From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>
Date: Tue, 07 Mar 2000 19:24:46 -0600
Subject: xfc: NEW: Damaged Goods (1 of 24)
Source: xfc

Reply To: sunrise@avenew.com

TITLE: Damaged Goods
AUTHOR: Dawn
EMAIL: sunrise@avenew.com
ARCHIVE: MTA, Xemplary, Gossamer - others are fine, just let me know
SPOILERS: Up to and including Amor Fati
RATING: R -- for disturbing imagery
CLASSIFICATION: XA
KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully UST, MT
SUMMARY: Mulder returns to work after the events of Amor Fati. His
attempt to profile a brutal serial killer, however, reveals that he has
not fully recovered. Unfortunately no one, including his doctor, seems
to know why.
DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner belong to Chris Carter and 1013
Productions. Agent Doug "Digger" Costanza is my own creation.
ADDITIONAL DISCLAIMER: WARNING! This story deals with the topic of
abortion. It is simply used as an element of the plot, and is *in no
way* meant to express the author's personal views on the issue. Please
don't send me nasty emails about this - if you are sensitive and think
you may be offended, don't read!
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I can't help feeling some ground breaking stuff happened
between Amor Fati and Hungry - but maybe that's just my lil shipper
heart! This story, while not MSR, does allow them to move in a direction
that might explain why they looked so comfortable with each other early
this season. Thanks to the wonderful Shirley Smiley, you can eventually
find the story in its entirety on my Web site at
http://members.tripod.com/~dawnsunrise/index.html
More notes at the end.
FEEDBACK: Yes, please. It makes my day!



Damaged Goods (1 of 24)
By Dawn


The X-Files Office
Monday
7:53 a.m.


She knew he hadn't yet arrived the moment she set foot off the elevator.
Mulder emitted an aura, an edgy intensity that crackled in the air like
static electricity. Scully hadn't realized how accustomed to that energy
she'd become until forced to spend the last several weeks without it --
and cold turkey, at that.

The staccato click of heels on tile echoed the rapid beat of her heart
as she slid her key into the lock and let the door swing slowly open.
Dark, silent, stagnant. Scully turned on the lights with a flick of her
finger, squinting a bit against sudden fluorescence, and laid her
briefcase down on the small table that doubled as her desk. She shed her
trenchcoat, started the coffee maker, and sat down to boot up her
laptop. While the computer hummed and beeped its way to consciousness,
her eyes drifted to the empty desk across the way and her lips curved in
the suggestion of a smile.

For nearly three weeks now she'd performed this same routine and today
was no different, but for one notable exception. Instead of a sharp stab
of fear, or even a bittersweet pang of longing, today the sight of that
desk filled her with a rich and dizzying blend of emotions that defied
translation. Today Mulder returned to work, chained to a desk for now
--no forays into the field to hunt sea monsters and mothmen -- but back
where he belonged nonetheless. Cracking sunflower seeds and spitting
shells into the wastebasket with an annoying "ping." Propping his feet
up and trying to engage her in a deep discussion of why Gilligan and his
friends could never seem to get off the damn island. Rifling through
folders filed according to a system comprehensible only to himself, and
whistling annoying little tunes under his breath until it set her teeth
on edge.

Driving her crazy.

Thank God.

Unbidden, the image of Mulder as she'd discovered him, pale and still as
death, assaulted her senses. Left to die, abandoned like an old
appliance -- no longer useful but too troublesome to dispose of. Grief
and rage nearly overwhelmed her, and she'd longed to surrender to her
own tears, to gather Mulder into her arms and just hold him.
Damn his mother and her passive complicity. Damn Smokey and his
butchers. And damn Diana and her too little, too late. Then the weak
rise and fall of his chest captured her eye and survival instinct kicked
into high gear. She'd get them both out of the wolves' den no matter
what it took. And Mulder would live to fight another day.

"Our tax dollars hard at work."

