it's all right. You did fine. Really well. He'll call again," Mulder reassured her. "When?" she asked, hearing eagerness borne of urgency in her tone and wanting to vomit. "Not today, I don't think," he replied, staring pensively at the phone, his words soft and coming from far away place where he dreamed of monsters. "No, probably not until tomorrow. Morning, I think. He'll want to start your day. Be the first thing you think about. Be the only thing you think about. All day." She stared at him, revulsion twisting her lips into a grimace. Not at him, but ... yes, in some bizarre way, at him. This was exactly what she had not wanted, what she was fighting so hard to prevent. The two men at opposite ends of the spectrum of her life brought together, Ed sullying everything she had kept sacred and far from him during their brief time together. Ed Jerse's thoughts coming out of Mulder's mouth, putting Ed right there in the room with her, incarnate through Fox Mulder. Mulder caught her stare, flushed almost guiltily from it. She looked away, equally ashamed. "Let's get back to the profile," Mulder suggested, almost harshly. "Right," she murmured, moving toward the dining room table, avoiding his path and his eyes. Man overboard, she thought dismally. Woman, too. The tsunami might get them yet. ************ Just scant hours past sunrise, Mulder woke on Scully's couch when a rebel beam of sunlight broke off from the troop, infiltrated the darkened living room through a crack in the blinds, silently swept the room for its target and tried to burn its way through his closed eyelids. Adding insult to injury, various body parts immediately checked in with status reports of their own: a crick in his neck, a knot in his stomach, a straining bladder, a headache fierce enough to fell a bull elephant, and a region further south indicated that, despite less-than-favorable conditions, it was still making a half-hearted attempt at the usual morning erection. All things considered, not a bad start to the day. He did not stir, ignoring the mild bitching of his bladder, unwilling to move and break the utter stillness that cloaked the apartment or risk waking the woman on the other side of the bedroom door who had fallen into a reluctant and exhausted sleep sometime just before dawn. The rest of the evening had been unproductive, putting it as optimistically as possible. Scully had been distracted and either unwilling or unable to concentrate on dredging up more details about the events in Philadelphia. The Bureau techs had reported exactly what he'd suspected: an incomplete trace on Jerse's phone calls. At best, they were able to determine he was calling from somewhere within the area code, but Mulder could have told them that without benefit of technology. Jerse was close. His type liked to hover. It was just too damn early to take a nosedive off the cliff of monstrosity, so Mulder reluctantly turned his thoughts away from Jerse's telephone habits, instead reflecting on yesterday evening and the ever-more-puzzling, redheaded sphinx who was his partner. She'd concluded their half-hearted attempts at profiling by abruptly heading for the kitchen, rummaging for food and planning aloud a meal that he knew she didn't have the appetite to eat. That was Scully - in professional mode, she was all cool eyes and subtle nuances of expression to indicate her wishes. Get too close to the personal and she firmly erected neon signs flashing warning signals. Mulder grinned into the morning light. Damned if she didn't fascinate him even when she was driving him nuts. She'd asked him to stay for dinner. That had actually surprised him. He'd figured she'd want him well good and gone, and had wanted it long before Jerse called. And she hadn't * invited* him to stay, technically speaking. That part * didn't * surprise him. Scully had always had a hard time asking for what she might want, and he had the distinct feeling she did not want to be left alone tonight. Was * afraid * to be alone. Which was a concept singularly alien to Fox Mulder - Scully afraid. "Mulder, do you have anything against vegetable lasagna?" she'd asked from the kitchen doorway, arresting him as he'd been sorting files. "As an entrιe, or on principle?" "As what's going to be on your plate in about ninety minutes." "Scully, you haven't gone vegetarian on me, have you?" She'd almost smiled - he caught the twitch at the corners of her lips. Lifting one shoulder in a cryptic shrug, she'd turned back to the kitchen and returned with place settings for two. And unless she was suddenly inviting her previously unwanted guard at the door to supper, that meant Mulder was staying. Two and a half hours later, darkness had fallen outside and the remains of dinner littered the table between them. Though neither of them had much appetite, he'd managed to set Scully and himself on auto-pilot by initiating a fairly lively discussion about the mysteries of the Bermuda Triangle and their "scientific explanations"; forks had lifted food to lips out of habit. Later, as he'd been stacking glasses and collecting flatware, she appeared framed in the kitchen doorway again, holding a dishtowel in her hands and looking very, very uncertain. "Mulder?" She'd met his eyes for an instant and then looked away. He'd moved closer, afraid for a moment that something had happened, though common sense told him she could hardly have been assaulted or threatened when he was less than a room away and had heard nothing. By the time he'd reached her, he'd followed the direction of her gaze, towards the living room, and understanding dawned. She wanted him there, but didn't want to say it. "I have a bag in my car," he'd said gently, letting her off the hook. "I was sort of hoping you'd ask. Your couch is more comfortable than mine." She'd chuckled softly and watched her fingers pluck at the frayed ends of the towel. "I didn't ask," she'd protested, trying to preserve that veneer of self-control, but her tone was gentle. He leaned forward slightly, until his lips were almost at her ear, silky threads of hair tickling his nose. "Yeah, you did," he'd whispered back, smiling. And he'd been rewarded with a smile in return. That had been the highlight of the evening. The rest of the night had been torture. Not much later, after he'd fetched his bag and she'd arranged a "bed" on her couch better than he was used to at home, she'd muttered a brief, almost embarrassed goodnight and retreated for her bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. He'd lain on the sofa, and listened to her pace. And pace. And pace. At one point, he'd approached the closed door and knocked softly. "Scully?" "Yeah?" "Are you okay?" "I'm fine." Had he expected anything else? Dispirited, he'd returned to the sofa, but instead of lying on it, he'd simply sat with his head in his hands. And listened to her walk restlessly around her bedroom, surely wearing a groove into the floor, as he memorized the number of steps in each trek, the tread, the particular tone of each tiny creak in the boards. Until, when it changed, the strangeness of it was enough to propel him to his feet and back to her door. His stomach plunged. Scully was crying. She was doing her best to fight it, if the choked, gut-wrenching sounds on the other side of the door were any indication. Her sobs were muffled, and he wondered if she had her face buried in a pillow. He suddenly, violently wished it were his shoulder bearing the brunt of those tears and almost knocked. Almost. She wouldn't let him in. She wouldn't let him see her with her guard down, not now, when everything was so close to the surface. If he knew Scully at all, he knew this much. And he couldn't bear the rejection, couldn't bear to feel her push him away; he thought it might just kill him this time. So Mulder didn't knock. But he couldn't leave her alone, either, even if he was the only one of them aware he was nearby. He spent the rest of that night sitting on the hard floor, his back against Scully's door, listening to her cry, his eyes leaking tears of their own. Sometime just before dawn, her sobs dwindled to a thick silence, the pacing did not resume, and he sensed fatigue might have finally won out. He'd crept back to the sofa to resume his vigil in relative comfort. He wasn't sure when he'd finally succumbed to exhaustion himself. Mulder's bladder finally insisted on immediate attention in no uncertain terms and he reluctantly pulled himself off the couch, creaking joints confirming that sitting the night away on a hardwood floor was not conducive to comfort or long-term mobility. He tiptoed his way through the apartment, determined to keep Scully oblivious to the day ahead as long as humanly possible. If he could offer her nothing else, he could give her a few hours of uninterrupted and hopefully peaceful sleep. He was as quiet as possible as he completed his ablutions, opting for a thorough sink bath rather than risk the shower waking Scully. Nonetheless, when he slowly opened the door with plans to tiptoe to the kitchen and start the coffee, she was standing there, all but swallowed up in a plush bathrobe, hair obviously finger-combed and still half in her bleary eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and he wasn't sure why. "I tried not to wake you." She shook her head and the wisps fell away from her eyes, revealing the bruised shadows of tender skin beneath them, the puffed and reddened eyelids and wan complexion. A few hours of sleep had not repaired the damage of a hellish night. He reached out with a gentle hand and touched the delicate ridge of her jawbone in a tentative caress, unable to help himself. Miracle of miracles, she didn't shy away as he might have expected. First thing in the morning like this, groggy and cottoned by sleep, perhaps her defenses were down. Even after all their cases, hundreds of questionable hotels, and middle-of-the-night wake-up calls, he had never seen her so newly tumbled from her bed, so utterly vulnerable. She'd always had herself a little more collected before she answered his prowler-hour knocks. Did it make him entirely depraved that, despite the situation that had produced it, he found himself fascinated and more than a little turned on by this discovery about his partner? "S'okay," she mumbled fuzzily. "I'm not ... I ... Huh?" She'd apparently lost track of the conversation, and he found it almost shockingly adorable. Despite Scully's opinion to the contrary, he'd * always * known she wasn't a morning person. He'd just never had this immediately first-hand information as to why: Scully didn't even know who she was first thing in the morning. No wonder she was so uncommunicative when she first showed up at the office - she was probably still trying to figure out how she'd got there. He grinned. "I'll make coffee." "Bless you," she croaked, and pushed past him into the bathroom. He was still smiling - actually * smiling * - when Scully emerged 15 minutes later, while Mulder finished the coffee and amused himself by exploring her kitchen cupboards for something marginally unhealthy for breakfast. She appeared beside him in jeans and a sweatshirt, with bare feet and damp hair. A glance at her face confirmed that a hot shower had managed to erase some of the night's injuries. "Please don't cook," Scully said, more alert now but also grumpier. "You're a wonderful hostess, Scully, but I don't mind pitching in." "I wasn't trying to be nice. It's a survival instinct. I don't think I can handle your culinary skills this early in the morning." Mulder placed a hand to his heart, feigning a fatal wound, and she smiled sweetly. Then she shoved her hip against his thigh and pushed him gracelessly out of the way, reaching for the coffee mug he'd been blocking. The look on her face when she slurped - -- that first mouthful was positively blissful. A few daintier swallows and she gave him a little smirk. "I'll say one thing for you, Mulder. You do have coffee down to a fine art." "You don't know how I live for these little crumbs of kindness from you, Scully." Amazing that they could still find some room for humor. He found himself ridiculously grateful for it and saw by the faint glimmer in his partner's eyes that the feeling was mutual. God knew, she must need it more than he did. "It's the least I can do," Scully replied, opening a cupboard and standing on tiptoe to reach something tucked away in the back of a high shelf. Without a word, she handed him a box of Pop Tarts. Oh, God, he might just have to kiss her. Wait. Chocolate fudge flavor. He might just have to vomit. "Are you trying to kill me?" he asked, wrinkling his nose. What the hell was she doing with something like this in her kitchen, where normal, edible food might be contaminated? "Trust no one, Mulder." With that coy remark, she exited stage left toward the living room. Leaving her no choice but to follow her. Admitting defeat, he fished a crackling aluminum pack of chocolate death from the box, realized beggars couldn't be choosers, and carried the entire package in with his coffee mug. She sat with legs curled beside at the end of the couch where his pillow was, leaning against it, almost burrowed into it, bare feet tucked under the edge of the sleep-twisted blankets he'd discarded. There was something intimate about her snuggled into the place where he'd recently lain his own head, where the scent and feel of him might still linger, that he felt a little shiver streak dangerously through his stomach. he chided himself. He'd had these conversations with himself for approximately five years, over everything from Scully touching his arm to get his attention to her distractedly nibbling on a pen that he might loan her. Especially that last one. He'd learned a long, long, * long * time ago that it didn't take much to grab his less-than-professional attention where Scully was concerned. Mulder took a spot beside her on the couch, right next to her rather than at the other end, where she might have expected. Through the blanket, he could just feel her feet pressing against his hip. She didn't shy away or even offer a raised eyebrow and good-humored quip about the only seat in the house. She only glanced over at him with a fleeting smile and stared into her cup as if devising a way to read coffee grounds instead of tealeaves. It was a companionable quiet, filled only by the soft ticking of a clock on the mantle and the slow in-and-out of their breathing. It was a shame he was going to ruin it. "I'm sorry about your brother, Scully." He was almost as surprised by what he'd said as she apparently was, if the sharp intake of breath through her nostrils was any indication. He waited in aching anticipation for the inevitable, coolly delivered "Thank you" then a prohibitive silence. But it never came. Just the silence, and it wasn't cold. He braved a peek in her direction and found her with her head cocked slightly toward him, the cup arrested at her mouth, her lower lip resting against its rim in an unintentional and vulnerable pout, regarding him with not distinctly unfriendly blue eyes. "There was no love lost between you two," she said softly. It was not an accusation, nor meant unkindly, but an observation of fact. Mulder lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug, not entirely sure how to answer that. "That aside, I am sorry about it. For what it means to you, your mother ... your whole family. And for Bill." "Thank you," Scully said finally, a whisper trailing on a sigh. "It's ... hard. Very hard." He nodded, not able to find words that didn't sound like a hundred different cliches. He thought that was it, she was finished, and then she took a deep breath and confessed, "Mulder, I did not like my brother very much. Not at all, actually." She did not meet his eyes, but stared at her hands clasped tightly around the cup, shoulders rigid and pulled high around her ears, expecting God to smite her where she sat. He waited for her to elaborate. She didn't. "What didn't you like about your brother?" he asked softly, swiveling on the couch to face her. She laughed, a dry, brittle sound. "Where do I start?" Mulder watched her profile, saw her upper lip curl upward in a grimace of disgust that almost as quickly trembled with unshed tears. "I haven't liked Bill in a long time. I lost respect for him before that." She looked up at him suddenly. "I have a difficult time liking people when I can't respect them. Even my brother. Perhaps *especially* my brother. I expected better of him." No surprise there. He had watched her treat a fellow agent or a local police officer with unfailing courtesy, but should that individual do or say something that revoked Scully's respect, Mulder could literally watch the thermometer of her eyes plummet into arctic regions, even if her demeanor did not appear to alter. In her moral code of honor and truth - so ingrained it was practically genetic - you could respect someone and still not like them, but the opposite could never be true. "This is where your guilt about Bill's murder is really coming from, isn't it, Scully? It's really about how you feel about Bill, not whatever blame you've conjured up for yourself in Jerse's actions." It was a gamble, bringing up this subject again, but a calculated risk he was willing to take. She looked startled by the question. "Well ..." She paused and shook her head. "Mulder, we've discussed this already. Let's not go there again." "I know we have. I'm still not happy with your answer." He attempted a wry smile, hoping if he could keep some of that gentle humor between them, he could somehow reach her. "You know how I keep hammering at you when you don't agree with me. I'm really vain that way." She tilted her head back until it rested on the top of the couch's backrest, closing her eyes with an air of resignation. He said softly, "I'm only trying to help." She smiled faintly and did not open her eyes. "I know." He studied the delicate arch of her throat, laid bare before him as she bent her head back, and felt some hope. Hers was not a defensive or shielded posture. In times of fear or stress, people revert back to the most primitive survival instincts. Fight-or-flee. Tighten the body, as if to run. Curl tighter, presenting a smaller target. One does not offer the proverbial jugular for a potential predatory. It was safe to continue. He hoped. "What happened between you and your brother, Scully? Will you tell me?" She took a long, deep breath, held it, and exhaled slowly and deliberately. "We had a disagreement." "About what?" "About my life, the choices I've made for my life, and his perceived role in it." "'Perceived role'?" Scully opened her eyes and grinned humorlessly at the ceiling. "Yeah. He perceived that he had a role in making my decisions. I disagreed." The smile faded. "It was that. And it was more than that. It's hard to explain." "Did he disagree with your choices about work? About working with me?" He was afraid to ask, afraid of the answer, even though he knew it in his heart. Scully seemed to sense this, and she turned her head from its supine position on the couch and leveled him with a calm, neutral gaze. "I'm not going to lie to you, Mulder. We disagreed, and yes, you did come up. Of course you did. You are a -" She paused, and if he looked closely, he might imagine he saw a faint flush in her cheeks "-You are a major part of my life." Their gazes locked and she inhaled sharply, aware of how her words sounded. She rushed forward. "We are partners and friends and ... well ..." Mulder stared at her, fascinated and awed and just a little frightened, both by her words and by the fact that she was actually stumbling, stammering, like a teenager on her first date. She seemed to regroup, and quickly returned her gaze to the ceiling. "Bill seemed to think that you had some sort of influence over my decisions. That I was doing, saying, *being* things because of our ... partnership. "He seemed to think that if he wasn't calling the shots in my life, someone else, some other man had to be. That I couldn't really be thinking for myself. And that if I were somehow managing that, I was being selfish and wrong. I was putting myself ahead of the needs of family." Bitterness laced her words and Mulder felt his heart constrict in his chest. What a horrible burden for a family member to place on another - to alter her life, to sacrifice who she was, for the sake of others who had not asked for it. And, if he was suspecting the timelines accurately, all of this while she was presumably dying from an insidious and invasive disease, when her confidence and her faith were already being ravaged with her body. He wished he'd known. Could he have said something, done something to help? He, after all, was King of Self-Placed Culpability. Surely he might have been able to offer some perspective. "Bill wasn't always like that," Scully remarked suddenly. "Or, at least, I don't think he was. He'd never acted this way before. It all seemed to change when ... when my dad died." She braved a look at Mulder again. "I guess he thought he was supposed to step in as the father figure. Unfortunately, he badly misinterpreted the relationship between Ahab and me. Dad was ... well, he didn't always agree with my decisions. Toward the end, I don't think he did much at all. That was difficult for me, I think you know that. But -" She screwed up her mouth, as if physically trying to summon the words to her lips, as if giving them shape beforehand might help her know what they were. "I never truly got the feeling he was judging me. Not like Bill. Bill seemed to think less of me for the choices I made." Mulder was silent for a few moments, absorbing this, and Scully took the opportunity to lift her head from the couch and sip at her coffee. She glanced over at him from the corner of her eye, under a tumbled fall of hair. "Sorry you asked?" she asked with an embarrassed smile. "Never," Mulder answered solemnly. She stared at him for a long, long moment, and he could not fathom what was swirling behind those eyes. "There was one particular instant that clarified my feelings about Bill," she said suddenly. "It was after I was admitted to the hospital. When I was dying." Mulder flinched, he couldn't help himself; Scully's death was a concept about which he had been -- and would remain forever - in full-fledged denial. Considering the possibility now was as terrifying as it had been then. She seemed to understand because she nodded and tentatively patted his knee. "After you'd found that microchip, the one that was said to be a cure for the cancer. You'd brought it to me, offered it to me as a possibility of hope when there seemed to be none offered elsewhere. None." She repeated the word harshly, her voice choked. "And Bill scoffed at it." Mulder swallowed hard. He couldn't believe he was about to say this. "It sounded ludicrous, Scully. Anyone who hasn't seen the things we've seen would have had the same reaction. And we still don't know for certain -- " "No," Scully said vehemently. "That's not the point. Of course it sounded crazy. It even did to me somewhat. But when someone you care about is lying in a hospital bed, dying from an illness that nothing can seem to stop -- nothing -- wouldn't you consider doing whatever it took, no matter how extreme it sounded, for the unlikely, improbable but even * faintly * remote chance that it might save them?" A tear trickled down her cheek, unnoticed and undeterred. "You did. You have." Mulder bowed his head, and she squeezed his knee again, urging him to look at her. He did, and he felt ... awed. She never failed to completely unravel him, just when he wasn't expecting it. "And Bill's response? He seemed more concerned about the message bearer than the possibility that what you brought might save me. What was there to lose? But he seemed to have already written me off as dead, while you and my mother and my priest and -- hell, even my doctor who knew better - were still hanging on to whatever shred of hope you could find. Bill gave up on me because it went against his ordered world, a world he cannot give up even for love." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "And I just could not forgive him that." Mulder stared at her, stunned. At this glimpse into the private parts of her soul, at the quivering emotion of her voice, at her passion. He knew that ordered, scientific, rationally explained solutions were the chart on which she plotted her world. But there were things that meant more. When left with no other choice, she would abandon it to fight for what she cared about. How many times had she done it for him? How many times had she shoved aside the ordered and rational when they could not be used to save him? Taking a hostage at gunpoint to rescue him from Ellens Air Force Base, walking unarmed into a hospital ICU to face an assailant at gunpoint - to rescue * him* -- when common sense and a thousand rules of protocol and tactical strategy insisted she do no such thing. There were at least a dozen other examples. And for what? Loyalty? Friendship? Affection? - Dangerous thoughts, these. Best to leave them alone. Mulder dragged himself away from that treacherous thinking and found Scully watching him. "What are you thinking?" she asked softly. He was supposed to answer that? He shook his head instead and blurted out, "Scully, do you love your brother?" She blinked, surprised. "Of course I do. He's my brother." "Where is it demanded that you have to love him? Brother or not?" She opened her mouth, then shut it, perplexed. Finally, she shrugged. "Nowhere, of course. I just do." "So you still love him, despite everything that's happened between you. Despite the loss of respect and friendship." "Of course. We're family. He is my brother." "Exactly," Mulder responded. "You love him. Isn't that enough? Is it fair to ask more of yourself?" She said nothing, and he ventured further, "Scully, do you think I like my parents? I don't. I didn't like my father before he died, and my mother has done very little to engender my respect or affection for years. She has seemed, in fact, to do everything possible to destroy it. Still ..." He shrugged and looked away. "There is a part of me that will always be the little boy who lived for the love of his parents, in the form they offered it. And I will always love them back in that way." He turned back to her and found her staring at him with wide eyes soft with tears, and wondered where they came from now. "Like and love. It's an unfortunate but true fact of life that the two are not necessarily related." "You may be right, Mulder," she said finally, her voice shaky. "It hardly seems fair, but you may be right." He chuckled. "Have you got a calendar, Scully? I think I want to mark this one down. It's positively historic." Scully gave him an over-bright smile that only trembled a little. "Oh come on. I give you one maybe a couple of times a year, don't I?" "Enough guilt, okay, Scully?" he said soberly. "Easier said than done, but I'll work on it, okay? Maybe I could get the same promise from you someday?" "You're really becoming enamored of extreme possibilities, aren't you?" She ignored that. "My coffee's cold." She shoved her coffee mug in his face with a jaunty grin. "And since you're so concerned about me being a diligent hostess, I'm going to let you get me another cup." "I live to serve," he drawled lazily, and stretched to his feet with cups in hand. She arched an eyebrow and coyly remarked, "Hmmm ... we'll see," then laughed at the look on his face. But before he could even begin to consider a comeback, the phone rang, and all of the warmth of the morning fled the room -- as quickly as the light died in Scully's eyes. "I guess we know who that is," she said flatly. "Nobody else is supposed to use that line now." "You ready?" "If I say no, will Ed Jerse go away?" She shook her head and rose to her feet, forcing a fierce grin. "Strike that. I'm ready. He's just really starting to piss me off." "Good. It's about time." She paused, her hand hovering over the phone, insistently ringing. He'd already taken position by the cordless. "Same as before, right? Assertive. Patronizing. Use his name. Same drill?" "Same drill." She snatched up the phone, trusting Mulder to click in on time. "Hi, Ed. Is your tattoo whispering sweet nothings in your ear again?" And damned if she didn't wink at him. ***************************** "You really are a slut, aren't you?" Well, that was * one * way to start a conversation. The oil-slick menace of Ed's voice seemed to ooze through the phone. Scully found herself simultaneously flushed with fury at the words and chilled by their tone. The fear was bone-deep but the anger was readily available at the surface, and it didn't threaten to paralyze her. Ahab's voice ordered. "Why, Ed, I'm impressed. I don't remember you having such dazzling command of language. Been reading?" She saw Mulder's eyebrows ratchet up a notch and felt his hand at her wrist, signaling caution through a gentle grazing of fingers against her skin. She was plunging into new territory. Undoubtedly, her sudden turnaround from mouse to cat had surprised him. Funny … it was the first thing that felt normal to her in days. There was a tangibly flustered silence on the other end of the line and Mulder's lips tilted marginally in a ghost of a smile. She had gotten to Ed – thrown him off his mark – and for such a small victory, her urge to throw a parade in her own honor was ludicrous. Still, it was a start. "You're such a slut," he managed at last. Scully sighed loudly into the phone, a bored, why-waste-my-time sound. "You already said that, Ed," she replied in her most patient voice, the one she'd learned by watching her girlfriends pacify their toddlers desperately in need of naps. "Was there another reason you called?" "She … She told me you were a slut, but I wanted to give you another chance. I thought you deserved that much, though you really aren't proving yourself to me now, are you?" Ed had recovered a little bit, sounded more certain now. That tattoo again. It had happened before. He became rooted when he talked about it, more focused. She glanced up at Mulder and he was nodding, knowing what she was thinking. He had noticed it, too, and he gestured for her to pursue it, at least for a moment. "'She'? I presume we're talking about that tattoo again?" Scully edged forward, presumably to lean one hip against the edge of the couch, but truthfully so that she could feel her shoulder brushing against the sinewy firmness of Mulder's arm. Contact is good, she rationalized. Contact is grounding. Baby monkeys in laboratory experiments shrivel up and die without physical contact. "She had your number that first night, you know. She said, 'You'd break my heart over a cheap –'" "Are we talking about that tattoo, Ed?" she interrupted, trying to force control of the conversation. "And now you've had a man stay the night in your house, Dana. I've been watching. He never left." Scully darted an alarmed glance at Mulder, but he didn't seem surprised. At all. Had he known Ed would probably be close, all this time? "I can't say I'm shocked. After all, you didn't even know me for 24 hours before you –" "Is that tattoo telling you this, Ed?" Scully demanded, launching herself away from the couch and Mulder's touch, fury scorching her words. "Are you talking about that tattoo?" "You know I am." "I want you to * say * it. Admit to me that you're taking orders from scarred flesh and dirty ink. Say it out loud, Ed, so I can hear it." She saw Mulder out of the corner of her eye, trying to flag her down, signaling her to take it down a notch, but there was no way in hell she was going to let this dialogue take the direction Ed was obviously intending. "She's more than a tattoo, Dana. She knows things. She tells me what no one else wants me to know. She told me the truth about you before I was willing to listen. But I listened to Her at the end, didn't I? I just didn't do it in time to stop you from betraying me." "Ed, this is beyond ridiculous," Scully hissed, trying to sound commanding and forceful, but her voice was shaking with anger and she feared the effect was lost. Her back was turned to Mulder now, as if by not seeing him she could pretend he wasn't listening. Maybe she could pretend this conversation didn't exist. That would be quite a trick. "Just tell me what the hell you want. Let's just cut to the chase here. I don't have time for this." "Is it your partner, Dana? Is that who stayed with you? Is he who you were talking about that night? The one whose approval was so important to you? –" "Ed, stop it. Now." Not like this. This isn't how he's supposed to hear this. He's not supposed to * ever * hear this. "—Is that why you went home with me that night? Was it rebellion? Did you want to make him jealous? Were you thinking of him while I was inside—" This time the finger disconnecting the line was her own. Scully carefully placed the receiver in its cradle with a gentleness that belied the violence she felt humming through her. She kept her back to Mulder, though she felt his gaze on her back as if it were physical, and she wanted to flee to the bathroom and shower before he might actually touch her. The room was quiet, so unbearably quiet, and she could hear the maddening tick-tick-tick of a clock somewhere, and her own breath short and raspy in her ears, and beyond the windows a lawn mower was grumbling as it chewed away at overgrown grass. "Scully—" She flinched. "Don't." Deep breath. "Don't." The phone rang again, the plastic receiver vibrating under her fingers, and she was done. That. Was. It. Calmly, she reached down, curled the cord between her fingers – and ripped it out of the wall, the jack in the plaster wrenching part way out of the wall before giving up its end of the cord. The ringing ceased abruptly without even a choked jangle of protest, and continued, distantly, from the bedroom extension. On auto pilot, she disappeared into that room and gave the same brutal treatment to the phone there, then returned to the living room. "Is that going to help, Scully?" "Shut up, Mulder," she snapped, turning her back on him. "Don't treat me like a six year old." "Then don't act like one," he said evenly, and Scully actually * felt * her blood pressure skyrocket upward and threaten to explode out of the top of her skull. She spun to face him and he was standing there with the most damnably impassive look on his face, gaze inscrutable. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to scratch his eyes out, watch him bleed, and hope that it might distract her from her own pain. Misery loves company. Before she could settle on a few of a thousand scathing words, he continued, "We need to talk." "Do we?" she retorted acidly, folding her arms in front of her. "Yes, we do. We need to talk about what happened in Philadelphia that night. Everything that happened." If he were any calmer, she was going to scream. She would have to, just to relieve the tension. "That's not going to happen, Mulder. Sorry." She turned with the last of her flippantly delivered words and snatched up the phone cord, winding it into a neat coil with mechanical precision. "Yes, it is. Now. Before this goes any further. I can't help you anymore unless I know the truth." her conscience interjected suddenly in Jack Nicholson's voice, and almost hysterical laughter bubbled up from out of nowhere. She slapped her palm against her lips to stifle it and stop the trembling there at the same time. Could he not handle the truth, or was the real truth that * she * couldn't? "Scully, please." What was that in his voice? She turned slowly, cautiously peeking at him from the corner of her eye, hoping to read the answer in his face. No luck. Still so expressionless, frighteningly so. But there had been something in his voice … something pained. She moved her hand from her mouth and slid it to her neck, digging her fingers into rock-hard muscles there, though whether to relax them or to cling to something solid she didn't know. "We can't have this conversation, Mulder. Please believe me. It won't help. It cannot possibly help." He sighed and tossed the cordless phone onto the couch cushions before taking a step toward her. She tensed but forced herself not to step back; she knew it would hurt him to see it. "I have to know," he pressed gently. She turned her face away, searching the ceiling for answers. "God, Mulder, surely you've figured it out. You're a smart man. You can't * not * know, not after that conversation. Don't pretend." "I need you to say it. All of it." Scully detachedly wondered if she had time to get to the toilet before she threw up or if she should just run for the kitchen wastebasket. "No. I won't. It has no bearing on this–" "Scully, dammit, it has * everything * to do with this!" There was that emotion she'd been looking for – and she did not feel better having seen it. He was angry, and frustrated, and … she didn't know what else. She didn't want to know what else. "He's using it as a weapon and you're letting him beat you over the head with it! Help me stop it." He reached out and tentatively curled his fingers around her upper arms, to anchor both of them. She didn't stop him but she didn't respond, either. He continued, more softly now. "I cannot help you stop him unless you are completely honest with me. I need to hear it. All of it." "No." Her voice was so flat and dead she didn't recognize it herself. Who was this stiff stranger standing in her partner's arms, as receptive and responsive as a piece of driftwood? When had she become this person, and how long would it last? Forever? "Everything that happened that night has details that could reveal something about Ed Jerse, something that could help us stop him. I need to know all of it if we have any chance –" "I am not going to talk about this, Mulder. Please stop. Stop." She pulled out of his grasp and walked quickly away from him, heading for the window, leaving him alone in the center of the room with a damaged telephone as his only companion. "Did you sleep with Ed Jerse, Scully?" Her body jerked at the words, despite the fact that she'd steeled herself for them. Maybe she'd spent the last 18 months readying herself. But it didn't feel like it. "Don't do this," she whispered, voice trembling in tandem with her hands. "Did you sleep with him?" "I'll hate you for this, Mulder. I'll hate both of us." "I want to know. Did you sleep with Ed Jerse in Philadelphia? Did you – did you have sex with Ed Jerse?" "Damn you, Mulder!" She turned on him with the ferocity of a cornered animal. "Yes! I had sex with Ed Jerse! Is that what you need to hear? Is that fucking helpful to you somehow?! We fucked all night like lumberjacks until I could barely walk the next morning!" She paused, the silence after her shouts seeming to stuff her ears like cotton, and she finished icily, "Will that help you sleep at night, Agent Mulder?" His eyebrow hitched upward a notch, barely perceptible. That was all. His expression was impenetrable, his eyes gave away nothing at all. And then he spoke, soft and neutral and cutting to the very bone. "So are you telling me that Ed Jerse had trouble ejaculating? Did he demonstrate sexual dysfunction?" Her hands fell to her stomach, pressing against the blow that surely had been physical, so keenly had she felt it. After all that, he could just … She felt the blood drain from her face and for a moment, the light dimmed before her eyes. She closed them, watching red spangles explode against the black backdrop of her eyelids. "My God, how I hate you right now," she whispered around the lump in her throat, unable to open her eyes and look at him. "I know." "Get out." Soft, as if they would both shatter if she raised her voice again. She was fairly sure she would, at any rate. "I can't do that, Scully." "Fine." She forced herself to open her eyes and face him. He was of stone, revealing nothing. She formed her words carefully, finding that her tongue was thick and suddenly weighed a thousand pounds. She could barely move it. Suddenly precision was so important. "Then please excuse me." Scully fled for the bathroom with as much dignity as she could muster. Before he could see her crying. ********************************** For the second time in a half day, the two of them were suffering on opposite sides of a locked door. But this time, Mulder was as far from that unyielding panel of wood as he could be within the limiting confines of Scully's apartment, and the emotional gulf between them stretched wider than he could begin to comprehend. --Did you sleep with Ed Jerse, Scully?-- It was his own fault. Ask an awful question, get a really hideous answer. Wasn't that written somewhere? Sure, it was written down right beside "Don't ask a question you don't already know the answer to." Of course, if he was going to be brutally honest - and he'd proven he at least had the "brutal" part mastered, hadn't he? - he'd suspected the answer to that particular question for a very long time. Didn't mean he'd wanted to hear it, though. Frankly, he could have lived the rest of his life in a happy little state of denial about that one. He'd managed it successfully for the past 18 months, after all. God, he had gone after her with a singlemindedness reserved for the utterly ruthless. And to what end? To help her? To help them both? Or to simply hear her say what he'd known all along? Had his motives been altruistic or had he just been an asshole? Was there room for both answers to be correct? Mulder pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes - hard - and then resumed his tense, caged pacing by the window ... the same window Scully had turned to when his questions became too difficult to answer. Escape. The urge to flee this apartment and the ugly words, the ugly truths, revealed there was almost primitive, the need to run until his heart threatened to explode in his chest and his feet ached from their punishing contact with concrete sidewalks was overwhelming. He wanted to leave so desperately his fingers twitched, already groping for car keys. But he would not leave her. Not now, not when she needed him despite his better judgment, and maybe hers. Not when there were a thousand things left unsaid, though keeping silent was not an unappealing option. Not when the fallout had blown a crater into ... into whatever this was that they had. Not when he knew, just *knew*, she was crying on the other side of that door. Mulder threw a pained, angry glance at that offending door and continued pacing, fingers raking through hair with punishing force. He had fucked up. Fucked up big time. He had pushed her, pushed her hard, with an utter lack of respect for her wishes, her privacy or the fact that she had pleaded with him - Jesus, she had practically begged him - to stop. He'd needed to know, had needed every possible fragment of information about Ed Jerse, about what made him tick, about who he was behind closed doors, in his private thoughts. In his private world, where women were demons and goddesses both. Behind closed doors, he had revealed himself to Dana Scully on some level, and Mulder had needed the answers. Well, it was true. Mulder stopped his pacing, stared at the dining room table and the stacks of folders that had become permanent residents there. Jerse's motives, his signature, could be found in his interaction with women. His medical records and those of his mother, the transcripts of his divorce proceedings, there were clues there. But to talk to a woman who had been in a private, intimate setting with Jerse, who had seen the murderous bloodthirst of the monster and lived to tell about it - that information was invaluable. <"A woman"? Mulder, my boy, you're going to have to do better than that.> Fuck. Yes, the woman in question was his partner. A woman he had known for half a decade, someone he had come to admire, respect, and care about with a desperation that had long since passed frightening and was now more like breathing. A woman he knew better than she'd like, he guessed. Scully carried herself so tightly contained, so reluctant to reveal even the slightest hint of what might lurk behind those mysterious eyes. Slowly, so slowly that anyone else might have tired of the wait long before, she had begun to trust him with things more important than her life - her soul. To offer small pieces of herself and leave him to puzzle them into the whole, opening the door to her world (her heart?) a centimeter at a time. He'd repaid her by tearing it completely open and taking what he'd wanted. To help. Mulder paused, waiting for his conscience to object, but it remained blessedly silent, and he was grateful. Because he had so desperately wanted to help, and he'd grabbed onto whatever might achieve that goal. Mulder knew that voice wouldn't have been able to stay out of it for long. He grimaced and headed for the kitchen, his mouth cotton-dry. Mental castigation was thirsty work. Scully, he thought as he fished a glass from the cupboard and started the tap water. He'd wanted to help Scully. And it wasn't just about catching Jerse, nailing the damn bastard for what he'd almost done to her in Philadelphia and for what he was doing to her now. It was ... he had seen that she was torturing herself with the knowledge of that night, using it like a club to beat herself upside the head. She wouldn't speak of it, wouldn't hint at what might have happened there, but deep down, he had known. By refusing to say anything, she had told him *everything*. But by keeping that secret, she had been choking that fighting spirit right out of herself. Watching it had been like dying in tiny pieces. He knew all about that sort of punishment, laying blame at your own doorstep for things you were too horrified or terrified or ashamed to admit aloud. He had suffocated under the guilt of Samantha's disappearance from the night she was taken, blaming himself for things done and undone. And it still threatened to choke him. But he could speak of it, had told Scully what he believed happened to his sister -- and there was something liberating in that, at least. He had wanted to give that same sense of release to Scully, truly believing - or at least hoping -- that if she could just *say* it, release that secret to one another person, to him, she might be able to fight herself free of it. -- I'll hate you for this. -- The words echoed like rifle shots through his brain and his fist clenched reflexively around the cup of water, forgotten in his hand, until he actually felt the glass creak in protest, threatening to shatter. Shakily, he lifted it to his lips and gulped the water until it was gone, slaking his thirst but not the misery. Of course, he had known she might hate him for it. That she would *have* to hate him for prying through her most fiercely guarded defenses, no matter his motive. That in his attempt to help relieve her pain and anger, she would inevitably have to turn it on him. Shit. He just didn't know when to give himself a break. Okay, all right, part of him had just wanted to *know*. Confirmation. Just to be able to stop torturing himself with imagined scenarios of what might or might not have occurred one wintry night in Philadelphia. He would have an answer once and for all for the averted gaze, circumspect words and guarded body language upon her return, the many interpretations of which he had mulled over when sleep wasn't coming so he could escape to the relative safety of familiar nightmares. He could have facts upon which to base the absolute raging jealous currently tearing at his gut. Mulder put the glass in the sink automatically, then rubbed his hands over his face, exhaling a mingled sigh and groan. Jealousy. Damn. There it was, in all of its utterly selfish glory. He was stark, raving, put-a-fist-through-a-wall jealous because Dana Scully had gone to bed with another man. <"Another" man? That implies you thought -- > Yeah, yeah, he knew what that implied. No need to rub it in. He left the kitchen and resumed his pacing by the damaged phone, a reminder of what he had wrought through an act both selfish and altruistic. He briefly considered completing the act of violence Scully had begun, and throwing the phone through a window. --We fucked all night like lumberjacks!