Title: Certitude Author: Justin Glasser E-mail Address: Feedback happily read and answered at Julan777@aol.com (Thanks again, Jules.) Rating: R for violence and adult language Category: X/UST Spoilers: Through Fight the Future Keywords: Mulder/Scully UST, X-file Archive: Gossamer, yes, Ephemeral, yes, all others please ask first. Summary: Mulder and Scully are taken off the ice, but they wouldn't call it being rescued. Disclaimer: No permission has been granted, no money has been made, no infringement is intended. Dedication: This piece would have been impossible without the help of some very key people: Marguerite--who is, once again, responsible for urging me forward, even when I dug my heels in and didn't want to go. Meredith--who has reminded me over and over again that writing is more than getting the words on the page--it's getting the *right* words on the page. Nascent--who gave me more scientific information than I ever needed, and all of the encouragement I could ever want. If it rings true, it's because of her-- if it doesn't, it's because I didn't listen to her. Dawn Pares--who said it was good. Certitude is dedicated to Jordan for her brilliant insight, her brutal honesty, and her damn good advice. She's what every fanciful author without an airtight plot needs in his back pocket, and who every young man without a clue needs to talk to. Without her, this story would not exist. Author's Notes: Once again, short, sweet, and to the point. The concept for Certitude came from the poem "Dover Beach" by Matthew Arnold. The title and chapter titles come from that poem, as does the sentiment underlying the piece, the analysis of which I will not bore you with here. If you care for an explication on the relation between Certitude and "Dover Beach," please ask. I'll be happy to explain. Let the games begin . . . Certitude 01/10: Darkling Plain by Justin Glasser Disclaimers and Acknowledgments in section 00. ***** When Scully first opened her eyes, I thought I was in heaven. I was wrong. ***** Somewhere in Antarctica Day Two 0115 hours He sat motionless in front of her bed for minutes at a time, hardly seeming to breathe. He might not have even been seeing her, he sat so still, holding onto her hand, running his fingers over it again and again and again. There was no color in the room, only whiteness, and greyness, and the pale shocked flesh of their faces, his and hers. A matched set. She'd only been awake twice since they were brought in seventy hours ago. Once she'd woken up screaming. Nightmares. Her partner had not heard her--although his room was right next door, it was soundproofed, as all the rooms were. No need for passers-by to know what was going on inside, the architect had said during the planning sessions. The architect might have changed his mind when he saw the inside of one of those rooms himself, afterwards. The architect's smile hadn't been the same since. Hers wouldn't be either, if they ever got out. ***** She is somewhere between sleeping and waking, a heavy and dim place that does not permit speech or movement. She is remembering. It was cold, colder even than when they were out on the ice later, because that cold was only outside. She had imagined rape, as all women did, after seeing certain movies, hearing certain stories. After one of the female agents she'd been in the Academy with had been attacked right outside the door to her apartment, after a nine-year-old black girl was found violated and murdered on a Metro train, after Melissa said that once, in college, some guy had pushed her legs apart and was tore down her panties before she cold-cocked him with a dictionary. After things. This was different. It had been inside her, a solid icy thickness that permitted no resistance, forced through her open mouth and down into her gullet. If she had been able to look down she would have expected to see it emerging from between her legs, a reverse violation, a skewer that pierced her through. There was no pain, only a fullness, a feeling like one she had never felt, a feeling of something living inside her. In a way that horrified her now, she had almost enjoyed it, the slow bleeding of herself into something else, something that would bear her mark even after it had consumed her. She had felt it, even then, even when there was nothing but fluid coursing through the umbilical cord in her throat. It would kill her, she knew, but before it killed her it would need her, and that was something she hadn't had . . . the time before. It only hurt afterwards, the prick of the needle, and then the blinding agony of withdrawal. Her veins had burned with it. For a second she had wanted to cry out against him, against Mulder, who had stolen from her the only chance she would even have to grow something of her own. Her baby. Her monstrous and icy alien. When she woke up to Mulder pounding on her chest, she was empty again. Empty of the parasite, empty of the hateful cord which gave it life, empty of the feeling of something besides herself within her skin. Sometimes she wished it was still there. ***** Report 4 of -- Operative 7477108N 1600 hours M subject remains in attendance on F subject, observing her closely. This is congruent with data in file re: relationship. M vital signs steadily improving, although subject appears listless and detached from surroundings. Both subjects slightly underweight due to recent strenuous activity and exposure. F vital signs unacceptable for onset of trial, although also improving. Estimated time of trial commencement:24-48 hours. F subject remains in semi-conscious state, fluctuating between REM stage and second stage sleep, congruent with data re: previous subjects. Dreams appear to be violent or frightening in nature. (Confirm through survellance of room M and F. Do not, repeat DO NOT attempt to interview F subject.) No attempt has been made to restore F to conciousness. No attempt has been made to administer sedatives to F. M subject does not attempt to wake F subject, despite overt concern for F subject's well being. M subject fully conscious, but unresponsive to interrogation besides hostile demands to be returned to F subject. Anticipate M subject to remain uncooperative until F subject semi-recovery. Attachment level abnormally high for subjects not engaged in sexual relationship. Could result in an intitial negative cooperative response, but may be used as a persuasive device once F subject recovery has commenced. Activity in F room negligible. This concludes report 4 of --. Next report filing due at 1800 hours. Operative reporting: 7477108N He leaned back from the computer and wiped one hand over his face, eclipsing for a moment the multiple screens projecting their faces, their bodies, obscure corners of their rooms. Sometimes he hated his job. ***** Her eyes opened gradually, as if they were weighted down with tiny stones. They did not flutter. Scully's not the type of woman who flutters her lashes. It was strange. One moment, her eyes were entirely closed, and the next time I looked I could see tiny slices of cornea through her lashes. I know I was excited because her first words spoken a few moments later when her eyelids were at half-mast and she had the foriegn look of someone who has done too many drugs were "Mulder, you're hurting my hand." I relaxed my grip, conscious of the feeling of my skin pulling away from hers, cell by cell. "How do you feel?" I was grinning like an idiot, I knew, but I wouldn't stop. She was here, alive. More or less well. She didn't answer for a second, but I knew what was coming. "Fine, Mulder. I'm fine." She almost smiled as she said it. "Where are we?" "Some military hospital, I think. The guys who bring in the food don't talk, but they look like grunts. I don't remember being transported anywhere, although the first couple of hours are pretty hazy." "How long?" "About two days. It's hard to tell." The lights in our rooms seemed to be set on timers, dimming and brightening in an imitation of daylight, but there were no clocks and no windows. I couldn't find any of my clothes, let alone my watch. "They're keeping us here under a fifteen day quarantine." She nodded. We were old hands at the quarantine. We sat in silence for a while. I rubbed my fingers over her hand, wanting to squeeze her, wanting to say something, but nothing came to mind. They had grabbed her right from under my nose, but I had grabbed her back. I was happy to see her. Scully. My partner. We could go back and tell everyone what we had seen, what had been done to her, where we had been. It wasn't exactly evidence, but it was more experience than we had ever had together. Scully and I were finally on the same page. "Thank you," she said, her voice slicing through my reverie. "For what?" "For coming after me." I looked at her, stunned. For coming after her? What else would I have done? "All part of the job," I said, watching her fingers between mine. "You'd have done the same for me." "I *have* done the same for you." I grinned. Ducked my head to her hand. "I missed you," I said into the bedclothes. "I know," she said. "So what do you do for fun around here?" I didn't tell her the thought that came to mind immediately, in part because she couldn't do it, and in part because "watch you sleep" seemed too pathetic to actually say out loud. ***** Addendum to Report 4 of -- Operative 7477108N 1727 hours F subject conscious. Commencing 24 hour surrveillance recording. Estimated time until trial onset: 18-24 hours. *****end 1/10***** Certitude 02/10: Ignorant Armies by Justin Glasser Disclaimers and Acknowledgments in section 00/10 ***** Somewhere in Antarctica Day Three When Dana had been five, she had her appendix out following an acute attack of appendicitis on her second day of kindergarten. Her mother had brought her *Madeline* by Ludwig Bemelmans, and, although she hadn't really liked the book, Dana had been fascinated by the scene in the hospital when Madeline realizes the crack in the ceiling looks like a rabbit. Lying on her back in a hospital bed a million miles from anywhere, an older and wiser Dana Scully found herself wishing for a rabbit made of ceiling cracks. Her ceiling was bare and blank and white. Precise. Military. She wasn't sure quite when she had regained consciousness: she had simply faded from black to grey to white and realized somewhere along the way that her eyes were open. She could see the tips of Mulder's white socks crossed at the bottom of her blankets. "How long have you been here?" she asked. "Hey. Morning, sunshine." Mulder pulled his feet off the bed, and sat up, elbows on his knees. "How long have you been awake?" She shrugged. "I come and go." "Talking of Michelangelo?" he asked, leaning in close. She saw that he had shaved. That door in the far right wall was the bathroom, probably. "You feel okay?" She nodded. She did, although she had the groggy feeling of someone who's had too much sleep. She wanted to get up and run around the room, to lift something heavy, but it didn't seem worth the effort to get out of bed. "They brought breakfast a couple of hours ago, but you weren't up for it. You didn't miss anything." It was just as well. She wasn't hungry. She felt like she couldn't ever eat anything again, although she knew she looked horrible. Too skinny. Bony. "How long have you been here?" she asked again, although she thought she knew the answer. "A while," he said, suddenly not looking at her. "You spent the night in here." He nodded. "Mulder, I'm fine. There was no need--" "I didn't do it for you," he blurted, slumping back in his chair. "I . . . " His fingers folded into a temple under his chin. "I wanted to be sure you were still here." She fought back the urge to sigh. He had slept in a plastic chair next to her bed last night, and he would probably be doing it again tonight, and she probably couldn't do anything about it. "You wouldn't happen to have a piece of paper and a pencil around here, would you?" Mulder leaned over near her and she heard a drawer slide open. "Ta da! You gonna write me a love letter, Scully?" She took the paper from him and drew an upside down L on it with the mechanical pencil he had given her. "Nope," Scully said, meeting his gaze. "I'm going to kick your ass at Hangman." ***** Report 7 of -- Operative 7477108N 1157 hours Night observation record indicates no unusual activity. M subject remained in room for entire night. Anticipate serious resistance from M subject re: separation. Do not, repeat, DO NOT attempt to execute separation unless Plan A cover is blown. M subject's morale improved since F subject's recovery became apparent. M appears active and engaged with F subject. F subject's morale undeterminable at this time. F subject regained consciousness at 1145 hours today. Readings indicate normal sleep pattern. Elimination pattern normal considering limited food and liquid intake during captivity. Unable to assess physical condition further without examination. Preliminary examination scheduled for tomorrow at 0900 conditional on F subject consciousness. Interaction between subjects appears normal re: information in prior entries. M subject continues to observe F subject at all times, but this behavior within normal parameters. Subjects engage in conventional conversation and juvenile word