Every muscle in her body tensed and Scully narrowly avoided a girly
scream. Mulder lounged in the open doorway, one eyebrow lifted
quizzically and lips pursed in an amused smirk. Scully flushed,
realizing he'd caught her woolgathering -- and while staring vacuously
at his desk. He moved slowly into the office, stripping off his coat and
sinking into his rickety chair with a contented expression that quickly
snuffed Scully's spark of irritation.  He tipped back at an impossibly
precarious angle and laced his fingers behind his neck, sending her a
blissful smile.

"I'm baaaack!"

"I'll alert the media," Scully replied dryly, but couldn't help grinning
at his happiness.  "Coffee?"

Mulder looked at her cautiously. "Depends. You going to foist some of
that foul tasting sludge on me? Or do I rate the good stuff now?"

Scully rolled her eyes, collecting his mug and heading for the pot.
"It's called decaf, Mulder. And yes, in celebration of your return I've
made the good stuff. In fact, I even brought you breakfast."

Setting the full mug carefully on his desk, she reached over to retrieve
a small white paper bag and plopped it down beside the coffee. Mulder
eyed the sack like a man afraid to hope he's won the lottery.

"A bagel?"

Scully sat down and treated herself to a long sip, hiding her smile with
the rim of the cup. "Live dangerously, Mulder. See for yourself."

Mulder unfolded the top and peered inside, then with a crow of delight
pulled out an enormous Boston crme donut. "Ooo, Scully. You *know* what
I like!"

 Scully watched him consume the pastry with gusto, unable to tear her
eyes away when he began popping each finger into his mouth and sucking
off the frosting while making little sounds of ecstasy.

*That mouth should be registered as a deadly weapon*

Her thoughts turned to the day she'd gone to Mulder's apartment, rocked
by the knowledge of Diana's death. She'd convinced Skinner to allow her
to break the news, determined that he be told not over a cold,
impersonal phone line but by a living, breathing person who cared for
him. Despite her own cocktail of confused feelings towards the woman,
she'd braced herself for Mulder's pain, prepared to offer support and
comfort as she had so many times in their history together. How ironic
that it was Mulder who wound up consoling, she grieving.

*You're my touchstone*

She'd heard the words, seen their truth in his eyes, and teetered on the
brink of insanity. Of throwing caution and six years of repressed desire
to the four winds and just.letting go. Then the despicable Scully
reserve reasserted itself and the moment passed. But she could still
feel the softness of his lower lip under the pad of her thumb...

The phone rang, shaking her out of the memory and into the heat of
Mulder's gaze. Keeping their eyes locked, he scooped up the receiver.

"Mulder."

His feet left the desktop with a thud and he leaned forward to brace
both elbows in their place, finally releasing Scully from scrutiny. With
an undetectable shiver, she straightened her suit jacket and tucked a
wayward piece of hair behind one ear. That made two times Mulder had
caught her daydreaming in the span of fifteen minutes. What on Earth was
going on in her head these days?

"Much better, thank you, sir...More like bored out of my mind,
actually...I know, I know, I've read the paperwork...Yes, she's
here...We'll be right up."

Anxious to short circuit any questions about her preoccupation, Scully
struck first.

"Skinner checking up on you?" she asked as Mulder hung up the phone.

A soft snort. "More like laying down the law. He made a point of
reminding me that I'm flying a desk this week until Palermo signs my
release. Sounded like he thought I might run off half cocked after the
first mutant that strolls by."

"Can't imagine where he'd get that idea," Scully mused breezily.

Mulder made a face. "Ha, ha. Speaking of running off, where have *you*
been this morning, Agent Scully? Before the phone rang you had totally
zoned out on me. Not to mention the way you were catching flies when I
walked in this morning."

Scully willed herself not to fidget, to calmly return his gaze. "Just
tired I guess, Mulder. It's been a rough month."

The teasing glint in his eyes vanished, replaced with a tender concern
that never failed to move her. "You all right, Scully? Have you been
sleeping okay?"

Scully allowed a slight smile as she stood and walked over to lean her
hip against his desk. "I still have the odd nightmare or two -- nothing
compared to yours, I'm sure," she added ruefully. "I guess I just have a
lot to process. It's going to take a little time."

Mulder traced one long finger over the back of her hand.
"You still haven't told me everything that happened while I was... When
I was sick."