-- Jesus, that had hurt. She had been trying to wound him, surely, lashing out in the only way she knew how. And she had scored, puncturing the shields he had hurriedly put in place to steel himself for her revelation like a hot knife through butter. Hitting his heart with an archer's deadly accuracy. And he had completely shut down. His brain had blared warnings of imminent meltdown and, like a reflex, he had fallen back on the only thing readily available - an investigator's cool, objective interest. --Are you telling me Ed Jerse had trouble ejaculating?-- He had hit back. Hard. Mulder had always known they had an dangerous ability to bruise one another in ways that no other human being in their lives could manage. They tended to tread gingerly through hazardous territory, careful and not wanting to damage themselves or the other. Neither of them had pulled punches this time. The critical question was, could they recover from this one? Or would Mulder have to come to grips with the ending he had prepared himself for in the beginning, even as he'd hoped against it? Help save her, but leave her hating him forever. Mulder walked toward the bathroom door, stomach leaden and dropped somewhere down around his feet, slowing his pace to a crawl that was too fast, too fast, too fast because once he knocked on the door, he might have another awful revelation to contend with, and he didn't want the answer to this question, no, not this one. He paused just inches from the wood of the door, his breath sounding loud exhaling against it, straining for some sound from inside. An awful sound. More awful than her tears in the night. This was sobbing and a horrible, ripping retching. She was sick. She had made herself sick. *He* had made her sick. Oh god oh god oh god. He knocked, gently, trying not to let it sound as urgent and desperate as he felt. "Scully?" His voice was hoarse, clogged. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Scully, are you okay? Do you want me to come in?" "Go away, Mulder," came the shivery reply between gasps. "Please let me come in." He quietly tested the doorknob. Unlocked. No. Not unless things got truly desperate. He had to give her this, even if it killed him. "Scully?" "Go *away*." "I can't. Not until I know you're okay." "I'm fine." Her voice sounded a little stronger, if still choked with tears. He leaned his head against the cool wood for a moment, before trying again. "I don't think you are. *I'm* not." No reply. "Please. Just let me see that you're okay. Let me see." Damn this door. He couldn't see her. He couldn't see if he was reaching her, if she was okay. If she hated him. "Scully." His voice dropped to a whisper, but he knew somehow that she could hear him. He gulped hard, trying to force back his heart rearing up in his throat. "Please open the door. I'm scared." She opened the door. *************************************** He was scared. Here she was, bile still burning acid in the back of her throat, a headache pounding behind eyes blurry with tears, her self -esteem bruised and cowering somewhere inside her abdomen, threatening to come up with her coffee, wanting to just stay here on the cool, accepting linoleum floor and never move again, and yet ... that whispered plea on the other side of the door reached right into Scully's soul and screamed for her to act. Fuck that, Scully thought bitterly. I can't be what he needs all the time. Sometimes Mulder will just have to come in second to what I need. Oh *yeah*. Scully was honest enough to admit that, oh yes indeed, the thought of Mulder agonized and angst-ridden was fiendishly delicious, appeasing the demon in her gut who was outraged and hurt and embarrassed and demanding misery that might outweigh her own. But it was not in her nature to cater to that temptation, no matter how appealing, and there was the larger, more noble part of Scully who could not abide by suffering. Not for anyone. Not Mulder. Especially not Mulder, who she knew writhed on his own hook often enough. And she had been so viciously cruel out there - and it had been so surprisingly effortless. It appalled her that she could have turned on him, goaded or not, and thrown such ugliness in his face without trying to soften the blow. She had, in fact, wanted it to bludgeon him. She had aimed vitriol at an unarmed man. One she had sworn never to hurt. And he was *frightened*. Not angry, not indignant or hurt - frightened. For her. Scully rose on shaky legs and moved to the bathroom door, watching her hand tremble as if it belonged to someone else when she reached for the knob and twisted it. Found herself facing the wrinkled gray cotton of his T-shirt, and told herself to look up -very quickly, just to be able to say she had made eye contact. Her gaze stayed on his face, arrested. He was so pale, his eyes wide and dark, mouth caught in a grimace of apprehension and held in place by teeth worrying his lower lip. She felt blood fill the crack in her heart, threaten to spill over into tears. They really were a sorry pair. "I'm okay," she murmured, holding his look long enough to see in his eyes that he heard her, really heard her, before turning away again, unable to maintain the contact, moving to the bathroom sink. "I need to brush my teeth," she muttered over her shoulder. He didn't say anything, but she felt him standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame as she attacked her teeth with the same fury she'd unleashed on him earlier, punishing them until the physician in her shouted for her to cease and desist at once. Bleeding gums were not going to solve anything. She rinsed off the brush, filled a Dixie cup with water, rinsed, spat, rinsed again. Used a hand towel to wipe her lips. Every movement was economical and deliberate, as if her very sanity rested upon doing it correctly. Unwilling to face him yet, she found herself staring in the mirror, mentally cataloging every feature, the tightness around her eyes, the anxious furrows in the once smooth skin of her forehead, the pinched lines at the corners of her mouth. She could not look away. She felt as if she were watching her own destruction unfold in the reflection in the mirror. Mulder appeared behind her there, in the glass, and it was a little easier to meet his eyes when they weren't really his. She watched his double lift tentative fingers and run them over the crown of her head, just tickling her hair, and her eyes fluttered shut, unable to bear witness to his gentleness. "Will you come back out, Scully? To talk?" Against the darkness of her eyelids, she saw a thousand different scenarios play out as they entered that living room and ventured into unfamiliar territory, but there were only two endings. One was too awful to imagine and one ... one was too much to hope for. Dad's voice, warm and gruff the way he made it when he was teasing her and each word meant "I love you," a phrase rarely spoken but an emotion always felt between them. When did Dad get metaphorical? Scully forced her eyes open and found Mulder's again in the mirror, regarding her soberly, hand hovering somewhere near her shoulder, seemingly undecided as to whether or not it should land. She tilted her head toward the door. "Let's talk," she replied. He offered a hand, and she took it quickly, giving it a squeeze of appreciation before releasing him. She was not ready for contact, not yet. Nodding his understanding, he led the way back to the living room but stopped in front of the couch. He looked lost. "Did you want a glass of water or anything, Scully?" "Procrastinating, Mulder?" Gotcha. The look on his face said everything. So she wasn't the only one afraid of starting this conversation. Relenting, she offered a smile and a reprieve. "Thanks, yes, I would." He disappeared into the kitchen and Scully hurried to map a strategy: sit in the armchair. It was neutral. At best, Mulder would only be able to manage a place at the nearest end of the couch, with feet still between them. No margin for accidental touches or closeness that might spark emotions best left untapped. For this, she must try to be as calmly, rationally objective as possible. Honest, yes, but calm. There was too much pain between them. Neutral corners was the better idea, she decided, sitting quickly in the chair. Mulder returned, and if he was disappointed by her placement choice, it was only a brief flicker in his eyes. He surprised her, opting for a seat in the middle of the couch - not far, but not close either. What this meant she wasn't sure, nor could she decide if it made her more comfortable, or less. Folding her legs akimbo, she stared down at her fingers, restlessly picking at a hangnail, and felt their silence slowly settle over them like a pall. Finally, she took a deep breath and looked directly into his eyes, not surprised to find him watching her. "Mulder, I'm sorry," she said in careful, precise syllables. "I behaved abominably. You didn't deserve that and I'm sorry. I ... I was upset." Her lips twisted in a rueful smile. "Well, *obviously* I was upset. It doesn't excuse how I behaved. I'm sorry." "I'm sorry I had to upset you," he said softly. "It - I didn't like doing it." "But you had a reason." "Yes, I believe I did." Scully hummed a noncommittal reply and looked away, gazing at the painting on the wall but really only seeing the swirls of colors and paint daubs individually, the total image disjointed. Is this what it had all led up to - a two-minute conversation where they apologized for delivery but not content? The subject matter unredeemed, but all sorts of contrition for bringing it up in the first place? Fuck that, too. "Why did you need to know I slept with Ed Jerse, Mulder?" Her voice surprised even her, because she had not known she could utter a phrase like that with such calm objectivity. Hell, up until an hour ago, she wouldn't even speak of it with herself. His voice, floating over her shoulder, turned as she was away from him, was equally quiet. "I told you before. Sexual behavior can tell a lot about a man with Ed's history -" Her head swiveled so quickly to face him she felt vertebra pop, pinning him to the couch with her stare and incinerating the last of his sentence with the blue laser of her eyes. "Don't do that," she said coolly. "Don't make this about a case. This was never 'a case'. Not now and not in Philadelphia." "What do you think this is about?" He scooted forward on the couch and unscrewed the cap from the bottle of water, refusing eye contact. "You tell me." Why did she suddenly have the strangest feeling they were playing Battleship, and neither of them wanted to reveal the position of their final freighters? Mulder's words, just before she left for Philadelphia. Oh, ha ha. Rich irony there. "I asked first." Water splashed into glasses, even that noise made brittle and unreal by the tension of the room. "Jesus, Mulder, now you're the one acting like a six year old," she snapped, and he did not respond. He simply leaned forward with a glass offered in his hand, eyes down, waiting for her to take it. She didn't. Not until he finally looked up at her to see what was stopping her. Then her fingers curled around the cup, around his hand, holding him there. "You're the one who wanted to talk, Mulder. So *talk* to me. I gave you an answer. Ante up." Gambler talk. Ahab would be so proud. He cleared his throat nervously and nodded, easing his hand free of hers and leaning back onto the couch, nearer to her now in this seat. Yes, she decided. That was better. She had never become very good at having Mulder far away, even when it was what she wanted. A certain town in Maine was just one case in point. Bad things just seemed to happen the further away he was. She might as well keep him close if she could. "It is true, Scully. I did need to know from a profiling point of view. But, *but* --" he stressed, when she was opening her mouth to protest "-that wasn't my only motive. You're right." She nodded and took a careful sip from the glass. See? I'm comfortable enough to relax and drink my water. No danger here. Keep going. "What I said to you before is true, also. He was using it as a weapon and you were clubbing yourself with it. There was part of me that ... that just wanted for you to stop hiding it. For your own sake. You were acting as if you were somehow contaminated by it." She flinched and then arched a sardonic brow. "I slept with a psychopath who later tried to kill me. Tell me I shouldn't feel a little tainted." He shook his head, stared at her in disbelief. "Shit, Scully, did he give you his resume? `Hi, my name is Ed, and I'm a sexually deviant sociopath who is later going to get very Oedipal, basically recreate dear ol' Mom in my mind only with red hair, and try to kill you, but hey, wanna go have drinks anyway?'" Scully felt a surprised, tired chuckle work its way up from her soul and shook her head ruefully at him. "I should probably be very offended by how glibly you just put that, but ..." "But the ridiculousness of the concept struck you and you changed your mind?" he finished with gentle humor. He forced her to hold his gaze. "You didn't know what was going to happen, Scully. Why do you insist on acting as if you did?" "I knew better," she said softly. "I am a federal agent and a forensic pathologist who has seen firsthand what can happen to people who are 'picked up' by strangers, who go alone to their houses and dark alleys. I knew better." Mulder nodded. "Yeah, you probably did. But we all do things we know better than to do. And nine times out of ten, it turns out fine, at least passably so. What reason did you have to believe this would be different? I know Ed's type, Scully, and you would never have seen him coming. Trust me on that." She made a noise low in her throat, something between a sob and a laugh, and he continued urgently, "Even if you had known what was going to happen, even if Jerse had given you his agenda up front, it doesn't excuse what he did. It doesn't give him the right to do it. And it doesn't say anything about who you are. You know that. You *know* that." She nodded and quickly tilted her head to the ceiling, eyes burning hot with sudden tears. She sighed. "Yes, I know that. Knowing it is easy. Feeling it is ... more of a challenge." She pinched the bridge of her nose and then looked at him again. "You know, I forget sometimes that you have a psychology degree. It always takes me by surprise." "Why's that?" "Because most of the time, I'm the one trying to keep *you* tethered to reality." He laughed, genuinely laughed, and they both took advantage of the respite to relax slightly in their seats, to sip at their water and luxuriate in the common ground they had found. Scully found herself staring at the painting on the wall again, and the texture seemed a little richer, the colors a little brighter. Power of perception. She'd never noticed how finely detailed it was. "What did you mean before, Scully? When you said this wasn't about a case, not in Philadelphia. What did that mean?" Trust Mulder to blow a moment right out of the water. He was zeroing in on her only remaining piece, and she felt she'd hardly made a dent on his side of the board. She shifted in her seat, glanced over at him and then let her gaze quickly skip across the room and over to the window far away. She sighed. "I meant that Philadelphia was not about Russian secret bases and aliens, or Russian mafiosi and extortion. It was about our relationship. Philadelphia is about us, then and now." "Us?" You're not going to make this easy, are you, Mulder? Why is that? Why do you do everything you can to wriggle your way into my heart, then run for cover the moment we try to talk seriously about your place there? Right. "Us, Mulder. What we are together, how we work together, how we see one another. How you see me." "How do you think I see you?" "Could you not answer every statement with a question?" she replied tiredly. He grimaced and shrugged. "I'm sorry, Scully, I'm just trying to understand. I need to know, how do you think I see you?" She was silent, weighing her words carefully. "That's not an easy question to answer. A lot has changed over five years - a lot has changed since Philadelphia. But at the time ... at the time, I didn't feel like you saw me as your partner, or your friend. I felt like a sidekick - not even Watson to your Sherlock. Just there to do your scut work and tag along behind your theories, your beliefs, your quest." He said nothing, and when she braved a glance at him, he looked shell shocked. "You have an immense capacity for self-absorption, Mulder. For not being aware of what others around you want - not because you're a bad person, or even selfish. Not that at all. You are just so driven, so intensely passionate about whatever you do, that those of us in the periphery can get blurry for you. Usually, I'm used to it. I even find it a little bit charming, in an absent-minded professor sort of way. "At the time, though, I was tired. You seemed to fail to realize that your quest and mine had intertwined a long time ago. That what we wanted was the same - answers, and yes, personal vengeance. And ... I felt as if you had stopped seeing me at all. That is how I thought you saw me - non-existant." She braved another peek at him, and her stomach did a slow, nauseating flip. He was utterly silent, but two tears tracked their way down his cheeks. Oh God. "You thought that, Scully?" he said hoarsely. "You thought I didn't *see* you?" "Oh, Mulder," she breathed, and before she knew what she was doing, she had slid out of her chair, discarding her cup on the coffee table and crouching in front of him. She laid one hand against a denim-clad knee and patted softly. "I'm not saying this to hurt you -" "Don't," he choked. "Don't. You're right. I was an asshole-" "Mulder, stop-" "I *was*, Scully. I see that now. I can look back on that conversation before you left for Philadelphia, and I can see what you were trying to tell me, and I didn't hear you. I didn't hear you, dammit." He looked up, into her eyes, and grabbed quickly for her hand, squeezing it so fiercely that she felt the bones in her fingers rub together. She didn't wince. "But I didn't mean it. Not like that. Really. I know I take you for granted sometimes, it seems like I do, I know how it must look -" "It's -" "But it's only because you're the first person in my life I can count on, that I know I can count on. That I can trust to be there. And I shouldn't count on that, not really, it's like I'm taking you for granted, it's not fair to you -" "Stop." She took her free hand and used it to cover his lips with gentle fingers. "Stop. You can count on me. Always. I want you to. The way I count on you, *trust* you to be there for me when the chips are down and it really matters. You have always done that. That's not what this is about." He moved his head back slightly, just so he could form the words without them being muffled by her hand, and she dropped her fingers to his arm, reassuring him, encouraging him to speak. "You are never in my periphery, Scully. *Never*. I see you all the time, even when it seems like I don't ... I. See. You." "I know that now," she whispered, and she felt a traitorous tear run unchecked down her cheek. "I see you," he repeated adamantly. "Hell, Scully, anymore, you're all I see." She drew a sharp breath at that and he squeezed her hand again, reflexively. "I can't remember the last time I planned a day, made a significant decision, or formulated a theory where I didn't consider you in the process. Even when I do the opposite of what you want. I still think about you." He managed a slightly wobbly smile and she returned it shakily. "I suppose I should be flattered," she said softly, the smile still lingering at the corners of her lips. "Didn't you know, Scully? I can be pretty focused on something - or someone. Maybe you ought to be nervous." There was something in that ... not a warning, but a plea. Unless she was deeply delusional, they weren't just talking about recognizing one another as friends and partners anymore. She took a deep breath. "I'm a little nervous," she admitted. He tugged at her hand and she acquiesced, rising to take a seat beside him on the couch, hands still joined. This was better. This was definitely very good. There was hope here. A possibility that they might both come out of this intact. Maybe better than ever. She felt something snap and unravel from around her heart, making her feel almost buoyant. Free. More so than she had felt for a long time. "Mulder, I slept with Ed Jerse because I needed to feel needed, I needed to feel *wanted*. I -- I just needed to feel alive. He was there and he was paying attention. And yes, there was a very ugly little part of me that almost hoped you'd find out." She felt him tense beside her and she winced, squeezing his hand. "I'm sorry for that. I'm not always the noble person I would like to be, or that you think I am. At the time, I was not happy with my life, and I was not happy with myself. Part of me just wanted to rebel, against you and this role I thought you'd placed me in, and maybe you would notice me, once and for all. I ... it wasn't very mature of me, or very smart, or for that matter, very attractive. And I'm sorry. You deserve better than that from a partner, or a friend, or..." Why couldn't she finish that sentence? Mulder was silent for so long that she thought for a sickening moment that she had undone all the good accomplished between them. Then he cleared his throat, and in a low, almost embarrassed tone, he said, "I was jealous as hell, Scully. Part of me still is." Oh my. She exhaled slowly, wondering if she'd been holding her breath for a lifetime - or at least five years. She looked at him, but found his face in profile, staring at their clasped hands. "Please don't be," she murmured. "It was ... it didn't mean ..." It was just sex? Would that sound awful? Maybe, but it was the truth. It had been a search for physical release ... a temporary escape from a life she hadn't wanted at the time. He nodded, squeezed her hand, but didn't look up at her. He seemed to be preparing himself for something. And then he spoke, and it wasn't what she'd expected, not at all. "As long as we're confessing here, Scully, you should know ... while you were missing, when they took you ..." His voice trembled on those last words, and she scooted closer. "I was on a case, I was watching someone who was suspected of vampiric activities." Vampires. Why was she not surprised? "And ... I slept with her." "Oh," was all Scully could manage on a whistling expulsion of breath. He seemed to sink lower into the couch cushions, shrinking into himself, but she did not let go of his hand. Would not. "Part of it was just sex," he said simply, and had the circumstances been different, she might have smiled. Thinking in tandem again, that's what they were doing. Just sex. He might have understood it after all, had she said it. Then he continued, almost conversationally, "And part of me wanted to die, and I rather hoped she might finish the job." Scully gasped, surprised despite herself. She knew, from what Melissa and her mother had revealed, what her disappearance had done to Fox Mulder. But to hear that he had come so close to wanting to die, to acting on it ... she felt sick. Jealous, too, yes a little, but there would be time for that later. Because suddenly she understood something fundamental about Philadelphia, something she'd suspected but never admitted to anyone, including herself. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Don't," she replied firmly. "Don't be sorry. It's all right. I understand -" "But -" "I understand. I really do." She reached up and pressed her fingers against his jaw, forcing him to look at her. "I understand. There's one more thing I haven't told you about Philadelphia." She watched his eyes flicker, and she saw wariness there. Afraid of what else might be revealed. She bit her lip in sympathy. "Before that case, the Leonard Betts case. Remember?" "It's hard to forget laminating a man's head after digging through surgical waste for it, Agent Scully," he said with an attempt at humor that only fell slightly flat. He was trying. "When I caught up with Betts, when I found him at the hospital, with the ambulance -" "When he attacked you," Mulder said flatly and she saw the pain there. Blame, blame, blame ... he really could pile it on himself. "Before he attacked me, he said something to me, something that was so fantastic and yet I knew - I *knew* -- it was true." He frowned. "He said, 'You have something I need.'" This time it was Mulder's turn to gasp. She nodded, swallowed around the lump in her throat, and continued, "That night I had a nosebleed." "Oh, Scully," Mulder choked out as understanding dawned fully. "I didn't want to believe ... but I knew it was true. Like I said, I just knew. And I couldn't even feel angry or upset about it. I was just in denial, I suppose. And I went to Philadelphia, and maybe, just maybe, part of me wanted to die in Philadelphia." She shrugged. "It was foolish, but there you go. I came home and I went to the hospital for tests and my prognosis was official. I was dying. I didn't need a one-night stand to kill me. Those bastards had done it themselves." Mulder stared at her, shock and God knew what else swirling in those hazel eyes of his, and then, before she could even suspect it, he was yanking her forward and crushing her in a hug that threatened to bruise ribs - and it felt *wonderful*. He buried his face in her neck, and she felt his tears damp and hot against her cheek. He was rocking her or she was rocking him, she didn't know which. "But you're okay. You're okay," he muttered fiercely. "I'm okay," she whispered. She reared back a little, to look at him. "I'm okay. *We're* okay. Right?" "We're okay." The words were strangled, but fervently given. They curled back into one another, letting their tears speak for them for a while, when suddenly Scully started to laugh against his shoulder, laughter punctuated by a sudden onslaught of sobbing hiccups, which started Mulder chuckling.. "What?" he managed finally. "What's so funny?" "We really have to start communicating with one another when we're *not* in a life-or-death situation, Mulder," she chuckled. "It's got to be easier." She felt his chest shake with silent laughter and she grinned against his shoulder. "Haven't you figured it out yet, Scully? We're not easy. Never have been. Never will be. But easy is overrated, don't you think?" "Definitely," she agreed promptly. "We need a challenge." "I'm game if you are," he said in a suddenly sober tone, muffled but audible against her neck. She smiled softly and held on tight. ******************************************** "Wow, Scully, I think I've got an X file for us." Mulder's voice held that "I'm on the verge of a punch line" note that she knew, without looking up from the table, would be accompanied by slightly raised brows and a hint of a smile ruining his attempt at a deadpan delivery. She heard the muffled beep as he turned off his cell phone. "Really?" she murmured, dutifully setting the ball for his spike. She could see him out of the corner of his eye, bouncing ever so slightly on the balls of his feet like a 10-year-old on a Pepsi high. He didn't respond, and she lifted her eyes from the page she was studying. He wanted her to look at him, to watch him perform this little one-act play he had already scripted in his mind. A 10-year-old on sugar, she mused with a smile. Definitely. It was a nice change of pace from tortured and dour. For both of them. "Somehow, mysterious forces have combined to accomplish the impossible, the abstruse, perhaps the scientifically inexplicable." Mulder cast a furtive, cautious glance around, then leaned forward over her chair until his face was inches from hers, his voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. "Against all known laws of nature or God, the telephone company has promised to send a repair technician here in the next two hours." A smile twitched at the corners of her mouth, despite her intent, and he grinned, rewarded. "I don't suppose your FBI credentials and the admittedly creative yet utterly bogus threat of an IRS audit had anything to do with convincing the customer service rep?" she mused. "You mean it wasn't my irresistible charm?" "Is that what they're calling it these days?" she parried, and pushed out the chair opposite her with her toes, an invitation for him to join her at the table and, more importantly, sit still. His boundless energy was making her tired even as it amused her. Something fundamental had changed since their exquisite, painful conversation on the couch that morning. They were together, really working together, and even though this case was a tangled snake's nest of bad memories, sensitive issues and horrible acts, they were handling it as a team. Together. That was definitely an improvement. They were managing to sit down and work this case like a *case *; if there was tension about the personal nature of the subject matter -- and there certainly was -- they were somehow keeping it under control. The lines of communication had improved between them, if her telephone line had not. Perhaps there was a metaphor in that. After Jerse's ass was in prison where it belonged, she might let herself ponder it. Until then, she had a job to do. "See anything?" Mulder asked, seeming to read her thoughts, sliding into the proffered seat and nodding toward the file in front of her. Jerse's medical history, from birth to his escape from the institution weeks before. She glanced down at it, though she'd already memorized enough of the horror inside of it to fuel a month of nightmares. "I agree with your assessment on his childhood. He is almost certainly a victim of long-term child abuse." She thumbed through a small rain forest of paper. "It's appalling that a family practitioner didn't connect the dots. Contusions, sprains, burns...three broken bones in a year?" She shook her head. "And with regard to the mother, there's definitely something going on there. Significant evidence of abuse prior to his birth, nothing afterward. So you really think that the mother used him as a ... a shield?" Mulder grimaced. "Yeah, I really do." "Nice," she muttered disgustedly, dropping her eyes to the file again. "Gives Joan Crawford a run for her money." "She's still alive, as you can see." Mulder pulled another file from the stack and slid it across the table to her. "The father died four years ago, but Mommy Dearest is still alive and living a life of quiet, unbruised retirement in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania." He hesitated and then ventured, "Want to pay her a visit, see if Jerse sent any postcards from the edge?" Scully's head snapped up, surprise written on her features. "Mulder, we can't do that. We are not officially assigned to this case - myself for rather obvious reasons, and you because of the equally obvious conflict of interest. Skinner would not be amused." "Didn't I tell you, Scully? Skinner's developed a handy muscle spasm in his neck - he keeps looking the other way on this case where we're concerned. We work it the best way we know how, follow up whatever leads we find, and then make it official for the paper chasers by sending in a separate team to do it again for the books." Her expression was dubious. "Even if I thought it was a good idea - and I'm nowhere near convinced of that, Skinner's 'chiropractic needs' aside - I think my showing up on Mrs. Jerse's doorstep would be a serious impediment to productivity. If she's had any contact with her son since his arrest, followed his case even marginally, she's going to know my name. She might even know * yours*, Mulder, if she's been sufficiently motivated." The thought had been nagging Scully more and more over the past few days, never more so than after this morning's telephone conversation with Ed, where he'd mentioned Mulder by name. Insinuated something dangerous by his tone and by what he had not said, by what she'd not let him say. Did Ed see Mulder as a factor in this diseased equation of his? Had she given him any reason to believe Mulder was important to her, the way Bill so obviously was? The absurdity of the thought struck her. Mulder was her partner. The relationship between partners in law enforcement was legendary, in terms of camaraderie and allegiance. Ed would assume they were close, regardless of what she might have said or not said in that regard. Regardless of whether it was true, or a woefully inadequate description of their relationship. And here Mulder was, at her home, encamped here for days, evidently somehow under Ed's watchful eye, though patrols and surveillance had produced nothing useful as to * how* he was accomplishing this. Had Ed perceived Mulder as a threat? There was only one way to know, and she'd annihilated that opportunity - at least for a while, she thought, throwing a baleful glance at the damaged phone jack in the far wall. Scully lifted a hand to rub the tension from her neck, and when she brought her gaze back around, Mulder was watching her. "What did you tell them?" she asked suddenly. "Hmm?" Mulder had apparently missed the connection on her train of thought. "The phone rep. The tech guys at the Bureau. John Wayne out in the hall, for that matter." She jerked her head slightly toward the door. "What did you tell them happened to the phones?" "Oh. I, uh, told them you tripped over the phone cord." "Tripped?" she repeated. "I tripped? In two different rooms, with two different phones? And they were supposed to buy this because...?" "I told them you were drunk." And if she hadn't been watching him carefully, she would have missed the little grin of perverse pleasure that barely twisted his lips. His delivery had been so smooth. "You -" she began, and then stopped, giving him a half-hearted glare. "You did not." "Well, sure, I had to come up with something," he protested. "Spur of the moment, short notice. I decided to go with inebriation. It seemed plausible. You've been cooped up in here with me, which would drive anyone to drink." "You have a point." She leaned back in her chair, settling her shoulders against the backrest and giving him an arch smile. "So," she said slowly, drawing out the syllable, "Were you drunk, too, during this little escapade of mine?" "Why, Agent Scully, of course not," he gasped in dramatic surprise. "I was busy trying to keep you from dancing on the table with a lampshade on your head. I am nothing if not a responsible and nurturing partner." "Now I *know* you're making this up," she retorted, and he chuckled. She felt more of the tension drain from her neck. They were going to be all right. She felt a little knot of dread tighten in her stomach. They had to be. Suppressing a shudder, she pulled the file closer and leafed through it until she found what she was looking for. "So do you agree with the psychiatrist's assessment? That he's schizophrenic?" Mulder's lips curled in a grimace - obviously, his opinion of Jerse's doctor had not changed from that first phone conversation. "Let's just say I don't think Dr. Paulding did the schizophrenia advocacy and education groups any favors with his diagnosis." She cocked her head to the side, lips pursed, an unspoken cue to continue, and he sighed. "Look, I don't have all of the transcripts of Jerse's therapy sessions with Paulding -" She cleared her throat, incredulity clearly written on her face, and he shrugged. "The boys are good, but they're not perfect - though if you tell them I said that, I will deny it. Apparently, Dr. Paulding didn't love his computer the way any red-blooded American should. He kept some of his notes hand-written and tucked away in his journal." "And Frohike didn't manage to get his hands on those?" "Oh, I'm sure he tried, Scully, if only for the faint hope that you might one day learn of his persistence and feel the need to demonstrate your gratitude." He grinned at her and she pursed her lips, daring him to continue. "Your analysis of the suspect, Agent Mulder, based on the available information. If you please," she requested gently. "I don't think he's schizophrenic," he replied instantly, telling her that he'd come to this conclusion a long time ago and had only been waiting for the right time to mention it. "Or, if he is, it's not the primary factor here. Despite the myths, schizophrenics are no more likely to be violent than the rest of the population. Blaming his violent behavior on that diagnosis is sloppy at best and ethically unconscionable at worst. For that matter, schizophrenia is not caused by bad parenting or an abusive childhood, but that's *definitely* where his violence is coming from, in my opinion. He's also notably out of the age bracket for schizophrenia onset, particularly for males, although that's not something I'd necessarily hang my hat on, either." "The indication of auditory hallucinations?" "A definite symptom of paranoid schizophrenia, but not limited solely to that diagnosis. Certain drugs might cause the same effect, for instance. Remember, at one point, you thought it was ergot poisoning." "But it wasn't," she said, tapping the file with two fingers. "And there's no evidence from his medical records prior to Philadelphia, or during his hospital stay there, of drug use that would cause the type of symptoms you're describing." "True enough. But my point is, there's no concrete evidence of schizophrenia, and a lot of symptoms suggesting it isn't." "What do you think it is?" "I've considered reactive attachment disorder," he answered calmly, reaching forward and ruffling the edge of the papers with his fingers, a frown creasing his forehead in tiny furrows. Scully mulled that one over. Reactive attachment disorder, or RAD...she'd read about it, only in the most recent medical journals, as the disorder was only just achieving awareness at a national and international level. Children and adults with RAD lacked the ability to develop secure attachments to loving caregivers due to domestic abuse, poverty or even malnutrition in infancy, which could create biological malformations in the brain. The disorder often manifested in aggression or at least antisocial behavior in children and adults. "From his childhood abuse," she murmured thoughtfully, chewing on her lip. He nodded. "Children with RAD are manipulative, usually toward adults, and if my theory is correct, Ed was manipulating his parents as much as they were using him. He would have had to, somehow, just to survive. Most are underachievers...Jerse scored well on tests, but his academic record is mediocre at best. They're superficially charming, they use 'cute' to get their own way. They have difficulty with eye contact, they're antisocial. Extremely low self-esteem, an inability to maintain intimate relationships." Scully lifted one shoulder in a shrug of tentative agreement, but then shook her head. "But aren't children with attachment disorder typically aggressive and violent? Would that just appear out of nowhere in adulthood? Because there's no indication of violent behavior in his school records or a criminal record." Mulder gave a shrug of his own, then stretched his hand slightly further until it brushed her fingertips. She didn't move her hand and he left it there. "Scully, I'm not convinced there isn't a history of violent behavior from his childhood. It's just not on paper...not directly linked to Jerse, anyway." She inhaled sharply through her nose, though her face remained passive. "What are you saying, Mulder?" "I'm saying that I'm still looking into it, I have Byers pulling some records for me, but I wouldn't be surprised if there was a rash of unsolved animal mutilations in his neighborhood growing up...or worse. Things that were never connected to him at all." "Oh God," she whispered, imagining the horrors Mulder might find because he, of all people, knew where to look. And how to look. "I'm not saying it *is * reactive attachment disorder," he said gently, as if this might be a comfort somehow, and giving her fingers a squeeze. "There are a few things that don't necessarily jibe. But to me it makes a lot more sense than schizophrenia. And that helps focus our efforts." "The auditory hallucinations." She needed to go back to that. Jerse was so focused on that tattoo, on what he imagined it was telling him. She had watched him willingly shove his arm into an incinerator because of his conviction. If she could nail it down, she felt like they might just be getting somewhere with this. "I don't remember reading anything about RAD being linked to hearing voices." "It isn't," he agreed almost glibly. His gaze found hers, held it, sober and weighty. "I don't think they're hallucinations at all." "What?" She frowned at him, and her fingers slipped from underneath his. "Mulder, you've believed in some impossible things, even for you, but do you actually think Ed Jerse has a tattoo that talks?" "What I *believe*," Mulder stressed carefully, "is that the tattoo is a physical manifestation of his psychosis -- that, in essence, the 'voice' supposedly coming from this tattoo is actually Ed talking to Ed. His subconscious, if you will. Maybe not even as deep as that. But he's disassociating himself from what he really wants to do, his need for violence. The tattoo is his way of rationalizing it." "Like a multiple personality disorder? Disassociative disorder?" This she could wrap her mind around. He frowned, and when he took her hands again, his fingers felt cold against hers. "Scully, what Ed has or...is...might not have a name. Have you considered the possibility that Ed Jerse is simply a sociopath who takes what he wants without compunction? That he is a monster and nothing in his past, present or future can explain it or fix it?" "I've considered it," she said softly, after a moment's pause, staring at their joined hands. "It's the least appealing option here, Mulder." She lifted her gaze to his. "For both of us." "For both of us," he agreed. ************************************** "Now therefore cursed shalt thou be upon the earth, which hath opened her mouth and received the blood of thy brother at thy hand." Unbidden, the scripture broke free from the deeper recesses of Scully's brain, where she tended to store such things, and blazed itself black and accusing across her mind's eye. It seemed a lifetime ago since she'd first heard the story of Cain and Abel in religion class, where Sister Francis had described -- in relishing tones unsuitable for either topic or audience, now that Scully considered it -- of Cain's jealousy and pride, and how he had slain his own brother. She remembered the childish awe she'd felt at the story, that someone could be so driven by rage or envy, especially toward one's sibling, that he could or would kill. With the alacrity of a child, she had boiled it down to its simplest denominator, tuning out the rest of Sister Francis' warnings to avoid "the way of Cain" (pride, avarice, repent ye sinners): Bill picks on me all the time, but I wouldn't kill him over it. Just pick on him *back*. After church, she'd sat down with her mother and very solemnly explained that she'd heard all about Cain and Abel, and even though it was in the Bible, she didn't think killing your brother was a very good idea, in the scheme of things, so she wasn't going to. Even if Bill was a big bully sometimes. Mrs. Scully had somberly agreed that this seemed a wise and reasonable course of action, and if she had been amused by the ultra-serious gaze of her blue-eyed six-year-old - an expression she would come to know well through the years - she kept the smile hidden. Scully took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to calm a stomach suddenly burning with guilt. If only Mom had known. The devastating truth was that Scully knew she truly had let pride and jealousy murder her elder brother. In wanting to prove something to herself, to Mulder, or to the god who had given her cancer, she had acted without reason or rationality in Philadelphia ... and the cost for that night, so many months and months past, was the presumed death and indisputable mutilation of Bill Scully Jr., whereabouts unknown. "And the Lord said unto Cain, Where is thy brother Abel? And he answered: I know not: Am I my brother's keeper?" Scully pushed herself up from the couch with an aggravated sigh, looking around the empty living room and suddenly wishing that Mulder were here to distract her or even find a way to help her rationalize her guilt. But he had left a while ago, off to fetch a fresh overnight bag from his apartment and feed the few fish in his aquarium too stubborn or bored to die, promising to bring back something greasy and utterly lacking in nutritional value for dinner. Newly worried about the potential threat toward Mulder, she'd insisted an agent be assigned to accompany him on the trip, which had scored no points with his ego but several with Skinner, who had agreed it was the wisest course of action - after she'd called the A.D. from her cell phone in order to officially override Mulder's protests. Mulder had finally conceded the point with a minimum of pouting, and muttered something about "never getting in the way of Dana Scully on a mission." And now here she was, restless and frustrated, still without a phone line that might lure Ed close enough to snare and unable to read another document in a paper pile of atrocities done to him or by him. She found herself unwilling to do anything more