games to pass the time (suggest other diversions added into room to prevent overt speculation on situation). Recordings of interaction on tapes 8387+. Estimated trial initiation in 18-24 hours. This concludes report 7 of --. Next scheduled filing at 1500. Operative 7477108N. ***** "So tell me, Mulder," Scully said, drawing a little circle for the hanged man's head. "What was it like to go to school abroad?" He looked up at her, shocked. "Why?" "I went to--the only time I've ever been abroad was with my family. What's it like to go on your own? Your turn." "L." "Nope." Scully drew a small neck on the circle. "Neck before face, Scully. That's cruel." "Mulder." "It was a learning experience. Something that everyone goes through, I guess. M." "No m. That doesn't sound like a lot of fun." Her pencil made a dot for an eye. Mulder smiled. "Fun, Scully. You're advocating for fun?" "Sometimes I wonder about you. About things you might have missed because of your sister. Guess." "M." He shook his head. "Sorry, um, t." One t." She filled in the fourth of the five blanks. Mulder clasped his hands over his head in a victory salute. "You don't have to worry about me, Scully." He wasn't watching her anymore. "Sometimes I don't think I have a choice, Mulder." She felt herself leaning over, tilting her head toward him in the way she knew she did when she was trying to get something out of him. She saw the smooth thin column of his neck, the dark hair vulnerable at the back of his head. She didn't touch it. This wasn't what she had intended when she had asked him about England. She had meant to stay on the light and easy path of reminiscence, and instead had wandered into Mulder's dark wood of secrets, like Little Red Riding Hood tripped up by the wolf. Mulder's pain often caught her by surprise. It saddened her. "Hey, who rescued who here?" he asked, returning her to the primrose path. "Oh, we're playing that game now?" She smiled. "Think back, Special Agent Mulder, to a time about five years ago when two young FBI agents found themselves investigating the disappearance and sudden re-appearance of one Colonel Budahaas--" "Okay, okay." He held up his hands in surrender. "Guess." She poked the paper. "N." "Nope." The one eyed hanged man earned a body. "So we're even." "I'm up thirteen games to none, Mulder." "Nobody loves a smartass, Agent Scully." She leaned over and put a hand on his arm. "You just keep that in mind. Guess." "O." He went on to lose the game, spectacularly. ***** It's no secret among my co-workers at the FBI that I have an eidetic memory. Anyone with access to my records knows that my I.Q. tests well into the genius range, that, in the limited and circumspect ways in which we measure the human intellect, I am considered one of the *creme de la creme,* the cream that rises to the stop when we stir the human brain. To be blunt, I'm fucking smart. And my partner, who is no mental slouch herself, has just beat me fifty games out of fifty at Hangman without once resorting to what I would consider the unfair tactic of using medical jargon for her words. I would hate her if I could. As it stands, I am remarkably, almost foolishly happy. Scully is napping again. She drifted off after cleaning my clock with the word "ephemeral" despite the fact that it has three "e"s which is almost the required first guess in the game of Hangman. It's an unwritten rule, like the one that says you put the x in the center square in Tic-Tac-Toe. She seems better. As long as she continues to seem better, then I'm content to wait out the next eleven days in this sad excuse of a quarantine--no t.v., no books, no one else to talk to. When we were in the Arctic, we had cable and books and cards. Comparing the two is like night and day, pun intended. I shouldn't complain. At this moment, I couldn't ask for anything else. Maybe a better chair. When she's asleep, I think about the things I saw after I fell through the ice. A long time ago, while I was at Oxford, I wrote a paper on the psycho-social effects of fairy tales. During the course of my research, I was surprised to discover how different the original fairy tales were from my memories of them, how much more brutal and frightening they were. I was particularly shocked by a version of Sleeping Beauty in which she is kept as an ornament by the prince, and, still asleep, gives birth to two children. That's what those people down there in the ship reminded me of, postmodern Sleeping Beauties, gestating and giving birth, without a prince to wake them. Which, if I want to take the analogy that far, means that I am Scully's prince. She'd love that. I have a room of my own, next door, but since she woke up I haven't been back there, except to retrieve the limited toiletries I've been provided with. As foolish as it sounds, I'm afraid to turn my back on her. Although intellectually I understand that there is no way that Scully could leave at this point, that she's too weak, and that we are virtually trapped here under quarantine, I still almost ran back from my room, disposable razor in hand, afraid that when I pushed open her door there would be nothing but a neatly made hospital bed. Considering what we've been through, it wouldn't be unheard of. ***** A dream. She knows it is a dream, but there they stand in the hallway, and it's today, and his hand is on the back of her neck, and he looks like Mulder but she knows that if he kisses her she will collapse, enchanted, and something evil will happen to her. She wants to push away, but this is Mulder, her Mulder-- --but it's not, it's someone else, someone without a face, probing her, stabbing a needle into the back of her neck and his tongue into her mouth at the same time, and suddenly she knows that everything she was taught in medical school was a lie, that sexual intercourse doesn't make babies, but this does, this hot tongue in her throat, squirming and wet, and she feels her stomach heave . . . ***** Report 8.1 of -- Operative 7477108N 1523 hours F subject has just woken from REM sleep and vomited. Sanitation crew has been notified. Sudden onset of illness presumably due to dreams, not any adverse reaction to captivity. However, further tests recommended. M subject in attendance. Both subjects to be removed to M subject's room. Surveillance switch- over activated as of 1524 hours. This concludes Report 8.1 Operative 7477108N ***** It had happened so suddenly that he almost missed it. Her movement on the screen caught his attention and he looked up just in time to see her gag, the remains of her lunch spill forward into her lap. Mulder (M subject, but he knew their names, of course he did) was on his feet in an instant, pulling the bedspread away and bundling it at the foot of the bed, then returning to her side. He leaned over her, rubbing between her shoulder blades, crooning into her ear. He'd have to send the tapes to the sound techs to decipher--the mics were good, but not that good--and he wanted to know what Mulder said. What did they say to each other? How did they get to this place where she would reach for him almost before she woke up? How did that happen? She didn't cry, he noticed, although she seemed shaken. Her face was pale and her lips trembled, even after Mulder went and got her a wet (he presumed) wash cloth. She wiped her face, then leaned back into her partner's shoulder. Mulder didn't embrace her, something that should probably go into the report, but the observer didn't have the heart to start a new one. Sanitation would be there soon, and he knew they would break apart the minute they were disturbed. It was one of the many things he knew from watching them, from reading their files. His records were supposed to be exhaustive, but there was only so much he could write down before his eyes throbbed in their sockets and his mind sagged. It made him expendable, he understood, if he included everything. If he told his bosses all he knew about the subjects, then they would have no use for him when the testing came to its culmination. He would not be needed to consult, and if he was not needed, then it might be easier to have him . . . disappear. It was a matter of life and death. So to speak. He tilted back in his chair and pulled his book back on his lap, glancing up only when he saw the sanitation crew arrive on the screen and his subjects pull apart. He smiled. Clockwork. ***** She only knew she had scared him afterwards, when they were in his room, seated on opposite ends of the bed. He had wrapped her in the bedspread and she felt young, like a little girl at a slumber party, although the room was exactly the same as the one she had left. All she needed was a hot cocoa. Then she saw him, really saw him. Mulder was staring at her. She smiled. "Mulder, I'm fine." He shook his head. "You woke up sick--" "It was a *nightmare,* Mulder. Really. I'm fine." He continued to stare at her for a moment more, searching her face for clues, scouring her for signs of deception. She smiled again, but she was concerned. Mulder tended to be either overprotective or completely disengaged, and she preferred . . . no, she didn't, but it was easier to deal with the latter. "I know you're worried, Mulder. Trust me." Finally he looked away, rolling his eyes. "If I had a nickel for every time you said that, Scully--" "You'd retire and support me in the manner to which I am accustomed." Scully reached out and took his hand. "I'm okay." "Okay." Scully released him and lay back against the pillows. She hadn't lied to him--she was okay--but she was also tired. She felt as if she couldn't sleep enough, as if she couldn't ever get enough rest, although when she woke she felt dizzy with lethargy. Maybe this time she wouldn't dream at all. If she were lucky. "Hey, Scully." "Hmm?" she murmured. "If you throw up on my bed, do you think they'll move us to the penthouse?" She was asleep before she could answer. *****end 2/10***** Certitude 03/10: Neither Joy by Justin Glasser Disclaimers and Acknowledgments in section 00/10 ***** When I woke up she was gone. ***** Somewhere in the Antarctic Day Four 0900 hours When they came to get her, she didn't fight them. They didn't say anything to her, just pushed open the door silently and stood there, hands folded behind their backs, legs slightly spread. At ease. A posture Scully knew intimately from life in a military family. These kids weren't medical personnel, even though they wore green medical scrubs. They had probably been drafted into orderly service by their gruff C.O., a commandeering stern fatherly figure like her own. She almost smiled at them, at their young inscrutable faces, despite the fact that she suspected each of them had a neat revolver tucked in the waistband of his pants. Instead, she slid out of bed, tugged her robe on over her sweats, and padded toward the door, leaving Mulder asleep in his chair, a bad guard dog. She went without waking him, because she wanted to, because she was tired of not knowing what had happened to her. Because this was the only way she was likely to get some answers. Because she was bored. They put her in a wheelchair, although she told them she was well enough to walk, and wheeled her through a series of halls so complex and vast that she was lost within minutes. Each hallway she was turned down looked exactly like every other. There were no markings of any kind that she could see. One of the orderlies, the one who seemed younger, an academy boy, pushed in absolute silence. Ghosts with guns. When they pushed her through the stainless steel doors into the lab, she felt a surge of relief and familiarity, comfortable for the first time since eternity. They wheeled her past the waist high tables and over their glossy edges she could glimpse the microscopes and charts, the slides and lab books. Centrifuges lined one wall, the gel boxes were stacked neatly against another. Lab technicians bent over dishes, microscopes, microfuges, hypnotised by the somnolent hum of the refrigerators, murmuring back and forth to one another. They didn't look up as she was wheeled past, but their indifference did not trouble her. They were scientists, people she could understand. The orderlies pushed her into a room at the back, a converted office, judging from the cheap metal desk and the bookshelf. She knew that normal protocol dictated that samples be taken outside the lab, but she also knew that she and Mulder were not at a medical facility. They were in a military research compound, a facility that was doing its best to accommodate the two stray federal employees who had stumbled into their hands. Nothing could make that more clear than the fact that she was wearing the underpants of a man named Bauer, a man who was probably one of the low guys on the totem pole, and was definitely one of the shorter ones. It was a relief, though, to be brought to the lab to give samples: Mulder already knew enough about her--he didn't need to watch her pee in a cup, too. The blinds on the large glass office window were lowered, but through the window in the door she could see the orderlies talking to a thin man in a white coat--the doctor, she imagined. When he turned to enter, she could see that he wore a surgical mask, and glasses with heavy black frames. She had the feeling she wouldn't be able to