"Neither have you," Scully replied, knowing she sounded defensive but
unable to stifle the reluctance to open Pandora's box and disrupt the
fragile peace she'd found.

Mulder's eyes darkened and his jaw tightened. "I know.
Guess I still have some processing to do myself."

Displeased by the melancholy turn in the conversation, Scully ducked her
head to look directly into his eyes. "When I work it out, you'll be the
first to know, Mulder. Scout's honor."

Like quicksilver, the mischief was back. Mulder stood, crowding into her
personal space. "Scully, I just got this incredible image of you in a
little green dress, selling cookies," he said in a low voice, waggling
his eyebrows.

She pursed her lips. "You might be surprised to know I had quite the
gift for sales, Mulder. In fact, I sold more boxes of cookies than
anyone else in my troop."

Mulder held open the door and ushered her through, his hand warming the
small of her back. "Doesn't surprise me a bit, partner. I'd personally
buy anything you were selling."

Scully rewarded him with a full-throated laugh. "I'm going to remind you
of that, Mulder. Probably when it's least convenient."


A.D. Skinner's office 
Monday 
8:30 a.m.


"Agents. Have a seat."

Skinner didn't bother to rise when they walked into his office, in fact,
barely looked up from the file folder he was reading. He looked worn, as
if the events of the past month had leeched away his sense of purpose,
leaving only dogged determination in the wake.

"Sir," Scully murmured, lowering herself cautiously into her usual seat.

Mulder heard the subtle note of uncertainty, knew that Scully still
wrestled with doubts where Skinner was concerned. She'd shared only a
little of her dealings with their boss during the time he was drooling
in a padded cell, but it was enough for Mulder to realize that she'd
guessed Skinner's duplicity.

Skinner evidently heard the hesitation, because his head snapped up and
his dark eyes regarded her intently for a moment before sliding over to
rest on Mulder.

"You're looking much better than the last time I saw you,
Agent Mulder."

"Catatonic was never my look," Mulder replied, tilting his head a little
in assent. "But then, I don't have to tell you that."

Something very like gratitude flickered in Skinner's eyes, assuring
Mulder that his message had been received. He held no grudge against the
man -- on the contrary, he'd experienced his boss' remorse and
self-loathing up close and personal. Though a small portion of him
resented Skinner's betrayal, he understood the agony of being caught
between a rock and a very hard place. And ultimately, when push came to
shove, Skinner had risked everything to help him.

"I called the two of you up here because..." Skinner broke off, glancing
back down at the file folder with an expression of distaste.

"Sir?"

Scully's question communicated the confusion Mulder felt at Skinner's
uncharacteristic lack of direction. Normally, meetings between the three
of them proceeded in an orderly, almost militaristic manner with Skinner
moderating to keep them in line with his agenda. Seeing him at a lack
for words was unnerving.

Skinner sighed, folded his hands, and looked up with a furrowed brow. "I
wanted to reiterate, with both of you present, that Agent Mulder is on
light duty and strictly forbidden to involve himself in any ongoing
investigations. No one but myself has the authority to countermand that
directive -- is that clear?"

Scully's eyes darted to Mulder's before returning to Skinner, her
expression mystified. "Yes, sir. You've made that perfectly clear to
both myself and Agent Mulder."

"And I believe I've sufficiently assured you that I intend to abide by
those restrictions," Mulder added, voice tight with irritation. "Now if
you want, I could do 'cross my heart, hope to die...'"

"Knock it off, Mulder," Skinner growled. "Your word is sufficient."

"Is there a problem, sir?" Scully asked, her blue eyes boring into
Skinner's. "Does it have something to do with that folder you were
reading when we came in?"

Bingo.

Skinner's jaw clenched and the small muscle near his cheek twitched in
agitation. Mulder uncrossed his leg and sat forward, resting his
forearms on his knees.

"If there is, I think I have a right to know about it."

Another sigh, this one more explosive, and Skinner pinched the
indentations left by his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "I assume
you've both heard of the Pro Choice murders?"

Mulder and Scully conferred silently with their eyes before nodding.
"Someone has been butchering women who have scheduled abortions," Scully
said smoothly, emotionlessly. "They haven't been able to tie the deaths
to a specific clinic or doctor. So far four women have died."