than find yet more proof of her culpability in Bill's death. She was good at it, she'd give herself that. "And he said to him: What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother's blood crieth to me from the earth." What was that verse? It was somewhere in Genesis, that much she knew for sure. Chapter three...four, maybe. Scully found herself inordinately concerned that if she were going to bring Biblical wrath upon herself, she had better get the scripture right; she wondered idly if that was her Catholic upbringing showing. Or was this what grief ultimately became, an obsession with minutiae, with details so trivial that one drove oneself to madness trying to grasp it all? The night before, she'd paced relentlessly across the floor of her bedroom, suddenly unable to remember if Bill had preferred Trapper John or B.J. Hunnicut, and it had become absolutely crucial that she *must* remember, because to not remember would be proof that she hadn't loved her brother enough. She wasn't even sure what had brought it on, perhaps simply remembering their childhood, some silly fight over the television, but Bill - a M*A*S*H fan from way back -- had a definitive Hawkeye Pierce sidekick preference, and she could not for the life of her remember it. She'd never summoned the answer, and the guilt over losing this tiny piece of her brother's memory had finally driven her to her bed in tears, feeling like the worst sort of Judas. Like Cain. Scully lowered herself to the floor in front of her bookshelf, where the lowest shelf held a myriad of reference books, professional journals, and novels she meant to read but hadn't yet. Running one finger along the books' spines, she touched upon her Bible, the one she rarely pulled out anymore because it seemed that she had gotten used to the Gideon's version ... one in every hotel room in America, wasn't that right? Truth be told, she seemed most compelled to read scripture when she was on the road, on a case, when even science couldn't explain some of the things she'd seen, but perhaps faith might. And sometimes ... well, sometimes reading from the Bible helped with insomnia, quite frankly. She pulled the Bible out. It was dusty with neglect, but the soft, worn cover gave up its bounty willingly, falling open to where the faded blue ribbon marked her last visit. When had she last read this? After Emily's death, when she'd come home so heart-bruised she was literally numb, when that which she assumed she'd never have had been put in front of her, only to be taken away before she could even fully comprehend it. She had looked to God then, as she had looked to Him when the cancer made its last eager grab for her, hoping only to find something to make sense of it all. There were answers in the mysteries faith - she'd been raised on that unshakable tenet. Ecclesiastes, chapter three. "All things have their season, and their times all things pass under heaven. A time to be born, and a time to die ..." Her eyes skimmed over the familiar passage ... there had been something in it that had seared with its brutal truth ... "A time to get, and a time to lose." Ah, yes, there it was. The bitterness of that line, so soon after losing Emily, had forced her to close the book, to shove it on a low shelf where she kept her anger at God for what He had wrought, even when she could offer her faith and love to Him so sincerely. Was that faith? Loving Him even as you failed to understand Him and resented Him for it? No matter now. That wasn't why she had the book open - she had it open to prove her culpability. She did not doubt that God would come through for her on that. She thumbed quickly through the wafer-thin pages to Genesis, leafing through Adam and Eve's creation, their inevitable fall from grace, their flight from Eden. Aha...and Cain slew Abel. The world's first homicide, a gruesome beginning to a long history of the same. "And the Lord set a mark upon Cain, that whosoever found him should not kill him." The Old Testament God had been a vengeful one - certainly not the giver of light and love she'd been raised on. He had wanted Cain to live a long, long time with the guilt of what he had done, of what had been done to Abel. Forgive and forget was not one of the Old Testament God's favorite aphorisms. "The Lord set a mark upon Cain" ... The words blurred suddenly, and she lifted her head before the tears could fall on the fragile pages of the old book. Was this how she'd managed to survive despite a thousand potentially fatal twists of circumstance? She was here when Bill was not ... when Melissa and Emily were not. People who had done nothing but be close to her, be part of her. Was she eternally marked by God to carry on and bear the weight of it? Was that her punishment? Was this how Mulder felt about Samantha? Did the nightmares and recriminations press into his skin, imprint onto his brain, like the mark of Cain? Scully raised a hand that trembled slightly to pinch the bridge of her nose, holding bitter tears at bay. She flipped the Bible closed with a flick of her wrist and shoved it back into its place on the shelf, where it could reproach her between The AMA Journal and a neglected Patricia Cornwell novel. She found herself gazing blankly at the shelves before her, where the pedestrian gatherings of many years were stacked in fairly organized rows. Pictures and too many books to count, the occasional knickknack or odd souvenir she hadn't had the heart to discard but had banished to the recesses of the shelf. Even a few video cassettes, for those occasions when all she wanted was to hole up in her apartment with a blanket and a box of overly rich chocolates and get lost in someone's else world for a while. Not an unappealing option nowadays. Her lip curled in a smirk when she saw "Dead Alien: Truth or Humbug?" -- what had possessed her to hold onto that thing, God only knew, but Mulder, in an unprecedented pique of pride, had refused to allow it to share space in the office with "*real* video evidence." For that, she'd given him a rather pointed glance at the bottom drawer of his desk and a dryly delivered quip regarding Debbie's activities in Dallas being extraordinary but not paranormal. He'd actually blushed, not an everyday occurrence, to be sure, which had made it a victory on too many levels to count. Nonetheless, she couldn't bear to see the video tossed out, so she'd squired it away to the lower suburbs of her bookshelf where she might stumble across it occasionally and relive equal parts humiliation and amusement. It now shared its domain with a few black-and-white classics - Breakfast at Tiffany's and Casablanca among them - some Charlie Rose interviews she'd taped, a copy of The Thing that was so old it might disintegrate if she pressed play and ... Wait. Scully's spine straightened with the quiver of a bowstring released, her eyes scanning the shelves - back, forth, up, down - assuring herself that she wasn't seeing things. Or, more to the point, that she wasn't imagining what she wasn't seeing. Where was Superstars of the Super Bowls? With Ed, her mind supplied instantly, disgusting her with the immediate paranoia of the thought. Still ... it wasn't there. The empty slot it had occupied grinned at her in gap-toothed accusation. She scrambled to her feet, rifling through each of the shelves in turn, just in case she'd moved it and forgotten, her eyes lingering only a moment on the place where the burned photograph of her and Bill had been. A quick search of the living room, her bedroom, hell, even the kitchen, confirmed what she already knew to be true. The tape wasn't there. And she certainly hadn't loaned it out. Scully stopped in the middle of the living room, panting slightly from her hurried efforts, fingers beginning a nervous tap dance against her thigh. Mulder wouldn't have borrowed it, not without asking, anyway, and she couldn't think of a single reason why he'd be inclined to watch it. No one else had been in the apartment for a while ... invited, at least. She frowned. How long had it been missing? She couldn't be sure. When the police had come to collect the photograph and take her statement, she'd hadn't noticed it missing. But would she have? But why? Why would Ed take that videotape? It didn't fit. She stilled. -- It didn't fit. -- She scanned her living room again, this time with a stranger's eyes, paying special attention to the bookshelf. What would someone see in Dana Scully when he viewed its contents? The trinkets, the music, the books and pictures and videos ... as eclectic as they were, they painted a picture. A self-portrait of her personality and interests, if one were motivated to see it. There was no question of Ed Jerse's motivation. And Superstars of the Super Bowls. Didn't. Fit. He would have known it was a gift of some sort, she mused. If he thought he had Dana Scully figured out, he would have seen it wasn't to her taste Someone had given it to her. A man. That would not be an unreasonable assumption by most standards. And though it was obviously not her usual fare, there it had sat on her bookshelf with other things that were important enough to stay out rather than be tucked away into a closet. It had been a gift from a man. A meaningful gift. From a meaningful man. Shit. There was no way to know if Ed had assumed the gift was from Mulder and not, say, from one of her brothers, or an ex-boyfriend, or any other male significant in her life and therefore a threat to him. Yet Scully had the very sure, very disturbing feeling that Ed knew * exactly * who had given her the videotape. And that, while he might not have known its exact significance, he had certainly measured its import. Call it a hunch. Call it a flash of insight. But whatever it was, it was plowing through Scully's gut on a freight train of panic. Mulder was out there right now, and who knew if he would decide to ditch the agent assigned to him in order to make a quick stop at The Gunmen offices, see if they had anything new. He could be making his way through that neighborhood, a veritable blight against urban renewal, right now, alone and unaware that he was being watched. Followed. Hunted. You're being paranoid, she told herself. He knew better than to do that. He wouldn't risk The Gunmen with the possibility of a tail. And he wouldn't dare risk facing her later were she to find out about it.. Her cellular phone trilled from the dining room table and relief made its presence known with an almost dizzying rush of blood. Mulder. Checking in. Running late, per usual. Wanting to know if she'd finally give in and let him put anchovies on the takeout pizza. "Scully," she answered briskly, out of habit. A tumult of noise blared in her ear, the unintelligible babble and stirrings of a large crowd of people, and she pulled the phone slightly away from her ear, grimacing. The pizza place must be packed. "Mulder, no anchovies. No pineapple. Just pepperoni and mushrooms. Something within the realm of plausibility, please." No answer for a moment, then "Maybe if Mulder actually calls, Dana, you can tell him that," Ed said conversationally. "In the meantime, I was wondering ... What are you wearing?" ********************************* Author's Note: At this point in the story, it is high past time for me to tip my proverbial hat - or perhaps I should bow down in abject homage - to my editors, Jill and Lisa. Without their sharp eyes, their humor and wit, their suggestions, navigation of plot holes, and, most importantly, their support (a little thing we like to call "hand-holding"), this story wouldn't be happening at all, folks. This chapter is especially dedicated to Lisa, for coming up with the Superstars of the Super Bowls suggestion. Brilliant, lud. Simply brilliant. ******************** NotMulder. Pleasegodnotmulder. Not. Mulder. The litany, running first at hyperspeed and then impossibly slow, thundered in Scully's ears. She tried to speak, found her tongue had somehow lodged itself against the roof of her mouth, trapped there by clenched teeth, and managed only a click from deep down in her throat. She swallowed hard, forced her jaw to release, then tried again. "Where is Mulder, Ed?" It seemed very important that she speak as slowly and as precisely as possible. Or maybe it was that she felt incapable of speaking any faster, as if she were walking through molasses, filling her ears and eyes and mouth, making it impossible to do anything but suffocate. "Dana," he replied, a little chuckle drawing out the syllables. He sounded so ... relaxed. "You ask that as if you expect me to have the answer." "Where. Is. Mulder?" "I repeat, why would you expect me to know?" He was getting *off* on this. She could tell, did not need Mulder to tell her as much. Mulder. Dammit. No time to play these games. No time. Mulder might have *no time*. Think. Think. Think, dammit. Be rationale. "How else would you get this number? You have Mulder's cell phone, don't you?" "There are other ways to get a number, Dana. You're an FBI agent, you know cellular phone broadcasts are not ... secure. That is the official term, right? 'Secure'?" "You traced my cellular phone?" "You sound surprised," Ed rejoined conversationally, almost scolding. "Didn't think I was smart enough to do it?" "You've never shown any real technological proficiency, Ed," she said numbly, thinking aloud , and he laughed again. "Dana, I'm flattered. You've been reading up on me, I take it. Studying me. Better late than never, I suppose. Maybe you should have gotten to know me before you fucked me, but I'm old-fashioned like that." Fury reared up from her gut in a cleansing white flash, and it was good, because it was burning away that sickly-sweet slowness, and now she could think. Speak. Lightning fast if need be. She could do this. She was smarter than him, dammit, and she had much more at stake. Mulder. "Ed, I'm going to ask you just one more time. Where is Mulder?" "Hmmm, that's interesting. That's very telling," he replied, sounding bemused. "You've stopped asking about your brother altogether. You seem more interested in Mulder now. Your ... partner? Funny, you weren't all that interested in him in Philadelphia, were you? You seemed to be more interested in -" "We can talk about Philadelphia some other time, Ed," Scully interrupted icily, trying to reassert that control that Mulder had insisted was so important. "In the meantime, get to the point. What do you want?" "Maybe I *want* to talk about Philadelphia," he retorted, and now there was tension in his voice, a petulant, little-boy tone that hadn't been there before. Scully couldn't decide if that was good or bad, didn't have time to deliberate whether to use it or leave it alone. Her fingernails were digging into her thigh so fiercely that she knew she must be drawing blood there, even through her jeans. Control was a very thin veneer, and she could only hope that Ed was buying it, because she wasn't. "I don't think that's why you called," she said smoothly, cool and dismissive. She paused for a deliberate breath, steeling herself for what she was about to say. How she was about to sound. For Mulder, she reminded herself. Dropping her tone to something private - intimate -- she continued, "What is it you want, Ed? What do you need from me?" Ed's voice, a different time, a different place. Oh God. Scully started moving, pacing like a wild thing caged, tightly leashed steps going nowhere at all. Nowhere at all. "I want to give you a chance, Dana," Ed said softly, so softly, a snake's tongue at her ear. "I want you to have the chance She doesn't think you deserve. I'm willing to do that. Just one more time." 'She' again. "How do you mean?" Her voice was trembling; she bit her tongue. Hard. Blood in her mouth, the bitter taste of her own failure. "I want to be with you. Just you. None of these others. The guards. The watchers. Your partner. Just us, with nobody in the way." "His name is Mulder," she said with sudden fierceness. "*Mulder*. Do you have him?" "Not yet, Dana. Not yet." He paused, and in that silence, Scully felt Cain's fear ... a dark, hopeless, helpless waiting for the punishment he knew must come. "But I could. And I will. Unless you take his place." "This is between the two of us, Ed. Mulder is not on some bargaining table," she snapped. "Isn't he?" he said with sudden smoothness. Again, the feel of the snake at her ear, sliding around her neck now ... squeezing ... squeezing. "I can put him there. I've been watching him. I saw him go to his apartment with his little bodyguard, saw him come out with a duffel bag. Planning another slumber party, Dana? He didn't have a sleeping bag, so I'm going to assume you planned on loaning him yours. What else were you going to loan him? --" "Ed -" "He went by the Hoover Building, too, I suppose to check in with all the people so concerned about your welfare. Do they know that you asked for this, Dana? That you begged for it? Would they be so eager to help you if they knew that?" He paused, obviously wanting her to say something, but she didn't. She couldn't. Hate, fear and shame - the holy triad of violation - had lodged itself in her throat, strangling her. He sighed, as if puzzled by her lack of cooperation, and continued, "Then something rather interesting happened. He came out alone - took a side exit, I almost missed him. He'd managed to lose his watcher." Oh, Mulder, she thought weakly, not even surprised to hear it. And it confirmed something for her. Ed could not be making this up. "He got a little harder to track at that point, but I managed. Ended up in a really seedy part of town. I wondered if maybe your perfect partner had a few bad habits we didn't know about. He met up with some long-haired geek -" Langley. "-- and they talked for a while. The guy handed him some folders. Dare I presume it might have had something to do with me, Dana, or does he have interests beside you?" Again, she was silent, and now he sounded angrier as he pressed on. She wasn't *playing*. "And that was that. I left him outside of Little Joe's pizza parlor and, the potential for a notorious D.C. mugging not withstanding, I assume he'll be arriving at your doorstep at any time. There. Are you happy now?" "Happy?" she parroted, his question not registering. Relief was warring with fear - was Mulder really safe or was making her believe it part of the game, too? "I've told you where your precious partner has been, and I've shown you how easy it would be for me to eliminate him from the 'bargaining table,' as you put it. Does that satisfy your curiosity? Now, to get to the matter at hand. Will you come to me or not?" Come to me. As if it were some sort of delicate, romantic choice he were offering. "And if I don't?" "Do you really want me to say it, Dana? Haven't you been listening at all?" "Say it." A growl she hardly recognized as her voice. She was the stranger again, that distant someone she had bid farewell when the cancer left, a stranger with dying eyes. The stranger with nothing to lose and only one thing to save. "You come to me, willingly, no guard, nobody in the way or ... I take what stands in my way. Just like I did with Bill." "Me or Mulder? That's the 'choice' your offering me?" she said scathingly, and he laughed. "It *is* a choice, Dana. One you may not like, but still, a choice." "You must be out of your mind to think -" "Maybe I am out of my mind. Maybe I'm not. Are you willing to risk it? Are you willing to risk *him*?" Damn him. Damn him. When had she lost control of this? Her pacing circle had grown wider, and she found herself staring out into the street at her front window, searching for Mulder, searching for Ed, searching for an end to this. Ed was reaching right into her head, digging out her deepest fears, her darkest thoughts. Had she really revealed so much to him, in one faraway night another lifetime ago? "How do I know you don't already have him?" she asked, and that question made sense. She wasn't going absolutely out of her mind for considering this deal with the devil if she could handle this like a hostage negotiation, like business. Not personal. "You're going to have to trust me." Oh, that was rich. Ed did not know the deep vault of irony he'd just plundered. Scully laughed, the stranger's laugh, the ugly laugh. "Didn't you know, Ed? Trust no one." Oh, Mulder. "He'll be back at your place soon, Dana. Count on it. I've shown you what I can do, so take that as a sign of my good faith that he's coming back at all. I'll give you a day or so to think about it. I'll be watching, and I'll wait for a sign from you. But don't take too long. I've been patient long enough." Patient. Yes, patient like the spider for the fly. "Ed," Scully said quietly. "Fuck you." "If I say 'been there, done that,' will I sound crude?" he drawled, but she wasn't listening, she was watching Mulder's car pulling up to the curb, and - ohthankgod - there he was, unfolding his long legs from the car, stretching, pizza box in hand. Whole. Healthy. Safe. For now. "Go to hell," she hissed into the phone. "Meet you there," Ed replied lightly. Then he was gone. Dead air at her ear. He'd hung up. Scully dropped the phone onto the table with a clatter; her hands were shaking, and she felt dizzy. Breathe. Don't hyperventilate now, dammit. Pull it together. Don't let Mulder see this. He'll ask questions. He'll want to know what happened, and he can't know. And with that thought, Scully realized that somewhere along the line, she'd made her deal with the devil without even realizing it. ****************************** She mystified him. Just when Mulder thought he might be one step closer to divining her, Scully would reveal some new, as-yet-unsuspected aspect of herself. It was bewilderingly, heart-poundingly unexpected - like catching a glimpse of a shapely, feminine thigh through the slit of a skirt, an unexpected and attention-riveting treat, revealed and as quickly concealed by the fickle swing of fabric. And it was just as sexy, too. Maddening and intriguing and sexy and a little terrifying. He'd had more than five years to get used to it. He wasn't. Take tonight, for instance. Scully was running hot and cold - well, as far as Scully typically ran, anyway. To the untrained eye, she would seem hardly different, but Mulder's eye was not unschooled. Aloof one moment, completely focused on him the next. Cool, then warm, then some combination of the two that he could not quite decipher. He was inclined to blame it, in part, on the rather ... cleansing ... talk they'd had earlier. Certainly the ramifications of that conversation had him at a bit of a loss, too; unsure of exactly how to act, but at the same time, more comfortable than he'd felt in weeks or months or maybe even *ever*. Strange, that feeling, how it made him want to grin like an idiot and frown like a philosopher. At the same time. There was so much they had said to one another, and so much left to say. At least, he *thought* there was much more to say. He was pretty sure he had a few more words, at least. So no wonder if she were a bit unsettled. He definitely knew the feeling. He'd arrived back at Scully's, with the pizza still reasonably hot considering the 15-minute drive, only to find that his partner had picked that opportune moment to get in the shower. He hadn't realized it right away and - he was man enough to admit it - he had experienced a moment of panic when he found the apartment seemingly empty. He had wanted to run back out the door and harangue John Q. FBI, Scully's *alleged* guard. Then the sound of running water from the bathroom had registered and knee-weakening relief had followed quickly after. The idiot grin in place, he'd approached the bathroom door and raised his voice to be heard through the oak panel and the shower's brisk waterfall. "Your timing sucks, Scully." There was a thump as something, probably the shampoo bottle if the volume and dull echo quality of the thud were any indication, fell to the floor of the bathtub. Shit. He'd scared her. Very bright. Speaking of *timing,* Mulder ... "You okay, Scully?" "What?" A pause. "Mulder, what?" "I said, the pizza is going to get cold," he said, more loudly this time. "Oh ... Sorry. I'll be out in a few minutes, okay?" "Sure." It occurred to him that this was a fairly intimate scenario, in its way. Ransacking his considerable archive of Scully memories, he was almost certain he'd never talked to her while she was in the shower. Even with the occasional adjoining-rooms-at-the-hotel situation, it would never really have occurred to him to just walk through her room and knock on her bathroom door, and talk to her while she was ... well ... At that thought, he had hauled ass to the kitchen, trying to ignore the herd of over-caffeinated gophers that had suddenly decided to play Red Rover in his stomach. Instead, he'd concentrated on determining exactly to what temperature he could safely warm the oven without actually setting the pizza box aflame. While no slouch in the kitchen, he'd never actually had to keep a pizza warm before eating it. It was simply not *done*. To Mulder, pizza and "instant gratification" were synonymous. Twenty minutes later, after setting their places at the coffee table - Mulder shunned the dining room table on principle, pizza was not meant to be eaten in a formal setting - and reluctantly hauling a stack of files to the living room, Scully finally emerged from her shower. She seemed ... elusive, her gaze skittering everywhere, landing finally somewhere in the vicinity of his chin, and she offered a smile. A quiet smile. Shy, maybe? Awkward? So she was also feeling this strange, unsettled feeling. That was good to know. "Does this mean I can rescue the pizza from imminent incineration?" he asked at last, the silence too heavy. "And you wonder why I mock your culinary skills," she replied, taking a seat on the floor before the coffee table, leaning back against the sofa. She glanced at the stack of files, pulled the nearest one to her, waving it slightly at him. "Working dinner?" "I thought we should probably keep going. Time is critical here," he said apologetically, and watched in amazement as she ducked her head, hiding her expression from him, but not before he saw a flare of pain. Shit. He spent so much time putting his foot in his mouth anymore, he thought about switching to shoe-leather-flavored mouthwash to save himself the trouble. "You're right," she said quietly, opening the file and seeming to immerse herself in it. "Time is absolutely critical. We need to keep working. We can't stop." Mulder frowned. She was so tense, he could see it in the set of her shoulders, despite the long shower she had taken ... tenser than when he had left. Of course, it was to be expected. She was grieving for her brother. And undoubtedly terrified, whether she'd admit to it or not. She would be expected to have moments where she pulled away from him again. Even though it hurt. Cycles of grief ... He went to the kitchen, leaving her to have whatever space and quiet she needed, while he fumbled with the pizza box and cursed slightly under his breath as he managed to burn two of his fingers in the process. He opened the refrigerator and hesitated for a moment, then allowed his instincts to rule for a moment. "Scully, we *do* need to work," he called to her, "but I also think we need to wind down a little bit. We're both too keyed up to be productive." Silence from the living room, then, "Just what are you suggesting, Mulder?" He could hear her smile, and it staggered him anew, how she could be in so much pain and still pull herself together into this incredible, functioning, *amazing* human being. Oh, Scully ... There was a lump in his throat that hadn't been there a moment before. "Well, remember, I'm no Boy Scout," he said after a moment, when he felt capable of speech, walking back toward the living room. "No, you were an Indian Scout," she retorted, and now he could see her, and there was a gentle little smile playing there. And the shimmering remains of tears in her eyes. He would ignore those. For now. "I thought maybe we could mix business with ..." He waved two bottles of Corona that he'd snared with his free hand, the other busy balancing a still-too-warm pizza box. "With beer." She eyed the amber liquid cautiously, as if she must scientifically analyze and catalogue each of its ingredients before making the final decision. "Well ..." she said finally. "I suppose one couldn't hurt. In fact, one could probably help quite a bit." "Maybe I should put the telephones away now, before you get really wild? I'd hate to have the repair people out twice in one day," he teased, inordinately pleased that he'd managed to find something that might help her to relax, at least a little. She shot him a glare that lacked ferocity because she was struggling not to smile. "Actually, Mulder, I think you'd *enjoy* toying with them again." They worked a while longer, side by side, legs akimbo, mostly silent save for a few questions or comments voiced around mouthfuls of pizza. Scully seemed jittery, despite the sedative effects of the beer, her foot bouncing restlessly against the floor as she worked, her pen occasionally tapping against the coffee table in a stuttering roll of nervousness. As soon as they'd finished, she jumped to her feet, startling him with her sudden movement, and whisked the dirty plates and glasses to the kitchen. She was there for a long time, while Mulder pretended to review the newest information Byers had come up with, but none of it was making sense. He wasn't in "the groove," wasn't going to see things the way he needed to see them to get the job done. Not that he was looking forward to that particular trip anyway. When she finally came out of the kitchen, he didn't look up from the file, but waited until she returned to her place beside him and was reaching for the papers she'd discarded. Then he looked at her. "Scully, what's wrong?" She frowned, chewing at her bottom lip. "What do you mean?" He tilted his head a little to the side, gaze gently probing, the "Come on, you know I know you better than that" look. He'd had some measure of success with it over the years, and was counting on it to pay off again. It didn't. He grimaced a little, almost apologetically, and took a deep breath. "Is it the talk we had earlier? Are you regretting it?" he asked with a bluntness that surprised him. Surprised her, too, apparently. She looked startled - almost horrified at the suggestion. That was good. He thought. Probably. "Mulder, no, that's not it at all," she said in a rush, twisting around so that she faced him completely. He moved to do the same, and her knees were bumping against his shins now. She was looking him in the eye now, so unexpectedly, and he felt another one of those tidal waves of relief sweep over him. "I am ... That conversation was so important to me. *Is* so important to me. Please don't think it wasn't." "Okay. Me, too," he replied simply, managing a a small smile. She returned it, but there was sadness behind those eyes, darkness clouding the blue. Such pain there. "Did you ... is it Bill? Did you want to talk about that?" Wow. He never before would have felt as if he could keep pushing, keep pressing her to talk to him, not without the fear of her shutting him out. She still could, of course. But it didn't seem as likely now. "It will always be Bill," she said finally, not breaking the eye contact between them, or the physical contact of their legs brushing. She was not drawing away. This was good. Very good, in fact. "I will always ... I am grieving for my brother, Mulder. I always will. But, that's not all of it. I am just ... grieving." He reached for her hand, where it lay so limply on her thigh, and gave it a squeeze. She looked down at their two hands, and continued to speak. "I am realizing that my life is being torn apart right now, due to decisions I made a lifetime ago, when I was someone else. Living some life I don't really recognize anymore. Someone who died when my cancer died. And I am going to pay the price for those decisions." He couldn't help it. He flinched when she said the word cancer. Until the day he died, that word would send a lance of undiluted, primitive fear straight into his heart. Scully squeezed his hand, seemingly without being aware she did it. "And this makes you feel ...?" He was probing gently now. So carefully. <"Pay the price." Still so much guilt. Still so much of this that she views as her fault.> "Tired." She tilted her face back up to his again and offered a weary tigress smile, like an old warrior who has seen too much combat to relish more, but who is unable to lay down the sword. Or knows that it won't do any good to turn away from the battle. Oh, Scully ... "And angry. So angry I could ..." She shook her head, wisps of hair brushing against her cheeks before settling back into place. She shrugged dismissively, but there was something hard and glinting in her eyes. "I want to finish this. This ends now. I am done with that part of my life, and I can't -- I *won't* -- just sit around and let it all happen -" She stopped so suddenly that he almost jumped, the silence startling after that heated rush of words. She bit her lip, her gaze somewhere in the middle distance between them, almost as if she were mentally replaying her words, examining them. "Time is critical, Mulder," she whispered finally. "We have to hurry." "We're working as fast as humanly possible, Scully, you know that. This ... this is something that can't be rushed any faster than we're doing it now. It is methodical, deliberate, difficult work." "We have to hurry," she insisted, and there was something so desperate in her tone. This was killing her, he could see that. Anyone could surely see that. She was trying to tell him ... what? That she was cracking under the pressure? That she couldn't take much more of this? Oh, Scully ... "We'll hurry," he promised, and before he even knew what he was doing, he was leaning forward, just a little, and brushing his lips against her forehead, feeling the silk of her hair tickle his lips fleetingly, wanting to comfort, wanting to *be* comforted. Her sharp, shocked gasp was like a rifle shot through the quiet room, and he closed his eyes, unable to look at her, pulling back, away from her. She squeezed his hand and he braved a peek at her. And promptly forgot how to breathe. The way she was looking at him at that moment ... My God. As if the sunrise and sunset had suddenly ceased to exist except somewhere in his eyes. It was breathtaking. Awe-inspiring. Terrifying and dizzying. And ... Then she was kissing him. Suddenly, her hands were braced on his thighs, pushing herself up toward him, and her lips were brushing his, cool and dry, her breath warm and moist, an echo of the kiss he'd given her a moment ago, only this time it was mouth against mouth, and one of her hands had lifted to wrap into the hair at the back of his head, gripping as if terrified to let go, and ... Still so chaste, this kiss. But not. And yet ... Should he ... was this ... Oh, Scully. Then he felt a slippery-silk nudge against his lower lip, a question asked and answered, and heads tilted, lips slanted, he wasn't sure how it all was accomplished in his present state of mind, but they fumbled through it and did *beautifully*, if he did say so himself. This was stunning. This was magic. He could feel her hair sliding like satin through his fingers and, below his thumb, resting at her temple, he could feel her pulse thrumming like a bird's wings. She was so alive, so beautiful and alive and ... When she pulled back, the air suddenly between them was like a black hole -- he felt it as a physical force yanking at him, his body leaning forward almost instinctively to follow her. Scully put a hand to his chest, and he could feel his heart thundering against her fingers, as if wanting to jackhammer right out from under his sternum and fall into her palm. It took him a minute to focus on her, to find her eyes with his own when his head was still spinning. God, she was beautiful. "I'm sorry," she whispered in a husky voice he'd never quite heard before, and it occurred to him that no, he would *not* have heard that voice before because he'd never spoken to her immediately after kissing her. Oh wow. And then her words actually registered. "Sorry?" he echoed hoarsely. Sorry was not good. "That was ... it's not the right time. Bad timing." Mulder wondered if he should just shrivel up into a ball and die immediately, or wait until he got home. It must have shown on his face, because she was bringing her hands to his cheeks, cradling his face in her hands, and she looked so earnest and so very, very sad. "No, Mulder, I'm not saying that *this* was a mistake. It wasn't. I'm only saying that it wasn't the right time. It's not fair right now to do this. Not fair to ... us." Right. Yes. That made sense, even if his hormones were seriously arguing about the need for sense at this moment. Timing. Had to stay focused on the work. Right. He repeated these words over and over to himself, even as his stomach was doing somersaults because she had said it *wasn't* a mistake. That was definitely good. "So, uh ... maybe later, then?" he said with a little chuckle, giving her that hangdog grin he often pulled out just for her, to make her smile. And she did ... only, it was the smile of someone who really wants to cry. Her lips were trembling. "Maybe later," she agreed in a hushed, choked whisper. "I think I can work you in," he said with mock soberness, hoping only to make that smile a little bigger, a little less sad. "I truly hope so, Mulder," she murmured, running her thumbs gently over his cheekbones before pulling her hands away. "I really do." *************************************** As Dana Scully stood in front of her bedroom closet, it occurred to her that in a career where she was required to ask some highly unusual questions, none of them had been as frighteningly absurd as the question she was now asking herself: What do you wear on a date with a homicidal maniac? God knew, Donna Karan certainly fashioned a killer suit, but Scully doubted that's what the couturier had had in mind. Bill Blass could be counted on for glitter, but mixing sparkle with stealth was probably impractical. Of course, her trusty Armani had worked many a clandestine meeting with figures in shadows -- dark suits and darker rendezvous... //I have a rendezvous with Death at some disputed barricade// Nice positive attitude there, Dana. A little self-prophetic extinction poetry to set the mood. Why not just offer your jugular to Ed and be done with it? Ouch. That was cutting a little close to the quick. But it could not be denied, and she would be honest enough to admit it: she was marching forward toward a clearly marked destiny, one with only two foreseeable outcomes ... Live. Or die. Obviously, she was rooting for the former. Or maybe not so obviously to those who might question her motives later. This was not a suicide mission, no matter how her conscience might nag at her that she was making a risky decision, perhaps a fatal mistake. Scully knew this, and in the agonizing hours since Ed's ultimatum, she had accepted it. Live on the attack, or die on the defensive. Scully was tired of door number two. This was preservation, the ultimate conversion of hunted to hunter, a conscious decision to chew free of the trap he'd set and go on the offensive. Or die trying. And if by doing so she could ensure that no one else would fall prey to Ed's unholy appetite then so much the better. There would be no more bodies, or pieces of them, delivered to her door. Not Mulder's, not her mother's, none. No more. What I am willing to die for is what I am most trying to live for. There. Perhaps that would appease her conscience for at least a little while. It was guilt, in its way, but a guilt borne of future deeds, rather than past ones. Right? Right. //It may be he shall take my hand and lead me into his dark land, and close my eyes and quench my breath - it may be I shall pass him still.// She could do this. It was entirely possible - probable, even - that she would come out of it unscathed. That she could take Ed out of this perverted equation and end all of this. She was a well-trained federal agent with one hell of a grudge at this moment, and with the proper preparation, she could take steps to ensure a favorable ending. Quantico had taught her that combat situations could be variable, but well-laid plans could help sway the final outcome. She had done so before, hadn't she? She had used physical prowess and an equally vigorous mind to outthink and outmaneuver evil that had never been addressed in the training manuals. She was still here, wasn't she? Deciding how best to take matters into her own hands had been a challenge. Last night, she had been a bundle of overwrought nerves, gut instinct and careful deliberation clashing as she tried to follow Mulder's lead and therefore not give her own thoughts away. He had been so gentle, so determined, so painfully sensitive to her feelings and her needs. Scully had been absolutely certain that he would look into her eyes in that uncanny way of his and see right through her, *know* what she was about to do, and stop her. It went without saying that he would do everything in his power to stop her - and she could not allow that to happen. Ed's threat had been clear - offer herself, or he would take Mulder. Unacceptable. And so she would betray him. She would betray Mulder in order to save him. Thick, galling irony in that, to be sure. She knew Mulder would have risked his own death to secure her life, he had proven it far too many times already. He would have argued that the risk to his safety was acceptable under the circumstances, that precautions could be taken, but it was ultimately the better choice than for her to face Ed on her own. Was he right? Possibly. Probably. Could she accept that? Hell no. Too many deaths. Far, far too many deaths for her to accept even the risk of another one. Not his. The plan was simple enough - get out of the apartment and into the open, out from under the FBI's watchful eye, but presumably still under Ed's. Wait for him to make his move. Try to anticipate it where possible. Outmaneuver, outwit, and end it. One way or another. The plan's execution, however, was painful. She would have to use Mulder's weakness to make it happen. And if she had learned nothing else last night - if she hadn't already suspected it - she had confirmed that Mulder's weakness was *her*. And in the end, it had been so horribly easy to do. Long after Mulder had fallen into a fitful and reluctant sleep on the sofa, an open file resting on his chest, Scully had sat and watched him. He was so different in sleep, really. All of those guards he put up in waking hours seemed to melt away, and it was a voyeuristic peek into something private and intimate. She had spent countless minutes simply staring at his mouth, at how expressive his lips were, even in sleep, and she had allowed herself more than a few minutes to truly punish herself for being so selfish earlier. To kiss him, to be kissed, knowing full well that she was going to walk away from it all ... possibly forever. Selfishness at its most extreme. The shame she felt, remembering how his eyes had shined at her all birthday-new and full of promises, when she alone knew it might be the only time. Ever. The fact that she couldn't seem to help herself, that in a moment of weakness she had wanted to grant herself this one little thing - it was small comfort and little respite from her guilt. She had dozed a bit, falling back on her almost-forgotten medical school training, allowing herself a few minutes of deep sleep monitored by some dimly remembered internal alarm clock. She knew she would need as much rest as possible in order to think clearly, but she also needed to remain awake because there was little time to plan. So Scully rotated between surprisingly restful catnaps and feverish, fast-forward planning. And all the while she watched Mulder. He had woken once, rather suddenly, to find her staring at him, and if he had seen something unguarded on her face that might have tipped him off, he was too sleepy to truly register it. "Wha's wrong? You okay?" he'd mumbled, beginning to pull himself to a sitting position until Scully stilled him with a gentle hand. "Can't sleep," she'd said oh-so-casually. "It's all right." He'd laid back against the pillows, fighting drowsiness with heavy lids, seeming to will himself to stay awake, to study her and see if he could muddle out whether or not to take her at face value. He was losing the battle, and his eyes were drifting closed again when inspiration struck Scully with terrible, awful precision. "I want to get out, Mulder," she'd said suddenly, loudly, and whether it was the tone or the words that woke him, she had no way of knowing. "Wha - Out?" he'd echoed, shaking his head. He started to push himself upward again, but Scully's hand still lay against his chest, encouraging him to remain prone. It would be easier if he were still just a bit drowsy and relaxed. She would not have to be so good at lying to him. "Out. Out of this apartment. I have been here for days, without leaving. I want to get out." He was shaking his head. "Where would you want to go? The Hoover Building? Your mother's?" "No, nothing like that. I want to go *out*. I want to go have dinner." She studied her hand against the fabric of his T-shirt, the contours of his chest, unable to lift her gaze to meet his. Surely he would see right through her. She had always been a terrible liar. "Dinner?" He'd obviously wondered if he was still asleep; he was frowning as if he couldn't believe the twist his dream had just taken. "You want to go out to dinner? Why?" "I am a prisoner here, and I'm tired of it. I'm not going to let Ed dictate my life." This was true enough, and she could look at him for a moment, because if he studied her now, he would see some measure of honesty there. Believability. "I want to go outside. I want to do something remotely resembling a normal life. I want to pretend for a moment that Ed Jerse isn't a part of it." She'd braved another look at him, and could tell he accepted this. She didn't know whether to be thankful, or to hate herself for being this good at betraying him. "It's not safe, though, Scully -" "Why not?" she'd countered, anticipating the argument. "It will be a restaurant - a public place. Certainly more public than this apartment. More eyes, more witnesses. The guards that are stationed around this apartment can just as easily be stationed around a restaurant. And -" Risky card here, debatable as to whether it should be played "-if Ed Jerse is watching, he might be more visible. He could slip up." This had sent Mulder's eyebrows flying upwards, and Scully cursed herself for overplaying her hand. "You want to be a *lure* for Jerse?" he'd said loudly, probably more loudly than he'd intended. And then he was pushing her hand away and pulling himself to an upright position. "No," she'd answered just as loudly. Vehement. Almost obviously so. "No," she'd stated more calmly. "I just want to get out of here. I have every right to leave, Mulder, I am not under arrest and I am not in a protection program. I do not have to ask anyone's permission." Now he was frowning fiercely and she struggled to tamp down on her own temper, her own defensiveness. "I don't want to ... take any risks that aren't absolutely necessary, Mulder. I just want to be outside of these walls. Just for a little while. I promise, it won't be long." Her voice had quivered unexpectedly and not insincerely at that last. "I understand why you want that, Scully, and I'm glad you told me about this before you went ahead and did anything -- " Oh, how she had almost visibly winced at that "-- but there are risks ... and I don't even think Skinner would let this one fly ..." He was waffling, his desire to meet her needs vying with his need to protect. "I think he could be convinced, Mulder," she'd said quietly. "Skinner knows as well as you and I do that by varying the routine and activities here, we are more likely to catch Ed off-guard. He knows as well as you and I do that a small restaurant in a quiet part of town with one entrance and one exit can be as easily monitored - if not more so - than this apartment building with all of its private entrances and private residences, not to mention the surrounding neighborhood and all of its suburban activity. Skinner knows that tactically speaking, a move like this one, at this point in the investigation, may be just what we need to turn the corner on this case." She'd pursed her lips, donning her most professional, I'm-a-federal-agent stare. "I know that neither of you would willingly put an agent at risk, but neither would you ignore an opportunity to move to a new level on a case." He'd stared at her for what had seemed like an eternity, the wheels obviously turning in his mind, weighing the pros and cons, before leaning back against the sofa cushions, a puzzled frown on his face. She'd held her breath. "This really is important to you?" He obviously couldn't figure out why, but he was swaying. Hating herself, she had placed a gentle hand over his, resting on his knee. Manipulator, she had hissed to herself. "I need to do this, Mulder, more than I can explain," she'd said, the veiled honesty of it almost making her wince. Don't lie to him when you don't have to, she'd reminded herself. It's hard enough as it is. He had sighed, and her heart had twisted at the tired, resigned quality of it. "Yeah." He'd rubbed his fingers against his eyes, grimacing. "Okay. I'll talk to Skinner in the morning, make the arrangements. It'll have to be quick, Scully. Quick and pretty crowded with personnel. It's not exactly normal, but it's really the best I can do." Her smile had been overbright, but he didn't see it. She squeezed his hand. "That's all I need, Mulder. That's really all I need. Thank you." He had swiveled on the couch, returning his head to the pillows, and his eyes were closed. She'd assumed he was drifting back into sleep and she'd begun plotting again, resolutely ignoring the bile rising in her throat, when his voice had interrupted her thoughts. "Did you want to go somewhere nice?" She'd turned to look at him, and his eyes were still closed, but there was just the tiniest smile playing there at his mouth. "Nice?" she'd echoed, stymied. "Yeah, nice. As in, not pizza." He'd opened one eye and waggled an eyebrow comically. "As in, wine lists and overbearing French waiters. Maybe a piano player. You know, nice." "You know of such a place?" she'd fumbled, and tears had pricked behind her eyes. Nice. He wanted to take her someplace nice ... Oh, damn it. Damn it. "I have heard of such establishments," he'd said somberly, though his eyes were teasing. "I might be able to locate one through my various and mysterious sources. If you'd like that." "Your sources?" she'd said huskily through her tears, struggling to bring a teasing smile to her face. "Hmmm ... Maybe *I* should pick the restaurant." Betrayal seemed determined to ruin even this moment. The reward for her treachery was a sleepy grin, his eyes drifting closed once again. "How you wound me, Dana Scully. Fine, you pick. But you are saying you want 'nice.' You'd like that?" "I ... yes, I would like that. I think I would like that very much." And that's when executing the plan became downright hideous. //But I've a rendezvous with Death at midnight in some flaming town, when Spring trips north again this year. And to my pledged word I am true. I shall not fail that rendezvous.