pick him out again if her were the only man in the room. She suspected that was the point. "Dr. Scully," he said as he entered, and she heard the metallic buzz of a voice masker. "I don't think we've been introduced," she said, standing and holding out her hand. The doctor looked at her, twisting one of the fingers of his latex glove. "You are?" she tried again, re-extending her hand. He took a step back. His eyes behind the distorting lenses of his glasses were wide and blank. "Look," she said. "I'm sure that what you do here is very important and also very classified. I know that my partner and I aren't supposed to be here, and that you're trying to limit our exposure to what is probably very sensitive information, but I don't think your name is too much to ask, do you?" She smiled. The doctor's swallow was audible in the small room. "Perhaps we should just get on with the tests, Dr. Scully," he said, finally, turning to pick up the chart on the desk. "Perhaps," she murmured under her breath. He waved her toward the scale in the corner of the room and began putting her through her paces. She complied with the tests, the weighing and measuring, the salve for windburn, the blood drawing, the cell scrapings from the inside of her mouth, the lights shined in her eyes, nose, and ears. The doctor did not speak except to tell her where to stand or to open her mouth wider. And when the doctor left the room to allow her to give her urine sample, Scully snuck a look at her chart. ***** I must have been in the doorway a micro-second after the orderly left. Scully was sitting on the edge of her bed, her legs dangling over the side. She wore a white robe over her sweats and thick socks. She looked like a commercial for tea, only she wore the puzzled and concerned expression she used during a case, when she was piecing the puzzle together. "May I come in?" I asked, and she didn't look at me, but just nodded, brushing her hair back out of her face. "Are you okay?" It seemed like the only question I ever asked anymore. She nodded again, finally glancing up. She gestured at me, patting the bed beside her. When I sat down she leaned in close, her voice hardly a whisper. "They gave me some tests, Mulder," she said, and I felt my heart drop. It couldn't be the cancer again, it couldn't be. I had fixed that, hadn't I? I had paid my debt. "And?" I said. "While they were talking I saw my chart. There's something odd about it." "Are you okay?" I asked again. "What do you know about the makeup of the blood, Mulder?" "High school biology was a long time ago," I answered, wondering if there was such a thing as blood cancer. Shit. Leukemia. But Scully was already talking. "The blood is made up of several different kinds of cells, Mulder-- lymphocytes, granulocytes, mast cells, macrophages. Any histologist could tell them apart just by looking at them. According to my chart they took blood when I got here and once on the second day--" Her slight and accusing glance swept over me like a breeze. I opened my mouth to offer some sort of excuse for standing by while the orderly drew blood, but she had already moved on. "--and have been counting my cells. If I had some sort of infection it would show up in variations of those numbers. "My count's were all normal as far as that went. But Mulder . . . " I saw her throat work as she swallowed. "There's an extra line on my chart. Mulder, over eight percent of my blood cells fit into a category labelled 'X-cells.'" "I knew it was in your blood, " I murmured, but she refused to be dissuaded. I squeezed my fingers together in my lap. "Eight percent is a lot, Mulder. Too much for an unknown quantity." "What does it mean, Scully?" She shook her head. "I don't know. It could be some kind of code, something they're testing for but don't want to explain. Or it could be some aspect of research that I'm not aware of, but that doesn't seem likely. We've been studying the immune system for years. We know all there is to know about blood components, even if we don't always know what they do." "What if it's something new?" Her eyes met mine. "What do you mean?" "What if something happened to you while you were . . . " I groped for words to describe it. "What if they did something to you?" Scully paled. I put my hand on her knee, and kept my mouth shut. I'd said enough already. "That's possible, Mulder. As of yet, I have no way of knowing what effects my abduction has had on my physical well-being." I didn't say anything. She'd resorted to the medical voice, which meant that she wasn't about to discuss it. I rubbed her knee through the thick terry and thought about how long it'd been since I'd seen her in clothes, her clothes. It dawned on me that I missed her in clothes, in those fitted suits she wore to meetings, and the high heels designed to make her look taller, and the t-shirts and jeans she put on for the field work we'd been doing in Dallas. She didn't seem like herself in the robes and sweats they'd put us in. "There's no point in worrying about it now, Mulder," she said. "I couldn't do anything even if I did know what they're looking for." "So we'll just put our faith in the government to do right by us, hmm?" I asked, slinging my arm around her shoulders. She laughed, which was my intention, and leaned into my loose embrace. I kissed her on the head, right where her hair parts. Right where I always kissed her. Almost always. For a moment we forgot all that we had been through, all that we had yet to endure once we got back home, and just sat there, together. In that second I think we were both convinced that we were going to be fine. I should have known better. *****end 3/10***** Certitude 04/10: Nor Light by Justin Glasser Disclaimers and Acknowledgments in section 00/10 ***** Day Four Report 12 of -- Operant 7477108N 2000 hours Subjects remained active until 1145. Introduction of reading material and board games effective in distracting them from further lapses in quarantine protocol. After brief decline in MF morale resulting from illicit chart inspection by F subject, subjects appear to have suppressed curiosity and concern re: F subject's health. Level of control exhibited by subjects in reacting to such information impressive, and previously unremarked in files. No further discussion of F subject's medical condition has occurred. Recommend increased supervision during future medical exams: F subject's curiosity and intelligence should not be underestimated with respect to her physical well-being. (See F subject file pages 352- 367 inclusive.) The morale of both subjects remains acceptable, despite F subject's curiosity about X cell readings. After investigative questions, subjects resumed word play and language games, most of which were dominated by F subject. (See statistical analysis attached.) No significant topics of conversation addressed. Both subjects also began physical activity today. M and F subjects did minimal level calisthenics and stretching. Conversation indicates that subjects plan on continuing physical activity for the duration of the quarantine: improvements in general condition will be noted. Both subjects remain in M subject's room. F subject sleeps in the bed: M subject sleeps in a chair with feet on the bed. Note that M subject sleeps with back to entry--both subjects incapable of fast-action response should acquisition be necessary. Estimated time to trial onset: 12 hours ***** She lay silent in the darkness, feeling the soft weight of the blankets on her chest, listening to her own breath sighing in and out. She wasn't really tired, despite what they had done earlier. It had come up so casually: "I feel like a slug," she'd said, unfolding her cards in a fan on the bed. "Gin." "Son of a *bitch!*" Mulder had thrown his cards at her. "Another hand?" She'd waved him off. "I'm tired of cards." She had folded her hands in her lap, feeling boredom and displeasure bubbling in the pit of her stomach. She needed to *do* something. "Okay, c'mon." Mulder had stood up and held out his hand. And that was how it had happened, something that had never happened before. It had been unusual, exercizing with Mulder. Scully hadn't realized it until she stood up and shed her robe. He hadn't looked at her, as if she were about to expose herself in some way, or he was. He hadn't been this modest with her in years. And then it hit her. They'd been through hell and back, up one side of the world and down the other, and until today she had never worked out in front of Mulder. She didn't really today, anyway--they only did some light stretching, sit-ups, push-ups, nothing major-- but that had been a strange feeling, that there were still things she and Mulder hadn't shared, things they hadn't done together. He'd held her feet, hands over her toes, palms pressing warmly as she did her sit ups, reminding her of gym class in junior high. At times she forgot that she had a life separate from his: her realization that afternoon had reassured her that she was wrong. He moved his feet on the blankets, and she turned to him, rolling over on her side and tucking her arm under her pillow. "You asleep?" she asked. "No." "Mulder, can you sleep at all in that chair?" He didn't respond. "Mulder, I've been thinking . . ." "Mmhmm." She propped herself up on her elbow, trying to discern him in the darkness. No use. The rooms had no windows, which was to be expected in the Antarctic, and which meant there would be no external light. He was nothing but an area in the darkness, the soft sound of breath and motion. "Last night, when I was sick, did you press a call button for the orderlies?" She heard the soft thud of his feet hitting the floor as he sat up. "No, I didn't." "Mulder, *are* there call buttons for the orderlies?" He was standing now; she could hear the whisper of his socks on the floor back and forth near the end of the bed. "I haven't seen any," he answered. "Neither have I," she said. "Fuck." The gentle expulsion of air came from somewhere around her knees. The side of the bed dipped and she knew he was sitting again, resting his elbows on the edge of the mattress. "Mulder, surveillance isn't that unusual in quarantine situations. We could be under observation for precisely the reasons illustrated last night." She sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees to keep herself upright. "Why aren't there call buttons, Scully?" She had no answer. She knew what he thought the answer was, and she found herself agreeing with him. There were no call buttons, because there was no need for call buttons. Neither Mulder or Scully would ever have to alert the medical staff to a health crisis, because the medical staff would already know. The conclusion was inescapable--they were under surveillance 24-7, every word, every move watched. "What do you want to do about it?" she asked, although she knew the answer to that question, too. "At this point, nothing. What can we do?" he whispered. "We need to find out as much as possible about who's keeping us here, and why. Suddenly I suspect that this is more than a medical quarantine." "Mulder, I'm tired." She heard him lift his head, although she couldn't say how or why. Through the absolute blackness of this room that suddenly felt more like a crypt than a recovery room, Mulder was looking at her. "You should rest," he said finally. "Get some sleep." His hand rubbed her calf through the blanket. "That's not what I meant. Mulder, I'm tired of this. I'm tired of having to be on my guard every time I turn the corner, every time I open a car door, every time I step into a room. I'm tired of having to wonder what is happening in my life as a result of the actions of others. I'm tired of wondering what's going in my *own* body. I hate this, Mulder. I hate the whole fucking thing." His hand had stopped moving. "What are you saying, Scully?" "I'm saying that when we get back, *if* we ever get back, maybe I shouldn't fight the transfer. Maybe I should go to Utah, get some perspective. Maybe I should leave the X-files." ***** I wanted to go back about five minutes, to change the conversation in whatever way it needed to be changed to make her forget about Utah. Forget about leaving. Intellectually, I could understand what she meant. It was too much, for her, for us. I had just pulled her from the wreckage of an alien craft onto the barren ice of the Antarctic, and now I was telling her that we weren't safe on the primrose path to recovery like we had been so many times before. We were somewhere else, with God knows who, for who knows what purposes. Too much. And I offer her too little. ***** "We don't even have the X-files," he said. "Mulder?" He sighed. "Maybe you're right, Scully. Maybe you should leave." "Mulder, this isn't a rejection of you, this isn't about you. It's about me." "You're breaking up with me." She smiled, wishing he could see it. "I'm just saying that it's a possibility I might be considering. One that you should be aware of." "So, I'm aware." It was hard to believe that she knew him so well that she could tell that his forehead was resting on the backs of his hands. "Mulder, stop it." "Stop what?" "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, because you think I'm rejecting you. Not everything is about you." "That sounds familiar." "Yeah, too