"Five," Skinner corrected tersely. "The first murder occurred four
months ago -- the bureau's been involved for the past two. Involved but
unable to make any real headway on the case. So far all leads have
turned into dead ends, and the media has turned this into a political
nightmare. Public outcry is increasing with every murder and the
director is under tremendous pressure."

"They want me on the case," Mulder said quietly. "Is that it, sir?"

Skinner grimaced, the muscle twitching furiously now. "I have
unequivocally informed Jeffreys that you are on restricted duty and will
not be able to assist VCS at this time."

"But you think he might not abide by your wishes?" Scully pressed.

Skinner eyed her shrewdly. "Just covering all my bases."

"Sir. I'm not disputing the imposition of restricted duty,
I freely admit I'm not ready for anything physically strenuous. But
we're talking about profiling here, essentially a desk job, and..."

Mulder's voice evaporated when he realized that Skinner was staring at
him with a look of outrage and Scully just looked pissed. "What?" he
demanded defensively.

Skinner slowly shook his head, but his words were not unkind. "I've seen
you profile, Mulder. Multiple times. I think it's safe to say that it
would not be in line with your limitations."

"And I was there for the Mostow case," Scully added sharply. "For you,
Mulder, profiling *is* a strenuous activity. Speaking as your doctor,
you aren't up to it."

Mulder glanced away, guilt darkening his features. "Women are dying,
Scully."

"As you nearly did yourself. Mulder, we still don't know exactly what
was done to you in that operating room. Let it go."

The passion in her voice reached out and drew him gently back from the
darkness, reminding him that Scully bore her own wounds.

"Okay," he conceded, unable to look at her. "You've made your point."

"If anyone -- *anyone*-- tries to contact you about this case, Mulder, I
want to be the first to know," Skinner said vehemently. "That includes
casual cafeteria conversation and anonymous emails. Have I made myself
clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's all. Consider this the perfect opportunity to catch up on that
backlog of paperwork the X-Files seem to generate."

They left the office in a silence that continued down the hallway to the
elevator.

"I think I've just been sentenced to hell," Mulder grumbled as he
punched the button. When the doors slid open he quirked an eyebrow at
Scully and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "After you, Dante.
Going down."


Continued in part 2

Reply To: sunrise@avenew.com

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>

Damaged Goods (2 of 24)
By Dawn


Georgetown
Wednesday
9:43 p.m.


"No, Mulder. It's absolutely out of the question, even if
Skinner signs the 302 -- which he won't!"

"Sculleee! You're being completely unreasonable about this!"

Scully sank back into a striped cushion, took another swallow from the
amber bottle in her hand, and glared at her partner. "I've been
extremely reasonable, Mulder. I allowed you to bribe me into sifting
through potential casefiles tonight, sacrificing my free time, with
nothing more spectacular than a pizza and a six pack. I've endured the
way you pick out the green peppers and leave them on the lid of the box
without complaint. And I've ignored your pointed remarks about the
inferiority of iced tea from a bottle. I've got to draw the line
somewhere."

Mulder scowled, his lower lip protruding in a classic pout. "You know I
hate green peppers. And I wouldn't be criticizing the tea if you'd just
let me have a beer."

Scully rolled her eyes. "Please, Mulder, you know the drill. Until
Palermo takes you off the Dilantin both alcohol and fieldwork are out of
the question. And I hardly think that looking into a...an alleged
*werewolf* is appropriate for your first case back! We investigate
X-Files, Mulder. Not tabloid headlines."

Mulder smirked. "There's a difference?"  When Scully refused to appear
even slightly amused, he sighed. "What is it about this case that you
find totally improbable -- as opposed to the other cases that you find
only highly improbable?"

That actually earned him a small grin. "Mulder, look at the facts. Some
cattle wind up dead under suspicious circumstances outside a sleepy
little town and the locals are understandably shaken. Add to that a tall
tale by the resident drunk..."

"Eccentric, Scully."

"An eccentric who likes to consume homemade brew," she countered dryly.
"My point is that looking at this file I see little or no hard evidence
to support the kind of creature you postulate."