// ********************* Author's note for the chapter: Portions of Alan Seeger's poem "I Have a Rendezvous with Death" were used throughout this chapter. Throughout his young life, Seeger firmly believed that he would die in the heat of battle, rather than peacefully in his bed. According to history, he did, but by volunteering with the foreign legion to fight in another country's dispute, as the U.S. was not at war at the time. Seeger's "Rendezvous" seems to echo a letter he wrote in 1915, in which he says, "If it must be, let it come in the heat of action. Why flinch? It is by far the noblest form in which death can come. It is in a sense almost a privilege. . . ." *************************** Mulder was pleased with himself. In fact, Mulder was extravagantly pleased with himself, probably more so than the situation warranted, but he couldn't possibly be blamed for it. After all, in his quest to give Dana Scully one quiet, relaxing evening away from death and danger and dolor, he hadn't just accomplished "nice." He'd somehow managed to pull off "special." "Intimate," even. Quite possibly, if one were inclined to view it that way - and he was neither admitting nor denying the inclination - it might even be "romantic." Woah, Nellie. Talk about extreme possibilities. Granted, Scully had ended up picking the restaurant, so he couldn't take credit for that. The tiny bistro she'd selected he found personally charming, and from a strategic standpoint, had made his professional role that much easier. One main entrance, easily visible from all parts of the restaurant, flanked at the outside by two of the FBI's burliest, and easily surveilled by the personnel in unmarked cars. There was only one additional door, at the back and through the kitchen, that opened into a little-used alley barely wide enough to admit the garbage truck that serviced the dumpsters there. Two more personnel manned that post. The restaurant was in a quiet part of town, so scanning for foot traffic wasn't going to be problematic, and it was so small that he'd only had to plant one pair of plainclothes staff as customers, and another as a server. Upon returning from his early morning survey of the site, he'd returned to Scully's apartment with high praise for her choice - surprisingly, she had blushed at the compliment. She'd seemed to remain that way for the rest of the day, an almost feverish sparkle in her eyes, two dimes of color flushing high in her cheeks. Her anticipation was practically tangible. He felt ashamed of himself for not noticing earlier how much she needed this. He'd redoubled his efforts at that point, making calls to ensure that personnel placement would be as unobtrusive as possible, that escorts were to fall back in the open to give her at least the illusion of private time. He'd even ... well, it was sort of embarrassing, but he'd sent out his best suit to the Quickie Cleaners. He'd wanted to look nice. Was there anything wrong with that? If the look on Scully's face was any indication, then no, there was nothing wrong with that at all. "Whatcha starin' at?" he drawled across the intimate table-for-two in the corner. She'd been gazing at him with eyes that glowed softly in the candlelight. Wistful, tender eyes. She startled a little and bit her lip, and his grin stretched wider. He'd embarrassed her, it seemed. How very intriguing. "You," she said finally, and the twitch of her eyebrow dared him to make an issue of it. "Like what you see?" "Yes," and the directness of it made breathing more difficult all of a sudden. She was watching him now with something akin to worry, and he wondered who was more surprised that she'd said it, him or her. "I ... uh ..." What, he was supposed to have a ready riposte to that? He felt his mouth silently for a moment, imagined he looked something like a fish out of water, and managed, "Thank you." "You're welcome," she replied simply, taking a sip of the white wine an overly solicitous and rather inept federal agent in a black tuxedo had poured earlier. Scully hadn't seemed to notice the man, didn't appear to recognize him as FBI, and Mulder had allowed himself a small, silent cheer of victory for that. "You look pretty amazing yourself," he ventured, and her lips, still hovering near the rim of the glass, tipped upward in a wry smile. "I wasn't fishing for compliments." "Well, I'm sort of *floundering* here, Scully -" "Oh, ugh," she said with a little chuckle, nose wrinkling in mock disgust at the pun. "Not your best attempt at humor there, Mulder." "You do look amazing," he repeated quietly, and even with the golden glow the candlelight cast across her skin, he could see those two rosy spots of color in her cheeks flush hotter. Her fingers, which had been fiddling with the edge of her folded napkin almost since they sat down, switched to a higher gear. "Thank you." Her head dipped downward as she said it so that he couldn't see her face, and her voice was so quiet that he felt more than heard her reply. He frowned, concerned. "Nervous?" "What?" She looked back up at him, eyes wide. "You seem a little nervous. Second thoughts?" Her mouth opened and shut as if she didn't know how to answer or what he was even asking, so he pushed on, "About coming out? Second thoughts?" "No," she said firmly, and a steely glint in her eyes told him she was indeed having second thoughts, but she'd never admit to them. "None." Mulder's admiration for her spiked past its usual mountain-high levels into something approaching the stratosphere. Scully would never cease to amaze him with her stubborn, show-no-fear way of facing the world. It was inspiring, even when it drove him insane...which it did, most of the time. "Well, regardless, you did a great job with the restaurant." She looked around, as if she were only now really seeing it. "I haven't been here in years," she said softly, more to herself than to him. "It hasn't changed a bit. I was counting on that." "Counting on it?" She seemed to snap out of her reverie and blushed, lashes sweeping downward toward her cheeks as she returned her attention to her hands still playing with the napkin. She folded them deliberately into her lap. "I ... was just in the mood for a little nostalgia, I suppose." Did she bring her other boyfriends here? ... Wait a minute. Oh shit. "When was the last time you were here, Scully?" the green-eyed troll who had taken over his larynx asked. "Oh." She seemed taken aback by the question, and had apparently not been dwelling on past lovers when she'd mentioned nostalgia because she appeared to have to think about it. He watched her lips purse together as she mentally researched the answer, and felt a not-unpleasant but probably inappropriate wave of desire rush upward to flush his face and back downward to affect regions further south. Those lips ... candied almost red tonight with a shade of lipstick he didn't think he'd ever seen. A bright, tempting splash of vivid color against the natural pale of her skin, brought into even more startling contrast by the black silk suit that nipped and tucked and draped in all the places Mulder would like to nip and tuck and drape himself. Still, the sheen of black silk, the sinuous curve of it ... there was something tantalizingly feline about it, a jungle cat on the hunt. A dangerous side. Sexy as hell ... "Oh," she said again, sounding surprised, dragging his attention away from dangerous territory. The lights had gone on at Casa Scully; she apparently remembered the last time she'd been here, and seemed troubled by it. "Oh, God ..." "Scully?" "It was a few years ago," she offered at last. "A little before Christmas. My parents and I came here for dinner. And ..." And he knew without her saying it aloud that it was the same Christmas her father had died. Damn it. "Did you want to go?" he asked gently, feeling his gut knot as her eyes went liquid with tears. Oh hell, on top of everything else, she was in one of the last places she'd seen her father alive. Nice fucking timing. You had to ask, didn't you, Mulder? She shook her head in a fierce negative and dipped her head long enough to surreptitiously dab at her eyes with a napkin. Mulder gazed at the crown of her head, the candlelight sparking gold against the hair there, and tried to will his compassion straight into her brain with the force of his stare. "I'm fine," she said firmly as she raised her head once more, and she'd managed to smear her mascara only a little at the corner of her eye. Without pausing to consider the action, he reached across the table and carefully used his pinkie to dab away the smudge. What struck him most was how she didn't flinch when his finger approached her eye, merely met his gaze and waited patiently for him to finish the job. Such a silly little expression of trust, and yet it was those small moments between them that most often had the power to knock the breath right out of him. Like right now. Scully did not break their gaze as he let his finger trail down her cheek and under her jaw line. The air between them felt thick. He might have sat there all night, rendered immobile by wonder and lost somewhere in her eyes, his arm suspended indefinitely over the tablecloth if she hadn't cleared her throat and gently leaned her head back, away from his touch. "The federal agents at table two appear more interested in us than their glazed duck, Mulder," she chided gently, swiveling slightly away from him to look at the pair more closely. It took a moment for the words to register. "Wait. You knew they were FBI?" He felt more than a little disappointed, and blamed it on Scully blowing the cover on two of his personnel. She gave him a reproving frown. "I am trained in this as well as you are, Mulder. I know a personnel plant when I see one." He grimaced and she gave him a high-volt smile. "The corsage you have her wearing and the jewel box sitting on the table were fabulous touches, really. Great attention to detail. Very much the romantic dinner for those two. However," and now her smile became a satisfied smirk, "next time, don't pick an agent I've had for two of my pathology classes at Quantico." She settled back into her chair, crossing her arms in front of her and leveling him with her best arched-eyebrow stare, obviously relishing the way he gaped at her. Then he sat up straight in his chair and pointed his finger at her, trying hard to make his expression serious. "Doesn't count, Scully. You didn't spot the plant, you just recognized an agent," he argued. Before she could reply he added, "And remind me to ask Agent Long why she didn't mention you'd been her instructor before she was assigned to this detail." "Agent Long was one of my best students, she's hard to forget," Scully replied calmly, a smile still playing at the corners of her mouth. "Don't you dare say a word to her. She's had a hundred instructors if she's had one. You're the one who should have checked that detail, not her." "Flag on the play," he scoffed, but now he was chuckling. "Okay, fine. I'll leave Agent Long to her dinner. But it still doesn't count as a make. You recognized her, you didn't *spot* her." "Semantics, Agent Mulder, semantics." "Okay, fine. Pick another one - oh, and the agent with Long doesn't count," he added with dry sarcasm. She chuckled and shrugged her shoulders. "Fine," she replied immediately. "The wine server. And the valet. I'll bet our waiter's clean, but table two's waiter is a Fed, too." "Damn," he hissed, but they were both laughing as he said it. "Scully, you are getting frighteningly good at figuring out how I work." This, for some reason, sobered her. The tears were back at the corners of her eyes, and he had no idea why. "After five years, I should hope so, Mulder. I should hope so." She swallowed hard. "Maybe I'm just making it easier for you now, to make it up to you for all those years," he said lightly, hoping to tease her back into high spirits. He was feeling a little alarm now at this strange mood she was in. So unpredictable. But it didn't seem to help at all. It made it worse. "You made it too easy," she choked. "Scully, what's wrong?" "Nothing," she said, rising suddenly from her seat, purse in her hand. "Dammit! What's wrong?" he asked more loudly, drawing the attention of his personnel and most of the civilians in the room as well. He stood as well, panicked. "I just need to use the restroom. I ... I'm sorry. I don't ... I think I just need a minute or two alone." "Are you sure ...?" Something was wrong here. Seriously wrong. "Yes. Just give me some time, Mulder. I'll be back." He watched her hurry toward the rest rooms at the side of the restaurant, little more than closets, he knew, since he'd already checked the entire building out. He lowered himself numbly to his chair again, never taking his eyes off the bathroom door she disappeared behind. Something terrible was troubling her, something beyond the obvious. Or something about the obvious. Something new was troubling her about the Jerse situation, that had to be it. It couldn't be a new manifestation of grief over her brother, that just didn't fit with how she was behaving. Nervous. Aloof one moment, utterly focused on him the next. A jittery excitement that seemed almost adrenaline-induced. When had it started? When had normal fear, guilt and grief become this barely harnessed thing? Mulder wracked his brain for endless minutes trying to determine the exact moment when he might have noticed a change in her. < Time is absolutely critical. We need to keep working. We can't stop.> Dinner, last night. There had been a desperation in her that hadn't been there before, not so intensely. He had blamed it on grief. < I am realizing that my life is being torn apart right now, due to decisions I made a lifetime ago, when I was someone else. Living some life I don't really recognize anymore. Someone who died when my cancer died. And I am going to pay the price for those decisions.> Thinking on those words now, there was a tone of ultimatum in them. A decision to make. Or already made. He had been gone for a few hours, and when he'd returned bearing pizza, a newly urgent and confusing Scully had been waiting for him. Wanting to go out. Wanting to be out ... in the open. < Second thoughts? About coming out? Second thoughts? No. None.> Oh, fuck. Mulder was already tearing for the ladies' restroom before he entirely realized he was standing, the suddenness of it startling Agent Long and her partner to their feet and after him. He was shouting Scully's name, and he didn't feel it when he ran full-force into the unyielding panel of the door. Barely pausing to rear backward, he slammed his shoulder into the wood and the flimsy latch gave with very little protest. Later, he would remember the scene in its entirety, but at that moment, all he saw were snapshots of the damning evidence. The tiny window over the toilet, the one he had had boarded over as a precaution, even though it was too small for a man to squeeze through. Not too small for a 5-foot-3-inch redhead, though. Boarded over from the inside, to keep people out. But not to keep people in. Not to keep Scully *in*. The plank now leaned silently against the toilet, confessing nothing. There was a small, black pair of pliers that had obviously been used to pull the nails out of the wood, lying so innocuously on the sink, almost obscene against the white porcelain. Had she had that in her purse? Mulder wondered numbly. The window was wide open and allowing a slightly sour, old-garbage draft from the alley outside. An alley along the side of the building that wasn't being staffed, but only patrolled, because it didn't offer immediate access to the restaurant. And on the mirror, in a lipstick color he recognized, written hurriedly but still Scully's unmistakable handwriting: Mulder I'm so sorry. ************************ The night was dark, and thicker with humidity than autumn normally allowed. Scully would have preferred the tingling crispness typical of fall -- thin air that inspired quick movement and rapid thought -- rather than this balmy emulsion against her skin, weighting her lungs with heaviness and reminding her too much of languid summer nights. Not that any particular climate was ideal for what was about to happen. At least she'd dressed the part - forced by circumstance to at least appear as if she were merely out for a nice dinner, she'd had no choice but to stick with a fairly traditional suit. Ninja gear and a high-powered assault rifle might have tipped her clever partner off. But, as Mulder had pointed out with such unintentionally brutal aim, she had become very, very good at figuring out how his mind worked. She had known the window would be her escape route, that it would be almost entirely ignored in routine surveillance and strategic preparation, and had picked the restaurant for that very reason. A pantsuit became the obvious fashion choice for crawling out bathroom windows into dark alleys. Alleys with nice shadows for avoiding attention from official and unwanted eyes ... hence the choice of black; she might manage to blend into the night. She'd even kaboshed her usual towering dress shoes for a pair of dressy but low-heeled boots. If Mulder had noticed the change, it hadn't tipped him off. From the look in his eyes, her appearance had made an impression, but not an unfavorable one. A particularly delicious one, if her hunch was right. Oh hell. Why had he had to look at her that way? Why tonight of all nights? This wasn't going to help her. Continuing that train of thought was going to weaken her resolve as quickly as his smile tonight had weakened her knees. She could not afford to waver, not now. Scully picked up the pace, moving silently through side alleys, skirting dumpsters and clinging to the shadowed brick walls like a second skin. She moved without knowing specifically where she was going, only having a general geographic sense of moving east, and knowing that she must get as far from the restaurant as quickly as possible, but avoiding the most obvious routes. Mulder would not be fooled for much longer; even accounting for the inevitable shock, he would be frighteningly quick at sending out the troops. And if she knew him well enough to deceive him, he knew her well enough to have a damn good chance of catching up with her. She had watched him hunt before, with awe and with no small sense of disquiet, never guessing she might one day be the prey. A few minutes more of hurried slinking through dirty back streets, and she heard the muffled, almost startled blare of sirens behind her, somewhere in the general proximity of the Mon Ami. Mulder had discovered her ruse quickly, more quickly than she had even anticipated. He could be so very, very good at seeing into her - usually when she was most trying to prevent it. Part of her was amazed she'd made it this far. Still, she had a solid lead on the agents and police who would soon be combing the streets for her, and her trail would be nearly impossible to follow once they ventured more than a block from the restaurant. It was simply a matter of meeting up with Ed, and quickly. He said he'd been waiting for a sign from her, that he would be watching for it. She could only hope the sudden chaos at the restaurant, with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, would move him to act. As if on cue, the cellular phone held tightly in one fist vibrated urgently - she'd had the presence of mind to turn the ringer to vibrate-only long before she left the restaurant bathroom. No sense in going to all the trouble of literally slipping out from under FBI surveillance and figuratively knifing your partner in the gut only to be thwarted by a ringing phone. She was thumbing it on when a startling thought stopped her in her tracks. What if it's Mulder? What if he had immediately thought to try her cell phone, to try *anything* that might get her to stop what he must know she was now doing? Having no idea what she would do or say if it were, in fact, him, she brought the phone to her ear and whispered a cautious hello around the lump in her throat. "Dana, you've done very well," Ed crooned in her ear. Scully felt a momentary, nauseating sense of vertigo when she realized that she was actually *relieved* to hear Ed's voice rather than Mulder's. When had things gotten this insane? "I've done what you wanted," she hissed, quickening her pace yet again. "What happens now?" "What do you think happens now?" he teased, and the airy static over the line told her he was calling from a cellular phone as well, in a car. On the move. Probably close. He would have stayed as near the restaurant as he dared. "I really don't have time for this, Ed. I did what you wanted. Now let's finish it." "Where are you?" He sounded amused, and the sudden rush of fury gave her strength. "Don't tell me you've already lost track of me, Ed," she sneered. "Isn't your tattoo giving the orders anymore?" "If you're smart, you'll pray She isn't." Her footsteps faltered for a moment, then she continued, tamping down the sudden cold dread in her stomach. This was a very dangerous man - she would do well to remember it. Confident was good. Cocky got you killed. "I'll be on Hilo Avenue north of Elm Street in about three minutes. I'll be walking east. Find me." She ended the call with a savage stab at the button, and after a moment's thought, turned the phone off entirely. She doubted she'd be keeping it much longer anyway. One last turn and she found herself in the comparably more open spaces of Hilo, a mostly residential street with tiny houses that glowed yellow at the windows and inspired warmer thoughts than those she currently entertained. How strange to think that inside those houses, families were eating dinner, children were watching television or finishing homework, and all were oblivious to the fact that she was leading a monster into their midst. How surreal. How incredibly morbid. Scully felt conspicuous, dressed to the nines and alone, walking the tree-lined and uneven sidewalks of an unassuming neighborhood. She was in the open here, lacking the camouflage that the narrow, shadowed alleys had provided, Hilo's streetlights gaping pools of white light that revealed her location too often for comfort. If Ed were coming, it had better be soon. Mulder's search for her would widen its parameters soon enough, and she couldn't afford to be out here for long. As it was, she was risking exposure - some crime-conscious neighbor might notice her. She sensed the vehicle approaching behind her long before she heard it, a low sinister growl of air and gasoline as a car slowly approached behind her, almost idling. It took its sweet time catching up with her, even at her slow walk, and she knew it was either Ed playing with her or a cruising officer sizing her up. Either way, she was damned. Staring straight ahead, she continued walking and refused to turn her head even when her peripheral vision registered the car had pulled alongside her and was matching her pace. A dark car. No emblem. Not a cop. "There's more fashionable places in the city. How did you end up here?" Definitely not a cop. She knew that voice. She knew that *line*. She stopped, turned slowly to face the car, and was almost relieved when she realized the interior was too dark for her to make out his face, even with the passenger side window rolled down. Cowardly, Dana, very cowardly. You knew you were going to have to face him sometime. "You've got to get some new material, Ed." That was better. Icy. Strong. "Drop the phone onto the passenger seat and keep walking," he said, ignoring her entirely. After a moment of staring into the dark recesses of the car, now wanting to see his eyes and not succeeding, she cautiously lifted her hand to the open window and flipped the phone onto the seat. Saying nothing, she turned and continued to walk, hearing the rumble of the car beside her and the fierce thud of her pulse pounding in her ears. He was getting rid of the phone - if he were hiding it, she might have a slim chance with it later, but if he were destroying it, that was an entirely different story. "Now your purse. Same drill." Of course. He wasn't stupid. She knew that. Without stopping this time, she stretched out her arm and dropped the small purse through the window. She'd expected this, and hadn't been stupid enough to put anything of use in the bag. The most threatening thing he'd find in it was a particularly minty pack of Certs. Scully continued to walk, half her mind tracking the car beside her and watching for anything unexpected, the other half almost routinely cataloguing her surroundings, noting under-watered lawns and mismatched shutters. Such a strange, split feeling. The car stopped and, without really thinking about it, so did she. "Now step down off the curb, get close to the car, and turn around. Put your hands behind you and inside the window." "I'm thinking 'no,'" she replied coolly, turning her head and dipping it slightly, leveling her gaze to where she estimated his eyes might be. She saw a faint glimmer that might be her target. Make eye contact. Be in control. "It wasn't a request." "Maybe you should try making it one." She was stalling now, though she had expected that he would take her away from the initial contact scene - after disabling her in some capacity first. Her time would be later. She had been prepared for that ... but that didn't make it any easier. This was really the last chance to back out, if she were inclined to do so. There could be no turning back after this. "Maybe I should just go back to Mon Ami and see if your partner wants a ride instead," he said in a tone that was so conversational, so mild, it took a moment for the words to register. When they did, she bit the inside of her cheek. Hard. Exhaled into what she hoped was a bored sigh. "Tough talk, Ed. That ultimatum is getting pretty tired." Though it went against everything in her nature, she forced herself to step off the curb and back herself against the car, lowering her hands inside the window. There was a touch of cold metal and a clink. Shit. Handcuffs. Stepping away from the window and turning around to face the car again, she tested them surreptitiously behind her back. Strong. Police issue. Damn surplus shops. Every freak in the city could get their hands on a pair. "We never did try the kinky stuff, did we, Dana?" Ed's voice taunted. Case in point. "Are you going to open the door or not, Ed? I can't stand out here forever without attracting attention I'm sure we'd both rather avoid." "Your chariot awaits," he drawled, and she saw one long, jacket-clad arm reach out of the dark to unlatch the door, giving it a shove to open it wide enough for her to slide in. She avoided looking over at the driver's seat once she was seated, and refused to flinch when the arm grazed her breasts - deliberately, she knew it was deliberate - to pull the door closed again. "Where to, Dana?" "This was your idea, Ed. I don't feel compelled to give you a tour of the city." She clenched her jaw and finally pushed past her demons to face him. He was frightening. Because, after all, he looked *normal*. Exactly like the mild-mannered man she'd met in a tattoo shop, exactly the same self-effacing gentleman she'd asked to take her to a sleazy bar. Somehow, after all the months of distancing herself, and then all the recent terror, she'd half expected him to look like a ghoul. It was more frightening that he looked human. "Well, I did have a place in mind, actually." He started the car forward again, and glanced over to see her studying him. He gave a feral smile. "See anything you like?" Oh, Jesus. This was too entirely sick for words. "No. And I wouldn't hold your breath," she bit out, turning her head to face forward again, the scenery a blur to her as it passed. "Now, Dana, you're acting as if you don't want to be here." Scully cast a scathing glare from the corner of her eye. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Ed, but you gave me little choice." "There's always a choice, Dana," he crooned. "You've made yours. Why not just accept it and make the best of it?" "Okay, fine. Why don't you tell me what the plan is then?" He remained silent, eerily so, and she shifted in her seat, presumably to find a more comfortable position with her hands cuffed behind her. Her fingers slid behind her, into the crack between seat cushions, looking for something - anything - that might prove useful later. Making use of available resources to secure your outcome, that was always a prime directive in Quantico training. "I thought I would give you one last chance," he said finally, startling her badly enough that she jammed her finger against something sharp - a screw? -- in the seat's interior. She almost grimaced but caught it, feeling his gaze on her, and turned her head to face him, hoping to puzzle something out of his eyes. "Last chance?" she echoed cautiously. "We connected, Dana. I felt it. Before ... before you betrayed me, I felt like you really understood me. The way I understood you. That you cared about me. That you wouldn't ... hurt me like the others -" "Even once you ... well, I haven't stopped thinking about you. I realize now that if I can just show you what you're missing, what you need in your life, that you need *me* ... it might not be too late for you." She waited for a long, breath-stealing moment before venturing, "And if you can't convince me...?" He sighed, then shrugged. He pulled his gaze from the road long enough to glance pointedly at his right arm, make sure her eyes followed him there. "Then it's up to Her." Oh God. Scully turned her head toward the passenger side window, mind racing with vague, unpinned images of tattoos and fire and blood on walls. She closed her eyes. And snapped them open again when a bitter-smelling cloth borne by cruel fingers slammed against her nose and lips, gagging her almost immediately and forcing her head back against the seat. She saw the road swerve dizzily in front of her for a moment, then Ed was stopping the car entirely, standing on the brake it seemed, and bearing down with full force on the hand over her face. Chloroform. She knew that odor. Couldn't breathe. Heaviness. The pain. He was going to break her nose if it continued much longer... Ed's face above her. "...Sorry...Have to...Surprise..." His words came from so far away. And surprisingly, she was glad. She didn't want to hear him anymore. Then darkness. *********************************** It was an expression that brooked no argument, and the man who wore it got none. "Yes, sir. Right away. He's over here, sir." An anxious patrolman, eager to please. Afraid not to. The room was too damn crowded, he realized - a few agents he recognized, more than a few he didn't, and enough blue uniforms to make an annual FOP ball's organizers envious of the turnout. Far too much personnel to do any damn good; in fact, it could only hurt. He was not pleased, and the ever-increasing scowl on his face made his escort accelerate from a quick-step into a downright scamper. The mass of people separated and he found his target, pacing restlessly in one corner with a cell phone held to one ear, his other hand raking repeatedly through his hair in a motion that was obviously an encore performance, if the spikes standing on end near his crown were any indication. "Where is she, Agent Mulder?" Mulder whipped around in immediate response to Walter Skinner's voice, though the question had been asked quietly, quite low in the pandemonium of the restaurant. And Skinner found that instinctive reaction troubled him ... it was like a drowning man reaching out for anything stable, a known quantity. This was no good. This was no fucking good. There was his goddamned answer right there. Mulder thumbed the phone off without even a goodbye to whoever was on the other end. If there had been anyone on the other end. Skinner suspected he knew who Mulder had been trying to reach, and that he would have no luck. No luck at all. "She's ... gone. Jerse has her by now. Has to." The words fell from Mulder's lips like ice chips, lifeless and cold. Mulder was obviously still too stunned to feel anything. Christ. Nobody's eyes should look like that. "What happened?" Skinner asked, stepping closer to his agent, turning a broad back on the room at large and focusing all of his attention on the man in front of him. He felt the crowd press nearer, despite his obvious attempt at privacy, and the scowl darkened. "Scully pried open a window in the bathroom and went through the side alley. She went to meet Jerse. On her own." Mulder stared at something just over Skinner's left shoulder, unwilling or maybe unable to meet his boss' eyes. "I find that hard to believe." He didn't doubt his agent's story ... it was a matter of wanting to believe it. He didn't want to. "Sir, there is significant evidence of Miss Scully's willful escape in the restaurant's lavatory," interjected a D.C. police officer nearby, apparently oblivious to the fact that Skinner hadn't been speaking to him and unaware of the jeopardy that put him in. "Miss Scully used a jimmy that she'd brought with her to pry open the wooden panel over the window. She'd obviously planned on leaving, had it all mapped out so she could meet up with this other guy. Hell, she even left a damn goodbye note on the mirror. Written in lipstick. To this guy, apparently." He jerked his chin toward Mulder, who turned away and resumed pacing in short, jerky movements. The hands formerly tormenting his hair curled into fists and planted themselves on his hips instead. Skinner whirled on the officer with an agility that belied his size, and glared down at him from his considerable height. "Officer...?" "Sergeant Bruna, sir," the rather portly officer stammered back, belatedly recognizing the heat in the assistant director's eyes. "Sergeant Bruna," Skinner repeated with icy calm. "*Agent* Scully is being pursued by a convicted murderer whom she single-handedly apprehended, and who escaped several weeks ago from a hospital for the insane. Furthermore, Agent Scully is a trained professional who is well aware of the dangers involved in the type of scenario you are suggesting and would not act unless confronted by an immediate and as-yet-unknown threat. I would suggest you reconsider the tone of your summation in order to reflect those facts." His voice lowered into something resembling a growl and he put his face very, very near the other man's. "Until you can do that, I would further suggest you remove your ass from my sight." The unfortunate Bruna gaped, stumbled back a few steps, and then - in a move that might have gained a modicum of Skinner's respect had it been in any other situation regarding any other agent - straightened, chin jutting out stubbornly. He wasn't going to back down. "Whatever you say, sir," Bruna retorted. "But the fact is, *Agent* Scully left. On purpose, and apparently to meet a known fugitive and, as you say, a convicted killer. Which put her own motives in question. Do the math however you want, but what it doesn't add up to is kidnapping." Mulder spun around at those words, his intent clear, and Skinner barely had time to bark his agent's name in stern warning. Mulder froze, lips pressed tightly together and body quivering visibly with the effort, and Bruna, sensing the real threat at last, made tracks to the opposite side of the room. "Keep it under control, Agent," Skinner hissed at Mulder, but not unsympathetically. He'd wanted to beat the arrogant little shit to a pulp himself for the attitude alone. "Now is not the time or place." "Please be sure to point that time and place out to me at a later date, sir," Mulder said through gritted teeth. "I would really like to be there." "Mulder, I'll even bring the beer." He locked gazes with the younger man for a moment, to make sure they were on the same page. They were. Mulder was already looking more focused; if the shock and pain were there, and undoubtedly they were, they were more carefully hidden. "What the hell is with all the personnel?" he continued, trying to keep it that way. He'd seen Mulder when Scully was ... lost ... before. He was going to be hard-pressed to keep the man on a reasonable tether. "The Bureau's here trying to decide how to not make an ugly situation look worse, and the police are here trying to find a way to make the FBI look bad." Mulder shrugged, not having really noticed the others nor cared. His sights were turned inward, hunting demons only he could see. "What a rat fuck," Skinner muttered under his breath. He shook his head, then shrugged off his blazer and loosened his tie, determined to ignore anyone not under his supervision or in his way. "All right. Brief me on the situation so far, Agent Mulder. You tell me what you need and I'll get it for you." For the next several minutes, Mulder filled him in on what had occurred from the moment he and Scully had left her apartment until the moment he'd discovered her disappearance. He managed to stay fairly pulled together, and if Skinner got the impression Mulder had left out a few details, he gathered they were of a more personal variety and had no place on the canvas. "And the search?" he queried finally. "I sent ten pairs of federal agents and police units in a ten-block radius ... that couldn't have been more than ten minutes after she left." "But?" "But nothing," Mulder snapped, throwing his hands into the air, and Skinner saw them trembling. This man was holding it together, but barely. "There was no visible trail, and there's a whole smorgasbord of potential routes she could have taken. The dogs arrived five minutes ago - they'll pick up something. Not that it will do any good." "Mulder -" "Sir, come on. We know she left. She fucking *left* and she obviously had it planned out. She wouldn't have been on foot for long before Jerse picked her up. No way in hell. Which means whatever trail we do find is going to disappear pretty abruptly and be about as useful as - " he gestured scornfully toward the group of D.C. officers clustered in one corner - "well, about as useful as *them*." "So what is your plan of action, Agent Mulder?" "Find Scully," Mulder said simply. "And to find Scully, I have to find Ed Jerse." "And you can do that?" The question was not a question of ability ... more a question of cost. He had seen Mulder on the hunt before, on quests that were less personal than this. He did not relish watching the man burn himself alive - particularly when the woman who could smother the flames was the one he was lighting the match in order to find. Definitely a rat fuck. Why did he think it was only going to get worse? "There's no other choice. And the only thing we've got going for us is that I'm already ahead on that score. I've been profiling Jerse for days." Ah, yes. He'd almost forgotten. That explained the bruised eyes and weight loss that could not have happened in just the scant minutes since Scully had vanished, no matter how great the trauma. "What do you need to continue? Tell me and I'll have it for you." Mulder looked down at his hands, turning his phone slowly between long fingers, thinking on levels that Skinner could not hope to understand, and hoped he never would. "I'll need a home base," Mulder said finally, looking up again. His eyes seemed darker somehow, flat and empty, and Skinner felt an irrational urge to back up. You could remind yourself that he was still Fox Mulder all you wanted, but when he looked like this, he was frightening. Someone - something - different. No wonder they'd called him Spooky during the era when he'd dined all day on the scraps of killers. "I want that to be Scully's place. Ed seems to have visited there often, sizing her up, making his plans. He's completely focused on her, and I need to replicate that as closely as possible in order to get inside his head." "I'll need to work with D.C. PD on that. They'll probably want to declare the apartment an extension of the crime scene, but I'm not worried about it. I'll override it." Skinner surveyed the room, eyes lighting at last on the senior officer, his navy blue uniform aglitter with stripes and gold insignia. Full dress uniform, even at this time of night. Great. No egos here. And as an added bonus, Sergeant Bruna was hovering solicitously at the captain's elbow. Skinner grinned, an almost feral smile. Two egos to shred in one sitting. That might take the edge off this feeling of powerlessness. "What else do you need?" "I need some additional materials and resources on Jerse. I've ... uh, already had my own sources working on that," Mulder admitted, and something sheepish and almost comical floated up from eerie dullness of his eyes. Skinner recognized his agent again and felt no small measure of relief. "I'd like to bring them in - they're briefed on this. But no questions from the Bureau. They give the government's 'don't ask, don't tell' policy a whole new meaning. Get it?" "I have a feeling I know who you mean, and trust me when I say I don't want questions any more than they do." He slipped back into his jacket and straightened his tie. "You go ahead and make your calls on that. I'm going to go piss off a bunch of DC's finest by pulling jurisdiction on them. That ought to keep me busy long enough for you to make your ... not-quite-SOP arrangements. The less I hear the better." Mulder was already dialing, and Skinner left him to it, making his way through a still-too-crowded room to the captain, who was snapping orders left and right to the officers around him, orders undoubtedly that would get in the way of the federal agents' efforts. This, unfortunately, often *was* standard operating procedure whenever jurisdictions mingled. He glanced quickly at the senior officer's nametag. "Captain McBride? I'm Assistant Director Skinner, FBI," he said, stepping in front of Bruna and uncaringly interrupting the man's monologue. "I wanted to get with you to coordinate some of our efforts, let you know what the Bureau needs from your personnel while we're on this case." "Indeed, Mr. Skinner? And exactly what case might you be working?" The captain was tall and impeccably groomed, with a politician's smile and an apparent penchant for black hair