bad you didn't listen the first time. Look . . . " She stopped. She wasn't sure what she should say. Mulder needed her, she knew that, but she wasn't sure what that meant, exactly. There had been that moment in the hallway when she thought for a second that Mulder was actually seeing her, was recognizing Dana Scully as someone besides his partner, besides the person who made him feel good about himself. She had hoped that he was seeing her. Now she would never know. She didn't know what to say. She wanted to tell him about herself. She wanted things for herself-- happiness, pleasure, freedom, friendship--and instead she had Mulder. Mulder gave her all of those things, but there was a price, and that price was that she could get them from no where else. She thought at times that it was time to cut the cord, but she knew that doing that would slice through her gut as surely as it would slice through his. She was the breadth and scope of his connection with the world, and she couldn't bring herself to let him go down alone--that was what she liked to tell herself. The truth was that Mulder meant more to her than she wanted to admit, that she had somehow assumed responsibility not only for Mulder, but for his quest as well. But she couldn't say that. "Look, Mulder . . . " she repeated. "Ultimately, Scully, it doesn't matter what I say. This is a decision you have to make on your own." "I'm glad you see that." He didn't say anything, but she felt the blankets move under his hands. "Is this about what happened to you?" "What happened to me?" she asked, forcing his hand. "Emily." ***** I heard the soft intake of her breath. We hadn't spoken of it, ever, not since the funeral, like we hadn't spoken of my father, of Melissa, of the countless things that happen between us every day. We aren't big self-disclosers, my partner and I. If she were going to leave me though, finally fulfill the prophecy I had felt so long ago the first time they took her, then I wanted to know the reason. She owed me that, I thought. "Mulder, can we not do this now?" I sat back in my chair, fighting the urge to lash out. "If not now, when? You're the one who brought it up, Scully. You're the one who wanted to tell me how important it is that you leave the X-files." "This has nothing to do with Emily, Mulder." She said that, so clearly, and the tone of her voice told me who it was really about. Me. Once again. This is what it always came down to, with Colton, with Reggie, with Diana . . . Once again I had fucked up, and this time it was about to cost me the only person who had ever made me work to be better. ***** He leaned back in his chair, pulling a thick three-ring binder from the shelf behind him, one eye on the screen. The FLIR camera left a lot to be desired--his subject were little more than grey outlines, shadows in shadows--but it was the only technology that would should anything besides blobs. And the directional audio in the bed frame was working perfectly. He pulled the binder onto his lap and opened it to the tab marked August '98. He flipped through the pages, scanning endless blurry grey toned photos. Ahh . . . there they were. Taken from a camera hidden in the peephole of apartment forty-six, one picture every half second. They were hazy and obscure, warped by the camouflaging glass of the peephole, but he had clearly been leaning in to kiss her. He flipped through the pages several times, like a kid flipping through a book of stick drawings, making a stop-frame movie in which Mulder's face bobbed from her forehead to her lips and back again. He closed his eyes for a second, imagining himself in that hallway, feeling Agent Scully's breath on his face, her hands on his sides . . . it had been a long time. It had been a long time. He glanced up at the FLIR screen. They were still talking, both of them with their arms folded across their chests like teenagers. They couldn't even see each other and they were still in sync. "Just kiss her," he growled at the screen. ***** If she had possessed any doubt about the impact of her words, he erased it with his bitter tone. She leaned forward, reaching in the darkness for his hand. She encountered the soft hair at the back of his neck instead, and drew back for a moment. Then she reached out again and let her hand rest there. "Mulder," she said. No answer. "Mulder, why don't we talk about this later. Under better circumstances." She felt his head jerk away from her hand, and she was grateful for the darkness, for not having to look into his face and see the hurt etched there under the skin. She ran her fingers through the short hair at his nape. He was angry, she supposed, but she couldn't do anything about it now. "You sleeping in that chair tonight?" she asked. He wouldn't, Scully thought, not after what she had said. Mulder would go to what had been her room and leave her alone in the dark to feel awful about threatening to leave him. "Yeah." She could handle the guilt incurred by her desire to quit the X-files, and the burden she shouldered in revealing her intentions to him, but this was too much, and too silly. She wouldn't hurt him and then leave him to sleep in a cheap plastic chair at her side, like a bad dog. She had had enough, enough of Mulder's pathetic "I'm so alone" act, and enough of her own resistance to it. "Come on." She slid her hand to his arm and tugged gently on it. She knew if the lights were on he'd have lifted his head and stared her down, but he didn't have that opportunity. For once she was calling the shots. She tugged again. "Come here, Mulder." She released his arm after he started to crawl up onto the bed, relieved that for the moment it was over. *****end 04/10***** Certitude 05/10: Nor Love by Justin Glasser Disclaimers and Acknowledgments in section 00/10 ***** Report 17 of -- Operative 7477108N 2125 hours M and F subject sleeping in same bed. Escalation of physical contact appears to have occured as a result of discovery of surrveillance-- He stopped typing. He should provide an explanation for their contact, he should explain how after five years of nothing more than hand-holding, agents Mulder and Scully wound up in bed together on his watch. But it had been his snafu. He had been the one who sent in the clean-up team before his subjects had asked for one, before they had even thought about calling for a nurse. In his drive to be efficient and provide a report so complete that he could use it to get the fuck out of this hellhole, he had exposed himself and his bosses. Mulder and Scully knew they were being watched and he couldn't have been more responsible for that knowledge if he had sent them a fucking certified letter. He glanced at one of the screens, the one taken from the FLIR camera, watching the black and white outlines of the subjects shift on the narrow bed. They were the lucky ones. At least Mulder had her. Mulder was a trial subject and his next twenty-four hours were going to be the worst of his life if he survived. Some hadn't. Some had simply screamed in pain until they ruptured something and then died, fresh blood in their mouths. But if anyone found out who had clued the subjects in to their surrveillance, he would trade lives with Mulder in a heartbeat. The trials weren't the worst things that could happen to you here. He glanced at the computer tracking their vital signs. They were asleep, from the looks of it. He ran his hands over his face, pushing his knuckles into his eyes. Then he began to delete. ***** When I slid beneath the covers, I expected her to turn on her side away from me and go to sleep. We had nothing more to say to one another--she'd made that clear. "Let's talk about that some other time." Some time when she could get away from me that much easier. Scully spent a lot of time trying to put distance between us, and I spent a lot of time trying to coax her back. The bed was small, so small that she was pressed against my side, every inch of me from my shoulder to my waist-- she must have had her knees bent. I had crossed my arms over my chest, because if I didn't, I would reach out for her. There was a little black hole beneath my ribs, a hole that had opened up the first time she had mentioned leaving, a thousand years ago in my apartment. It was a little wider now, a little more ragged around the edges. I folded my arms over it. It was mine. "Should we be doing this?" I asked. "Doing what?" "Scully, they're watching us, recording us . . . Is this wise?" "You worried about blackmail material?" She sounded amused. "Depends. What do you have in mind?" I asked. "Go to sleep, Mulder." I lay on my back, trying to do just that, when she spoke again. "What would you do if I left?" she asked, her voice coming from the other side of her body. What would I do? I shrugged against the pillow, realizing suddenly how comfortable it was against my back. For some reason, the softness made me feel more lonely than that plastic chair had. "I don't know," I said. "I meant what I said back in the hallway. I don't know if I can do it without you. Maybe for awhile." She shifted under the blankets and I felt her shoulder settle back against my arm. She was so warm. "Did you know that psychologists have demonstrated that men are forty percent more likely to self-disclose when they can't see the person they're talking to," I said, trying to move away. "What are you saying, Mulder?" "That it's a common complaint among people who know me that I have, um . . . trouble communicating. After I shot my first man, the therapist they sent me to said that for someone who talked so damn much I sure didn't say anything." She chuckled a little, her shoulder moving against mine. She needed to stop moving very soon or I would have to get out of the bed and sleep in the damned chair. "Sorry," I said. "Don't apologize, Mulder," she answered, and I could still hear the amusement in her voice. "Answer." "Answer?" "Why didn't you tell me you wanted me to stay?" "I couldn't." "You couldn't." She always repeated things when she didn't believe me. I sighed. Why not, I thought. Why not tell her? We were finally in the one place where Scully couldn't get away from me, nor I her. No phone was going to ring, no case was going to get dropped in our laps, no fucking bee was going to sting her. We were in the middle of nowhere being held captive by an unknown contingent under constant surveillance and it was the only place my partner and I might actually talk. Irony wasn't the word. "I thought . . ." I paused. Breathed. "I thought it might make you leave." "You . . . Mulder, why would you think telling me you wanted me to stay would make me leave?" For someone who believes he loves the truth as deeply and abidingly as I do, I find it awfully hard to speak at times. I swallowed. "I thought you might feel trapped. Obligated." My voice came out light and careless, but my heart throbbed and pounded in my chest. "Trapped." There was silence for a long time after that. I thought she might have fallen asleep. Strange pictures of rabbits and a picnic were playing in my head when she finally spoke again. "Why do you do it, Mulder?" "Hmm?" I said, although I'd heard her. She asked again. Scully is relentless. "Why? Now that you've seen Samantha." "Now I'm in too deep, Scully. How could I walk away, live a normal boring life solving bank fraud cases?" I heard her move in the dark. Although I couldn't describe why, it sounded like she was nodding. "So we just do this until we can't be rescued anymore, hmm?" I wanted to grab her hand and press it to my chest, to smooth away the weariness I heard in her voice, to ask her if this meant that she was going to stay, X-files or not, but she was just a warm shape beside me and her hand could have been anywhere. "I'll always rescue you, Scully," I murmured, half- hoping she wouldn't hear. Silence. The bed shifted, then she pulled one of my arms away from my body and crept under it, resting her cheek on my chest. "Scully," I murmured, wondering. Her fingers found the hem of my t-shirt and slid beneath it, coming to rest against my stomach. I found myself wanting to suck my breath in. Her hand was slightly cool. "Go to sleep, Mulder." "I was just wondering if I should be concerned for my virtue." As a response, she sidled closer, throwing one leg over one of mine, just missing the sure sign that I had long since stopped considering Scully as my platonic friend and asexual partner It was a big sign, even if I have to say so myself. We lay in the dark, folded together, so close that I could feel her heart against my ribs. I wanted to squeeze her tight: I didn't because I thought if I held her too tight it might make her aware of what we were doing and then she would pull away. Same worries, different day. "Do you think it's kinkier now that we know they're watching?" "Shut up, Mulder." I squeezed her, kissed the top of her head. I am a brute to Scully. Over and over again I push her away, test her, torment her to see how much she will take. As of yet, I haven't reached her limits. She may go after all. She may leave me and go to Utah, she may leave the Bureau altogether and go on to what would be a brillant career in forensic pathology, she may go off and write a cheesy airport novel that sells a billion copies and makes her independently wealthy. If