As she spoke, Scully noticed Mulder rubbing the thumb of his left hand
over the knuckle of the fourth finger. It wasn't the first time she'd
observed the gesture, which seemed to be a carryover from his recent
trauma, a nervous habit he'd picked up in the hospital. She knew he
wasn't aware he did it, and had elected not to comment on the little
idiosyncrasy. After all he'd been through it seemed an insignificant
side effect.

"I disagree," Mulder replied stubbornly, oblivious to her scrutiny.
"Besides eyewitness testimony, there's the matter of the recovered
footprints and the bitemarks on the remains. Both defy standard
classification, neither human nor animal as we would normally categorize
them." His left hand ceased its fidgeting and his right came up to cup
the back of his neck.

"I'll admit the forensic evidence is a bit strange," Scully replied a
little impatiently. "But that doesn't warrant the kind of extrapolation
you're making, Mulder, that some kind of wolf-human hybrid is
responsible."

Mulder huffed out an explosive burst of air. "Why is it so hard for you
to consider, Scully?  We've certainly had experience with nature gone
amuck. Tooms, the Jersey Devil - - hell, what about the Manitou! We
*saw* it in the Parker house? Remember?"

"Mulder, it was too dark to see anything! And when all was said and done
we had a dead *man* on our hands, not some werewolf! The Manitou was a
legend, a story concocted to tell around a campfire."

"Scully, shapeshifting, lycanthropy -- these concepts aren't simply
baseless fabrications crafted by adults to g...give the kiddies a good
scare! There are documented c...cases of l...lycanthropy that d...date
back to...to..."

Mulder's voice trailed off into silence. The tiny line that creased
Scully's forehead, which had appeared when he began to stutter, deepened
while he stared blankly into space and the nervous motion of his thumb
resumed. His hazel eyes looked muddy, slightly out of focus.

"Mulder?" she prodded. Then, when he didn't respond, more forcefully,
"MULDER."

Though her pitch remained low, Mulder startled as if she'd uttered a
blood-curdling shriek. Scully laid her hand over his, disturbed by the
chilled flesh and the thin sheen of perspiration on his brow.

"Hey, partner. Who's catching flies this time?" she gibed
gently. "Where were you just now?"

Mulder met her questioning gaze and Scully was relieved to see that most
of the vagueness had disappeared from his eyes. "I... I can't... Scully,
I *know* that information, I've done extensive reading on this subject.
Lycanthropy was first reported in...in India. No, that's not right, it
was in...in... SHIT!"

He jerked his hand from her grasp, lunging to his feet and pacing back
and forth.

"Mulder..."

Mulder silenced her with a scowl and a furious flick of his wrist.
Scully watched him wear a groove in her carpet for several minutes, his
agitation growing, until he abruptly stopped, wincing in pain, and
massaged his forehead. He then passed the trembling hand down his face
until his fingers pressed his lips.

"I can't remember, Scully. I... It's like it's there, but...out of
reach. The harder I try, the more it slips away."

Scully rose, weaving her way around the coffee table to stand in front
of him. "Headache?" she asked. When he reluctantly nodded, she
continued, "Mulder. This is your first week back to work. It's been a
long day, it's getting late, and you're tired. Under the circumstances
I'd say it's perfectly understandable that you would forget..."

Mulder glanced away, his jaw thrust stubbornly forward. "I have an
eidetic memory, Scully. I don't just forget things."

Scully pressed one hand to his chest, the slightly elevated beat of his
heart vibrating beneath her palm. "What you have, is a body that is
still struggling to throw off the effects of an extreme trauma. Cut
yourself a little slack, Mulder."

She deliberately returned to the couch and began gathering up files,
hoping to ease Mulder's tension by behaving as nonchalantly as possible.
After a moment Mulder joined her, stacking folders and placing them into
his briefcase. Scully took the opportunity to surreptitiously observe
him, noting that his hands were steady and his demeanor calm, though
fatigue darkened the skin beneath his eyes and etched lines around his
mouth. Her stomach twisted uneasily at the thought of him driving home
alone.