dye. Skinner's eyebrows lifted in disbelief, and Bruna sidled around into his peripheral vision, immediately ratcheting his temper up another notch. "Haven't you been briefed, Captain?" he asked in a low voice. "Thoroughly. I'm just not seeing where the FBI's jurisdiction falls on this, so I'm curious as to which case you folks think you're working." An almost dumbstruck pause, then "One of my agents is missing, abducted by --" "Missing? That's a matter of debate, Mr. Skinner. You may not know where Miss Scully is, but she apparently went there of her own free will. She refused federal protection and appears to have gone off to meet with a known felon. That hardly makes it a kidnapping case. And since Mr. Jerse's capture is a matter for the police, I confess that I'm at a loss as to the Bureau's involvement here." Bruna was not even bothering to suppress his gloating smirk. Ready for that beer yet, Mulder? Skinner thought murderously, before turning his attention back to McBride, who wore a satisfied expression of his own. Skinner smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. "As I'm assuming you were taught in your academy training, the FBI has the authority to issue a federal warrant for any fugitive who has escaped prosecution or confinement and has crossed state lines during flight. That makes Mr. Jerse our business and, therefore, Agent Scully as well." "Do you have that warrant, Mr. Skinner?" the captain asked blithely, brushing at a piece of lint on his sleeve and not bothering to look at Skinner. "To this point, we have been working under the assumption that local law enforcement would be cooperative and wouldn't force our hand on that. Until this moment, they have been. Do you really want to push the FBI that far, Captain?" "Hmmm ..." He pretended to consider it, then sneered. "Yes, I believe I do." Skinner mentally reviewed the FBI's policy on violence in the workplace. Maybe reminding himself of disciplinary action would keep him from punching the officious cretin in the nose. "Fine. You'll have a copy of the warrant within the hour. In the meantime, we will be establishing an investigation team within Agent Scully's apartment in addition to the surveillance already there." "That apartment is part of D.C. PD's crime scene, Mr. Skinner," the captain objected on cue. "Not once we have that federal warrant," Skinner reminded him with scathingly condescending courtesy. "I'm afraid your warrant only concerns the capture of one Edward Jerse. Our warrant will be more specific and will relate directly to Miss Scully and evidence to be gathered at her Georgetown residence." The sneer grew wider. "What warrant is that, Captain?" Skinner asked, even though he *knew* he didn't want to know the answer. The strong feeling of foreboding in his gut told him that. "The warrant we are issuing for one Dana Katherine Scully," the captain replied with tangible satisfaction. "What the hell?" Skinner barked the words so loudly that across the room Mulder was spinning around, phone still to his ear, panic threatening in his eyes. Skinner waved him away, knowing Mulder was thinking the worst - the absolute worst - and wanting to reassure him. It's bad, agent, but it's not *that* bad, he thought. Not yet. But close. Two agents - Skinner recognized them as Long and O'Leary, both of whom had been assigned to the restaurant detail - stepped up beside him, lending support in number at least. He appreciated the thought, particularly as the idea of witnesses might also keep him from knocking McBride into next week. "For aiding a fugitive," McBride finished smoothly, appearing unruffled by Skinner's outburst. He counted to ten. Very, very slowly. Finally, he managed to calm himself. Barely. "Captain McBride, it's apparent you have not been briefed fully on this situation. Agent Scully has been physically threatened by Mr. Jerse - almost two years ago and again within the last few weeks. In this most recent series of threats, Mr. Jerse has abducted and most likely murdered a member of her family. As a result of these threats against her, she and her family have been under the protection of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. And now you are alleging that Agent Scully is, in fact, in collusion with her stalker and has abetted him in his flight? What kind of police department do you run?" McBride drew himself up stiffly, somehow managing to look down his nose at Skinner despite the fact the federal man had a good three inches on him. "It appears *you* are not the one who has been fully briefed on this case, Mr. Skinner. We, on the other hand, have been exploring this matter very thoroughly since Miss Scully first reported a break-in at her apartment and alleged that Mr. Jerse was behind it. We've been talking with the Philadelphia police regarding the nature of Miss Scully's first ... involvement with the fugitive. "What they had to tell was quite enlightening. What Miss Scully failed to mention to our police department in her report, and what the Bureau certainly didn't mention while they were 'cooperating' with us these last two weeks -" A disdainful, almost effeminate little sniff indicated his feelings on that score. "- was that her relationship with the fugitive was ... more than professional, shall we say?" Beside him, his two agents moved restlessly, obviously not liking what they were hearing. "Step carefully, McBride," Skinner snarled. "Step very, very carefully." Instead, Bruna stepped up to the plate. Skinner gritted his teeth. "The two Philadelphia officers who originally investigated a murder in Ed Jerse's apartment building - informed us that on the day they came to question Mr. Jerse, Miss Scully answered the door. Partially clothed. Wearing a man's dress shirt, barefoot, very casual and comfortable. And although it never made the official report, the two officers felt strongly that Miss Scully and Mr. Jerse were ... intimate. In a consenting adults sort of way." "What made them feel so 'strongly' about this?" Skinner stepped close, eyes narrowed, daring Bruna to continue. To his questionable credit, he did. "Well, in addition to Miss Scully's state of dress and relaxed demeanor, they thought they saw a hickey or two," Bruna replied, with certainly less compunction about saying it than Skinner felt about hearing it. "A love bite or two that the shirt almost covered up, but didn't. In addition, there was ... er ..." At last, he hesitated, and Skinner thought he detected a flush at the man's collar, creeping upward toward his neck. " ... The investigating officers felt that they detected an odor." "An odor?" Skinner wondered if he looked as shocked and disgusted as he felt, and he suddenly wanted O'Leary and Long to be anywhere but there, hearing this. "They smelled sex," McBride interjected curtly. "The room practically reeked of it ... as did Miss Scully, according to the officers. It's not exactly something that's easy to ignore." "Oh, for the love of ..." Skinner began, throwing up his hands before they balled into fists. He was going to pretend he didn't just hear what he heard. He was desperately going to pretend that this conversation was not happening, or he was very much afraid of what he might do. Thank God Mulder was on the other side of the room. No way would he have been able to control him if he'd heard this. He wasn't sure he would have *wanted* to. "So, as you can see, Miss Scully did not always harbor such negative feelings about Mr. Jerse," McBride continued. "Perhaps she only arrested him in order to protect her own position once she realized he was being investigated for murder. They fought, she got hurt. But maybe she never wanted him put away." "The fact that the man has undoubtedly murdered her brother doesn't exactly fit into your theory," Skinner retorted, not even believing he was having to say this aloud. "Maybe it does. Miss Scully and her brother haven't always gotten along, did you know that?" McBride smiled again, a condescending little smile, and brushed again at a speck of lint, this time on the breast of his uniform. "She recently went on a family vacation in Hilton Head. The hotel staff where the Scully family stayed reported that she and her brother had an argument in the hotel bar. No raised voices, but it was obviously very heated, according to the bartenders. It got their attention because Miss Scully left the bar very quickly, in tears." He shrugged. "Maybe Miss Scully was tired of fighting with her brother, and Mr. Jerse provided the perfect opportunity." "You're out of your damn mind, you incompetent little shit," Skinner snapped, fists balled. "Sir," O'Leary said quietly, disdain obvious in her tone. "He's not worth it." She was right. He took a deep breath. "Then there's the little matter of the Bureau not even being able to find this guy, even though he seems to be right under your nose," Bruna chimed in. "There is that," the captain said with patronizing thoughtfulness. "Makes you wonder if he had a little inside help to avoid getting caught." Skinner started toward him despite himself and McBride raised his hand indolently. "It just makes you wonder, Mr. Skinner, that's all. As you can see, we have a lot of questions for Miss Scully, questions only she can answer. And with her apparently off and about with a fugitive ... well, we have no choice but to see her as an accessory to flight and issue a warrant for her arrest." Skinner pushed McBride's hand aside and stepped so close to him their shoes were touching, his nose mere inches from the shorter man's. "Let me tell you something, Captain. It's not going to happen. And if you try to make it happen, I will have injunctions filed against you so quickly your head will spin - which is going to cause you a great deal of discomfort with it lodged that far up your ass." Agent Long coughed and it sounded suspiciously like she was covering a laugh. "The Bureau is taking over Agent Scully's apartment," he continued. "And in addition to the warrant for Mr. Jerse, I will have another order issued as well. One placing Miss Scully directly under the Bureau's jurisdiction and protection as a federal witness and therefore superceding any local warrants for her arrest or her property. Your people get in our way on this and I will personally bring the entire U.S. Attorney General's Office down on you." "A federal witness?" Bruna interjected. "For what?" "Information regarding the escape and whereabouts of a man under a federal warrant, of course," Skinner answered with biting civility and a vicious grin, stepping out of McBride's personal space. "Weren't you two the ones telling me she might know something about that?" The self-satisfied smirk disappeared off McBride's face at last, realizing he was being outgunned, and Skinner raised an eyebrow at the man, daring him to push his luck. While he was floundering, the assistant director turned to his two agents and arranged his face into something approaching professional. "Agent Long, would you please contact the Attorney General's Office regarding the warrants for Mr. Jerse, as well as the protection order for Agent Scully and the seizure of her apartment? And Agent O'Leary, I'll need you to make sure that the D.C. police understand that this scene and Agent Scully's apartment are now removed from their jurisdiction. Please see to that for me while I finish up with the captain here." "My pleasure, A.D. Skinner," O'Leary said promptly, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. "Consider it done, sir," Long added as the two walked away, reaching simultaneously for their cellular phones. "Captain, if we're finished here, I'll need you to round up your personnel and get them off the scene. If you have any further questions or concerns ... well, don't call." Skinner walked away, heading back toward Mulder, who had just wrapped up whatever strange conversations he'd undoubtedly been having. As bizarre as the one *he'd* just had, Skinner didn't know, but he wasn't going to fill him in. That kind of information was exactly what Mulder didn't need. He was already a time bomb waiting to go off. "Mulder, I have Scully's apartment secured and the D.C. PD is about to become a distant memory. I can get you whatever else we need once we get there. Are you ready?" "Ready. Right. Let's go." Mulder headed for the door, eyes hooded and focused straight ahead. Skinner realized his agent was already somewhere else, his mind having started a chase that his body hadn't caught up with yet. He wondered if the rest of them would be able to keep up with Mulder, and what they would find at the end of the race. He was almost afraid of what waited at the finish line. ********************* There were no dreams. No flickering edges of consciousness for Dana Scully, no filter through which to gradually assess her position, her location, her general well-being. No senses returning slowly, allowing a buffer to grasp her situation, whatever that might be. She was simply in someplace black and blank and voiceless and then ... She wasn't. Scully opened her eyes. And promptly shut them again. She knew where she was. And It. Was. Bad. Well, to put a finer point on it, she didn't know exactly *where* she was. Time and a little ingenuity might yet reveal that. But she knew immediately she was in a place that could be categorized fairly quickly as Not Wonderful and she knew who had brought her here. She remembered this feeling - this inexplicable, immediate awareness of danger even after a long, thought-blank unconsciousness. Pfaster. Schnauz. Ed...twice now. Each of them had reduced her struggles to one fleeting moment of panic, then that dark nothingness. And she had woken each time, with little more prelude than opening her eyes, the specific knowledge of danger immediate even while her body and most of her brain were still weighted by soporific stupor. Scully wondered if terror always insisted on following you down, determined to be the welcome wagon at the moment of waking. After the initial recognition of danger and from whence it sprung, Scully turned to the task of assessing the problem. Eyes still closed - better to continue to feign unconsciousness, instinct warned - she engaged her other senses with martial skill, mustering the troops to reconnoiter. Hearing, that most dominant sense after sight, reported back first. The ocean was nearby, so close as to almost be on top of it -- no, not the ocean, the sound wasn't right. But a fairly large body of water, with a rushing, muffled roar of its own. A boat? No, there was none of the rolling sway that came with sea-faring, a sensation as familiar to her as her own name. A dock? A building on or beside a dock? That might fit. There was also the faint sound of wood creaking, beneath her it seemed, which might be the pilings. No other sound that she could distinguish, which neither confirmed nor disproved if she was alone. Speaking of beneath her, touch registered that she was lying on something hard, not so hard as the floor and covered with some sort of fabric that she could feel beneath her cheek, lying on her side as she was. Her arms were still bound behind her, she noted, gingerly pressing her wrists against the metal there. But her legs were free, it seemed, curled up against her in a fetal, protective posture she must have assumed instinctively even as she slept. Her shoes had been removed, because she could wiggle her toes into the surface beneath her. So she was lying on a mattress, it appeared, and an old one, if the lumps were any indication. Her sense of smell helpfully provided that it was a *very* old one, as the unmistakable scents of mildew and ...old urine, oh great ... assaulted her nose. "I know you're awake, Dana." His voice came from directly above her and she visibly jumped, despite her best efforts not to. He was obviously standing right over her, and she wondered how she hadn't heard him breathing, somehow felt him there. Damn it. Cautiously, she opened her eyes, and in the fairly dim light found herself staring at Ed's denim-clad shins. Her bedding was revealed to be nothing more than an old mattress on the floor, leaving her low to the ground and rather submissive at his feet. She immediately swiveled her head to meet his gaze with a glare, squinting at him in the dubious light and watching for any sudden aggression from him while she maneuvered into a sitting position. Her bound arms screeched a protest as she used them for leverage and her head and stomach pounded a warning that while she might be reasonably alert considering the circumstances, chloroform left a nasty hangover as its calling card. "Sleep well?" he asked conversationally, and she could just make out his expression in the light, so superciliously affected, like a concerned host, and so very, very out of place. Scully was suddenly reminded of Old Yeller right before he went rabid. She said nothing, only glanced behind her and made a graceless scoot across the mattress with her bottom until she could lean her back into the wall there, drawing her knees to her chest. The wood was solid and comforting against her spine, shoring up both her muzzy equilibrium and her courage. "Don't you have anything to say to me, Dana?" Her mouth opened but no sound came out. She stopped, cleared her throat, tried again. "Where are we?" "That's it? That's the best you can do?" He laughed, squatting down before her legs, and she realized she could administer a swift kick to his groin before it would even register that she had moved. But it would be futile, really, only a stab at physical retaliation rather than a step toward her goal. He might have a gun on him or nearby ... even writhing in pain he could still pull off a shot while she hobbled for an exit on unsteady legs. An exit that might be barred, and her hands were still locked behind her. There is no room in an operation for retribution, one of her old Quantico instructors had said countless times. Do not ever make a move unless it is part of your target objective. He'd sounded like a Marine drill sergeant - in fact, Scully thought he probably had been one - but he'd also been right. Flexibility in an operation was one thing, lashing out simply because you had the opportunity was another. So kicking him in the balls was pretty much out of the question ... for now. "I don't really think small talk is appropriate here, Ed," she said finally, trying for that cool tone she'd practiced so diligently with him on the phone. "I thought we could just get down to business." "We're going to have the rest of our lives for that," he replied insinuatingly, and he moved his hands until they were circling her ankles. She refused to flinch, but it took biting the inside of her cheek to accomplish it. No touching! No touching! the more instinctive portion of her brain panicked. "In the meantime, can't we just chat? After all, we really have a lot to catch up on, you and I." "What exactly is it you'd like to talk about?" She struggled to keep her tone steady, strove to hold his gaze, deciding the distraction of "small talk" might be the best course of action after all. Commanding her nearly bloodless fingers to obey, she began furtively searching out the hem of her suit jacket, rucked up behind her at the small of her back. Because while some would argue later that Dana Scully had walked into a suicide mission, she had not come a lamb to the slaughter. "Well, you never did tell me how you slept." He let his fingers dance over her ankles, horribly intimate little whorls of sensation against the arches of her feet. Resolutely ignoring it, she continued her careful inspection of her jacket with tiny, economic movements "Like a rock. How long was I ... asleep?" Her gaze ticked over his shoulder for a brief moment. Nothing really to see - bare, wood-floored space that fell quickly into shadow - the meager pool of light around them appeared to be supplied only by a few oil lanterns nearby. If there were windows in this building, they were covered over. "A few hours. You were tired." He gave her feet a playful little squeeze. "Oh, and listen, I'm sorry about that chloroform thing, but it seemed the best thing to do under the circumstances. I hope we can put that behind us and move on from here." Her fingers stilled, momentarily stunned as she was by his casual tone, as if chemical restraint, bondage, abduction and a dingy warehouse were standard date repertoire. In his world, they apparently were. Oh dear Lord ... "Well, Ed ... " she said slowly, fingers resuming their task. "I suppose we could reach some sort of understanding about that." "Good. Great. Just so long as you're willing to be open-minded about it. You know, She said you wouldn't be, but I told Her to wait and see. I reminded Her that you're full of surprises." He was grinning, and she wondered if it were just a trick of the light or whether she could actually *see* madness glinting in his eyes. "Oh, I'm just one surprise after another," Scully said flatly. She shifted slightly, straightening up against the wall and accomplishing two goals at once - removing herself from Ed's touch and nudging the hem of her jacket more firmly into her grasp. She fixed what she hoped was a polite, attentive expression and continued conversationally, "So tell me, Ed. What makes you think you know me so well? A one-night stand doesn't exactly qualify as meaningful interaction in my book." Something dark flickered over his features and she tensed, instinctively steeling herself for the blow that she knew must come, but then he surprised her by laughing. He settled himself on his side on the floor before her, propping himself on one elbow, as if this were some kind of romantic fireside chat. "You'd be surprised how much you reveal about yourself, Dana, by what you don't say at all." He reached a hand out, ran a finger along her silk-and-nylon-covered calf, and she seriously reconsidered that no-groin-injury decision of before. "I know you very well. Better than you know yourself, I think." "Really?" she replied with acid sweetness. "Then why don't you enlighten me?" Her fingers reached their goal at last, gingerly feeling out the small, hard objects that she had carefully sewn into the hem of her jacket. Boy Scouts might get all the credit for being prepared, but they had nothing on a well-trained Scully with a mission. Just as she had anticipated being removed from the original contact point, she'd also expected Ed to restrain her. Probably behind the back, though she'd been prepared either way. She had no doubts that Ed had frisked her while she'd "slept," a singularly unpleasant thought she refused to dwell on. But, like most amateurs, he would concentrate on what might be concealed on the body and give the actual thin, deceptively delicate material of her clothing little more than a cursory glance. Take the average cop show, for instance. A pat down by TV detectives always roamed the body, but clothing - other than pockets - was largely ignored. Most civilians didn't know any better. Hell, a lot of cops blew that one. She had counted on Ed not knowing any better. He had not let her down. "The way you dress, for instance," Ed said suddenly, and for a moment she panicked, thinking he had seen through her subterfuge after all. "Very structured. Very restrained. Serious. All work, no play. You're even wearing a suit tonight. On the surface, it reads like control. You like to be in control. But if you look a little deeper, it's really about controlling *you*, restraining yourself. Ultimately, I think it really means you like to *be* controlled. Don't you, Dana?" His hand slid further up her calf, gave it a meaningful squeeze. She remembered suddenly his face above hers, his hands pinning hers to the bed with a pressure that had hurt, her fingers curling around his not in protest but in encouragement, lust and self-loathing mingling into something that soaked the sheets with sweat. He had mastered her that night, turning time into a dark, mindless well of sensations, playing her body like an instrument designed only for his amusement. Her orgasms ceased to belong to her - he had owned them all. Weak, exhausted, she had ultimately pleaded to reciprocate, to find respite from the sensations. Instead, he had chuckled at her entreaties and retaliated by demanding even more pleasure from her, delight that became painful in its relentlessness and ecstasy because of it. She ceased to be Dana Scully. She ceased to be anyone at all. And she had *wanted* it that way. She had begged for it. "You get all that from a blazer, Ed?" Scully said finally with a patronizing laugh, but her voice trembled a little despite herself. The truth hurt, especially coming from a monster. At that time in her life, she had wanted to relinquish control, turn it over to someone - anyone - who might be able to steer her on some course other than the one she seemed to be on. That desire to surrender everything shamed her still. "Well, you did sort of tell me out loud, too," he replied, a Cheshire leer and another firm squeeze threatening to shatter her faηade entirely. Resolutely, she forced her fingers to act, nails picking carefully at the hem she'd so carefully basted, working blind and glad of it because it forced her to concentrate on something other than Ed's smirking insinuations. He chuckled, realizing she'd found the intended innuendo in the remark. "Not just in bed, Dana." Would *now* be the right time to kick him in the balls? she thought wildly. Anymore of this intimate "pillow talk" chitchat and she might have to rethink her instructor's warning about impulsiveness. Surely he'd never been in a situation like this. "You told me about your need for control, how you liked having an authority figure in your life, someone controlling," Ed reminded her. "You said it was a circle. That there were other 'fathers' in your life? But you weren't really speaking paternally, were you, Dana?" "No, Ed, it wasn't about fathers at all," she said quietly. "It was about me." "About what you really want. What you look for in your life," he encouraged, dark eyes growing darker still, watchful and almost eager. "Or about what looks for me." She looked away from him, searching into the gloom over his shoulder, seeing nothing. She sighed and returned her gaze to his. "Ed, look. Whatever I told you that night, whatever you heard in that, I was speaking from a dark place. A place I don't belong to anymore. A place I'm not sure I ever belonged to." "Are you saying you lied about it?" He was tense now, she could see it, like a panther poised to strike. She had not given him the answer he'd obviously wanted. "No," she said carefully, soothingly, biting the inside of her cheek to suppress a triumph cry as the last of the loose stitches gave way behind her. Small and light, the fruits of her labor dropped into her cupped palm. "I'm only saying that I'm not that woman anymore. I don't know if I ever was. The things I said, the things I implied ... I *wanted* to believe them because it was simpler that way. It wasn't lying. It was simply what I thought I knew at the time." "And now you think you're different?" he sneered. He leapt to his feet with a predatory grace, looming over her again, tall and deadly. "You really think you're different from any other bitch in heat? Do you think you're special?" She stiffened, then tried to assume a posture that was neither too docile nor defiant, watching the muscles quiver in his arms and waiting for a fist to lash out at her. She clenched her fingers around her prize and reminded herself to go carefully. Time was on her side, despite how it looked, if only she could follow Ed down the unpredictable path of his mind a little longer. He wanted control, she could give him control, or at least the illusion of it. For a while. "You *told* me I was special, Ed," she whispered, dipping her head downward and peeking at him underneath her lashes in what she hoped was a demure posture. "You told me that. It's why you asked me to come here. And I did what you told me to. Just like you told me to." She lowered her gaze to the floor, a risky move since she wouldn't see him if he came at her, but hopefully a gambit that would pay off. Slowly, carefully, she let her fingers divine the first of her two tools, a thin, wiry strip of metal - in fact, a bobby pin fished from the bottom of her bathroom drawer and carefully straightened flat. Though the Federal Bureau of Investigations certainly did not condone unlawful entry, any agent with her salt knew how to pick a lock. And she'd suspected she might encounter a lock or two, though she hadn't necessarily thought it would be on a pair of handcuffs. Scully felt a light touch on the top of her head and she braced herself, curling her own hands protectively into fists around her loot. Then Ed was crouching down again in front of her, much closer than before, pressing himself against her drawn-up legs and effectively pinning them against her. His hands cupped her face with a pressure too harsh to be tender but too light to be imminently threatening. He forced her chin up, to look at him. "I think you are special, Dana," he crooned, close to her face, and his breath threatened to made her light-headed with nightmare memories. "I think you're special because you were made for me - and you don't even know it yet. You try to deny it to yourself, who you are, who you belong with, even with the proof all around you. And I get to be the one who teaches you. That makes you very, very special." He leaned closer still, an eerie smile playing at his mouth, and before she could protest or move or even register intent, he brushed his lips against hers. Her stomach heaved, and it was only through sheer force of will and a stroke of luck that she didn't visibly gag. "You may be the most special one of them all." He leaned back at long last and Scully took a deep breath that hitched audibly, her brain still sounding primitive warning alarms, her stomach churning, hands fisting and his final words not immediately registering. She wasn't sure, she felt too numb, but she thought she was trembling, and hoped Ed wouldn't notice it as he pulled away from her completely and returned to his seat on the floor before her. "'Of them all'?" she stammered finally, and she *was* trembling, she could feel it now. She took the bobby pin, in real danger of dropping from quivering fingers now, and pushed it end down into the mattress, securing it there like a pin in a cushion. Another deep breath. "Have there been others, Ed?" "Jealous, Dana?" he smirked, and Scully bowed her head again to hide the revulsion she felt must surely be burning in her eyes. He chuckled. She was learning to hate that sound, learning to hate how it prefaced Ed's evil. "Yes, there have been others," he continued conversationally, "but in retrospect, I suppose they were lost causes from the start. They never demonstrated a real willingness to learn. Any real spark I thought I saw in them I suppose I simply wished there for their sakes. In the end, it ... didn't work out." But Dana Scully had a chance, dammit. With a new burst of fear-induced adrenaline steadying her fingers, she let her fingers carefully reveal the second of her two prizes, wrapped carefully in a cotton ball. Surprisingly tiny and deceptively elegant, the detached blade of a surgeon's scalpel was the most important weapon in her carefully planned arsenal. Its wickedly sharp blade had promised her release from any cloth bindings. And once she was free ... even such a tiny blade had power in a doctor's hands. She knew just where to cut to incapacitate - or kill. Given half a chance, if it weren't charred to a crisp, she'd willingly make that fucking tattoo her first target. Never Again. If he forced her hand, she would make sure those damn words were the last Ed Jerse ever heard. Never. Fucking. Again. ************************* He could smell her. A scent like almonds and vanilla that made him think of her skin, that he could almost but not quite taste; a citrus undertone that he always associated with her hair, brushing so tantalizingly near his nose when he spoke to her. Clean smells of lemon and soap, so orderly and appropriate to the woman. A faint something underneath that hinted at an old soul - not unpleasant; more like roses pressed between tissue-thin pages of memories. Precious and respectful. Quietly tender. Dana Scully lingered within the walls of this apartment like a vapor, imbuing everything in it with her signature. And it was driving both Fox Mulder and the man inside him who was no longer quite Fox Mulder thoroughly mad. He prowled the rooms, hunting for answers or at least one divine hint, only occasionally noticing that he shared the space with anyone other than himself, his monster and the phantom traces of Dana Scully. Frohike, Langley and Byers, who arrived at the apartment almost before Mulder and Skinner, had commandeered the entire dining room table and most of the kitchen. An intimidating nest of cords, monitors, keyboards and gadgets too foreign to name trailed from the table and into the kitchen, where Byers was punching holes into the plaster walls to expose the apartment's wiring. "Jesus, Byers, Scully would like to use her kitchen again. You could get the job done with a little more finesse, you neanderthal," Frohike snapped from underneath the table, twining wires into mysterious combinations that only he seemed to recognize. Byers poked his head around the corner, faint lines above his eyebrows marring his usually bland expression. "I realize that. Unfortunately, there isn't time for finesse. The sooner we get up and running, the sooner we get the information we need to bring Agent Scully home." Reproved, Frohike withdrew under the table once more, a turtle pulling its head into the safety of its shell. Mulder would resurface just long enough to catch exchanges like this one, which inevitably drove him back down into his own hell again, faced with the insufferable truth that in this version of the world Scully was gone. At least in the dark passages of his mind, he could chase her. Find her and bring her home. He would return to reality once there was a hope of having her in it. He vaguely remembered Skinner and the Gunmen squabbling early on about custody of the apartment's telephone line. Skinner demanded it be left open, in the hope that Jerse might call - or perhaps Scully herself. The guys insisted they needed it for the equipment that would help find them both. Mulder, maddened and desperate for quiet, opened the front door, walked into the corridor and dispassionately drove his fist into the wall. Point taken. Skinner and the Gunmen hastily reached a compromise - the Gunmen would hack into the telephone company's system and requisition all the phone lines they needed. Skinner would pretend not to notice. And they would all stay out of Mulder's way and let him bear the lion's share of the burden - not because they wouldn't help but because they couldn't. The onus was his alone. He said little, simply stalked the room, pausing from time to time to consider something seemingly trivial - he stood in the center of the room and turned in circles, surveying the room as if he'd never been in it before. He spent countless minutes staring blankly at the bookcase in the living room, eyes darting back and forth as if he were not simply seeing it, but reading it. He'd carried around one of Scully's scarves for a while, found hooked over a doorknob in the bathroom during one of his more extended forays, looping it around his fist, rubbing it between his fingers almost like a talisman. Caressing it. Mulder was dimly aware that he was seriously disturbing the others with his behavior. Langley was giving him a wide berth, resolutely staring at the computer monitor and refusing to raise his head. Byers' soft voice had muted further still and Skinner followed his lead instinctively, murmuring his orders to the agents outside the door rather than growling them. Frohike alone seemed willing to take notice of what he was doing -- was watching him carefully, in fact -- and in his eyes shone a pity that revealed what he knew. Mulder was stalking Scully. As a predator would. Actually, as one specific predator would. After more than an hour of prowling, Mulder turned suddenly and spoke for the first time, startling Langley visibly. "The files, Byers. I need the new ones." Byers handed them over wordlessly, not needing to be told which ones. He'd been digging through computerized Pennsylvania police records for almost two days, following a strict search criteria laid down by Mulder. He had not shared the results with anyone, including his two cohorts - once he realized what Mulder was searching for, he'd been too disturbed to want to discuss it. Shadowy conspiracies to hock the world to a bunch of aliens didn't frighten Byers as much as man's inhumanity to man did. Mulder sat on the living room floor with a virtual smorgasbord of death stacked before him and scanned the first few pages of each file, sorting them into two further piles, one significantly bigger than the other. He could never have explained, had someone dared to ask, what drew him to keep certain files and discard others. Sometimes it was modus operandi, other times it was the victimology. And other times it was simply a gut feeling - an electric, sickening quiver that started in his middle and crackled north and south along his spine. He thought it might feel something like the hunger. The hunger, a craving deeper than blood, that inspired evil acts - acts that everyone liked to call inhuman, but that Mulder knew were entirely owned by man; animals didn't do these things to one another. To call them monsters was really only an attempt to distance oneself from the awful truth. Finally, Mulder pushed away the larger stack, eyes burning, and Byers was there immediately to scoop them up and get them out of the way. Had he stood there the entire time? Mulder couldn't be sure. "What do you want me to do with these, Mulder?" he asked softly. "Burn them," he rasped, scarcely recognizing his own voice. He wouldn't need them. And maybe fire would cleanse the darkness that emanated from those pages, exact some small measure of justice for the victims within them, unwilling sisters in a sorority of murder. The ones who had put them there were not who he sought today. With a slow, methodical precision, Mulder removed photos from each of the remaining files and laid them in strict, precise rows on the floor: some glossy new with crisp edges, others old, poorly copied and granular; some with the yellow cast of poor light and others with the bluish brightness of overprocessing. All of them - at least two dozen of them - awash in death, stark images of violence against the gentle shine of Scully's hardwood floor. "Jesus," Langley whispered from somewhere behind him, before he was hurriedly shushed. At least, he thought it was Langley - the voice came from so far away. Fox Mulder, the man, realized he was already drifting into the darkness, dragged along by the other Mulder, the one who could not resist the lure of slaughter's siren song and sought its obscene paths. The photographs were only part of a map that would guide him. He paced around the photographs, staring down at them, studying them from every conceivable angle, Scully's scarf once again in hand, silk twisted ruthlessly now between hard fingers, stretching then slackening, a gossamer garrote. He dimly heard a door shut - he'd spooked someone entirely, he imagined detachedly before returning his attention to the floor. So very many bodies there ... after an interminable amount of time studying this collection of violence as a whole, he turned his attention to each singular work, beginning with the oldest crime, dating back almost 25 years before. The tiny, dimpled hand of a child, flung outward with the splayed fingers of sleep. Except it was obvious from the photograph that 2-year-old Eva Behr was not asleep -- or rather, no natural rest had claimed her. That tiny, outflung hand was the only part of her that had not been found completely submerged in her summer-sky blue, plastic kiddy pool. A sodden grave that had been a deeper azure than the mottled blue of her skin, not quite as blue as those wide eyes that bulged impossibly above chubby, bloodless cheeks. Eva Behr, by all accounts a much-loved if too coddled first child, who -- according to the coroner who had photographed and then examined the body -- had accidentally drowned one hot August afternoon when her mother had run into the house. Just for a moment. Only a moment and Eva would be fine. After all, there were only 6 inches of water in the pool. Eva Behr, whose only misfortune at that point in her too-brief life had been to live next door to 11-year-old Ed Jerse. He would have hated her, would have been infuriated by her, Mulder thought, restlessly tugging at the silk between his fingers. Always seeing her next door, that little girl, so indulged by her family, wholly focused on her own desires, as toddlers are wont to be. Just like his mother. Pampered and protected, though it was Ed's body that offered the protection from her husband's brutal fist. And here was another little princess who would grow up to be just like her. No, no, no. He wouldn't have simply decided to kill little Eva, it wasn't a dispassionate decision, not then. It was rage, lashing out. Love for the mother. Fear, too. And hate -- so very, very much hate. No, she did something. Something to push him. Little Eva Behr had pushed the boy next door too far. * * * * He watched her, half-hiding behind the trunk of the tree in his own yard, watching her as he often did, equal parts fascinated and repulsed by her. Watched the sun through the trees dapple her bare little body, lighting halos on creamy baby skin. She giggled and jabbered words he could not understand, smacking the water with fleshy palms and squealing her delight at the effect. So entirely focused on her own play, it was several minutes before Eva realized that the nice, dark-haired boy from next door had drifted near, drawn close on feet that dragged, too entranced to stay away. She liked the dark-haired boy. He was quiet and he always seemed to like looking at her. Eva loved attention and his was the best kind because it was quiet and unwavering. Wherever she went, there was the boy. Eva liked that. He had drawn close, closer than she could usually remember him being, and she was glad because her mommy wasn't here to play with her. Eva wanted to play. The boy would do nicely. She reached a tiny hand up to him, palm and fingers stretched, Evaspeak for "Come play with me now" and the boy's feet dragged him closer until he was at long last standing beside her, casting a shadow over her and the nice warm water of her pool. That would not do at all. "Muh!" she demanded imperiously, Evaspeak for "Move!" and pushed at the air with the flat of her hand. He did not move, just stood there and stared at her with a funny smile that, had little Eva been just a little older, she would have recognized as something pained and frightful. He did not understand playing the way her mommy did, she thought. She would have to make him move, show him how to play. Her hand came down against the water, harder and more forcefully than her gentle splashing of before, and -- with luck more than true aim - drenched Eddie Jerse from chest to toe with a spray of summer-warmed water. * * * * Mulder nodded slowly from his crouch over the photograph of Eva Behr's body, seeing it all now, seeing it as it surely must have happened, the shock at that unexpected jet of water dousing him. And then she had giggled. Of course, she had giggled because that was Eva Behr's idea of fun. That was always their idea of fun, of happiness, of love - humiliate you and laugh. Use you, hurt you, let *him* hurt you, then laugh at you and act as if it were some kind of special game that only you and she could play. Never again. * * * * Mortified and enraged, Eddie lunged awkwardly - it would be a few more years before he developed a predatory grace - and before he knew quite what he was about, he found his hands in her baby-fine brown hair, twisting it and forcing her head under the water. He would show her. He would show her what it felt like to be wet. She would learn her lesson, give her exactly what she wanted. She would never do it again. He was bent over the pool now, holding her under by her hair and the sinewy strength of his eleven years, and her little body thrashed against him; he caught occasional glimpses of a terrified, mouth-gaping face beneath the churning water. This was power. He was in control now, and when her tiny little hand - the hand that had so offended him earlier - reached up and clutched at the sleeve of his shirt, clutching at him, not pushing him away but reaching for him ... begging, pleading ... Eddie Jerse felt his first erection. It was power. It was religion. And then he understood. That if he did it right, if he showed them from the beginning who was boss, then he could teach them. They could learn and then he would *own* them, the way his mother owned him. He yanked Eva up out of the water by the hair, ready to hear her apologies, ready to be the boss. But he found the lesson too late learned - at least, too late for little Eva Behr. He studied her limp body in his arms with an almost clinical detachment, noting how quiet and powerless she now seemed - so different to him now - and useless. Useless now. But he would have to remember this. There was something important to be learned here. He dropped her carelessly into the pool and ran back to his yard. Several minutes later, and several blocks away on his Schwinn, the shrill, hysterical screams of Eva Behr's mother reached his ears. Eddie Jerse smiled. Mrs. Behr had learned her lesson, too. * * * * Mulder gasped, his head flew up with a jerk, and the conversation between the Gunmen - voices he hadn't even been aware of for countless minutes -- ceased entirely. He looked down, stared into the cold, dead baby face of Eva Behr, saw Scully's scarf mangled between his fingers, and felt his empty stomach lurch. He stumbled to his feet. "Mulder?" Skinner asked from the corner of the living room where had stationed himself with an obtrusive but clear view of his agent's activity - or seeming lack of it until just a moment ago. "Hey, man, you all right?" Langley's voice, concern overcoming disquiet. Mulder ignored them all and made a mad dash for Scully's bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before unleashing seeming gallons of coffee and bile. He knew they could hear him retching, didn't care. Fuck it. It didn't matter. He was getting close. He could feel it. Eva Behr was the piece he had been missing. One part of the piece he had been missing. To get to Scully. He staggered out of the bathroom as quickly as trembling legs would allow and steered himself back into the living