she decides to go I have promised myself that I will not do what I did in that hallway the last time, I will not offer her the chance for something other than my partnership in order to keep her. I owe her that much. She must stay because of her dedication to the truth, because she believes, as I do, that only through our cases can we have access to the information necessary to reveal the secrets being kept from us. She must stay because she sees the bigger picture. Sometimes, I see only her. And then I shake my head like a wet dog and then that goes away. For a while. "Mulder," she said, and I didn't want her to say anymore so I spoke. It seemed easier to say it than to hear it. "We won't be doing this when we get back." I wanted her to leap in then, to press her finger to my lips and then press her lips to my lips. I wanted her to say that we would be doing this and more. I wanted her to whisper in my ear that she would never leave my side, that we would always be wrapped up together like this, that there was nothing I could do that would force her away, I wanted her to say-- "No." Her voice was low and calm. "We won't." I sighed, lightly. "I'll miss it." She smiled, I know, because I felt the movement of her face against my chest. She might have kissed me there, over my heart. I pressed her closer. I nudged my face into her hair. "I already do," she said, against my shirt. *****end 5/10***** Certitude 06/10: A Land of Dreams by Justin Glasser Disclaimers and Acknowledgments in section 00/10 ***** She lay pressed against her partner's warm body, arms curled around him, feeling the rise and fall of his breath beneath her cheek, the soothing pulse of his heart. She was so close she could smell the faint tang of his sweat. She was too close, but she didn't dare move. She had dozed off almost immediately after pulling herself against Mulder's reluctant form, but it had been too long since she had slept with someone else: she woke up every time he moved. Every time he shifted his legs, or adjusted the pillow, every time he sighed in a dream, she came awake, her thoughts drifting aimlessly in the pitch darkness. If she were home, she might have called him. She did that, sometimes, when she couldn't sleep well. Mulder was almost always up until two or three in the morning, and if she felt like talking she would reach for the cordless by the bed and call him up, to listen to the calm throatiness of his voice until she felt willing to try sleeping again. They didn't talk of anything important when she called. Once she had told him about how she'd learned to swim (her older brother Bill had rowed her to the middle of the lake and thrown her in, unbeknownest to Ahab), and one memorable time Mulder had revealed how he and Phoebe Greene had met (a pub, of course) and how many drinks it had taken for her to get him home (a number she couldn't remember although she kept thinking "seven," knowing it was wrong). It was ironic, she thought, that Mulder was asleep right beside her when she would normally be calling him to set her own mind at rest. She turned, suddenly and without thinking, realizing only after she did so that Mulder must have felt her: he sighed and mumbled something, then turned with her, curling his legs up behind hers and wrapping one arm around her waist. "What do you dream about?" she'd asked him once, during one of her late night calls. His voice had purred in her ear. "Why do you ask?" "Mulder, I'm serious." He had been silent for so long that she had actually started to listen to the television show he'd had on in the background, some news segment about dairy farming. "I dream about a lot of things," he'd said. "You know that." Sure she knew. She knew that more than once she had bolted through the connecting door between their hotel rooms and found him, sweaty and panting, sitting straight up in bed or still writhing in his sheets, crying or gasping for air. She knew *that* he dreamed, not *what* he dreamed. Mulder's finger twitched on her hip, and she heard him make a tiny sound in the back of his throat. "Chasing rabbits," Ahab had told her when she was five and had asked why their daschaud's feet moved when he slept. "He's chasing rabbits, Dana," her father'd said, hugging her close. "All dogs do when they have good dreams." Lying in the cool darkness, Mulder curled up tight against her back, she hoped that herr partner was having the Mulder equivalent of the rabbit chasing dream. ***** I am walking into the Hoover Building through the front door, although I never do that, but it's a dream, so it's okay. I pass through the metal detector, and collect my keys from Carl, the security guard who holds the plastic tray. I have never actually spoken to him before but I know his name in the way that you know everybody's name in dreams, and he says hello to me. "Looking sharp, Agent Mulder," Carl says, smiling. "Thanks," I say, and head toward the elevator. The elevator is visible from the lobby--the burnished stainless steel confronting the bovine crowd of federal employees with their reflections--so I think I can get there without a problem, but something happens, the light wavers and I get lost, ending up in a hallway lit only by the flickering of a single fluorescent bulb. There are old pieces of office furniture at the end of the hall--a desk cants to one side, missing a leg. Cheap, adjustable metal shelve like the ones I have in my apartment line the wall, covered (as mine are) with files and papers in sloppy stacks. I lean over and try to read the label, but it's blurry, so I give up. I turn to leave the hallway, and Carl stands behind me. "Hey--" I say. "You had to look, didn't you, Agent Mulder," he says, no longer friendly security guard, but menacing, smiling. "No, this is all--" "You'll have to suffer for this one," he says. "This is a mistake!" I protest, stepping past Carl, heading back to the main lobby. "You bet it is," he says. I feel the cool snip of handcuffs on my wrist. "Hey!" I try to spin, but Carl has my other wrist locked in now and he shoves them into the center of my back, pushing me forward and propelling me toward the far side of the lobby. "Scully!" I cry, catching sight of her coming through the metal detector. I have never been so happy to see her in my life. Scully hasn't heard me, though. She walks through the detector and heads straight to the elevators which I can see from here. How did I take a wrong turn? "Scully!" She does not turn. The elevator door closes, and when I turn my head to look for other help I see her again, and again. A whole series of Scullys wearing a hundred different suits, come streaming in the door. "Scully!" Some of them turn to look, but their glances are the curious glances of people watching a scene. None of them seems to recognize me. "Where's my partner?" I am wriggling in Carl's grip, trying to twist my hands free. "Where's my partner? Scully will tell you I'm innocent. Where's Scully?" Carl's laugh booms from near my ear. "Your partner." The laugh echoes again. He is shoving me toward a door gaping in the far wall. There is no light behind the door. Just black, just darkness, and this strikes me as odd. "Just *get* my partner, Carl. She'll fix everything, I swear!" "You don't have any partner, Agent Mulder." "What? What about Scully? Where's Scully?" We are three yards away from the door now, and the darkness is impenetrable. I am certain that there is something behind that door. I know it. "Ain't no Scully, Agent Mulder," Carl says, and this time his laugh is soft, subtle. "Scully's gone." As he shoves me through the door, I begin to scream. ***** Dana Scully was jerked out of sleep by the sudden and piercing scream of her partner. ***** Chewing on a dried-out ham sandwich from the cafeteria, he remembered the first time he'd seen one of Mulder's nightmares happen, in Alexandria, in apartment fifty-two, looking down into the life of a man. That was why he'd been brought to this godforsaken place, because he knew the file, he knew Mulder. He knew that approximately four out of seven nights spent in his own apartment, Fox Mulder woke up with nightmares. That frequency dimished on the road, averaging out to about two out of seven if you added the days together. He knew that Mulder never slept in the other room, that he didn't even have a bed in the apartment, and that Mulder got up once and only once each night to go to the bathroom no matter how much the mobile surrveillance team said he drank or didn't drink. He knew that Mulder hadn't had sex between December 1994 and November 1996 because those were the dates when he had been up there, watching Mulder jerk off on practically a daily basis. That had been his time in the Box before getting promoted to unit commander. Before he was so fucking good at his job that his name had been mentioned specifically when they knew Mulder had his nose to the ground, sniffing around the higher-ups, looking for Agent Scully yet again. Poor bastard probably thought he wasn't supposed to save her. That first dream hadn't been the worst he'd seen-- there were some nights when the screams made him leap out of his chair--but it was the one he remembered when he was driving to his shoddy apartment in the thin grey dawns. He'd been watching Mulder for almost a week, creating an initial subject profile--typical activities, standard sleep and waking patterns, areas of vulnerability, the usual--when he noticed that his subject was no longer unconscious on his couch but curled up in a ball in the small space between the couch and the coffee table. Turning up the volume revealed that his subject was keening to himself in a small high voice. No words, just sound. After awhile (seven minutes and four seconds) the noise stopped. In another forty-nine seconds, Mulder was back on the couch asleep. He'd made a note of it in the log, thinking that Mulder had issues his bosses had only hinted at in the briefing, but that morning, creeping naked between his sheets to sleep the day away, he had remembered Mulder's noises and had shuddered. This had been a mild one, comparitively. Now, watching them on the FLIR screen, he remembered that thin lonely noise. And wondered what Mulder dreamed. ***** "Mulder! Mulder!" she shouted, fighting to be heard over the screams. She reached out in the total blackness, enocuntering his solid and slightly sweaty torso. She smacked it, her hand open. "Mulder!" The screaming stopped, replaced by harsh breathing and muffled sobs. "Mulder, it's okay. You're okay." She felt him lie back down, trembling with adrenaline and fear. She leaned over him, bracing herself with and arm on either side of him, wishing she could see his face. "Mulder," she murmured. "I'm okay, Scully." He was talking into a pillow. She ran her fingers up his arm to his cheek, smoothed his hair back off his forehead. He was sweating up a storm, afraid. It had happened before, of course, the dreaming and the shouting, but never so close. So loudly. "What was the dream about?" She kept petting him. In a thousand hotel rooms she had sat on the side of the bed, listening to his breathing slow until he drifted off again. She'd never touched him before, not like this, but somehow not seeing him made it easier. She could concetrate on what it felt like to have him calm under his fingers. Genting. That was the word. That was what it was called when you approached a skittish horse and calmed it down by stroking it. Scully, who had been a victim of an intense case of horse love as a young girl, remembered it from countless bad girl-meets- horse novels--how the young girl would approach slowly with her hand palm up and the horse would settle under her ministrations until it would eat sugar from her hand. That's what she was doing-- gentling Mulder. "It was nothing," he said. "Mm hmm," she answered. She leaned down over his arm and rested her chin on his shoulder. Mulder smelled of sweat and sleep, the particular warm scent of male skin. She had missed this in the last couple of years. Missed the sex, but even more than that, missed this smell. This was Mulder. "You don't want to talk about it?" she asked. She was using what her mother called the Honey voice, so-called not because it was sweet, but because the word "honey" hung around it like a blanket. "You don't want to talk, honey?" was the real question, but Scully didn't use the word "honey" in general, and certainly not with Mulder. "No, I don't." "Okay." Scully patted his shoulder and lay back down facing him. For a long time there was silence, that deep and impenetrable silence that seems to come only with absolute darkness. Mulder's voice slipped through that silence, hardly making a dent. "Scully," he said. "Yes," she answered, and the honey still hung on her words. "Can I--" he sighed. "Can, um, can I--" She reached out and hooked her arm around his neck, drawing him up against her. His arms snaked around her waist and his nose nuzzled into her neck. She felt very small suddenly, aware of their size difference and how easily he encircled her. After awhile, she heard him speak, although his words were muffled by the fabric of her t-shirt. "What?" "I don't suppose we'll be doing this either," he said lifting his head so she could hear him. She chuckled, knowing that he was keeping his