"Why don't you just crash on the couch, Mulder?" she asked, trying to
make it sound natural, keeping her voice light and conversational. "I'll
set the alarm so that you have plenty of time to go home and clean up
before work."

Peripherally, she perceived him falter in his motions, felt the razor
edge to his gaze. "Thanks for the offer, but I think I'll drive these
traumatized bones home. I sleep better in my own bed."

Scully arched an eyebrow. "Half the time you don't sleep in a bed,
Mulder. Come on, it's late and you look beat."

He snapped the briefcase shut with more force than necessary and
straightened, hands on hips. "I am not an invalid, Scully. I am
perfectly capable of getting myself home. I'll be taking a cab, so you
won't even have to worry I'll fall asleep and wrap the car around a
tree. I don't need you to take care of me."

Though she understood, even shared Mulder's fear of dependence, his
rebuff drew blood. Scully felt the coaxing smile on her lips turn
brittle as she gathered up empty bottles and headed for the kitchen.
When she'd finished rinsing them in the sink, Mulder was propped in the
doorway, looking both irritated and contrite.

"Scully, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I'm just tired of being
treated like a child. I know my own limitations and I don't need you or
Skinner deciding what I can and cannot do!"

The annoyance faded and he stepped through the doorway, leaning against
the counter near her left elbow. "The worst thing about being in the
hospital, before that cigarette smoking bastard took me, was the
complete lack of control," he said softly, his focus leaving her face
and turning inward. "Not only did I have no say in the tests, the
treatments, I couldn't even command my own body. I'd lie there and piss
in my pants because I couldn't connect enough with the outside world to
ask to use the bathroom. I was trapped on the other side of a void, a
chasm, watching while they pumped me full of drugs and tied me to the
bed. I just couldn't find the bridge."

Mulder blinked, eyes tracking slowly to her stricken face. "You were the
bridge, Scully. You showed me the way. And I will never, *never* be able
to thank you enough. But it's over now, and I need to move past it. To
take back what they stole from me. Can you understand that?"

Scully braced her hands on the sink, looking down at a crack in the
porcelain that resembled a fish. Wondering, not for the first time, if
her days in Africa had been misspent. And if Mulder had paid the price.
Shrugging off the niggling sensation of guilt, she lifted her eyes to
study his face.

"Mulder, do you remember what you said to me after Payton shot me? When
you drove me home and refused to leave?"

He grimaced at the barb and shook his head.

"I do. It went something like this, and I quote, 'For God's sake,
Scully, I thought I'd lost you. Just indulge me and let me take care of
you -- for my sake, if not yours. I promise I'll respect you in the
morning.'"

"And your point is?" Mulder said, deadpan. When she folded her arms and
eyed him narrowly, he sighed. "All right, all right. I get the
correlation. Just don't give me that itchy blue blanket -- last time I
scratched all night."

"Deal," Scully replied, unable to completely mask the hint of triumph in
her voice. "There's aspirin in the medicine chest. And those ratty old
sweatpants you left here are in the bottom drawer of my bureau."

"Ratty?" Mulder feigned outrage as he ambled out of the kitchen and down
the hallway. "I just got those broken in!"

Scully pulled sheets and a spare comforter from the linen closet and set
about transforming the couch into a bed. Mulder padded out of the
bathroom just as she unfolded the blanket.

"Do you have your meds with you?" she asked, then mentally kicked
herself. Mulder was right, she was fussing, but he looked young and
vulnerable clad in the gray sweats and sporting bare feet.

"Yes, Mom," he replied, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly.

"Sorry." She flopped down on top of the comforter and he joined her, his
shoulder resting companionably against her own. "I know you don't need
me hovering, Mulder." She shook her head ruefully. "I certainly haven't
forgotten how annoying that can be. Between you and my mother I thought
I'd lose my mind! I was afraid to inhale for fear that one of you would
offer to breathe for me."

"Hey, that bell idea was your mom's," Mulder protested, referring to the
small brass chime her mother had insisted she use to spare her tender
abdominal muscles the strain of calling out for assistance.

They snickered quietly together for a moment, then Mulder sobered.