room, toward the photos. "Mulder?" Byers said softly. "Why don't you take a break?" "No," he replied, and his voice sounded far away even to his own ears. Already he was losing them again. "Leave him alone," Frohike said firmly, though not without compassion. "He's got his spooky face on. Chasing monsters in the murky deep ... " Mulder let his eyes chase the photographs now - he had the pieces now. Ed Jerse wanted control, control over women. He wanted their adoration, their love, and with that he had to have their fear, their utter submission. He had to control them as he couldn't control his mother, hurt them as she had hurt him, and make sure that never again did another woman have control over him. But they had to want him, need him, too. As his mother did. Yes, yes, yes. Power and worship. Control and love. Domination. And he tried to find that perfect love. He tried to find it *a lot*. And he had never been found out. Until now. Brenda O'Shay. Ed's ill-fated senior prom date, and the woman he first slept with, who never made it home. Ed had been questioned, but with all the right expressions of worry and regret, he had assured the police that he and Brenda had argued at an after-prom party and he had left her there and gone home. His own mother had confirmed that, and no one at the party could remember for sure when they'd been there or when anyone had left. Between Ed's entirely convincing performance and the fact that Brenda's home life had been none too happy - the police believed they had another runaway on their hands in a city of runaways. Until one year later, when hunters tramping through heavy underbrush found her skeletized remains still wrapped in tatters of blue chiffon, body too badly decomposed to determine a manner of death. Drug paraphernalia was found nearby. Speculation ensued that she'd gone off alone to get high, overdosed and died. The oh-so-quiet, earnest and believable Ed Jerse was never thought of again. But Ed thought of Brenda often. Thought of how she'd laughed at him when they'd made love, laughed at his ineptitude. And remembered how she'd screamed and pleaded for mercy when he'd beaten her to death. She had learned her lesson, too - but like little Eva six years before, she didn't learn it in time to live it. During Ed's college years at the University of Virginia, had anyone bothered to look at the statistics, they would have found an inordinate number of prostitutes and teen runaways found their way to the morgue. But hookers and transients rarely gained much attention in a college town, particularly one in which the city officials, dependent on tourism and college recruits for revenue, tried hard to keep it quiet. And so the brutal murders of Rebecca Allred and Darla Scott and Deb Love and a dozen others were never investigated with tremendous effort. Ed Jerse's murderous lesson, the lesson of Never Again, a lesson taught with frenzy in those heady college days. But Ed had learned his lessons, too, just to be on the safe side. If he were to continue, he must learn caution. He would be careful about leaving behind forensic evidence. He'd been researching - that's how police caught men like him. Men who taught. Ed had married and returned to the Philadelphia suburbs, near his mother once again, and now with his young bride in tow, a young bride who never suspected that his business trips into the city included the business of Never Again. Lauren Orchard, Heidi James, Ellen Cantrell, Lucy Bird, Pamela Dupont, Tracy Roberts and Esther Lesser knew what Ed was up to, though, and it was the last thing they ever knew. Ed had developed some level of sophistication now, and he found his tastes running more toward the mainstream. No hookers and transients this time, oh no. They were too hard to teach, too corrupt and willful already by the lifestyles they chose. This time he needed someone more like dear old mother. Dignified, delicate, elegant femininity. He had studied them with the fervor of a true zealot, watching them much as he had first watched Eva Behr, learning all of their little secrets through carefully executed forays into their empty apartments, occasionally pilfering a small momento for himself. To remember them later. In case the lessons didn't take. Which they didn't. A pair of Esther's panties, a crotchless black raunchy bit of lace he'd been surprised to discover in her drawer, had ultimately led to his downfall at home. The now disenchanted Mrs. Jerse had long ago tired of her husband's constant business trips and suspected him of adultery - discovering Esther's panties stuffed in a tiny pocket in Ed's briefcase had only confirmed the awful truth in her mind. When she filed for divorce, Ed contemplated teaching *her* the lesson, too, but had decided against it. After all, they had children, and while she might be a lying, ungrateful bitch, every child needed a mother. Trust him on this, he knew. Well before a downstairs neighbor played her music too loud, well before Dana Scully walked into a tattoo shop, Wendy Anderson had taken Ed's lessons, too. Wendy Anderson had been a particular favorite - she had been engaged to a nice Jewish boy from money, and had recently converted to Judaism in order to marry. But she'd screamed for Jesus to save her when she died. Ed had enjoyed the rich irony of that as much as he had enjoyed ripping out her tongue later and feeding it to the dog next door. As much as he'd enjoyed burning her carefully wrapped up body in her apartment building incinerator. That had been perfect, actually, for the complete lack of evidence -- or even a body -- that it afforded. Wendy had ultimately been the practice run for Ed's hapless neighbor. All of them students in Ed's lesson, pupils who would never get it right, no matter how hard he tried. No matter how hard he might even wish for one of them to get it right. And now he had Scully. Scully, who he had watched with the same zealous fervor, the same desire to get inside her head, find her vulnerability and use it to control her. To dominate her. To make her worship him. What had he seen there? In her? Mulder stood quickly, made a quick foray through the apartment, lingering longest in her bedroom, the place that was most privately, most personally hers. "No," he whispered. It was *his*. She had been sulky, petulant, rebellious that day, the day she left for Philadelphia. Angry at him, angry at the world, angry at herself. Frightened and desperate to escape, he thought, now that he knew Leonard Betts' cryptic death sentence had preceded her flight. So firmly stated, that. At one point, had she doubted it? Had she wanted to give it to another? To Ed? Had she offered him that control that he so desperately craved? Willingly and immediately? Is that what had saved her for a time? She'd wanted to relinquish it. Yes, yes, yes. Someone to put strict parameters around her world, to shelter her from things that were out of order and out of place. To keep things straight. Tidy. Ordered and even. Military precision. Shipshape. Moby Dick. Ahab. He burst out of the bedroom and into the living room, frenzied, startling something like a squeak out of Langley. He stopped just short of running into the bookshelves and stared hard at the treasures there. Pictures - almost all of them men in uniform. Her father, her brothers. The navy. A few seashells scattered among the frames. On another shelf, a piece of coral. Soft colors of blue and ecru throughout the room. The ocean. "Water," Mulder croaked, and Byers was half-running for the kitchen to get him some before Mulder managed to say the rest. "Water. The ocean. He's got her by the ocean." *************************************** From a purely analytical point of view, it was interesting how in times of stress the brain can conjure up the silliest of images, tangential thoughts with no bearing on the situation. Or maybe that was what hysteria was. Either way, Scully was having quite the Monty Python moment while she was trussed up on a dank mattress in an abandoned warehouse with a sociopath. And that, psychologically speaking, was rather interesting. From a purely analytical point of view, of course. Because the rest of her points of view didn't find it interesting at all. They found it pretty fucking disturbing, actually. "What's your favorite color, Dana?" Ed had asked her quietly, sitting before her on the floor, cross-legged and attentive, an enthusiastic scholar eager to learn everything about her. And here was her brain, dredging up some long-forgotten scene from The Holy Grail. The question asked to cross the moat. You answer wrong, you died. It wasn't nearly as funny now as it had been at the time. Was there a wrong answer here, too? Would the cost be as deadly? And why the hell was she thinking of Monty Python at a time like this? "Blue," Scully said slowly, for lack of a better answer. She'd let Monty lead for a little while, because she was so very, very tired and so very, very sore. They'd been at this for countless hours, Ed asking one seemingly mundane question after another ... her favorite song, her favorite subject in school, whether or not she liked brussel sprouts. Ridiculous, simple questions born of some twisted need to know her. And there was no warning when the answer she gave was wrong - wrong to him, anyway, not the answer he wanted. Just a sizzling sharp slap of pain against her cheek when his hand lashed out. How it had shocked her that first time. Silly, considering she knew - or at least suspected - his long history of violence. But it had been such a surprise, the question had been so ordinary, so seemingly harmless and there seemed no likelihood of answering wrong to a query about personal preferences for flowers. But the way her head had slammed back against the wall when he'd hit her, the stinging burn across her cheek adding to the ache already there from his manhandling in the car hours before - it had become readily apparent that Ed already knew the answers he wanted to hear. And she didn't, which put her at a distinct disadvantage. As if she weren't already. "Blue," Ed repeated slowly, and his eyebrows lifted. Wrong answer again. She stiffened, preparing for the next blow, still tasting blood from the last one. But it didn't come. Instead, he shrugged, gave her some ghastly rendition of a tender smile. "I would have figured you for pink. I think you do like pink, really. But years ago, someone, probably your mother, told you it doesn't go with your hair. Convinced you it wasn't for you. Still," and he reached out to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes, "I think you secretly like pink a lot. You just won't admit it. Isn't that right?" "Okay," she choked out, hating herself for the concession, hating herself for taking the reprieve and reaching for it so hurriedly. "Pink. Pink, it is." But there was no reason to fight him, not on something as trivial as this. Better she tried to tell him what he wanted to hear as soon as she could figure out what that was, and while she did so concentrate on picking the lock on her handcuffs. Better she do it *very* quickly because Ed was obviously escalating, to put it in psychiatric terms -- and on the express elevator from the looks of it, swinging so rapidly now between composure and viciousness that it was becoming difficult to differentiate the two. She briefly flashed on the realization that Mulder would have been better skilled at dealing with this, his education and his innate skill would have told him exactly how to handle Ed - but that thought was quickly tamped down, being both unproductive and painful. She could not afford to think of Mulder right now. The bobby pin was rescued from its hiding place behind her, stabbed into the mattress, and her fingers, increasingly numb from her bonds, were grateful for the chance to stir. Slowly, careful not to betray herself, she maneuvered the sliver of metal into position against the lock's pins. "You haven't asked me about your brother, Dana." Her heart fluttered, like wings bruising against a cruel cage. Physical pain from a verbal blow. A lost moment, her fingers freezing in place at that precarious spot in the keyway of the lock plug - the place where the torque she applied with the bobby pin would have to be precise, a subtlety of weight and pressure that was infinitely harder to master than the simple act of pushing lock pins and the real test of the mastery of lock-picking. It was scientific, mathematics and physics in its purest form, and in being so, it was artistic in its symmetry. Her heart quieted. "No, Ed, I haven't," she said at last, when she could keep her voice steady, a husky, deferential contralto she had learned that he preferred. "Why is that, do you suppose?" He unfolded from his lotus-like position and stood, but his movements were slow and casual, and she did not think he was moving to hit her again. She waited until he had stepped back into the darkness a bit, out of striking distance, and breathing came a little more naturally. "I suppose because I already know the answer," she replied calmly. A part of her brain stirred to life, offering a few glimpses of gruesome pictures borne of a pathologist's knowledge of death, and she clamped down on it. Hard. Turned its attention instead to the lock behind her, picturing the keyway and the wards guarding it, imagining each pin of the lock responding to the torque she applied now, her fingers slightly numb and not as nimble as she would have liked, but still attuned to the inaudible shiver she would feel when the first pin bound and could be nudged to the sheer line. "You think he's dead?" "I believe he is, yes." Behind her, she found the perfect pressure, slid the pick ever-so-carefully, and set the first pin. Yes. "Aren't you *upset* about that?" Ed asked from the shadows, just outside the puddle of oil-lamplight that spilled over most of the mattress on which she sat. Thankfully, she'd found that, leaned against the wall as she was, it cast most of her arms in shadow. The opportune darkness had hid the telltale movements of her arms and hands throughout the night, and had given her a good chance to maneuver and stay marginally flexible. She stared out into the dark on the far perimeter of her circle, where she could just make out Ed's dim silhouette, and decided to take a chance. "I don't think you expect me to upset about it, do you, Ed?" She was rather proud of how she'd managed it - distant and polite. She could burn in hell for her disloyalty later. Or perhaps sooner. There was a sound, something like a chuckle, from the shadows. "You may just be learning yet, Dana." Grudging approval in his voice, as if he'd been given a unexpected gift. Or she had. Scully swallowed bile. "No, I don't expect you to be upset about it. I think you're glad, all things considered, even if you'd never admit it to anyone else." Not the same thing. Not the same thing at all, dammit. "Tell me, Ed," she said softly. "Tell me why you think that." She felt, rather than saw, him moving in the shadows and when he returned, he was carrying a paper cup with a straw. She paused at her work on the lock, watching him warily as he knelt before her, nudging the straw to her lips. A glance down revealed a clear liquid, the clean smell of water, and she licked her split and bleeding lips despite herself. The last she'd had to drink was hours before, a glass of wine in a dimly lit restaurant with Mulder ... Stop. "It's not drugged." He looked oddly ingenuous at that moment, a lock of hair falling over wide, dark eyes, the sincere and solicitous host. Very Norman Bates at check-in time. "It's just water. I thought you might be thirsty." After a moment of internal debate, she finally took the straw between swollen lips. Although her brain warned her that any number of dangerous chemicals dilute in water with no taste or odor, her parched throat overrode caution after that first delicious sip. Too soon, the cup was empty, and he leaned back, setting the cup aside on the floor. "Thank you," she said at last, not sure how else to respond. This seemed to please him, and he smiled. "You're welcome. You're very polite, Dana. I like that." "I'm so glad," she replied, and if the words were venom-tipped, he appeared not to hear it. Instead, he ran his fingertips whisper-soft across her cheek and the bruises she knew must be forming there, the gesture stark contrast to the violence of earlier and equally as terrifying. She willed herself not to flinch, instead focused herself entirely on the task before her ... well, behind her, actually. Oh wow, her mind was just offering one witticism after another. This was what they called gallows humor, she suspected. "I don't want to hurt you," he whispered softly, his breath blowing warm into her face and smelling faintly of stale cigarettes. "I'm trying to help you understand, that's all. I'm trying to help you learn. You aren't like the rest of them, Dana. You are special. I can show Her that. And then it won't have to hurt anymore." Scully had wondered just how long they could go before that tattoo came up in this twisted conversation. There was her answer, she supposed. "So help me understand, Ed." Sliding the pick carefully further, lifting her gaze now to his, hoping that he saw in it whatever dark thing he looked for. "Talk to me." He smiled, moved backward until he sat once more on the floor before her, and she breathed easily again. "What do you want to know?" "Anything you want to tell me." Then impulsively, following her gut, "Tell me about Her." Risky move, that. But it was too late to take it back. Her fingers trembled and she lost the leverage she'd achieved on the second lock pin. Dammit. "Her?" He glanced down toward his arm, mercifully covered. Scully could imagine the damage the fire had done, had seen enough before the ambulance arrived to know that there were no skin grafts that would repair it. She dared a hesitant nod. "She looks out for me. She takes care of me. She knows me better than anyone." "Has ... Has she always been with you?" Fingers at work again, one half of her brain focused on keeping up with a sociopath, the other half focused on the means of escaping him. "Before the tattoo, I mean?" Ed frowned, then his expression cleared. "Oh, I see what you mean. Did I hear voices *before* I got the tattoo, that's what you're asking, right?" Oh, shit. "Well, I just meant -" He surprised her by actually answering. "Sort of. Not really voices, I never really heard anyone say anything. But there was always this ... presence. Telling me what I needed to do. Teaching me the lessons. Helping me try to make things right. Like a guardian angel or something. It wasn't until I got this tattoo that I could really hear her voice speaking to me." He actually smiled at her. "I know how it sounds, Dana. I'm not crazy. She talks to me ... It threw me at first. I didn't understand it. Now I do. She came to help me." "Help you?" The pick shifted slightly between her fingers and she felt the second pin set into place at last. Thank God. "Help you how?" "Help me with *you*," he replied patiently, and she swallowed hard. "You can see that, can't you? Do you honestly think it's coincidence that I walked into that shop and picked that tattoo - the one that gave Her a voice? And then I met you in that same place? And you needed so much that I could give you. I think She saw that." He was talking in contradictions and he didn't even see it. Of course, homicidal delusions rarely came neatly packaged, either. "Ed," she began cautiously, "I thought you said She didn't like me. I thought She hated me." Ed grinned, lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's because you're special. You're the one. I think She's jealous." Oh God . . . She swallowed. Hard. Forced her fingers not to rush their work on the lock as a fresh wave of panic bore down. One more pin slid into place. "But now you think She wants to help you . . . with me?" "She came back. She came to me when you came into my life, and even after I destroyed Her for you, she came back. It's not terribly difficult to figure out from there." Scully had no idea how to respond to that. Better to change tactics. "Where's my brother?" she asked suddenly. "Oh, he's around here somewhere, I suppose," Ed replied airily, shrugging. Blood red fury tinged black with horror swept through her like a tidal wave; mini starburst explosions of light behind her eyes, dark pools muddying the edges of her vision, and she knew at last what a killing rage was. She stabbed the pick more viciously into the keyway and it was only by pure luck that it actually worked for her - the fourth pin set. "That made you angry, didn't it?" he continued, and there was something gloating and sing-song in his tone. Walk softly, Dana. "I . . ." She hesitated, chose her next words carefully. "I didn't care for your tone, Ed." He actually laughed out loud. "You're right, of course. I was patronizing. Forgive me." His comportment swung back on its pendulum, the charming host once more. He cocked his head, studied her curiously, pinning her with his gaze. "Aren't you going to ask me why?" No. Nonono. Deep breath. "Do you want to tell me?" "It's ironic, really," he chuckled. He lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. "I didn't care for his tone." "What??" Sheer willpower kept her from startling, which might have undone all of her previous efforts on the lock. She was so close now, so very close to changing the rules of Ed's twisted little game - one more pin. Just one more pin. "I was there that day, you know." He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, a dim smile playing at his lips. "I was already watching you when you went on vacation. With your family. You all seemed so picture perfect. But I saw. I saw the way he treated you, I saw that argument in the hotel bar. The way he talked to you, what he said to you." Another shrug, as if he were already bored with the topic. "Like I said, I didn't care for his tone. So I eliminated it, so to speak. Or not speak, actually." He chuckled again, amused by his own wit. A hissing gasp was her only reply. For one infinite moment, she felt again her brother's tongue laying in her palm, cool and insubstantial in its size, burning and crushingly heavy in its significance; she felt the horror of it crash down on her once again ... ... Ed's voice was muffled and far away, she couldn't see him in the blackness before her eyes, and she realized she was perilously close to passing out. Her fingers froze at the lock, willing the pin to hold, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek, hard enough to draw blood, hard enough to bring her back to reality. Or was it sanity? She had known, in that one moment, what it would feel like to slip entirely into insanity. "...will admit he had a point about your partner, though. Mulder." Those two syllables, spat with utter distaste. Mulder. She focused all of her energy on that name, on that man, on who he was and all he represented, the name a mantra to ward off the demons Ed had seemed to unleash in her own mind. Think of Mulder. Mulder would keep her sane. Funny, considering she'd often wondered during their years together if he was deliberately trying to drive her crazy. But no, that wasn't what she'd meant at all. Mulder. *Mulder*. "What about Mulder?" she asked, and just saying his name aloud was a balm, in its way, creeping its way down her shock-numbed body with tendrils of warmth. An almost hysterical giggle choked in her throat. Her limbs began to tremble, exhaustion, adrenaline, trauma -- maybe all three -- making her arms shiver with a violence she could barely control. So close. Don't lose it now, Dana, not now. "He said that Mulder was dragging you down, turning you into someone you weren't, as I recall," Ed replied. "That he was just using you to his own purposes. And - and this I *particularly* remember - that you would end up sacrificing everything you are, everything you stand for, for him." He paused significantly, his malicious grin at odds with the casual shrug he offered. "You have to admit, Dana, he was right on that one." And with that thought, she rammed the pick home. The pin set, she felt it more intuitively than physically with the tremors in her arms, and with an indelicate twist, she opened the lock at last. A few clumsy nudges with her fingers, and the metal around her wrists fell noiselessly to the mattress behind her, impotent now. It took only seconds, maybe milliseconds - Ed was still smiling that oily-evil smile and looking far too confident. The pin dropped and fingers scrabbled for the tiny scalpel blade nearby, secreted away in a crevice. A flick of the wrist and the blade severed its cotton-ball casing, slicing its way to the surface like a tiny, deadly serpent. She tested it with numb fingers, barely felt its bite. But it would strike, she had no doubt of that. Time to play a new game, Ed. And then the sky exploded. **************************** As Mulder paced beneath an unforgiving, moonless sky, it occurred to him that his nickname "Spooky" was a goddamned joke. While it might have seemed so to the obviously rattled Lone Gunmen and Skinner, it wasn't "Spooky"-ness that had led Mulder to announce, seemingly out of the blue, that Scully was being held by the ocean. That had been deduction, a matter of following an admittedly convoluted string of related events and the psychological motives of a killer obsessed with his prey. Take her to the water she loved. Novels and movies liked to portray profiling as some sort of psychic gift, but it wasn't paranormal, and as far as Mulder was concerned, it was no gift. And there had been no glimmer of preternatural influence when Mulder had just as abruptly altered his theory, while the others were still trying to wrap their minds around how to search the entire Atlantic seaboard, for God's sake. That, too, was simple logic, though perhaps not so simple to those that lacked his … flair for such things. Jerse would not want to travel that far to get to the ocean; to be out in the open for so long with Scully, no matter that she'd come to him, was risky. He had to know the consequences of that act, know that Mulder would unleash all the furies of law and vengeance upon him. So he wouldn't want to go far, but would instead go to ground nearby. Which left the river. The Potomac River, where Jerse would have readied himself an insidious little lair for what he had in mind. And by the time Mulder began scouring the maps of riverfront property within the District of Columbia that Byers had managed to dredge up from God knows where in the computer, the others had almost caught up with his logic: Skinner readying agents by phone for search and seizure tactical operations, the Gunmen dismantling their equipment and reassembling Scully's apartment as she'd left it as much as possible – an oddly optimistic gesture that Mulder appreciated. No, there was nothing "spooky" about Fox Mulder. Because if he had been spooky, if he'd had some uncanny ability to divine the unknown and unseen, he would have known the entire goddamned D.C. Police Department was going to show up riverside, uninvited and unwelcome, to fuck up everything. And he could have stopped it. "Heads are going to fucking roll," Skinner hissed from beside him, half-crouched as they were behind a dark federal-issue ops van they had rolled onto the scene barely 45 minutes before, engine and headlights off to avoid announcing their arrival. Federal agents in night gear had already taken positions around their target, a smallish, seemingly abandoned warehouse with boarded-up windows, squat and low against the sloping, weedy bank of the Potomac. Infrared optics had confirmed what Mulder already knew – two people occupied the building, one moving around fairly often, sometimes gesturing wildly, the other huddled on the floor against the wall. High-powered microphones aimed at the building had removed any remaining doubt as to the identity of the two inside. The words were often hard to distinguish, but there was no mistaking her voice. Or the pistol-like crack of flesh on flesh when Ed slapped her, again and again. Sitting there, listening to Scully being beaten, helpless and uncomfortable in the federal-issue FBI windbreaker and Kevlar vest Skinner had insisted he wear, was a more perfect hell for Mulder than Jerse could have ever devised had he been inclined. He was powerless to stop it, knowing that all agents must be in position and a strike plan established before he could act. At one point, Skinner had tried to distract him from listening, even reached for the earphones, offering him some measure of escape, but Mulder had refused. She would not suffer alone. They had been close. The strike teams had gradually moved nearer, weaknesses in the warehouse structure and target locations assessed and enveloped into the tactical maneuvers. The infrared images didn't appear to show the standing figure holding anything that might be a weapon, though that was admittedly inconclusive. Still the two figures inside were a reasonable distance from one another, and appeared completely unaware of the Bureau presence. With a surprise strike through one of the weaker building entry points (a poorly sealed window), tear gas and assault weapons at ready, the plan had one of the higher projected success ratios Mulder had ever seen in a scenario of this nature. They had been *thisclose* to swarming the warehouse and shutting Jerse down. Until the black-garbed D.C. S.W.A.T. team marched down the middle of the paved drive like some fucking storm trooper unit -- armed to the teeth and obviously ready to hunt for bear -- ignoring the startled and furious looks of the federal agents who had already abandoned their cover positions and were beginning to approach the warehouse. "I'll have that pansy-assed McBride's goddamned badge," Skinner vowed. Far down the dark lane, which agents had blocked on the way in, Mulder could see the flashing red and blues of city police cars, bearing down with a vengeance. He couldn't hear the sirens, maybe they were at least that smart. Skinner shouted something unintelligible, jumping up, and Mulder realized with a start that he could barely hear Skinner either – because a black Comanche helicopter had risen, almost cobra-like, from behind a row of high-rise buildings behind them, the wind direction and the pilot's flying ensuring an almost noiseless approach until the damned machine was almost on top of them -- hovering now over the flat roof of the warehouse, whipping the air into an explosion of dirt and noise. The helicopter's spotlight flared on, bathing suddenly-exposed personnel in a burning-white light, forcing the agents to abandon their assault on the warehouse and run for cover. The city's S.W.A.T. team ducked neatly into the cover positions previously held by the federal agents. "SHIT!" This time, Mulder heard Skinner, and he agreed completely. ************* "Shit!" Scully wasn't sure if she shouted it or Ed did – she thought maybe they both did -- wasn't sure if she even heard the expletive at all through the deafening roar overhead, a sound that beat at her ears and seemed to suck the air from the room, leaving only a bone-thrumming throb, as if the warehouse were suddenly on the verge of explosion. Instinct kicked in before recognition did, and she rolled herself over the mattress and toward the nearest corner even as Ed was launching himself to the floor in the opposite direction. Her hand clutched at the scalpel in her hand and its bite into the soft flesh of her palm cut through the shock-induced daze. A helicopter. The pulsing thud of rotors, the thunder and mechanical squeal of an engine pushed too quickly to its limits, those were sounds she knew. Now she could vaguely see a whitish cast in the air around them, a searchlight bearing down hot, too powerful not to force its way through the tiniest cracks in the slats of the roof and add an eerie, almost ambient glow to the already bizarre atmosphere. Police. Maybe the FBI. Mulder. He had found her after all. She rolled to her feet, arms swinging upward and combat-ready, the tiny blade in her hand flashing dimly in the eerie light before she tucked it against her palm. Eyes sweeping the gloom, she saw Ed rising from the floor, much closer to her than she'd expected, all broad shoulders and hulking shadow. Take him, take him when he wasn't expecting it. Incapacitate first. Kill if necessary. "What the hell is going on, Dana?" His words were hoarse, shouted over the helicopter roar, and she suddenly wanted to laugh because she had no fucking clue. This was not a Bureau maneuver; men in nightgear would have swarmed in from every impossible crevice in the walls without even the forewarning of a squeaking floorboard, red light beams sighting kill trajectories while sharp voices hammered orders to Get Down and Stay Down. What they would *not* do is let a helicopter pilot with an apparent diva complex announce their arrival. "I don't know!" she shouted, hoping to convince him she was still on his side, buy herself a little more time to get closer to him – close enough to put the scalpel blade to his jugular. And then she realized the din was lessening, the helicopter moving away until it was a pulsing hum in the distance. An amplified voice took its place. "This is the D.C. Police Department. You are completely surrounded. Step out of the warehouse with your hands above your heads." Oh yeah, that was always fucking effective, Scully thought witheringly, blood hammering in her ears and making it hard to think. Keep Ed calm, keep him from turning on her, locate any weapons he might have on him, and then take him down. But, first and foremost, keep him calm. Calm, however, was going to be a tricky thing to come by. "You tricked me! You fucking tricked me!" he screamed, and it was deafening in the sudden stillness of the warehouse. She wondered if there were snipers outside, if they could hear him, if they even cared. "You brought them here!" "Ed, I didn't! I didn't know they were coming." She ventured a careful step toward him, the hand that didn't hold the scalpel stretching toward him, palm up. Soft, gentling tone. "How could I? I've been here with you. With you, Ed. Just the way you wanted. I didn't know they were coming. I didn't know." She ground to a halt, unsure what to say next, watchful and waiting for him to make the next move. She didn't have to wait long; his fist shot out with the lightning speed of an adder, too quick for her to anticipate, and a starburst of pain bloomed scarlet and sizzling in her cheek. She tasted blood, her vision dimmed and it took her a moment to realize she was staggering, her legs trying to keep her up while the rest of her body was trying to figure out what had happened. While her brain was still scrambling to decipher signals from a thousand misfiring neurons, Ed began yanking frantically at the buttons of his shirt, ripping the fabric open as if it burned. He moved toward her, something dark and newly menacing apparent in his eyes even in the dim light, and instinctively she stumbled backward, forgetting for a moment that she'd planned on getting *closer* to him. Moving back made much more sense: Dana Scully knew what pure evil was, and it was oozing out of Ed like the slick sweat of rotting meat. This was the end of the game, she knew that now. Final round. Death match. "I'll show you," he muttered, peeling the shirt from his chest and down his arms. "I'll show you what it means. You'll learn your lesson. Learn your lesson, learn the lesson, learn your lesson . . . " What little had been left of Ed Jerse the man was gone entirely, leaving Ed Jerse the maniac in his place, a gibbering but no-less-dangerous creature. He reached for her, bare-armed now, and instinct drove her backward again, her feet apparently having been appropriated by a more primitive portion of her brain that favored fleeing over fighting. Her fingers convulsed more tightly around the scalpel, slippery now, and she realized she was bleeding. She didn't feel it. Her world had been reduced to a fleshy, striated expanse of sooty black and burning blue and raw scarlet. Never Again. ************* "What the hell do you think you're pulling here, McBride? You're putting federal agents in danger here, and you'll be god damned lucky if I don't arrest you myself!" Skinner shouted over the thunder of the helicopter overhead, his nose inches from the officious captain's, an imposing figure in his windbreaker, "FBI" emblazoned in bright, get-the-hell-out-of-my-way yellow across the back. McBride had arrived shortly after the helicopter appeared, his glossy black Lincoln following in the wake of his SWAT team like the grand marshal at a parade, appearing from the caverns of the expensive car still impeccably and improbably garbed in his dress uniform. "We thought you all could use a little help here, Mr. Skinner. This is still my city, my jurisdiction." "Not once I'm finished with you," Skinner promised. "You did, after all, ask for cooperation from our department," McBride reminded him with an acid smile, stepping back an inch or two and brushing the lapels of his jacket as if the near contact with Skinner had dirtied him. "I'm merely providing all that my considerable police force has to offer. There's a federal fugitive on the loose, you know, and it wouldn't do for the FBI to let him escape, would it?" I'll kill him, Skinner thought almost detachedly, utter shock at McBride's audacity numbing him. I'll just fucking kill him. "Sir!" Mulder was storming toward them, all windblown hair and rumpled clothes – and a face carved from stone into something cold and fierce and frightening. "What the fuck is going on?" The helicopter pulled away suddenly, streaking back toward the horizon by some unknown order, and Skinner heard the squeal of a loudspeaker before a voice was suddenly ordering the warehouse's occupants to come out with their hands in the air. Bruna's voice, he recognized the little shit by the incongruity of his pompous whine. "Back off, McBride!" Skinner ordered. "Tell your men to back the fuck OFF. I'll take you down right here, right now, don't think I won't." Angry shouting from inside the warehouse now, a man's voice, but the words were unintelligible, grabbing all of their attention in the space of a heartbeat. Mulder stiffened, leaning toward the sound like a sprinter waiting for the starter pistol, and for one wildly spinning moment, Skinner wondered if he would have to tackle the younger man to keep him from running toward the building. But instead he turned on McBride, and what Skinner had not been able to manage with his towering bulk, Mulder accomplished with one frigid, fixed stare – McBride paled, visibly shaken, and took a few faltering steps backward. "Tell your men to step down, Captain," Mulder said in a murmur so deceptively gentle that it sounded like a request . . . until you looked into his cold, suddenly bottomless eyes. "Do. It. Right. Now." "Sir!" Another voice, further away, a voice he recognized but couldn't place. He swung around and saw one of his agents, hunkered behind a skimpy shrub, the only cover she'd been able to find upon the graceless arrival of the D.C. police. She was waving frantically – O'Leary, his brain supplied automatically, Agent O'Leary from the restaurant – toward the city SWAT team. Who were taking position to storm the building themselves, a ridiculous move now that their presence had been announced by the helicopter. "McBride," Skinner warned. "Now, Captain," Mulder said softly, barely audible but no less forceful. The team began its approach. Skinner began a headlong dash toward them, his mind already envisioning the bloodbath that would ensue if they reached their target, federal agents tumbling from cover in blurs of black shadow to back him up. He glanced back over his shoulder. "Mulder!" The younger man looked away from McBride, finally saw what was going on, and pushed past the police captain so quickly that the man fell to the ground in an inauspicious heap. "Jesus Christ!" ************* "Oh my God." Scully recognized the voice, it was hers, but she didn't remember speaking aloud. She didn't think she was capable of speech, staring as she was at the ravaged remains of Ed Jerse's incinerated arm and at what ought to be physically impossible – his redheaded, blue-eyed devil of a tattoo, vividly colored and coyly winking from Ed's ruined, shriveled bicep. Grossly distorted by the scar tissue, thick rivulets of flesh that looked like melted candle wax, so obscenely twisted that the woman's face appeared to be snarling, a gargoyle parody of its former self . . . but still there, almost shiny and shocking with color. There where Ed's flesh had been burned so badly that a dozen skin grafts could never repair or even attempt to disguise the damage, that tattoo had risen to take its place once more. "I think She's ready to teach you your lesson, Dana," Ed crooned. Never Again. The scalpel slid upward from her palm, slipping into place between her fingers as if born there. "Never again," she hissed, and lunged. ************* "Federal agent, freeze!" A black-garbed agent appeared as if from nowhere, putting herself between the door of the warehouse and the approaching SWAT, one hand displaying a badge, the other gripping her weapon with utter seriousness, aiming it directly at the encroachers. The police squad hesitated, long enough for other federal agents to fan out and essentially bar the building from approach. The police halted and drew their weapons. The federal agents did the same. And if it had been any other situation, Mulder would have been shaking his head in utter disbelief at the inanity of it -- it was a face off the likes of which John Woo had never imagined in one of his improbably elaborate shoot-'em-up movies. "Agent Long, thank you for establishing the perimeter," Skinner said to the first agent with a cool aplomb Mulder couldn't help but admire, as if this scenario were all part of the FBI tactical plan and not what Skinner would oh-so-aptly call a rat fuck of grandiose proportions. He joined the assistant director in what could only be called the kill-zone, the flat patch of dirt about 10 feet wide bristling on either side with the muzzles of assault rifles. "Officers," Skinner said now to the city personnel, "I appreciate your assistance, but I would suggest you remove yourself from this scene immediately. You are treading on very thin ice – thin ice that happens to be under the jurisdiction of the Federal Bureau of Investigations." He gave a humorless grin when no one made a move. "In case I wasn't clear, let me reiterate. I meant fucking NOW." The SWAT reluctantly lowered their weapons. And the unmistakable crack of a gunshot sounded from inside the warehouse. ************* Scully lunged, arm swinging upward and then down again in a deadly arc, and Ed was reaching behind him, pulling something dark and snub-nosed from the waistband of his jeans. Point blank range. She twisted in the middle of her charge, trying to avoid a shot if she could, her arm swerving left as she pivoted away from him, and she heard the shot, felt a sizzling streak of pain lance up her side, and then the blade was curving down, away from his neck. Sinking instead into the mottled, striated flesh of his burned arm, slicing hot through the face of that tattoo. Ed shrieked, it rang in her ears louder than the sound of the gunshot, a wild, guttural, tortured sound and they were both falling, down, down, down until the unforgiving wood planks of the floor rushed up to meet them. Gasping for breath, hearing a rhythmic, hiccuping whimper that she thought might be her own, Scully scrabbled on hands and knees for the gun, pinning Ed's uninjured arm to the floor and wrenching it away. But she needn't have worried too much. Ed was down and from the choking, heaving noises he was making, he wouldn't be getting up anytime soon. And it didn't make sense, no sense at all. Had she hit her head? There was so much blood. Too much blood, and it was too dark, too thick even in the dimness of the warehouse to be real. Pooling beneath Ed's arm and pouring from the gaping maw of the wound there, black and viscous and definitely not normal – Voices outside, raised in anger, raised in confusion and in panic. Scully decided she had been brave and independent long enough. She had the gun now, and Ed wasn't moving anymore. Now she just wanted to get *gone*. She stumbled in the direction of the voices. ************* "Down, get down! Get down!" Warnings barked from all sides as the echoes of that single gunshot hung in the air, sending dozens of well-trained law enforcement officers diving to the dirt, a training response so thoroughly ingrained it was now instinct. Mulder was tasting turf before it even registered that he was on the ground. He scrambled back up as quickly as he'd fallen, crouching low but determined to be on his feet, willing to break down the warehouse door himself. A gun shot. A gun shot. And Scully hadn't taken her gun, he'd found it still in its holster in her apartment. Which meant Ed Jerse had the gun. Agents and officers alike were scrambling for cover, Skinner was dragging Mulder backward toward an overturned and much-abused metal trashcan that was never intended to stop a bullet but was as good a cover as they were going to get. He didn't even have a chance to struggle. "Jerse!" Skinner bellowed. "Jerse, FBI!" He waved frantically at a cop huddled behind a bush nearby, the one with the electronic megaphone. "I need that goddamned thing!" he hissed. "Get it over here!" There was another noise from the warehouse, the harsh screech of metal protesting as it was moved, and everyone ducked instinctively again. Except Mulder, who rose to a standing position and could not be dragged down again, despite Skinner's best efforts. It was the door, the wide, heavy warehouse door, and there was no way in hell Mulder was not going to see who came through it. A dim silhouette, distorted in the shadows, appeared and the metallic crackle of three dozen guns locking and loading. Three dozen weapons with their sights trained on the figure in the doorway. "Jesus, no!" Mulder shouted, his voice hoarse with fear. "Down! Put them down!" He was already running for the warehouse, seconds before the others realized what they were seeing. And then the figure leaned against the doorframe, head bowed against the pitiless beam of a searchlight quickly turned on. A small, solitary figure whose legs were crumpling beneath her even as her hands rose to cover her face. And she cried. *********************************** There were voices, too many voices all shouting garbled nonsense words – at her, around her, to her, she couldn't be sure – and Scully wondered if maybe she'd suffered some sort of nerve damage to her ears, from something she couldn't remember during those last frantic moments in the