hips as far away from her as possible, and struck by his thoughtfulness. Only Mulder would cling so tightly to her and still try to protect her from his erection. "Don't push your luck," she said. *****End 6/10***** Certitude 07/10: Confused Alarms by Justin Glasser Disclaimers and Acknowledgments in section 00/10 ***** Somewhere in the Antarctic Day Five 0800 hours They came in with only the noise of their boots and their panting breath, guns held at their chests, modern incarnations of death. They said nothing. They grabbed Mulder off her bed, one of them for each of his arms and legs, and then someone was holding her back and another one was pulling out a needle and bending his head to the right, injecting him while he and Scully shouted out in protest. The effect was instantaneous. As she leapt toward him, abruptly free, Mulder collapsed, his spine bowing until Scully thought his head and feet would touch behind him. His hands were claws of pain. Every tendon bulged in his neck. There was no sound as she dropped to her knees next to him, tried to pull him straight. Even the storm troopers seemed shocked, and stood for a moment like trees, their camouflage uniforms forming a forest circle around her and her partner. "Mulder!" she screamed. "Can you hear me? Mulder?" He writhed in hissing agony. "What did you give him?" she demanded, searching their masked faces. "WHAT DID YOU GIVE HIM?" Her words seemed to break their paralysis. They filed out, one by one, subdued. Mulder began to scream. ***** He looked down at them through the cameras, stunned into silence. He hadn't thought it would be this bad. He'd heard the stories, of course. They all had. The subject who tore his own wrists open with his bare hands, the one who beat his head against the wall until he actually cracked his skull, the one who'd lapsed into a catatonia so deep that he couldn't even feed himself and had to be changed like a baby. He'd heard of trial subjects who begged for death, who struggled with the MPs for their weapons, who impaled themselves on chair legs. They were the urban legends of the complex, and he'd always suspected that the guys made at least some of that shit up just to have something new to brag about at chow. He hadn't blamed them: in a shithole like this one, you took all the status you could get. But he'd never actually *seen* a trial before. Mulder squirmed on the screen, his voice hoarse already. He rolled and twisted, tendons stretched into ridges while Scully tried to hold him still. She wanted him on the bed, but he thrashed away from her hands and her words, voice roaring over the mics. What must that sound like in the room, he thought. ***** I'M BURNING ***** He'd watched for five minutes and Mulder was still screaming, although his scream were broken by sobbing and gasping, an indication not that the pain was lessening, but that the subject was succumbing to exhaustion. Some of the luckier ones had passed out according to the guys at breakfast. Mulder had never been lucky, he thought, lips stretching over his teeth in a thin smile. Almost never. He watched for another minute, twisting idly in his office chair, turning away from the screen and back. Away. Back. Away . . . No, Mulder was never lucky. He'd seen that in his two years above the agent's head, if nothing else. No one who cried in his sleep and spent so much time bouncing a basketball against the wall could be considered lucky, Scully or not. Mulder was a sad and lonely man. Of course, if Mulder was sad and lonely, what did that make the man whose only job was to watch sadness and record loneliness? Fuck. It was no good thinking like that. His job was too observe. To provide information so that dangerous elements like Fox Mulder and his partner could be controlled, removed from the game if necessary. No point in questioning that, no point in doubting it, because questions and doubts only got you one place around here. Back. Away. Back. Away. Back . . . Mulder still thrashed on the screen, and his screams had taken on that irritating rasp that meant the subject has strained his vocal cords. Why didn't the idiot just pass out? Why didn't he just give up? So, two things: Mulder never had any luck and he never quit. Quite a combination. Never got what he wanted and never stopped trying to get it. Sorry bastard. But then, he thought turning back and forth in his chair, when was the last time anyone got what he wanted? Away. Back. Away . . . It was hanging where he left it, on the rack near the metal door, like an empty bag of skin. His parka. They had to walk from the barracks to the ops building above ground and he didn't like leaving his stuff in the common room, even if it was just a standard issue parka that everyone and their brother had. That had unnerved him a little on the first day, walking across the snow with some of the men from his barracks, all of them looking like misshapen bears, all of them looking exactly the same. Exactly the same. He turned back to the screen. Mulder still writhed on the floor, still struggled against Scully's hands. There was a puddle under the subject now, he noticed. He turned his chair away from the screen. ***** She didn't realize someone else was in the room until the gun came down hard and fast on Mulder's skull. "HEY!" she screamed, swinging and making contact with a powerful thigh. "What the hell--" He crouched, clutching his thigh, and his voice was low and fast. "It's the only way. Help me." The man, dressed entirely in winter gear, bent and lifted Mulder's torso. Bewildered, Scully grabbed her partner's ankles. "To the bathroom," the man said when she tried to pull Mulder into the bed. "Take off his clothes," the man ordered, dropping Mulder into the tub. "Fill it with cool water. Cool, not cold. And keep changing it." Scully grabbed his arm as he turned. "Wait! What is it? What did they give him?" The man pulled away from her, stalking toward the external door. "Dammit! Wait!" She ran after him, grasping at his jacket. "I'm a doctor. Tell me what they gave him so I can help him!" She couldn't see his face from behind the ski mask, but his eyes when he turned to look at her were blue. Cerulean blue, she thought, disjointedly. Eyes that knew. "You can't help him," he said. She darted around him in front of the door. "Tell me. You came here to help me, so *help* me." The man stepped forward, pressing against her. He was thick with the padding of his coat and she could feel her knees shaking from the anxiety, from the fear of not knowing. No heat came from him, no impression of size or bulk. He was no one, anyone. "Tell me," she hissed. "You can only keep him alive. The effects may last twelve hours, maybe sixteen. If they inject him again, he will probably die." "What was it?" she demanded, clutching at the front of his jacket, burying her fingers in soft padding. "Was it poisonous? Was it a toxin?" Then, abruptly his breath was hot on her ear and she thought *this is it* and that was fine, whatever it took, if it would save him, but he didn't push her back against the wall and shove his knee between her legs, he just whispered. "It was your blood." Later, it would seem as if the man had simply vanished. She would recall nothing about the next few moments except the floor slamming against the already-bruised flesh of her knees. ***** When she started thinking again, she was in the bathroom, tugging Mulder's t-shirt over his head. The water rushed from the tap. In another time and place this might have been amusing, even titillating, she thought, struggling to yank the urine- stained sweatpants down over his legs without dragging his head underwater. For a moment she considered his army-issue briefs, then yanked them down too, throwing them into the sink with the rest of his clothes. She pulled a thin cotton towel from the rack above the toilet and tucked it around his hips. She put her hand in the water. Cool, but not cold. She folded another towel and tucked it behind his head. Then she reached out and took his hand and held it until her own fingers grew pruny and water- logged. She might have cried a little. ***** Report 23 of -- Operative 7477108N 1131 hours M subject still unconscious from-- He heard the pneumatic door slide open as he typed, but he did not look up. There was no point. The fucker would come in whether he looked up or not, so he might as well pretend he was working on the goddamned report. He heard the bastard approach and stand behind him, heard the click and swish of the lighter, the smooth gasp of the inhale. "How are you this morning, Captain Neill," the man said, his voice light and smooth, almost unmasculine. "Fine, sir," he said, almost without thinking. The man was a civilian, but Neill always called him "sir" anyway. The old bastard seemed to get a kick out of it. "Are you sure, Captain? There seems to be a bit of a . . . discrepancy in your reports." The soft whoosh of cigarette smoke filtering back into the room. Neill turned to face him. "What do you mean, sir?" "I spoke to the men assigned to the room, Captain. They report finding Agent Mulder in the bed this morning." Neill waited. There was no point in giving this bastard the ammunition to shoot him with. That had been a mistake, not including the sleeping arrangements somehow, but he hadn't known the trials were going to start this morning. He hadn't known anyone would see but him, and . . . Neill felt his breakfast solidify in his stomach. Fuck. Had they reviewed the tapes? Had this fucker Smith (and if that wasn't a bullshit name then Neill had never heard one) and his team reviewed this morning's tapes? Had they *seen* him? "With Agent Scully, Captain Neill. Why wasn't that in your report?" Neill started speaking before his mind had a chance to work. "I'm sorry, sir, I was going over the surveillance for the last couple of months. I wasn't sure if this was something unique to the relationship at this time, sir, or if it had occurred during my hiatus. I was going to do a complete work-up of the situation." "For what purpose, Captain?" Another whoosh of smoke filled the room. "To determine the possibilities provided by it, sir." Neill looked up. Years ago, in basic training, Benjamin Neill and nineteen of his best buddies had been subjected to a motherfucker of a drill sergeant--Sergeant Andrew Curapt. Sergeant Crap, they called him when he wasn't around. One day, when they were fucking around in the barracks waiting for inspection, one of Ben Neill's buddies--Johnny Sawyer--had said something about Sergeant Crap, when said Sergeant was standing outside the door. In the dressing down and KP duty that followed for the next seventy-two hours, Neill and his compatriots had learned the benefits of the stone face. Show weakness and Sergeant Crap would shit all over you. At this moment, staring up into those blank eyes, Neill was absurdly grateful to Sergeant Crap and his idiot buddy Sawyer. His face didn't move. "In the future, Captain Neill, your reports will be comprehensive, is that understood?" They hadn't reviewed the tape. They didn't know he had been *in* the room. No one was observing the observer, for a change. He had gotten a break. But the proof was on the tapes and all they had to do was look. "Sir, yes sir." "Good. You are an asset to this project, Captain, but that doesn't mean you can't be replaced." Captain Neill turned back to his screen and didn't breathe until he heard the whoosh of the door behind him. They hadn't seen him, they didn't know, but the proof was on the tapes and the tapes were in the control room, the locked control room, locked in the room, the controls, the tapes, and all they had to do was look, just look. Ben Neill propped his elbows on the table and rested his face in his hands, gasping for air, words spasming in his head. He was fucked. *****end 7/10***** Certitude 08/10: Struggle and Flight by Justin Glasser Disclaimers and Acknowledgments in section 00/10 ***** Somewhere in the Antarctic Day Five 2004 hours For a long time all she did was sit there next to the tub, her fingers trailing in the water near Mulder's hand while he twitched and whimpered and moaned. It was like watching his worst nightmare, and she hated it because she knew that she couldn't wake him. Whatever tortured Mulder at this moment in his subconscious was a million times better then the hell that awaited him when he woke. She had been kidding when she mentioned the Budahaas case, but now she recalled it, the first one, the first time. Mulder had staggered, dazed and groggy, to the car, and she had felt something rough and fierce well up inside her. She didn't know what it was, but she knew that someone had hurt her partner and that they would have to pay. After awhile that feeling had gone--the revenge part anyway. Looking at him now, his mouth open, the bruise on his neck where the needle struck, the thin trembling and shaking of his torso with every breath, she still felt the protectiveness running rampant through her. If they came back, someone was going to die. ***** Somewhere in the Antarctic Day Six 0023 hours "Tell me what you saw, Scully." "Mulder, do we have to do this now? How do you feel?" I felt hollowed and charred, like someone ran butane through me and struck a match, but she was using that as an excuse. I