"I haven't forgotten what it's like to be in your shoes, Scully. Every
time I looked at you, even after you'd been home a few days, all I could
see was the way you looked in that hospital bed. So pale and fragile.
Part of me wanted to wrap you up in cotton and never let anything, or
anyone, hurt you again."

His declaration touched her deeply, but she pursed her lips. "I'm trying
not to be offended by that, Mulder," she said dryly. "What about the
other part?"

Mulder broke into a simply diabolical grin. "Wanted to kick Payton's
ass."

Scully chuffed a little laugh. "You would've had to wait in line,
partner." She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I must admit I've
conjured up some pretty graphic images of what I'd like to do to our
friend CGB."

Mulder didn't respond at first, but the silence was a comfortable one.
Scully was just beginning to feel sleep tugging at her eyelids when his
words jerked her awake with all the finesse of a slap.

"He called himself my father."

Scully leaned forward and snapped her head around to regard him
intently. "He *what*?"

Mulder shrugged, wearing the blank, detached expression she knew he
reserved for especially painful emotions. "He showed me a different
life. One where Deep Throat was alive and my sister and her family lived
right down the block."

Some of the tension seeped out of Scully's shoulders. "It was a dream,
Mulder. A hallucination, probably caused by the drugs."

He nodded, thumb stroking his knuckle again and expression pensive. "My
mother handed me over to him, Scully. Now, why do you suppose she'd do
that?"

She didn't like the implication, or his overly calm, resigned demeanor.
Especially since she'd wrestled with similar concerns.

"You were dying, Mulder. She was desperate and the doctors had run out
of options. You've already established Spender was a family friend and
we both know how persuasive he can be. I don't think you should jump to
conclusions."

Another nod and a strained smile. "You look tired, Scully, and I seem to
recall the purpose of this little slumber party was for me to get some
sleep. That is, unless you have some ulterior motives?" The leer was a
bit forced, but suitably lecherous.

Scully patted his knee, affecting an expression of regret.
"Sorry, G-man. No strenuous activity, remember? Check back with me when
you're in peak physical condition and we'll talk." She waggled her
eyebrows in a shameless parody. "Good night, Mulder."

Mulder watched, mouth agape, as she sauntered over to turn out the
light. "*Talking* is not exactly what I had in mind," he muttered,
flopping down on his side and drawing the comforter up to his chin.
"Night, Scully."


Continued in part 3

Reply To: sunrise@avenew.com

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>

Damaged Goods (3 of 24)
By Dawn


The X-Files Office
Friday
12:16 a.m.


Mulder squinted at the computer screen, one hand kneading the flesh
between his eyes and the other clutching a pen poised impotently over a
yellow legal pad. With a frustrated growl, he dropped the pen so that
both hands could cradle his aching head. The harder he tried to focus,
the more the words on the screen blurred into alphabet soup and the
sharper the pain that pulsed through his skull like a cerebral
heartbeat.

Three hours poking through data -- normally enough time for him to grasp
the pertinent details and begin formulating a preliminary theory. Today
he felt as if he were wading through a bog, each step sluggish and
achieved with great effort.

*Maybe that's because you aren't supposed to be doing this,* his
conscience whispered furtively, to which he sourly replied with a mental
flip of his middle finger.

It was funny, really. Before the meeting with Skinner, the Pro-Choice
Murders had been just another headline on the front page of the
newspaper. He hadn't exactly kept up with current events over the last
month -- first isolated and catatonic in the hospital, then struggling
to cope with the aftermath. About the only newsworthy occurrence to
spark his interest was watching his beloved Yankees win the World
Series.

Then Skinner warned him off the case, and suddenly it was in his face
everywhere he went. Snatches of conversation from agents in the hallways
and cafeteria, heated discussion between passengers on the Metro as they
perused the Washington Post, news broadcasts popping up every time he
lay on his couch hoping to channel surf his way into the oblivion of
sleep... Images, facts, and idle speculation bombarded his senses, and
though at first he tried hard not to succumb, eventually the inevitable
occurred. The insatiable Mulder curiosity was piqued.