warehouse. Everything was muzzy and distorted, she couldn't hear anything clearly . . . except her own hitching sobs, even muffled as they were behind her hands. And then she heard Mulder, and realized that she'd only been waiting to hear what mattered. "Scully . . ." His voice, soft at her ear, and she could sense him crouching over her, his head bent so close that his lips brushed the backs of her fingers as he formed the syllables. "Scully." His hands were over hers now, gently tugging at them, trying to uncover her face. She shook her head slightly, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. "Don't. Not . . . yet." He made a wordless sound of agreement, and she felt him scoot closer still, until he was almost entirely over her now, shielding her from prying eyes. His fingers skimmed gently over the crown of her head, stroking downward until they rested warm and comforting at the back of her neck. Relief swept through her in a current – he was here, he was safe, they were both safe – and another sob shuddered its way from her lungs. "Hey," Mulder breathed against her hair. "Hey. It's all right now. It's over." She nodded, throat aching with tears she refused to continue shedding. It was over. Yes, over. Done. No more tears. A quivering breath, and then she slowly inched her hands away from her face, head still bowed. Booted feet flew in her periphery vision and she realized that agents were hurrying to secure the warehouse. But there was no danger there anymore. She shivered, no tears now, just cold, an endless, aching cold. "Here." His hand lifted from her neck and she was shaking, then his jacket was draped around her shoulders. He pulled it tight under her chin, briskly rubbed her arms to warm them before scooping her hands, limp and defeated in her lap, into his own. "Better?" "Yes," she replied softly, "Thank you," and she finally dared to lift her head, to look him in the eye at last. The relief and muted fear still haunting his gaze would have brought her to her knees if she hadn't been there already. And the pain in his eyes when he saw her face – God, bless him, he tried, but he couldn't hide his wince. She tested the tender corner of her mouth with the tip of her tongue, tasted blood, and conjured up a weary, crooked smile for his benefit. "Not exactly easy on the eyes right now, am I?" Her lips were swollen and her jaw ached, and now that adrenaline had abandoned her, she realized how difficult it was to enunciate. Her entire face felt swollen with bruises, her head too heavy for her neck, wobbling with punch-drunk palsy. "My eyes aren't complaining, Scully," he whispered fiercely, and his voice sounded funny. Tight with unshed tears of his own. "I'm sorry I scared you, Mulder." So sorry this was the price paid. He didn't respond to that. "Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere else?" His hands were at her chin now, tilting her face into the glare of the lights, worried eyes memorizing every wound there. His index finger swiped ever-so-carefully at the smears of blood on her cheeks, much of it from the blood on her hands. Blood on her hands. "No, I'm okay. My face hurts. I cut my hand." She turned the hand in question palm up and carefully flexed her fingers, watching fresh blood well up from the lacerations there. He dragged his gaze from her face to examine it, nodding slightly. "This probably needs stitches," he said finally. There was awkwardness now; with the fierce emotions of immediate reunion behind them, there was so much more to say. But not here. "Yes." She was cognizant at last of the activity around them, the men and women in tactical gear swarming and shouting and appearing to do their best to give them a wide berth in the process. "I should – we should probably move now, Mulder. We're in the way." His expression clearly indicated that he didn't care whose way they might be in, but he nodded and eased an arm carefully around her shoulders, helping her to her feet. With movement, numbness fled at last and fire raced up her side. "Oh," she said quietly, remembering those last fleeting moments in the warehouse with a new clarity. She felt a ridiculous urge to blush, feeling like an idiot for not thinking of it sooner. "Oh, I . . . I think I might have been shot." "Jesus!" Mulder was trying to push her back down toward the ground while shouting over his shoulder for a paramedic. Skinner appeared out of nowhere, cutting through the personnel with broad shoulders and a fierce scowl, a trio of paramedics in his wake, hurrying to keep up. "It's all right." Scully raised her voice over the fresh wave of bedlam. Blood painted Mulder's white shirtsleeve with feathery swipes of red where she grabbed it, clenching it in her fist and tugging to get his attention. She was struggling to keep her feet under his insistent pressure at her shoulders. "Mulder, it's not that bad." She really didn't know that for sure, but she'd managed to walk across the warehouse, haul open a large door and hadn't really noticed any pain for a few minutes, so it seemed a fairly reasonable assumption. "C'mon, sit back down," Mulder was urging, and she lifted her other hand, the one not clutching his sleeve for balance, palm out and pacifying. "I can walk to an ambulance." She ignored the men and women gathering around them, the paramedics hovering nearby, the intimidating bulk that was Skinner looming near her elbow. She met Mulder's gaze, held it, and squeezed his arm. "Please, Mulder." She tilted her head slightly toward the onlookers. Softer now, "Let me walk to the ambulance. Please." He understood, as she'd known he would, and he nodded before tucking her hand into the crook of his arm and leading her carefully up the slight incline that led to the street and the waiting ambulance. The pain was harsher now, but the quality of it – a fierce but mostly shallow burn – reassured her. It was likely a flesh wound, nothing more. An immediate check at the ambulance confirmed it. Scully eased herself into a sitting position on the edge of the ambulance's floor, facing out, feet dangling above the ground and toes brushing Mulder's shins as he towered in front of her. She shrugged off the windbreaker, regretting immediately the loss of its warmth and Mulder made a wordless sound of alarm. A glance down revealed a laceration near the seam of her jacket, the fitted black silk now wet-velvet dark and sticking to her side. Blood. More blood. Her fingers lifted automatically to the buttons at the front of the suit . . . and stopped, hovering there, useless and faintly trembling. She couldn't, couldn't bare herself here, in this place with these people, when normally she would have been quite clinical about it after a fleeting moment of discomfort. But now, after all this, it felt too exposed. Vulnerable. Again, Mulder understood. Silent, efficient, and ever gentle, he bent over her and ripped the seam from hem to just below her sleeve, revealing her side and nothing more. "Thank you," she whispered, even as he was hissing his sympathy, staring now at the angry gash that furrowed its way in an arc across her side, from just below her ribcage at the front to just above her hip at the back. She tried swiveling to better view it and grimaced at the sizzle of pain that rewarded her efforts, but the medical doctor inside her head was already evaluating it. Flesh wound, epidermal trauma only, the blood already beginning to clot. "You turned," Mulder said at last, and he glanced over his shoulder at the paramedics, who were hovering somewhat uselessly behind him, unsure if they should butt in and do their jobs or not. Scully almost felt sorry for them – when Mulder was focused on you, he had a way of making everyone else around him utterly superfluous. "What?" she asked him as he stepped to the side, leaning against the ambulance's door. "You turned. You can see the trajectory – if you hadn't turned, that bullet would have gone right through you." His voice was tight, and he turned away quickly, shaking his head and murmuring something she couldn't hear. "Miss, can you raise your arm?" one of the paramedics was asking. She did as he asked without sparing him a glance, wincing slightly as she did so, and reached for Mulder with her other hand, tugging at his sleeve. "Hey. Hey." She tugged again, waiting until he'd turned to continue. His head was bowed. "I'm all right. It didn't go through. It's a flesh wound." "You were lucky." He wouldn't look at her, and when she tried to duck her head to meet his eyes, a paramedic was pushing an icepack at her, insistent upon pressing it against her swollen cheek. She snatched it almost impatiently and held it against her jaw, feeling the cold sink into the simmering pain there. "It doesn't matter right now." Softly, for his ears only. "I'm here, I'm fine." "You are NOT fine," he snapped, and even though she'd expected it on some level, she was still shocked at the anger she heard in his voice. His head snapped up, and she found herself bearing the full force of his gaze, simmering with hurt. "No. No, I suppose I'm not," she replied with quiet dignity. The sudden silence between them was noticeably awkward, even punctuated as it was by the constant chatter of the paramedics and the maelstrom of activity around them. This was the price. She pulled her hand away, letting it fall limply into her lap, and the paramedic immediately snatched it up to examine the gash in her finger. Scully glanced down briefly at his nametag – Ed. Oh, now that was rich. That was fucking priceless. One Ed to tear her apart, another to put her back together again. Would she get a third Ed free? A giggle choked her from somewhere behind the lump in her throat, all the hysterical laughter-tears she'd wanted to shed in the warehouse bubbling up again now – here -- and she crushed it back, swallowing hard, and suddenly she was shaking again with the force of it, trembling so violently that her feet drummed against the floor of the ambulance and the Ed the Paramedic lost his grip on her hand. Mulder looked up, alarm twisting his features, and then he was pushing the paramedics away, wrapping his arms around her again, pulling her up against his chest and pressing her face against his neck. His mouth hummed against her ear, nonsensical shushing sounds meant to soothe. Scully inhaled deeply, as if she could draw Mulder himself down into her lungs and smooth him like a balm over her jangling nerves. His hand swept up her back and down again, in time with her breathing, and after a time, the shaking stopped. Awareness of their surroundings returned once again. "I'm – " She thought better of the word "fine," chose more carefully. "I'm better now," she whispered against his throat. "Thank you." She felt him nod, his cheek rough with stubble grazing her neck, and then he was pulling away. She sucked in a deep breath as the cold returned and with it the pain, clenched her teeth, and offered her hand once more to the paramedic to examine. No pain, she commanded herself. Show no pain. "Agent Scully." Skinner appeared from his station at the side of the ambulance, his usual grim expression softened somehow by the shadows under his eyes. She braced herself for a dose of all manner of hell -- probably deserved and most certainly deliverable by her boss -- but instead he reached down and awkwardly patted her shoe. After all, he couldn't shake her hand. And now she saw that behind the fatigue in those eyes, Walter Skinner was not only relieved that she was safe . . . he was *proud* of her. Proud of her, possibly even in spite of himself. She had gone behind enemy lines and done what needed done, quickly, quietly, and without a fuss, even at great personal risk. Semper Fucking Fi. She certainly should have known by now, after all he had done for her and Mulder -- and what he hadn't done -- that behind that autocratic exterior lurked the Marine that never died. "Sir," she replied calmly, her chin lifting slightly. "I will expect a full report on this once you've been cleared by a medical team." No sympathetic words or voiced worry offered that might crack her veneer. Or his. "Yes, sir." Scully met his gaze head-on. "OPR will likely want to review this matter. Some of your methods in resolving this situation . . . deviated from what the Bureau expects of its agents." Scully felt Mulder stiffen beside her, knew he was ready to leap to her defense, despite his own vehement objections to her behavior. She opened her mouth to ward it off, but Skinner continued instead, "However, I don't anticipate a problem there. I think once they've been made to appreciate the broad scope of this situation and the individuals involved, they'll find that everyone's conduct fell within acceptable parameters." And he smiled now, a tiny, feral grimace that hinted he was looking forward to that particular briefing with a grim sort of pleasure. Scully nodded, and offered a tight grin of her own. She and Skinner understood each other, but then, they usually had, even when they disagreed. Violently, even. It was she and Mulder who, more often than not, had struggled over the years for understanding – even while they devoted themselves to one another on blind instinct, not knowing how to stop even had they wanted to. She turned her head to study Mulder's profile, cast in shadow and difficult to read. There would be no rest from their struggle, at least not yet. "I want that woman put into custody right now!" Scully dragged her gaze away from Mulder, even as he and the assistant director were turning, shoulders tensed and fists clenching. A man strode toward them, silver buttons and shoe-polish hair glinting incongruously under the glare of the searchlights, thin face twisted red and ugly with fury. As one, Skinner and Mulder stepped together, closing ranks before her, and she had to crane her neck to keep the man in her sights. "Captain McBride, are you still here?" Mulder sounded relaxed, almost bored. Uh oh. Scully knew Mulder's danger tone when she heard it – and her eyebrow arched, sending faint lines of pain radiating toward her hairline. She definitely should get an X-ray, she thought distractedly. Possible orbital fracture, maybe the zygomatic bone. "You're damn right I'm still here," McBride snapped. "And I'm not leaving until she is put in police custody and brought down to my station to answer a hell of a lot of questions!" Skinner sighed, and she sensed that this wasn't a good sign, either. This man was not well-liked, and she was starting to see why. "I've told you more than once, Captain, you have no jurisdiction here." "The hell I don't! That woman has taken the time and resources of the Georgetown Police Department and –" "My name is Scully." The man ground to a halt when she spoke, nudging away the paramedics and dragging herself wearily to her feet, sheer willpower keeping her upright. "What?" McBride sneered finally. She stepped forward, pushing herself between Mulder and Skinner. "I have a name. Dana Scully." "*Special Agent* Dana Scully," Skinner supplied, and he sounded almost pleasant. "Doctor Dana Scully," Mulder added, and he sounded downright cheerful. A smile twitched at the corners of her lips, died a quick death, and was quickly replaced with a steely glare. "I have a name," she repeated, whisper-soft. "If you'd like to speak with me, use it." McBride appeared to have no response to that, and the men at her side seemed content to let him twist in the wind. Scully eyed the man carefully, raked him from his polished head to his shiny shoes with one condescending sweep of her eyes, and summarily dismissed him. She turned her back and moved back to the ambulance doors. "Sir," Mulder said with a deference Scully knew was in part due to McBride's presence. "If the debriefings can wait until later, I think Agent Scully should go get checked out at the hospital now." "Of course. Call me with updates, Agent Mulder." Scully felt Mulder move to her side once again, and now his hand was at her elbow, ready to help her into the ambulance. He handed her inside, relinquishing her to the paramedics once again, and she glanced back at him, suddenly hesitant again, suddenly afraid that everything had changed. "You'll come with me?" she asked softly, wincing inwardly at the needy sound in her voice. Mulder looked hurt at the implication he wouldn't, and she cringed even more. Oh, you're fucking up nicely, Dana. Way to go. He climbed inside, perched on the bench opposite her. "Of course, Scully." He tried for humor next, but fell flat. Or maybe he wasn't trying to be funny at all. "I followed you here, didn't I?" The ambulance doors slammed shut just then and Scully could pretend that it was the noise and not his words that made her flinch. *********************************** Everything about the room was designed to comfort, to soothe shabby and shredded nerves with minutiae. The measured cadence of the mantle clock, a faint hint of vanilla and cinnamon potpourri, the furniture bland and gently rounded and unassuming. And Scully quivered in the middle of it, a spring wound too tightly to release, finding, to her surprise, that there was no comfort this time in the impersonally restorative office of Karen Kossoff. "Your injuries are healing? You're well?" "Yes." While she was content to leave it at that, she felt the therapist's mild rebuke in the silence that fell. Scully sighed, toying with the cuff of her blazer, feeling the wool catch on the faint, ridged scars on the pads of her fingers. Razor cuts. "I had a hairline fracture to the right zygomatic bone – the cheekbone. It, along with the lacerations to my face and side, are healing. The bruises, as you can see, are nearly gone." "And will there be scars?" Scully shot her a suspicious glance -- Karen wasn't usually coy. "Of course. When aren't there?" Fight fire with fire. Kossoff remained silent. "Look, I don't mean to be rude, but we both know I'm here because OPR wants me here. Assistant Director Skinner may have spent the last three weeks convincing them that my actions, while irregular, were justifiable, but even he couldn't convince them to let me return to duty with no questions asked. They need some assurances that I'm 'fit for duty.' So while I appreciate your concern for my physical health, I would just as soon cut to the chase here and allay any fears that you or they might have regarding my ability to do the job. Can we do that?" "Do you think you're fit for duty, Dana?" She met the therapist's gaze squarely. "Absolutely." Karen nodded, the answer apparently neither surprising her nor disturbing her. "Do you appreciate why the OPR board may have some concerns in that regard?" "Of course." Scully glanced down at her hands, their nervous dance, and stilled them in her lap. "I realize that my actions might be perceived by some as a sort of frontier justice. Taking the law into my own hands. Or, as one of the board members suggested, perhaps even suicidal. I sought Ed Jerse out. I attempted to evade the police and the FBI in an effort to be alone with him. I was nearly killed, and Ed Jerse is dead. I know exactly how it looks." She lifted her head, her jaw squared and gaze steady. "But I did not intend to kill and I did not intend to die. And if the circumstances were the same, I would do it again. I would do it all again." "That's a strong statement." The therapist reached for a mug on the table beside her and sipped at it while regarding Scully over its rim. "I know." "It also seems understandable, given those same circumstances," Karen replied, jotting something down on her notepad before settling back in her chair once more. "Still, you're visibly uncomfortable here." It would be the height of absurdity to try to argue with that, so Scully said nothing. "Dana, you've come to me in the past when the circumstances and nature of your work have disturbed you. And while I know that you are not a person who easily reveals emotions or confidences, you have always seemed willing to talk with me, to work through your reservations so that I might help you. But this time you're obviously agitated, more so than I have ever seen you, and yet you're fighting me here." She waited a beat, then continued. "Do you know why that might be?" Scully lifted a suddenly trembling hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. She should have been prepared for this, but wasn't. "I … " She swallowed. "In the past, my concerns have been more geared toward my professional behavior. My ability to do the job. My troubles are more … of a personal nature now." "I see. And you're reluctant to share those with me?" "I'm reluctant to share those with anyone." Faint, self-deprecating humor laced the words. "It's not something I do easily, as you've pointed out." Karen smiled appreciatively. "Still, would you agree that even during those times where you sought to understand your professional motivations, they were driven by more personal concerns? Concerns that you shared, in part, with me?" "Yes." Scully sighed. "Yes, of course. But it's different this time. This has nothing to do with my work and everything to do with – " She stopped herself. "It's not my work. My … troubles have nothing to do with my ability to return to the job or to perform well. So I prefer to keep it out of this room. Out of this discussion." "I see." Karen held Scully's gaze while placing her cup onto the table beside her. She tilted her head to one side and regarded her patient very carefully. "And your brother? Have they determined his whereabouts?" The question, clearly designed to provoke some emotional response from Scully, did not fail despite its lack of subtlety. The world tipped suddenly on its axis and Scully's nails dug into her thighs, sharp crescents of pain grounding her to the chair, to the room, to the real. Bill. Most likely dead, another child of Margaret Scully's gone, and without even a final resting-place to mark his passing. Denied her son, she and the family would also be denied the rituals that might bring some comfort. Scully may have saved Mulder – and herself – but it had all come too late for Bill Scully. She cleared her throat, finding it difficult to breathe, let alone speak. "They – We are still searching for him. There was some evidence recovered at the warehouse that suggests Bill was there at some point. That it was likely the place where he was . . . assaulted. But there's no explanation as to how Bill was lured there, how Ed got him here from California. No one has an answer for that. I don't know if we'll ever find one." "And how are you coping with that?" "I just am," she replied bitterly. "I don't have any other choice, do I?" She sighed and consciously relaxed her shoulders, tension riding them high on her neck. She chose her words carefully. "I'm sorry. It's just . . . I'm dealing with it as best I can. And the best way for me right now is not to talk about it. Not here, not with you. I realize that contradicts modern therapeutic thought, but it's my way, and it has always served me." "I see," Karen said once more, and Scully got the unnerving feeling that rather than being the polite response, she actually *did* see. The therapist let her finger trail down the open file folder on her lap, eyes scanning the contents for a moment. Her tone bland, even innocent, she asked, "Do you still trust your partner, Dana?" Scully, who had been reaching at last for her own mug of tea, froze. "What?" "Over the years, you've spoken to me of your trust in Agent Mulder, the strength you draw from him and the support he's offered to you during some exceptionally difficult times. Yet you haven't mentioned him at all in regard to the events of the last several weeks. Has something happened that's made it difficult for you to trust him now?" "I … No. I trust Mulder. That hasn't changed." "Then what has?" Scully laughed – a short, anguished laugh. "Everything. He no longer trusts me." *********************** The basement office was dark, with only the faint bluish light from a computer monitor raising blurred bumps of shadows that offered nothing to identify themselves. Scully shut the door quietly and leaned back against it, leaving the lights off, trying to orient herself – not physically, but emotionally. She was still edgy and raw from the meeting with Kossoff. She supposed Mulder had gone home. It was evening now; Scully had spied the Capitol lights through Karen's office window when the session had finally ended and she'd beaten a hasty retreat. But she'd been reluctant to go straight home. Having been so long away from this dark and dreary little corner of the building, first while hunting for Jerse, then while sorting out the bureaucratic aftermath, she found herself missing this office, this territory, this space she shared with Mulder. And therein lay the truth of the matter. Their office drew her because her partner had been very much of the missing the last few weeks. Oh, she'd actually laid eyes on him a few times, when health or hearings had demanded it, but in truth, he hadn't really been there at all. Instead, some quiet, distant, excruciatingly polite stranger had taken his place, mouthing all the appropriate platitudes while saying nothing at all. If not for the faint mien of pain in his eyes, she might never have recognized him at all. Tears burned suddenly, and she closed her eyes to ward them off, though no one was there to see her crying in the dark. "Cleared for duty, Scully?" A familiar voice, hurtling at her from the corner. "Jesus!" The gasp whistled past a suddenly constricted throat, and beneath her hands, which had flown to her chest, she felt her heart literally skip a beat before hammering once again in adrenaline-fueled staccato. One arm swept out beside her, fingers searching for and finding the light switch. Fluorescents flickered on and there was Mulder, tipped back in his desk chair with his shirt wrinkled and tie askew, squinting against the sudden light. "You scared me, Mulder!" "Sorry." He sounded only remotely sincere. "What were you doing sitting here in the dark?" "What were you doing standing here in it?" he countered, and there was a layer of unmistakable hostility beneath the words that she was unprepared for, given his oh-so-civil distance lately. Despite this, his face was unreadable, and Scully felt distinctly off-balance. "I came to catch up on some work." Willing wobbly knees to cooperate, she moved carefully to a nearby table and the files stacked there. Tense silence filled the air while she thumbed through the first of them. "So you've been declared fit for duty." An observation from the polite stranger. She gritted her teeth and without turning to face him, bit out, "I can't tell from your tone whether you agree with the assessment or not, Mulder. Did you plan to file an appeal?" "Obviously, others have more information than I do." A pause weighty with import, and Scully felt herself tensing for his next words, could almost *feel* them heading for her. "Which is nothing new where you're concerned, you must admit." She slammed the files down, papers slapping against the table's surface with a rifle crack, and whirled to face him, hands on her hips. "If you have something to say, Mulder, just say it. Sarcasm is beneath you. Usually." "What do you think I should say, Scully?" He sprang from his chair and came around the desk with a swiftness that was almost startling. She planted her feet and refused to yield, letting him loom over her, all flashing eyes and drawn, pale cheeks. "Should I join Skinner and the rest of the review board in applauding you for your bravery? Should I be swearing out affidavits attesting to your selfless courage in the face of great, personal danger? Sing praises to your skill and daring? Where do I begin? Just tell me." Cheeks burning, stung beyond all measure by his acerbity, she glared up at him and attempted to level him with her coolest tone. "Just say what you *think*. What you really think. That's all I'm asking. It's all I've ever asked of you and you know it." "Fine," he retorted, and he moved away from her, stalking halfway across the room before spinning to face her, one finger jabbing the air as he pointed accusingly at her. "I think what you did was stupid and inconsiderate and so fucking selfish I can hardly wrap my mind around it. You walked into an ambush, let Ed Jerse get you exactly where he wanted you, and it is only by some insane twist of fate that you aren't dead right now, Scully. You walked headlong into a death trap, to hell with what that meant to me, or to anyone else, because you were so goddamned insistent on taking care of things yourself! Your way!" His voice had risen to a near shout by the end of his tirade, and it seemed to still be ringing in the air around them when Scully began to laugh, a caustic, bitter laugh. "Oh my God," she choked out, and she honestly didn't know if she were laughing at the absurdity of it all, or fighting back tears. Maybe both. "I cannot believe I am standing here listening to a lecture on abandonment by Fox Mulder, the man who invented the maneuver. I'm going to need hip boots, the irony is so deep." "This isn't about me, Scully -- " he snapped. "Blow it out your ass," she retorted, and now she was advancing on him, feeling fury, real fury, for the first time since she'd emerged from the warehouse and found herself face-to-face with Mulder's wounded anger. Her heels clacked menacingly on the linoleum, but Mulder refused to give ground and this time it was her pointing fingers. She jabbed one into his chest, punctuating her words. "This is *all* about you, Mulder. This is about you feeling hurt because I left you to worry and wonder and wait while I did what I had to do, to get the answers that *I* needed to get. Well, join the fucking club. It sucks, and I know it, because I have been there a *million* times with you! And I'm sorry if I hurt you or scared you or even angered you, but that doesn't change the fact that I did what I had to do, and I would do it again. I would do it all again, because what it means is that you are safe, my family is safe, and I can live my life again." Mulder looked deflated, or perhaps stunned was the better word, but the anger was still there. "So what was this, Scully? Payback? I ditch you, so it's okay for you to ditch me?" "Oh, for the love of God," she breathed, and she took a step back, noticed her finger still pointed at his chest and folded it inside her fist, pressing it against her heart. She took a deep breath, blew it out shakily. She was trembling. "This wasn't restitution. I wasn't trying to get back at you. Good Lord . . ." She opened her fingers, reached out and brushed his hand. He didn't respond, positively or otherwise, and she withdrew, letting her hand fall limply to her side. "Mulder, I have watched you pursue your truths a thousand times, and for whatever reasons you may have had, sometimes you left me behind in order to do it. This time, for my reasons, I'm the one who did the leaving. And I'm not standing here saying that you should accept it because it was my turn or because you deserved it, or even because you think my reasons were right." She felt her throat tighten, struggled to get the rest out. "But I am standing here asking you to try to understand why I felt I had to do it. I do think you owe me that much, and I do think you are capable of understanding it – because you have been there, too." "This isn't the same thing," he protested, but she thought perhaps the anger was dimming in his eyes … overshadowed by the pain. "Isn't it?" She stepped forward again, this time taking his hand firmly in hers despite his lack of response, her own fingers cold, an autonomic response to fear. Fear of revealing herself too much, fear of his rejection. Kossoff's words about trust mocked her. Scully lowered her voice to a near-whisper. "I know I hurt you, and I'm sorry for it. But I can't change what I did, and I wouldn't even if I could. I had my reasons, and I believe in my heart they were good reasons. They still are." She squeezed his hand. "Obviously we have a lot to get through here. But if we could just achieve some level of understanding, I think that would be a good start." Mulder's gaze had dropped to their two hands, her fingers so gently cradling his palm, and he was silent for a long moment. When he finally raised his head, he would not look at her. "I have to go," he muttered, and his voice was tight, strangled, almost panicked, as he started to move away. She tugged desperately at his hand "Remember when I said we had to start communicating when we *aren't* in a life or death situation?" He freed his hand and began backing away, and her voice rose with frustration. "This would be one of those times, Mulder. Talk to me, dammit." "I can't – I need . . . " He paused at the doorway and finally met her gaze. She caught her breath. Such naked, aching fear dwelled there. And he looked so very sad. "I need to think about this, Scully. All of it. There's so much I need to say and – I can't right now. Not now. I'm sorry." The indignant little demon in her brain, still distraught and outraged by their argument, nearly spat something venomous about "another Mulder ditch" before her more sympathetic heart stifled the impulse. Still, he must have seen some hint of it in her eyes – he winced. Scully's mouth twisted in a grimace of regret. "I understand," she said softly, and it was only partly a lie. "Go on." When he was gone, Scully closed the door after him, turning off the lights and standing once more in the dark, aware that she was truly alone in it this time. *********************** Scully sat alone in her kitchen and contemplated devotion's more destructive effects. Tangible evidence stared her in the face in the form of a plaster wall, gutted open in haste and repaired almost as quickly with unskilled hands. While the Gunmen's nimble fingers could perform delicate magic with bits of wire and dance precisely on a keyboard, they were all thumbs when it came to home improvement. As the patched wall – dimpled and shadowy with mismatched paint – clearly proved, their surveillance of all things suspicious and unholy did not extend to Bob Vila. God only knew what she was going to tell her landlord. He'd have to hire a contractor to fix it. Skinner had told her pieces of it, shared over the last few weeks almost as asides while he reviewed and signed the paperwork that would complete her return to active duty. Little slivers of what was going on in the rest of her world while she faced Ed Jerse. Try as she might, Scully could not picture Byers wielding the sledgehammer, destroying the wall with the eerily detached violence Skinner had described; she could not envision Frohike half inside the wall mining for wires and making empty threats against the telephone company contractor who had installed the mess in the first place. Hard to imagine that, later that night when they'd learned that Scully was safe, Langley had driven around half of the city just to find a 24-hour store that sold spackle. Well, surveying the repaired wall, that last part was almost imaginable. What Skinner had not said – had been careful not to say – was exactly what Scully could picture readily enough. The desperation, the quiet fear, that had driven these men … the Gunmen, Skinner, Mulder … was corporeal here, spread before her eyes on a pock-marked plaster canvas. There was nothing they would not have done in the name of devotion. Devotion to her. Tears stung her eyes, and she reached up with a trembling hand to dash them away. Walking to the wall, she let her fingers brush over the imperfect surface, sketching faint shiny tracks with the wet of her tears. Perhaps she would leave the wall as it was, after all. It could be a reminder, a reminder of the depth of devotion and its cost. Life in the Scully household, rough and tumble though it might have been, had not prepared her for this ferocity of emotion, this almost primitive protectiveness, that permeated the relationships in her adult life. Under her family's roof, she had learned that devotion -- love -- was gentle and quiet, civilized even, tested most often by a thousand seemingly trivial actions and only occasionally by true tragedy. But in this new life, this life as an adult, Scully found herself intertwined in relationships that were stormy as often as they were quiet, tested by trials that had never been dreamed of in the Scully home. Devotion became as primal as it was civilized, as brash and loud as it was gentle and quiet, driven as much by instinct as by thought. The things she had done in her life for Skinner, for Byers and Langley and Frohike, and oh God, yes, above all, for Mulder – she had never imagined that devotion carried such prices. And she had paid. Gladly, most of the time. There, ultimately, was the crux of the problem between her and Bill. The prices she paid, he saw them all as debts owed by Fox Mulder, and had been alarmed – infuriated, really – by his sister's willingness to pay them. Never mind that Mulder had never asked it of her, never mind that the debts were not his to pay in the first place, never mind that Scully did not see it as costing her. Bill saw Scully sacrificing herself, never understanding that it was not a sacrifice at all. Yes, Scully thought. Yes. She would put herself on the line for Mulder when there was no other choice: her job, her "reputation," her life – she would. She had. As he had done for her countless times over. Without her asking, or even expecting. And Bill had wanted to make that something wrong. But she had never sacrificed her *self* to do it. Her soul, her spirit, her sense of self -- they were still hers. And Mulder was still *him*. They were simply intertwined, but still separate, strands in an unbreakable rope. That was what Bill had never understood, what she sometimes failed to see herself: she and Mulder would sacrifice everything that was tangible to protect each other, up to and including their lives; but their spirits they left intact – because to harm one soul would be to destroy the other. She would never have the opportunity to explain it to Bill. She had hoped she wouldn't have to explain it to Mulder, that he of all people might recognize it. His anger in the basement made her wonder, made her doubt. As if to censure her for her lack of faith, there came a hesitant tapping at her front door. And she knew it was Mulder. Feet that felt suddenly slow and heavy, as if she were walking underwater, led her to the door. Her hands, seemingly at odds with her lower body, fretted fast and fitfully along the way, combing wayward strands of hair into place, smoothing out wrinkles in her T-shirt and jeans. Funny how the brain worked at times like this, placing some kind of importance on personal tidiness when she was about to have the most crucial conversation of her life. At the door, she glanced through the peephole and caught just a glimpse of Mulder's bowed head, features in shadow, and she drew a deep breath. Let it out slowly while she flipped the locks, fighting the tension that crept along her muscles and drew her limbs tight. Show time. "Hello," she said quietly, uncertain of her footing, tipping her head forward slightly to see his face and gauge his mood. He briefly met her gaze, something shy and awkward in his eyes, before looking at the floor again. "Hi." Scully swallowed audibly. This was certainly not the shouting match she'd half-anticipated, given the scene hours before. This was almost worse, as she had no idea what to do next – she had no raging hurt to propel her. There was a long, graceless pause where neither moved nor spoke, and she felt her back muscles spasm in protest as her body tensed further. Move, she commanded herself sternly, and she opened the door wider and stepped to the side, an invitation to enter. He complied, still silent, and as she turned her back to latch the door behind him, she allowed herself one moment to tremble. When she turned to face him again, uncertain still as to what to do next, Mulder was stretching out his hand, a flimsy plastic bag dangling from his fingertips. "I brought you a present." Oh. "Oh," aloud this time, a silly little expulsion of surprise that hung between them and made her feel even sillier. Hesitantly, she reached for the bag, careful not to touch him. Her mind spun through the possibilities as her fingers dipped into the bag, a whirling blank. She couldn't imagine what . . . Oh. Oh, God. She felt an almost exquisite pain in her chest, her heart contracting to a pinpoint before exploding outward again in a dizzying, pumping rush. Superstars of the Super Bowls. Scully tried to speak, could only manage a whisper around the sudden thickness in her throat. "You noticed." She stared at the tape in her hand, fingers squeezing tight around its hard edges, before lifting her eyes to meet his. "You saw it was gone." "I noticed." His voice was gentle, but his expression unfathomable. Bewildered, lost, she looked down at the tape once more. Trying to wrap her brain around what it might mean now. "You noticed," she repeated. Funny, she couldn't seem to pull together any thought other than that one. "I can't believe you –" "Hey," he interrupted softly, and then he was stepping closer and his fingers were under her chin, gently nudging it upward until she was looking into his eyes once more. Eyes that were once again familiar. "I *see* you, Scully. Remember?" The air left her lungs in a long, shuddering sigh and she closed her eyes, relief loosening her limbs into almost rag doll limpness. They might be okay after all. They just might be. This was nice, comfortable and familiar. It would be easy to let it go at this, to let this be the moment that made everything normal again. Except it wouldn't be. With an effort, she opened her eyes again and found him staring down at her, his gaze so naked with equal parts pain and hope that it sliced through her. "We need to talk, Mulder." "Yes." His agreement was immediate, and she felt grateful that there would be no fight from him on this. Taking the chance, she caught his fingers with her own, waiting for him to pull away, relieved when he didn't, leading him to the couch and wondering if she should sit beside him. Sudden dιjΰ vu, remembering how she'd debated where to sit once before in this very room with this same man, when they'd been about to tackle what she'd believed then would be the scariest conversation they would ever have, the conversation about Philadelphia. That time, too, had followed a painful, cruel battle of words between them, so ugly that she had thought they might never recover. She sat beside him. "Where do we start?" Mulder asked quietly, staring down at his hands clasped together in his lap. His leg bounced a nervous jig beside hers and she stilled it with a gentle hand, swiveling in her seat to face him . . . or his profile, at any rate. "Well," she said slowly, "I'll start by repeating what I said in the office today, only I hope I say it better this time." She squeezed his thigh and he ventured a glance at her, half-veiled from underneath long lashes. "I am sorry, Mulder, that I hurt you. It . . . it was never my intent, though I knew even as I did it that it was inevitable. Please know that however much I may have hurt you, I was doing something that I believed in the end would cause you – both of us – less pain." He was silent and she could feel the tension radiating from him, feel his thigh thrumming with the need to move. She slid her hand away, thinking to offer him his freedom, and with a quickness that surprised her, he caught it and held it with his own. His eyes were on her now, glinting with some strange, haunted light. "He threatened me, didn't he?" No need to ask who 'he' was. She nodded, lips pressed together in a tight line. His hand squeezed hers, almost to the point of pain, and he was louder now, some of the anger from before leaking into his words. "Jesus, Scully, why didn't you just fucking tell me when he did it? I could have come up with something, used it to my advantage, for Christ's sake, to catch him!" She refused to flinch, refused to even move. Her voice was cool and still. "Actually, that's exactly what *I* did, Mulder." She pressed his hand with her fingers, a subtle message to loosen his grip. He did. "Ed put you on the bargaining table. I took you off of it, and used that to catch him. As far as I can tell, the only difference between your plan and mine is that I'm the one who did it, not you." He did not, could not, miss the faint warning in her tone, daring him to argue the hypocrisy. His shoulders slumped slightly – in defeat, in concession, she didn't know. "Jesus," he whispered, closing his eyes briefly before opening them again. He turned her hand palm up in his, his fingers absently tracing the faint scars there. He did not look at her as he continued speaking, his voice soft and oddly flat. "I am still so angry, Scully. At you. And at myself, for not knowing what this was doing to you inside. That you would risk your life because you thought it was what you deserved –" "No," she interrupted him harshly. "That's not what this was about." He was ready to argue, turning to face her in order to do it, and she lifted her other hand, palm out, to forestall him. She gentled her tone. "I understand why you might think that. I know what I told you about what happened in Philadelphia, what I was feeling then and what it made me feel later, and I can see why you would think shame drove me to do what I did. Shame or some sort of retribution for sins. And if we hadn't talked about that, had me really thinking about that, maybe it *is* what would have motivated me." She dropped her free hand to his knee, feeling grounded now that she was touching him with both hands, almost leaning into him. "But it wasn't that. It was . . . " She took a deep breath. "Mulder, I did what I did because it was up to me. Whatever you think of my reasoning, what happened here, what happened to my brother, is unequivocally a result of what happened in Philadelphia. A result of actions that I chose. *I* chose. Of course I didn't know what the consequences would be at the time, but I had to face them all the same. And as much as I'd hoped that we could get through this as partners, in the end it was for me to fix. Just me." "I would have helped you any way I knew how. You didn't have to do this alone," Mulder whispered fiercely, and his eyes were liquid. Her lips trembled, a tender smile aching at the corners. "Oh, you did help me," she replied softly. "More than anyone could have, more than I ever had a right to ask. I was never alone, don't think I didn't know that. But I couldn't have your blood on my hands. Not because of what I did a lifetime ago." "This wasn't your fault. I would never ask you to risk your life for me." "You never have to ask. Just like I never have when you've done it for me." She shook her head sadly. "But I wasn't being a martyr