shrugged her hand off of my forehead. "I feel like shit. Just answer the question." She sighed, leaning back against the toilet. Her hair stuck up in strange shapes and her hands were pruny and pale from waterlogging. She looked almost as bad as I felt. "Do you need more water?" She reached for the faucet, but I caught her hand in one of mine. "What I need is for you to answer my question, Scully." She sat back again, closing her eyes. "You don't want to hear this, Mulder, but I didn't see anything." She held her hand up to silence me before my protest even formed in my throat. "I know you don't want to hear it, Mulder, but I don't remember half of what happened to me. I was sick, Mulder. I was unconscious or in shock for most of it. I didn't see anything." "What about on the ice, Scully?" She sighed. "I felt something. We were thrown free of the cave-in by something, but I don't know what." "What about afterwards?" "Afterwards?" "After we fell." "I only saw you. How's the pain?" Now it was my turn to sigh, craning my head back against the cool tiles. My whole body hurt with the dull muscle ache of someone who had worked too hard and too long, and once in a while there would be a flash of pain, frightening in its unpredictability and in its echo of the fire that had been in my veins only hours earlier. "It's okay." "You want to try getting out of the tub?" "What'd you have in mind?" I asked, raising my eyebrows at her. I felt like I had been run over by a dump truck, but I still remembered the bliss of having Scully in my arms, and I still knew that I was wearing only a towel. Thank god the water was cool. She just looked at me. "You really didn't see anything?" I asked, lurching to my knees behind the dry towel she was holding up. Her head was averted. Scully has a fine sense of propriety for a doctor. "Mulder," she sighed, looking up at me only after I took the towel from her and wrapped it around my waist. "I didn't see anything." She was still kneeling in front of the tub and I wavered over her, dizzy and awkward. I felt like a monument she was bowed before. "I didn't have to see anything," she said, before I could make a bad sexual joke. "I felt it." My knees buckled, suddenly, probably from the injection. ***** "I see that Mr. Mulder seems to be recovering nicely." The voice startled Neill out of his doze. He had been dreaming that Agent Scully'd tied him down and injected him with her blood, laughing while he screamed. He wasn't sure if the dream was worse than this. "Sleeping on the job, Captain Neill," Smith said, smiling around his cigarette. "I'm sorry sir. I was supposed to be relieved three hours ago." Not that it mattered. He would be relieved soon enough, he supposed. "You'll be relieved when I say you're relieved, Captain Neill." "Yes, sir," Neill said, sitting up straight. "He's about ready for another test, wouldn't you say?" Smith pointed at the screen with the butt of his cigarette. On it, Mulder staggered toward the bed, Scully a blur under his arm. "Sir, I thought we wanted Mulder alive." Smith pinned him with those cold snake eyes. "Who said we didn't?" Neill looked back to the screen. It had been for nothing, then. His stupid little adventure to reclaim a piece of his own initiative had resulted in nothing. He sighed. "Another test, sir, would probably kill him." "Mr. Mulder won't die, Captain Neill. I'll see to that." "Another test, sir--" "Captain Neill, you should concern yourself with your reports, not your subjects. Leave Agent Mulder's welfare to me." "You're not releasing them." Smith looked at him and took a drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke plume and swirl around Neill's face. "That shouldn't concern you, Captain. Not if you want another assignment." Neill understood. He understood completely. ***** She helped him into the other room, half dragging him toward the bed. His legs shook and trembled, but he kept saying he felt fine, so she kept moving forward. She knew from experience that if someone insisted they were fine, you had to treat them like they were. He managed to crawl back up onto the bed himself, sliding under the covers and pulling the towel out from beneath them like magician pulling a tablecloth from beneath a full table. "Care to join me," he asked. She did, but that wasn't the most important thing now (and if she were being honest with herself it was almost never the most important thing). She sat on the edge of the bed, instead, and put her hand on his arm. "You need to rest," she murmured. "You need to recover as much as possible." "What can we do, Scully?" he whispered back, catching her mood. She shrugged. Then she pulled the paper out of the drawer and began to write. ***** He was impressed by her ingenuity. He sat, bent over, head in his hands, staring at the screen in front of him, watching as Mulder struggled into the bed, as Scully began to write, and admired her. She knew they were being watched and recorded, she knew that the door was locked and there was no possible way out, she knew that her partner was at risk for his life and she was still trying to resist them. She was what Neill's long dead mother would have called a "stone cold bitch" and would have meant as a compliment. That idiot Mulder wouldn't even be alive if it wasn't for her. Neill shook his head. The only thing that saved Mulder from being a pathetic asshole in his opinion was the fact that he had traveled to the end of the earth to get her back. At least he recognized what he had, even if he didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve it. Mulder didn't deserve the devotion and loyalty and strength that woman showed him every single minute, but he had it. Neill sighed. Not for long, he thought. Mulder was a trial subject, he would last another couple of days, maybe a week and then . . . well, he might live, if Smith took him out of the trials as he had suggested he would. But they would certainly be separated in the next day or two, and Mulder would go to the lab and Scully . . . What would happen to Scully? Neill looked up, at the screens, at the top of her head, at her profile, at Agent Scully, who was *not* a trial subject, who was *not* the particular pet of a certain man-in-charge-named-Smith, who would *not* be kept around for fun and games after Agent Mulder was subdued . . . Then he got up out of his chair, and walked out of the office. ***** she wrote. I nodded. She had told me about the man while I was soaking in the tub, weeping a little from the pain. Someone here had come in and told her what they did to me, what they were planning on doing. Her penmanship was as neat and precise as it was on the notes she left herself in our office. "Call Mom," those notes said, or "don't forget to pick up dry cleaning." It was reassuring to see that penmanship here, on these notes of my impending doom. I took the pencil from her and made a single question mark. My hand was still shaking slightly, nerves trembling. She shrugged again. I wanted to kiss her then. "Let me worry about it." How typical. How absolutely fucking *Scully.* I remembered that stupid Tom Cruise movie, the one about the Marines with Jack Nicholson and Demi Moore in it, which I had considered a total waste of a body like Moore's. They might as well have gotten an *actress* for the part that she played. When Scully said that to me, wrote that to me, I remembered what the Demi Moore character had said when Tom Cruise asked her why she liked their clients. "Because they stand up there and say `nothing's going to hurt you, not on my watch,'" was her answer. That's what Scully was saying to me, and I loved her for it. Get me a boob job and marry me to Bruce Willis. "Scully, you ever seen that Tom Cruise movie with Jack Nicholson in it, and Demi Moore?" I asked. I lay back and closed my eyes. "Get some sleep, Mulder," she said, patting my arm. "Sure you won't join me," I asked again, wondering how Scully would feel against my raw and naked skin. She just stroked my arm again, her fingers like silence and warm milk. A while later, when I was in the borderlands between sleep and awareness, I heard her get up and flush our paper conversation down the toilet. After that I don't remember much for a long while. ***** J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington D.C. When he returned to his desk after lunch, Assistant Director Walter Skinner found a single yellow piece of paper in the center of his dark green blotter. He picked it up and read it, pulled his glasses off, rubbed his fingers into his eyes, shoved his glasses back on and read it again. Then he stood up from his desk and strode for the office door, shouting for Kimberly, his assistant. The paper stayed behind, placid and open on the desktop. "Mulder Scully alive STOP" it read. "South 79.oo lat East 61.oo long 290 feet STOP Relocation imminent STOP" *****end 8/10***** Certitude 09/10: Clash by Night by Justin Glasser Disclaimers and Acknowledgments in section 00/10 ***** Somewhere in the Antarctic Day Six 0432 hours She heard the door slide open before she noticed the change in light. She hadn't expected it so soon, but she curled the end of the towel around her hand. If he tried to get near Mulder . . . She had never strangled anyone in her entire life, never been responsible for someone else's death except through the impersonal distance of her gun, but if this man approached her partner, she would strangle him. And hopefully break his neck in the process. "Agent Scully," the man whispered. "Agent Scully?" She slid off the chair silently, squinting to see the man in the void. "I can see you, Agent Scully. I'm here to help." Damn, she thought. Damn it. "Stay away from us," she said. The man shut the door behind him. "Put these on," he said, shoving clothes into her hands. "How is he?" "Awake," Mulder said, from off to her right, voice groggy from sleep. "Who are you?" "Shut up, Agent Mulder. Put these on." She heard the soft thump of clothes landing on the bed. "What's going on?" she asked, feeling the smooth slipperiness of gortex under her fingers. "This is going to go a lot faster if you keep your mouth shut and your ass moving," the man said. ***** I felt rather than heard Scully's resentment of this asshole, but she kept her mouth shut because she knew the same thing I knew. We were getting out. I struggled into the parka and snow pants, yanking on the boots without doing the laces. After we were dressed he opened the door again, peering out into the dimly lit hallway before swinging it wide and letting us through. "Come on," he said. "Move!" He was military, that much was clear from the way he hustled us through the hallways, stopping at each intersection with his back to wall and peering around the corner to make sure it was clear before moving on. He had on a black ski mask and standard fatigues. I figured him for about five or ten years older than I was, but I don't know why. Maybe because of his voice, thick and gravelly, and used to being listened to. Enlisted, I thought, but I couldn't explain it. The hallways followed, one after the other like a rabbit's warren, one leading to the next. There were no signs, no markings on the walls. Every hall we turned down looked just like the last. Then the lights went out, and the halls were filled with blood. ***** Scully, who was right behind the man, heard the soft exclamation. "Shit." "What happened?" she demanded, grabbing his arm. In the strange flood of the red lights, his face looked like the mask of a demon. "They know you're gone. I can't take you any farther," the man gasped. "I've got to get back. They'll be tracing me once they find out I'm missing." "Who are you?" Scully asked, zipping up her coat. "It doesn't matter who I am. Take this hallway until it dead-ends, about fifty meters, see?" He pointed. Scully followed his finger and nodded. "Take the left hall, then take an immediate right." "You're him, the soldier who told us what was--" "SHUT UP!" he hissed. "If you look close you'll see the outline of a door about ten meters down on the right side. Slide this in about where the doorknob would be." He pressed a flat card into her palm. "Good luck." "Wait, where do we go after that?" Mulder whispered, but the man didn't stop edging away, glancing uneasily down at the box on his belt. "Wait!" Mulder's voice was a harsh demand. The man disappeared around a corner and was gone. ***** They ran. Down the hall until it ended, then to left, and then the right. Scully stopped, running her fingers over the wall in the red light, searching for a door she couldn't see. "Scully," Mulder said. She turned. He was still at the corner, pressed flat against the wall. "I can hear them," he murmured. She could see his chest heaving, even under the heavy coat. She hoped this door went somewhere good, because Mulder wasn't going to get very far on adrenaline alone. "Tell me when they get close enough to matter," she hissed, still feeling for the door. The pads of her fingers caught on something and in the bloody light of the reserve lamps she finally saw it, a thin black outline of escape. She slid the card into the line. Nothing happened. "Damn!" "Gettin' closer," Mulder whispered. She turned the card on its side and swiped it like a credit card. The door hummed and the