here, Mulder. Don't make me out to be one. I didn't risk my life because I value it less than yours. I wanted to live, I wanted very much to live, and I had every intention of doing just that. But I couldn't live with the possibility that you might die for me. Not if I could stop it. And I *could* stop it. I did." "You didn't know for sure," he argued. "No, I didn't. But I was willing to risk it." She took a deep breath. "I realized, just before I left – when I made my decision – what it must be like for you, that guilt you carry around for Samantha. Believing that there must be something you didn't do to stop it, that you should have been able to stop it, that somehow it's your fault because it wasn't you." His gaze flew away from hers now and she felt his muscles tensing beneath her hands. "And I've watched that drive you to the most extreme limits, and I've done my best to stay at your side through it, even when I didn't understand it. But I understand it now. Because I felt that way, too. For my brother. For you." His eyes widened at this last, comprehension and horror blooming inky dark in dilated pupils, and she could read the pain there. Mulder would have done anything, anything, to spare her this suffering. And she thought, perhaps . . . maybe . . . now he understood. "Oh, Scully," Mulder choked, and he was turning away from her, tugging his hands free and burying his face in them. He seemed to shrink before her very eyes. Scully didn't think – she grabbed at his fingers, prying them away from his face and replacing them with her own, leaning into him until her forehead rested against his. His eyes were closed, lashes clinging to wet cheeks, and this close to him, she almost imagined she could taste the faint saline of tears. "Mulder," she whispered. "Mulder, please. Don't." For a moment, he was still -- so utterly still as to be carved out of stone, and she wondered if the price of having him understand her motives would mean he'd loathe her for them as he loathed himself. But then he reached out blindly, pulling her into a crushing embrace, almost rough in its desperation. She did not flinch, only sunk more deeply against him, letting her body absorb the tremors of his. Two strands of the same rope, she thought again, as their limbs became hopelessly tangled in the attempt to be closer. We're stronger this way. For a long while, they clung together and simply listened to each other's breathing, feeling the tension ebb from their muscles and from the air. Somehow, they'd ended up with Mulder's face buried in the crook of her neck and her head pressed so tightly under his chin that she wondered he could breathe. "Mulder?" Her voice sounded so tiny to her ears, almost lost in the room. His chest rumbled near her ear, a throaty, hummed response. "Are we okay? I mean, mostly?" A soft kiss to her neck, a gentle blessing asked and received. "Yeah. I think so." They were silent a while longer, loose-limbed with relief, sagging into one another, then, "Scully?" "Hmmm?" She felt his Adam's apple bob near her temple as he swallowed. Hard. "I'm thirsty," he croaked. She chuckled, slowly unwrapping herself from around him, and tipped her head back to regard him with a gentle, teasing smile. "Here we are having a moment, Mulder, and all you can think about is your base physical needs?" "Scully, *every* moment with you brings out my base physical needs," he drawled in reply, and now she was laughing out loud, sucking in lungfuls of air that tasted richer, sweeter, now that life made some sense again. She rose from the couch, tugging on his hand to bring him with her, unwilling to lose contact with him now even for a quick trip to the kitchen. "Come on, cave man, let's see what I've got –" "Oooo, Scully, I'd love to see what you've got." In the kitchen now, quietly laughing, Scully glanced once more at her poor, plaster-pocked wall. And she sent up a little thank you to Whoever might be listening up there. Yes, the wall was different now. Visibly flawed but structurally sound. And standing. Still standing. ************************************************* "Better now?" Scully's voice was stippled with laughter, counterpoint to Mulder's shaky breathing, the gasps of a man too long deprived of air. Mulder swallowed hard before bobbing his head in an emphatic nod. "Next time, try breathing in between swallows," she chided, reaching out to pluck the empty glass from his hand and deposit it in the sink. She tapped a fingernail against the metal faucet for emphasis and then smiled playfully at him. "You know, this invention we call plumbing makes more water, cave man. It may seem like wondrous new magic from the gods, but I assure you it won't fail." Mulder struggled to come up with a witty retort, obviously failed, and grinned sheepishly instead. "Sorry. I told you I was thirsty." "I've never known you to have such a gift for understatement." She placed her own glass in the sink beside his and then turned to him once more, both of them leaning their sides against the kitchen counter. She looked up at his face, sobered, and said quietly, "I missed you, Mulder." He was silent for a moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice was suspiciously thick. "I missed you, too." Those soft eyes of his were liquid again and her heart squeezed; she let her eyes drift over his face, reading the slopes and planes of it like a prayer book, the weeks of fatigue in the shadows, the worry having left faint stamps of themselves in lines around his mouth, and his mouth . . . a drop of water still lay pillowed on his lower lip, and now something else squeezed inside her, something deep and aching. She would not think about . . . she would not think about . . . Oh fuck it, she'd more than *think* about it. Scully stepped forward suddenly, stretched herself on tiptoe, and felt Mulder's surprised exhalation wash over her mouth just before she caught his lower lip gently between her teeth; her tongue flicked quickly over it to catch that wayward droplet before sweeping more fully across his lip, a more lingering taste. Then just as quickly, she released him and stepped back, a faint flush pinkening her cheeks even as she noted with satisfaction that he had stopped breathing entirely. He goggled at her, there was no other word to describe her. Just goggled, almost like a cartoon, and she couldn't stop herself from smiling. "Thirsty," she offered in explanation. He roused himself from whatever trance he was in at last, stepping forward and turning them both until he had her caged against the counter, hands planted on either side of her waist. His gaze was locked on her mouth and now she was the one not breathing. "Thirsty?" he echoed softly, his head lowering toward hers in degrees so subtle she wasn't sure if he was moving toward her or if the world was tilting. It felt like it was tilting. She watched with breathless anticipation as his mouth lowered and lowered and quite unexpectedly moved not to touch hers, but to brush against the tiny hollow just below her left ear. Air whistled out of her lungs in a rush and then shuddered its way back in again as his teeth nipped at her earlobe, his tongue mimicking the maneuver she'd performed on his lip. Her eyes drifted closed, or maybe they just rolled back in her head, she wasn't certain. But the world was most definitely tilting now and she caught huge handfuls of his shirt in her hands to keep her balance. His body was flush against hers, from thigh to breast, and she felt herself melting into him even as he arched her back over the counter, his lips doing something criminally erotic to the curve of her neck. "Scully," he murmured against her throat, and she gripped his shirt tighter in reply. She felt his mouth turn in a smile against her skin. "Hey, Scully -- Weren't you the one who told me about this magical new invention called plumbing when you're thirsty?" he teased between nibbles. She dragged open her eyes and watched the stucco ceiling swim in and out of focus as she struggled to formulate a response. "I . . . uh, I . . . " Her voice was embarrassingly high and thin to her ears. "I was, uh, more interested in *your* magical plumbing?" An inelegant snort ripped against her ear and then he was dropping his forehead against her neck, his chuckles rumbling against her chest and stomach. "I can't believe you just said that, Scully." His voice was muffled against her but the amusement came through loud and clear. "Pretty weak comeback," she agreed, and she was laughing, too. He lifted his head to meet her eyes, and all at once they were silent. Sober. Awed. She dropped her gaze to his mouth, slid her fingers up to toy with the fine hairs at the back of his neck. "I'm a little too . . . distracted for witty repartee right now," she whispered, her breath hitching involuntarily as he licked his lips. "Sorry." "No apologies necessary," he replied softly, and then he brought his mouth to hers. Her body jerked, the feel of his tongue sliding over her lips more intense, more everything, than she had ever fantasized, and she had fantasized *a lot*. His hips ground against her stomach in response and one hand flew up from the counter to furrow into her hair, the other sliding around to catch her waist and pull her closer. Her mouth slanted over his, hungry and demanding, the finely grained texture of his tongue velvet against hers. Someone was whimpering, short, breathy little sounds. Who knew how much longer they would have stood there, bent ridiculously over the kitchen counter, kissing like teenagers with only two minutes until curfew, when Mulder finally dragged his mouth from hers and turned his attention to her ear again, peppering it with light kisses and tiny nips. Gasping at the ceiling, Scully tugged at his hair. "I want . . . I want . . . " she breathed. "What do you want, Scully?" he rasped against her ear, rocking himself against her so that they both moaned. "Tell me." "I want . . . " She swallowed hard, kneaded at his neck with desperate, hungry fingers. "I want . . . a bath." He stopped moving against her, lips stilling, and she listened for a moment to his ragged breathing against her ear, harsh and labored. Then he leaned his head back to catch her eyes, his own wild and dilated. "You want a what?" "A bath," she repeated, and now he was straightening up, tugging her upright so that she was still pressed against him, his hands loosely clasping her shoulders as if unwilling to let her go but uncertain if he should still be touching her. "You know, warm water, steam, maybe a candle. A bath." "A bath." She gave him a wide, dazzling smile and ran one finger along his jaw line, feeling the muscles there shift beneath the skin. "I didn't mention the important part. The bath -- we're in it." "Oh, well, you should have said so," he agreed promptly, and then scooped her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry that forced a very unScully-like shriek of laughter from her. He strode purposefully out of the kitchen and down the hall. "Come on, Scully. Let's go see more of this magical plumbing you keep talking about." ************************ The bathroom was quiet, almost reverently so, with only the slight drip from the tub faucet breaking the silence. Mulder lifted his foot and idly stopped the next drop with his largest toe, pruny now with moisture. His leg, slick from bath oil, slid tantalizingly against Scully's. The room was steam-filled, soaking waves into Scully's hair, spread across his chest as she leaned back against him. She was playing with his fingers where they rested against her abdomen, drawing patterns over their tapered lengths, tracing the flickers of shadow and light from the few candles they'd scattered around the room. "And Tara's okay with it?" he murmured, continuing their conversation. Upon climbing into the bath and melting into a comfortable embrace, they had found themselves not turning immediately to the matter of seduction but instead relishing the opportunity to simply wrap themselves in silky bath water and each other and whisper: confessions and revelations, shared secrets, words of healing. "She believes Bill is gone, says she knows in her heart. Feels it." There was respect in Scully's voice for her sister-in-law, a hushed admiration. He felt a chuckle vibrate slightly in her chest. "In her way, she's more like Melissa than I would have guessed. Maybe more than Bill ever knew, too. She says he's gone, that she feels it, that she would know if he were still alive, and I – I understand what she means. But she says she'd like to have a service for him, even without . . . him. She and Mom both want to. I think it's a good thing." "I do, too." Silence again, and Mulder lowered his toe to let the faucet plink-plink a musical accompaniment. He lifted his free hand and traced it down the curve of Scully's neck, eliciting a throaty, contented little sigh that brought an unexpected lump to his throat. He cleared it softly before continuing. "Scully, are you . . . do you dream? Have nightmares about what happened in there?" In there. They both knew where he meant. She didn't answer right away, though her fingers stilled for a moment on his before renewing their dance. "Sometimes. They're not really nightmares, though, not really. Just strange, jumbled dreams. When I remember it now . . . I'm not even always sure if some parts are true or things that came out of my dreams." "You'd tell me if you were having trouble, right, Scully?" He dipped his fingers in the water, drew them up to her collarbone to paint moisture against the smooth skin there. "Trouble sleeping?" "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I would." He slid his palm over her heart, feeling the faint beat of it through bone and muscle and slippery smooth skin. His thumb dipped into the hollow at the base of her throat and he felt her swallow. Her voice, when she spoke, was softer still, almost inaudible. "Mulder, there are things that happened there, things that I can't explain. Things I can't find the science to explain. Not well. Those are the things that scare me, scare me more than any nightmare." "You mean the way he died." He turned the hand that lay on her stomach so that he could link his fingers with hers. She nodded against his chest, and he lowered his head to press a kiss against her hair. She swiveled her face slightly to look up at him. "I saw the autopsy report, Mulder. A heart attack. Brought on by 'acute stress.' No apparent sign of preexisting heart defects or any chemicals that might have brought on an MI. It's conceivable, though pretty unusual. Like I said, I saw the autopsy report, it was pretty thorough. But . . . " Her eyes clouded and he tipped his head further still so that he could touch his forehead to hers. "But?" he pressed. She dropped her gaze, closed her eyes, and he squeezed his limbs more tightly around her, wishing he could wrap himself around whatever images she had in her brain of that night and erase them for good. "But I also saw the way he died. I saw what happened when I . . .I cut him. And it wasn't a heart attack that killed him. It was that cut. It killed him somehow, there was something in there, under that tattoo, that . . . his blood wasn't right, Mulder. It wasn't normal." He stayed quiet, trying to make sense of it, trying to conjure up the right thing to say. She shook her head briefly, obviously exasperated with herself, and opened her eyes again. "It was dark. I was in shock and under assault. Clearly I can't draw any kind of conclusions about what I think I saw in there. The autopsy revealed no abnormalities at the wound site. None." "But?" Mulder repeated when she remained silent. "But," she sighed, "the autopsy itself couldn't explain the regeneration of the tattoo on the surface of the skin. It was on the surface, soaked down into the deepest layers. Testing shows that it's not new, it's not something he had redone somehow after he escaped. But somehow . . . somehow there it was. 'Never Again.'" She met his gaze. "Have you ever seen anything like that. You know, in the files? Unexplained cases?" "No," he replied slowly. "No, I haven't." She frowned a little, seemingly disappointed, and he flashed her a tentative little smile. "But I do . . . er, have a theory." She actually laughed out loud, and his relieved heart kicked into triple time. "Of course you do, Mulder. Please. Illuminate me." He arched his brow at her playfully mocking tone, making her smile, before sobering. "It's a pretty simple one, Scully. What it lacks in complexity I think you'll agree it makes up for in elegance." He turned his eyes to the faucet again, lifted his toe once more to silence the drip. "Mind over matter, Scully. Mind over matter." "Mind over matter?" she echoed, and now her own eyebrow was lifting. "That's all I get?" "Like I said, Scully, simple. I think he . . . willed that tattoo back. He wanted it to be so badly that it was. We've seen that before, we've seen the ability for the mind to will the body. I think that's what he did, only unconsciously." She frowned at him questioningly, intrigued despite herself, and he shrugged. "Look, we're talking about someone with serious mental illness here, violent tendencies dating back to childhood. He rationalized it because he liked it. What if he got to the point where he personified it, gave it an identity almost separate from himself, an identity that he came to invest in that tattoo? He came to see that tattoo as a guiding force . . . his god, if you will, or maybe his own soul – certainly sociopaths tend to view themselves as godlike . . . and you killed his god. His brain became convinced his soul was dead, his body followed suit. Mind over matter." Scully gave him a long, pondering look, and bit her lip. "Well," she conceded finally, "it is simple." "Don't forget elegant." "Right," she drawled wryly, a little smile at her lips, and he couldn't resist, he hauled her up higher against his chest and kissed her until they were both trembling, her hands flying upward to tangle in his hair. His hands slid down to cup her breasts, thumbs brushing over hardened tips and coaxing a moan from her. He pulled back, his mouth leaving her with an audible pop, and he stared into her flushed face, knowing his was equally so. "Is the bath water cold, Scully?" he breathed. She looked confused and he gave her a teasing grin, thumbing her tight nipples again until understanding dawned. She smiled coyly and reached down with one hand to grasp his rapidly hardening penis, pressed against her thigh. "This doesn't feel to *me* like the water's cold, Mulder," she replied archly. He shivered under her touch, his hips moving slightly against her hand. "Oh, we reeaaaally need to get out of the tub now," he gasped, and she tightened her hold just enough to melt all of his joints below the hips. "If we don't, I think I may drown us both." "Well, we certainly don't want that." She gave him one last, lingering stroke that he was fairly certain made his eyes bulge out of their sockets and then blessed him with a beatific smile. "Do you need me to carry *you* this time?" "Don't get cocky, Scully," he warned her with a laugh, scooping her up. "That was sort of the idea, Mulder," she retorted. He laughed and stood up, water sheeting off them and all over the bath mat as he climbed out as hastily as holding a slippery, satiny woman in his arms would allow. "Slightly wittier repartee this time." He gave the compliment huskily, while sliding her body down his until her feet touched the floor, both of them hissing slightly at the feel of it. She accepted the commendation with a nod and then leveraged herself up against him to nip at his lower lip. "Hmmm . . . I must be less distracted this time. Maybe you wanna work on that?" "Oh yes, ma'am." **************************** "You smell like me." Scully leaned forward from her perch straddled atop Mulder's abdomen and nuzzled a patch of skin on his shoulder, inhaling deeply, flicking her tongue over it, considering it at length before making her proclamation. "I do not." He moved his palms in restless circles over the smooth expanse of Scully's back, fingers kneading the supple muscles and tendons under the skin. She lifted her head and smiled at him. "It's the bath oil. You smell like me. Does that bother you? Are your manly man sensibilities offended?" She hissed and almost giggled as he poked his fingers in a retaliation at a particularly ticklish spot at her waist. "No. I do not smell like you." He lifted his head until he could press his lips to the soft skin between her breasts, breathed in once, deeply, and then met her eyes. "I smell like me *covered* in you. And that's definitely a manly man smell. It's my new favorite perfume." "Hmmmmm." She pressed him back against the mattress again, ran her tongue up his throat to a spot just under his chin that set him quivering. "Good answer, Mulder. Very good answer." "I thought so," he murmured, before rolling her over onto her back and following her until he lay on his side beside her. Propping himself on one elbow, he let his hands skim over her, the two of them staring at one another wordlessly as his fingers found first one spot, then another, that made her tremble. His hands slid between her legs, fingers nimble and insistent with pressure, and she arched her back, heard herself make a noise that could only be a purr. Her eyes, which had practically rolled back into her head, opened again and found Mulder's, hot and hungry. Who knew foreplay could be like this, so intense in emotion that the barest touches were like mini-explosions. They were ready – they were beyond ready. "Do you like that?" he whispered, and she choked back a pained chuckle. "Are you kidding?" she gasped, moaning now as his fingers slid inside her, curving upward toward her pelvic bone and stroking a spot – *the* spot -- that sent her hips bucking upward. "Oh dear God. . . you're killing me . . . " she laughed, and when he bent down to kiss her, he was laughing with her. She reached out blindly, wanting to touch him, to make him feel what she was feeling, and was rewarded by a ragged moan as her fingers closed around burning hot, satiny flesh. "You feel so good," he whimpered against her ear, hips rocking against her hand, his own hand moving more quickly and urgently inside her. "So do you," she breathed, sucking in a gasp as his thumb moved slightly higher, hitting just the right note. She managed a frayed chuckle "Oh God . . . so Mulder, why are we torturing ourselves like this?" "I have no idea," he groaned, and he reluctantly moved away from her hand, pulling his own away to move between her legs. He leaned over her, all broad shoulders that she had to lean up and lick, kiss, nibble; and there he was, hot and hard against her, pressing just slightly into her. She squirmed against him, lifted her hips, and suddenly he was all the way there, inside, and it was so exquisite, so breathtaking that they simply stopped. And breathed. And relished. Scully was the first to stir, drawing her legs up high, bringing her hands down low to tug at his hips insistently, squeezing her fingers into the firm curves of him and feeling his hips rock in response. They both groaned. "Mulder." Her voice was throaty, thin and aching with need. "Mulder, I want . . . I want . . . " "Scully, if you say you want another bath, I may have to kill us both," he replied with a feverish smile and furrowed, tortured brow, and so they were both laughing as they began to move. And move. And move again. And again. "Oh my God," she whispered, her nails digging into his skin, feeling her orgasm approaching and nearly awed by the power of it, by the way it made her heart constrict with her body. Mulder panted his encouragement, punctuated with kisses he rained over her face and throat before sinking his teeth lightly, pressure without pain, into the straining tendon in her neck. "Mulder!" she cried, the last sound she could make before speech left her, before the wave pounded down on her, rushed through her, leaving her trembling and gasping beneath him. "Scully," he breathed into her mouth, and then his head was thrown back, something low and guttural and nonsensical forced out of his throat while his hips jerked erratically against hers. She wrapped her limbs around him tightly, feeling him warm and fluid within her, and his head dropped once more to bury itself in the crook of her neck. They lay there for infinite time, simply running their hands over each other, sharing tender, soft kisses and whispered little nothing words, waiting for their bodies to stop trembling, to gain control of their limbs. Finally, Mulder leaned up on his elbows and slowly withdrew from her, and both of them hissed at the friction, pleasure and loss all at once. He fell to his side and drew her up against him, curling himself around her so that her knees were drawn near to her chest, his thighs under hers, chest pressed warm and firm against her back, arms wrapped around her torso until he was a cocoon around her. She sighed drowsily, turned her head so that she could see his face. "I'd like to come up with something really pithy to say, Mulder, but I think I'm going to just go with . . . 'Wow.'" He chuckled tiredly, kissing her nose before dropping his head to the pillow behind hers. "I'll take 'Wow.' 'Wow' is definitely the direction I was going for." "Good. Glad I could help." She snuggled herself back further against him and he squeezed her in response. "You're staying, you know." "I'm definitely staying." "Okay." She yawned, patted his arm. "Turn off the light, 'k?" He mumbled agreement, leaning back just far enough to reach the lamp, batting at it a few times before managing to turn it off. In the dark, Mulder turned back to Scully, pulling her close again. And they slept. **************************************************************** Author Notes – Unnatural Disaster By Michaela The auditorium is sparsely occupied, a few rows down in front filled and a handful of other attendees scattered in the darker shadows at the back of the hall. Organizers have, as usual, been unabashedly overoptimistic about attendance. A tall, bald man – a surly, burly man, one might say – is stationed at the entrance, assigned the rather odd task of collecting tall, wooden spikes with ominously pointed ends. While there are a few grumbles at the idea of relinquishing these strange objects, the man reassures them with a few gruff words: "You'll get them back after the presentation. Yes, I know you need them. Yes, I'm well aware that Jill and Blue and Nic and Rachel – both Rachels -- and Gwen and Syntax have items outstanding. That's not why we're here tonight. You don't need them for this show." Finally, as the audience begins to stir restlessly – why do these things never start on time? -- the stage curtains open to reveal a long table occupied by a panel of men and women who are clearly intended to serve as tonight's featured speakers: Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and the three Gunmen. The man leaves the auditorium door and makes his way to the stage, where the glowing lights show him to be none other than Walter Skinner. A wail of despair is heard from the front row. "Damn, I knew I shouldn't have snuck in the BACK door!" Skinner squints out through the stage lights and smiles. "Hi, Travilah." A minor flurry of swooning and catcalls in the front row – a few rabid Skinner Lovers came out in force for this one, having heard rumors the Burly Surly One might make an appearance – distract everyone's attention for a moment, but then Dana Scully steps to the podium beside the panel table and clears her throat audibly into the microphone. "Excuse me," she begins in her calm, clear voice. "I'd like to thank everyone for coming tonight for a question and answer sessions about Unnatural Disaster. As you know, Michaela has been working on this one for a long time –" "Monica Lewinksy was still wearing berets when Michaela started this one," Frohike mutters, unfortunately loud enough for his table mike to pick up. Scully shoots him a glare. "—and she wishes she could be here tonight to share in this discussion with you, but, of course, she's off to spend some much deserved time off alone, come to grips with closing this chapter of her life –" "I heard she's off getting drunk," Langley comments. Byers nods sagely. "Hammered off her ass." Mulder leans over slightly to that end of the table. "You guys going over after?" "Hell, yeah, the girl can party, at least that's what I hear from Jen and Tom," Frohike responds immediately, and now Scully is leaning over the podium, shooting daggers at them with her eyes. "Frohike!" she hisses. "Will you guys shut UP?" After a brief pause to collect herself, she carries on. "Anyway, while Michaela couldn't be here today, she did prepare a statement that she asked me to read on her behalf before we begin the question and answer period." Scully unfolds a slip of paper and begins to read. "I can't believe this wild and strange roller coaster ride is over. For those of you who were wondering, yes, I have been working on this story for more than two years. Precisely two years, three months and 23 days, if you want to put a fine point on it. That's a long time, and I have enjoyed every moment of it. This story fulfilled every one of my expectations in terms of helping me grow as a writer, to explore new ways of expressing action and emotion, to learn from the editing process, to meet new people and make dear friends. Having said that, I will never, as God as my witness, write a work-in-progress again." A pause here, and the men at the table are seen clasping their hands, clutching their chests, even weeping in gratitude. Scully crosses herself, says a silent prayer of thanksgiving, and continues. "When I first started this story, I think I was just naively optimistic about how easy it would be. Then, I had a panic attack somewhere around chapter 9, I believe, wondering if I had any chance in hell of actually writing the story that I so wanted to tell, and doing it any measure of justice, or if it would fizzle out completely. Thank God for beta readers like Jill Selby and Lisa (aka QofMush). They held my hand and reassured me. A LOT. They also asked me the tough questions, were totally honest if something didn't work for them, offered really wonderful suggestions for the plot as well as little gestures and symbols within the story that mean so much. This story is exactly what I hoped it would be, and Lisa and Jill are a big part of the reason why. For those of you who enjoy this story, these two beta readers deserve a great deal of credit for that." Scully casts a surreptitious glance at the panel table – yep, the men are looking a little misty-eyed. She makes a mental note to share with Michaela later; she knows she'll get a kick out of that. "Beyond my pretty much infinite gratitude to Jill and Lisa, I have many other people to thank. I regret that I'm probably going to leave out some, but come on…it's been almost two and a half years. First, my love and gratitude goes out, as always, to the Screamers. All of them have been so supportive. Special thanks go out to Mara and Shari – they know why – and to Jen, who was unapologetic about needing me to recap the previous chapter for her (because I took so long between them) but was so positive in her praise while reading. "My buddy Bets, stalker extraordinaire and the absolute best person in the world to watch Whose Line Is It Anyway with, deserves a medal for putting up with me. And some sort of citation for sainthood – she would only stalk me for the next chapter maybe ONCE in each of our IMs. That's a lot of patience." Scully pauses, looks pointedly at the panel table, where the men are trying futilely not to meet her eyes. "And to Jean, she who IS the prancing machine, Michaela has organized a special little presentation to show her love and gratitude for the friendship and encouragement you've given her. Gentlemen." They don't move. Scully says more loudly, "Gentlemen. Hit it." Reluctantly, the five men rise and the stage lights dim. A disco ball lowers from the ceiling. Suddenly, the five men rip off what are clearly pull-away panels of clothing to reveal…sequins. Lots and lots of sequins. Very tight-fitting sequined outfits. In the front row, Travilah faints, followed by several of the Skinner Lovers. Apparently, the Burly Surly One's pants are a size too small. The men climb onto the table and began a shuffling dance – to, oh blessed Mary, Prince's "Cream" -- that makes up for in comedy what it lacks in actual showmanship. Several more audience members faint. Frohike looks alarmingly turned on by this. Mercifully, the show ends quickly and the Gunmen, Skinner and Mulder slink off stage to change into something more comfortable and less, well, prancy, while Scully finishes the prepared statement. It takes several moments for the audience to settle down, and the men are returning to the table when Scully finally continues. "I must thank Travilah – hey, is she conscious yet?" Scully waits until she gets an affirmative nod from the women in the front row. "Okay…I must thank Travilah, who has been with me pretty much from the beginning of this story. Way, way, WAY back when. Her support and friendship got me through many a rough patch in the story, and she always seemed to know instinctively when I most needed her – she'd pop up and inspire me to keep going. She is also the reason we're having this panel discussion today, so you have her to blame…er, thank. "My Circle of Sisters – and you know who you are – I thank for providing me with much-needed comic relief and an outlet for my less pretty emotions. The AOL Fanfic Junkies ought to form a professional stalking union, they're that professional and good at what they do! The Scullyfic list has my thanks for its supportive atmosphere and its humorous – it slightly scary – pointy-sticked brigade." Skinner looks up from the table and waves cheerfully at several of the women in the audience. "And of course there are others who have provided support consistently and with enthusiasm throughout this process – Barb, Carole, Alicia, Jaina, Dana Beth, MD, Cindy, Beth, Shayna, and many others. I give you my sincere gratitude, and point you now toward all of those other WIP authors who haven't finished. They need you. Go to them." Scully folds the piece of paper she's been reading from and joins the others at the panel, taking a seat next to Mulder and giving him a long, lingering look of such tenderness that catcalls, whistles and a general "awwwwww" can be heard throughout the audience. Skinner harrumphs and taps the microphone. "Okay, first question," he announces. A petite, fair-haired lass raises her hand and, receiving the nod from Skinner, stands. "So what was up with the lamp?" Scully and Mulder look at one another and nod – they expected this one. Frohike leans toward his microphone. "I'll tell you what was up with the lamp. Ed Jerse was one seriously disturbed mofo. God only knows what he was thinking. Did he see himself as a 'light' in Scully's life? Was his light the last thing he wanted to shine on her when she lay in her bed at night? Did his mother have a lamp just like that in her bedroom so many years ago? Hell, did Ed have latent interior decorating impulses? Or maybe the lamp had no symbolism at all, but was simply an object Ed chose at random to place in her bedroom – her most private place – in an attempt to rattle her, to assert control over her in some seemingly innocuous way? It could be any of these reasons or none of them. He's fucked up. Who knows?" "Charming, Frohike," Scully muttered, and Mulder gives him a look before addressing the issue himself. "Michaela has indicated that Ed never told her what he meant by the lamp, and God knows he's certainly in no condition to answer now. The question of the lamp is one that will never be answered. She likes the ambiguity of that, it leaves it open to personal interpretation. So whatever one of Frohike's so eloquently stated explanations you like best, pick that one." Another petite woman, dark-haired this time – they must grow 'em tiny on Scullyfic -- stands and she gives Scully a sympathetic gaze. "First, my sincerest condolences. Second… is your brother dead, or is he wandering around somewhere, all tongueless and traumatized and cranky?" Scully shakes her head, unable to answer, and Mulder just looks annoyed that someone brought up Bill Scully. Skinner steps up to the take this one. "Unfortunately, this is another one of those questions that will never entirely be answered. All evidence points to the fact that he's dead – while the forensic evidence is inconclusive as to whether the assault came postmortem or while 'on the brink of death,' Mulder is correct when he states that Jerse lacked the skill that would certainly seem to be necessary in order to perform such a procedure and keep his victim alive. Still, there is no body that would confirm it. The Scullys, unfortunately, will suffer as many countless families do – not knowing for certain what has happened to their loved one, and lacking a final resting place that might offer some resolution." Langley leans forward toward his microphone. "Hey, between you and me, I think he's toast and Ed dumped the body in the water, but hey, he didn't keep us apprised of his plans, you know?" "Langley!" Mulder hisses. Another petite woman – what is this, an epidemic?? – with short dark hair trimmed in an adorable Meg Ryan cut stands and gives Mulder a wide smile. "Hi, Mulder. You and I have plans later…with Scully, of course. I'll be writing you a nice smut scene. Anyway, from your perspective as a criminal profiler, do you think Ed's tattoo really WAS alive and telling him what to do?" Mulder nibbles at his lower lip – which immediately inspires the woman asking the question and she begins scribbling on a note pad. Finally, he responds. "I don't believe the tattoo itself was directing Ed's actions – he clearly had quite the little homicidal fettish well before she showed up on his arm. Maybe he is a sociopath who takes what he wants without compunction, a monster. Myself, I imagine the tattoo as a physical manifestation of his own violent impulses – Scully told me that Ed seems to wonder about this himself -- taking its shape within the medium of a tattoo. Ed used it to rationalize his evil, to give his soul a place and a face on his body, – and when Scully destroyed the tattoo, she effectively destroyed his soul. She destroyed him. The power of mind over matter here was so strong that a seemingly minor injury killed because he truly believed that the tattoo was his soul." Byers leans forward then, apparently with a theory of his own. "But then, the tattoo appeared to have risen up through scar tissue to take its place on the surface of his arm. And the blood that flowed from the tattoo seemed so viscous, so dark and unreal in Scully's eyes, although admittedly, she was in shock…So was this all about the power of the mind versus the body, or was it some sort of possession by an evil force? Was Ed the victim of lifelong demonic "possession" of some sort that manifested itself physically within a tattoo?" Byers shrugs. "Maybe. I know Michaela enjoyed the idea of never saying for sure which it is. But we can assure you, it was NOT the oily alien virus in there." The entire audience sighs with relief. A question shouted from the back shadows of the auditorium. "So come on! Does Michaela really believe that Scully slept with Ed Jerse? I mean, REALLY?" "You're damn right I did," Scully pipes up. "It's not often Chris Carter takes off my chastity belt. I took my kicks where I could get 'em." Mulder looks less than thrilled with this announcement, but she squeezes his hand and continues, "There are a lot of resaons why I did, all of which are explained in the story, about why I would take that risk, do something that seems to be out of character but really isn't, act so impulsively when I'm a doctor and an agent and someone who 'ought to know better.' For heaven's sake, ALL of us know better when we do some things, but we do them anyway. Because we human beings aren't aren't robots, and sometimes we fuck up." Several people applaud, but then someone else shouts out, "But what about the pantyhose?" "Hello?" Langley rolls his eyes. "It's called lighting. Scully is one righteously alabaster babe. You're supposed to ignore pantyhose in television scenes unless they're, like, black fishnet." "In which case, drop on by our apartment later," Frohike quips. "Okay, okay," Scully stops them both. "Michaela did leave a prepared answer for this question. Let me get it out here." She fishes into her pocket. "Okay, here we go. 'As for the infamous Pantyhose Argument: I know there is a whole host of folks out there who point to the pantyhose Scully wakes up in the next morning as proof that Ed and Scully stopped short of the horizontal hustle. (Frankly, I never even noticed the pantyhose until someone pointed it out…I was too busy being enraptured by Gillian Anderson's acting to notice such teeny details.) When I watch the episode, the scene fades to black and then it's the next morning, but the intent is so clear in that scene. Of COURSE they're about to get physical, and there's nothing in that scene before it fades to black to indicate they would stop. "As for the pantyhose themselves and whether they negate the possibility of sex, I have all kinds of speculation about it. Maybe they're crotchless. Or maybe they did everything BUT intercourse that night, and you don't have to take off your pantyhose to do a lot of stuff, believe me. Or maybe, just maybe, she put them back ON before she went to sleep. "I know, I know, a thousand women out there just snorted coffee out their nose, refusing to believe a woman would willingly put on pantyhose to go to sleep. But ponder this…some women, and I am one of them, actually find pantyhose comfortable. They've never bothered me – I buy them so they fit right (I don't even feel them on – ladies, if they're pinching at your waist, you aren't buying them right), and they actually make me feel a little more pulled together and sleeker, a little sexier, which makes me feel good. And actually, they're nice for keeping my legs warm – a nice bit of insulation. So here's how I picture it in my head: Maybe after Scully did the mattress mambo with Ed, she withdrew emotionally and physically. Maybe there was shame there, or maybe she had depersonalized the act of sex but couldn't depersonalize the act of sleeping together. Ed goes to the couch to sleep. She's lying there. Physically naked and likely filled with all sorts of conflicting emotions, dark thoughts. She feels emotionally naked, too. So she pulls on the shirt to sleep in, not wanting to sleep in his bed, naked. And her legs are still bare, and they feel bare, and so she pulls on her pantyhose because they make her feel covered. Maybe because they remind her of 'Dana Scully, Professional Woman.' Maybe both. And she climbs back into bed and falls into a deep, exhausted, almost escapist sleep. "I realize that's still not going to work for some people, but it works for me." Scully looks up from the piece of paper. "That's the end of the statement." "Last question, please," Skinner asks. "We're all tired, and frankly, if we wait too much longer, Michaela will have drunk all the vodka." The audience members look around at one another and seem to come to a collective agreement. As one voice, they shout out, "WHAT TOOK HER SO LONG???" Mulder and Scully wince. "Harsh," he can be seen mouthing to Frohike. Skinner decides to tackle this one. Maybe because he's feeling very authoritative. Maybe because he's the only one not afraid of Michaela's muse. "Part of it is Michaela's writing style when she's working on emotion-based stories…It's never that she doesn't know what's going to happen in a story, whether it's a long story or a vignette. She always knows what's going to happen in the next chapter. But she has to be in a very specific 'place' to write these stories -- the mood has to really seep into her -- in order for her to write it in a way that feels real to her. She found while writing UD that she had to stop after each chapter – she seemed to achieve some sort of release, get the emotional closure within the chapter, and then it had to 'build up' again. "This story was very different from any she'd attempted in the past. Not only did she have what was, for her, a very complex plot with some action elements in it that she had never done before, that plot and the emotional exploration were going to be carried from chapter to chapter. She would need to be in the same 'place' over many, many chapters, which is something she'd never done before. Clearly, between having to weave plot elements into an emotion-based story and then having to get focused on that chapter, it was going to stretch out the time between each chapter. Which is part of the reason why she never posted updates to newsgroups or mailing lists about the story, and why it pretty much stayed quietly tucked away on her web site. She wanted the experiences that come from working on a WIP, but she also knew that most readers would likely not enjoy the posting rate. Hence her general tight-lippedness on the subject. "Of course, none of us, including Michaela, knew it was going to take as long as it did between some chapters. This is where life outside of the Internet can really suck. Unfortunately for the story – but fortunately for Michaela – she had a lot of major life changes since she first started writing Unnatural Disaster. She started a new job right around the time the story first posted and there was some pretty significant stress related to that job towards the end. Then she got another job right around chapter 28. This latest job called for not only a move to a new industry with an extremely fast pace, but also required her to move to another state, which is why there was such a huge gap between chapters 28 and 29. Oh, and somewhere in the middle of all that … around chapter 15 or so, I believe …she started graduate school. So life got a little more hectic than she anticipated when she first started this story. "Of course," Skinner concluded, "when you think about it, she averaged almost a chapter a month on Unnatural Disaster. Which, compared to some WIPs, isn't a bad average. This was just a bit lengthier than most." Several hands shot up in the front row – apparently the Skinner Lovers had heard Skinner mention the word length and had been inspired to a whole new line of questioning. But he sadly waved them off. "Sorry, we do have to end this. Several of us are going to have drinks with Michaela, and Mulder and Scully need to go off and have more of the hot sex. Thanks for coming. Your pointy sticks are at the door to take on your way out. Somebody turn off the lights please." Dim lights. Fade to black. April 23, 2000