line widened. She slipped the card into one of the huge pockets of the parka. She could feel the door's thin edge, only raised a quarter of an inch from the wall. She bent her fingers around it and pulled. The line widened again, half an inch, three quarters, an inch and a half, two, and she felt the slip of air from one room to the next. She squeezed her fingers into the opening and pulled. It didn't budge. "Scully," he hissed in warning. "Mulder, come here," she hissed back. She took his hand and slid it into the crack between the door and the wall above her own. "You're going to have to help me," she whispered. "This is a hell of a time for me to have to play He- Man," he said. "Shut up and pull, Mulder," she answered, and counted to three. The door moved so slowly it was almost painful. Her blood pounded in her head, and Mulder's breath rasped over her ears. The rhythmic beat of boots on the floor crept closer and closer. "Come on," she wheezed, straining against it. "Go, Scully, go," Mulder groaned. She could feel him trembling with the effort. "Can you hold it?" "Go!" He kicked at her, and she went, squeezing herself through the opening. She propped herself in the opening, bracing herself with one leg against the wall. Mulder slid in, pressing against her, chest to chest. "Remind me," he said as they slipped through the opening and fell to the floor, "to escape military complexes in the middle of the Antarctic with braless women more often." Scully watched as the door eased shut behind them, sealing off all light. "I'm wearing a parka, Mulder." "It's the thought that counts, Scully." "Where do you think we go from here?" "I'm guessing away from the door," he said, grabbing her hand and tugging her to her feet. They ran. ***** It only took us ten minutes to reach the other side of the room or corridor, or where ever the hell we were. I ran my hands over the wall, feeling nothing but the chill. If there was a door around here, it probably went to the outside. "Mulder, look," my partner said, and I knew she was pointing, but she didn't need to. Down near the floor a red dot glowed faintly. "You still have that--" the key was slapped into my outstretched hand. I knelt, found the opening with my fingers, and pushed the card in. "Scully, if this works . . ." "We're going to be out in the middle of Antarctica alone without supplies. I know, Mulder." I waited. "I'd rather freeze to death than watch you get another one of those injections." "You sure?" "You didn't see yourself, Mulder. You . . ." she paused, "you *wet* yourself. I'm sure." "Jeez, Scully. You sure know how to send a guy off." I felt her hand in my hair, then on the back of my neck. It lingered there for a moment, and I leaned my cheek against her thigh, and closed my eyes for a second. Just a second. "Let's go," she said. I pulled the card from the slot, the light turned green, and the door opened onto the barren wasteland that would surely be our graveyard. ***** She had known it would be cold, but the pleasure of the crisp bitter breeze still caught her by surprise. She was happy to see daylight again--real daylight inching across the horizon, not light canned and programmed to change every twelve hours like some sick parody of the sun, but real light, fresh and glinting off the snow. She struggled into her gloves and zipped her parka all the way up so that she peered out from a tunnel of fur. Mulder did the same. Behind them, the door slipped shut, and when she turned she saw that it had vanished, camouflaged perfectly by its color and the blowing snow. Mulder pointed. A hundred or a hundred and fifty yards away, figures trotted back and forth on the snow, vanishing suddenly, rabbits into holes. None of them appeared to notice the two awkward strangers standing off to the far side of the camp. Mulder hooked his arm over her shoulders and they began to walk away, into nothingness. ***** They managed to go on for almost an hour, until all traces of the camp had faded behind them and Scully felt both frozen and slick with sweat. Her legs trembled. Mulder had already stumbled twice. "Mulder," she said, raising her voice to be heard through the layers of cloth that muffled her. "I need to stop." He led her to a snow drift raised by the wind and sat down. She fell next to him, against his arm. "How do you feel?" she asked, turning her whole body to see his face. He looked pale and bleary beneath his parka. "Shaky," he said. "I don't think I can get back up, Scully." "Neither do I, Mulder." "So this is it, then." "Barring the sudden appearance of the calvary, I guess so." They sat in silence for a while, and Scully found herself enjoying the day, the bright glare of sun on the snow, the light breeze. It was lovely. She could just take a nap here, and when she woke up everything would be fine. "You cold?" Mulder asked. "Not too bad. You?" "A little. I'm getting sleepy, if you can believe that." "I can. It's a standard symptom." She noticed he didn't ask of what. "You gonna go to sleep?" "I think so." "Okay." He was fiddling with his jacket, his zipper. He got it eventually, and pulled his coat wide open, shocking her with his audacity. "Mulder, what are you--" "Are you coming in, Scully? 'Cause, in case you haven't noticed, it's fucking cold out here." He grinned at her. She found herself grinning back, and then she found herself pressed once again against Mulder's slim chest, sitting across his lap, her arms wrapped around him. He smelled like sweat and laundry detergent and he was warm, so warm that she unzipped her own parka enough rest her cheek against his collarbone. "Would you really have left?" he asked, and his voice rustled beneath her. She remembered that sound from a hundred different midnight phone calls. "I might have left the X-files, Mulder," she said. Here, at this moment she felt she could admit anything, say everything. There was no point in sparing his feelings now, she thought, and that thought made her squeeze him closer. "Mm hmm," he said. "I might have, Mulder, but you're not the X-files." "You'd never leave me." "I'd never leave you, Mulder." She didn't so much hear as feel the steady thudding of his heart under her cheek. "Never, hmm?" he asked, leaning down and she tipped her head to look up at him. "Never," she said, knowing that it was the truth. It was now, anyway, and later didn't look like it was going to matter much. "And look where that's gotten you." He squeezed her. She smiled up at him, tilted her face in, kissed his cheek. "No, Mulder, this is because you wouldn't leave me." He laughed then, a real laugh that shook through his body, and she dozed off on the tail of it. ***** I don't want to die. No matter how many stupid things I've done, no matter how many risks I've taken, this has never been my intention. Not my death, and not hers. But if this is the way it's going to be, if I am going to be the cause of her death, then I need to go as soon as possible after her, because I sure as hell couldn't do it without her, brave words to the contrary. I always thought I could die happy with Scully in my arms. I just never thought I'd have empirical proof. *****end 9/10***** Certitude 10/10: Help for Pain by Justin Glasser Disclaimers and Acknowledgments in section 00/10 ***** Walter Skinner sat in the bunker of Wilkes Land Research Center listening to the pop and crackle of the radio, and fighting the urge to drift into fitful sleep. It reminded him of Vietnam, of nights spent listening to the static broken by distant voices, voices of men who would soon be ghosts. Let them be all right, he thought. They had no business being here, and he had no business coming after them, but he would help them for as long as he could. He supposed he had made that decision a long time ago, when Mulder had come back from Mexico, and again when he, Walter, had made a deal with the devil to save Agent Scully's life. And again, now, sitting by this radio, hoping beyond-- "Unit three to base." Skinner groped for the send button, swatting away the hand of the radio tech. "This is base. Go unit three." "We've found them, sir, on our way back from--" "Are they alive, three?" "Sir, yessir. MDs are with--" The voice went on for a few minutes more, but Skinner heard almost none of it. Almost none of it mattered, anyway. They were alive. He rubbed his hand over his bald pate, and went to get some sleep. ***** It was a real quarantine, this time, one with about a hundred different doctors, and television and a phone, and an address that Skinner visited almost daily, waving gruffly to them through the glass. They still slept in the same room (mostly because Mulder, who had been the most exposed, demanded it during a semi-conscious shock-induced rant) and she still beat him at Hangman or Gin almost everyday, but at night, listening to the dim murmur of Mulder's television and the faint rasp of his snoring from his hospital bed by the door, it seemed as if her own bed had grown too wide for one person, and she felt a little lonely. ***** September 5, 1998 Washington D.C. I saw her coming from across the plaza, hips moving in that black skirt I love her in. She wears it with high heels, really high heels, and she reminds me of one of those Hollywood starlets from the forties, the ones with the really red lipstick and the tweezed brows. She looked so good I wanted to scream, because it was time for her to go, really go this time, to leave without looking back. I wanted to be happy to see her, but all I could think of were the lies they were already spinning to snare us. Hanta virus, bomb threats, Nazi experiments, crop cultivation . . . I wanted to be happy to see her. I folded the paper and handed it to her as she came up. "There's an interesting work of fiction on page twenty-four. Mysteriously, our names have been omitted. They're burying this thing, Scully. They're just going to dig a new hole and cover it up." We had already gotten the reports from the units sent out to investigate the sites we told them about, but aside from a really big hole in the snow, they found nothing. I don't know why I'd expected anything different, but I had. This time had been different. This time Scully and I had both believed, and I had allowed myself to think for one moment, the justice could prevail, that truth could conquer fact, that I would be vindicated by the government as I had been by my partner in a twelve by twelve room. "I told OPR everything I know," she was saying, "what I experienced, the virus, how it's spread from the bees from pollen in transgenic crops--" I almost laughed at the irony, but I couldn't look at her, so I did what I have always done when Scully confronts me with a piece of myself. I walked away. "You're wasting your time," I said. "They'll never believe you, not unless your story can be programmed, categorized, or easily referenced." I spat the words at her, words that I had teased her with in a time almost before I could remember. "Well, then, we'll go over their heads." "No." I whirled on her. "How many times have we been here before? Right here. So close to the truth? And now, with what we've seen, we're right back at the beginning, with nothing!" She didn't back away from me--Scully never did. "This is different, Mulder." "No it isn't!" Why couldn't she *get* it? Why couldn't she go? Why wouldn't she just leave me alone? "You were right to want to quit. You're right to want to leave me. You should get as far away from me as you can. I'm not going to watch you die because of some hollow personal cause of mine. Go be a doctor. Go be a doctor while you still can." There. Done. That was all I could say to her. All I had left. "I can't," she said, and I heard the steadiness in her voice. I felt her refusal. "I won't. Mulder, I'll be a doctor, but my work is here with you now. That virus that I was exposed to, whatever it is, it has a cure. You held it in your hand. How many other lives can we save?" I felt her hand touch mine, fold around it. How many other lives can we save, Scully? You mean after mine? "Besides," she said, "if I quit now, they win." No one throws lines back into my face like my partner. She smiled up at me, the faint lines of fresh windburn already beginning to heal. She meant it. Scully never says things she doesn't mean. In that second I wanted to grab her and clutch her tight to my chest, to beg her to never ever leave me, but she had already made that promise, hadn't she? And what good had it done? Instead, I smiled back. "C'mon," I said, and we walked back toward the office. I kept her hand, and she allowed me to have it. Everything was fine. Scully was fine, I was fine, and we were going to get the X-files back with Skinner's blessing. We might as well have been riding off into the sunset. Except, as we headed back to the Hoover building in the late afternoon sun, I couldn't stop the shadow dancing on my heart, or the black thought it trailed the way a girl trails a ribbon on a stick: Scully, what if they're winning anyway? ***** Report 1 of -- Operative 7477109S 1734 hours Operative N terminated. 16 hour random M and F subject surveillance re- activated. Infiltration of M/F circle of influence initiated. Awaiting further orders. Operative 7477109S *****end 10/10***** feedback received with open arms at Julan777@aol.com