Inevitable because Mulder was bored. Not the "Ho, hum, what am I going
to do with myself now?" kind of bored. This was the "If I don't get a
case to sink my teeth into soon I'll go stark raving mad" kind. Though
he still suffered from the odd headache and tired easily, he had nearly
recovered physically. Until Palermo signed his medical release, however,
he was prohibited from really doing his job. Writing reports, crunching
numbers, attending meetings -- it was all just going through the
motions. And if he were brutally honest, what else did he have but his
work? The
World Series was over. He'd already spent one too many evenings with the
boys consuming cheese steaks and listening to them spout their latest
conspiracy theory. And Scully... Well, he sensed Scully struggling with
her own issues and was loath to intrude.

So instead of heading back to the office when Kramer and Lundstrom sat
down at a nearby table and began debating the case, Mulder lingered.
Instead of aimlessly flipping channels, he tuned to CNN. And he started
buying his own copy of the Washington Post. All innocent acts, all
incapable of drawing censure. Until this morning when he'd grit his
teeth, told the little voice in his head to shut up, and crossed the
line.

Scully was at Quantico autopsying the granddaughter of a congressman.
According to Skinner, the girl's death had all the earmarks of an OD,
but the man's controversial stance on several upcoming bills warranted a
thorough investigation to rule out foul play. Scully had donned her coat
and packed her briefcase with a minimum of grumbling and repeated
assurances that she'd be back in time to drive Mulder to his 2 p.m.
doctor's appointment. She'd exited the office with a spring in her step
that betrayed her relief at escaping the tedium of their enforced
inactivity. Obviously Scully was just as bored as he was.

After a short but heated debate with his conscience, Mulder had made a
discreet call to an old friend in Violent Crimes. Soon, he was
downloading data and pouring over copies of the casefile. He'd managed
to shrug off the rapidly escalating headache, immersing himself in
reading through case reports and studying copies of crime scene photos.
Finally the pain in his head could no longer be ignored and he surfaced,
feeling slightly nauseous and disoriented.

When he'd squinted at his watch in annoyance, his mouth had dropped open
in surprise. His phone call to Costanza seemed just minutes ago, yet
somehow the entire morning had slipped by without notice. He folded his
arms on top of the desk and dropped his head onto the makeshift pillow,
closing his eyes.

Missing time while profiling was not a new experience.
During one exceptionally bad case while he was with VICAP he'd gone
nearly seventy-two hours without sleeping or eating, so far down he'd
suppressed the need for basic physical necessities. Mulder knew that by
delving into the Pro-Choice case he was playing with fire, but his
frustration and boredom had the effect of transforming it into a siren's
song he could not resist. Still, he'd been confident that with a little
extra effort he could exercise self-control and avoid losing himself
completely.

So much for that theory.

Mulder opened his eyes and lifted his head, drawn once more to the
photos lying beneath his fingertips, one thumb rubbing absently at a
knuckle. Five young women, ranging in age from nineteen to thirty-seven.
Abducted from home, from car -- even the mall in the most recent murder.
No signs of forced entry. No signs of struggle. The bodies meticulously
displayed, the fetus removed with surgical precision and taken from the
scene. As yet, none had been recovered.

Something about those missing babies bothered him and he couldn't seem
to pin it down. It reminded him of the way Sam would vie for his
attention when he tried to read a book, tickling the bottoms of his feet
and then dancing away, just out of reach. The more he stretched his
mind, grasping for the elusive idea, the farther it slid away.

Mulder returned his head to its resting place on his arms, breathing
through his mouth in an effort to ride out an abrupt wave of queasiness
that had him feeling for the wastebasket with his left foot. The
headache was blinding -- he was certain that at any moment his skull
would crack open and spill his brains onto the desk like gray jello.

He was so far gone he never heard the rattle of elevator or the
approaching footsteps. The door swung open and Scully swept into the
office, cheeks tinged pink from the cold air and a very fragrant brown
paper bag clutched in one hand.

"Hey, partner. Hope you haven't eaten yet. I stopped at that great
little Thai place down the street..."

Mulder bolted. He was out the door, down the darkened hallway, and into
the men's room before she'd finished speaking, his stomach demonstrating
just what it thought of the takeout by trying to exit his body through
his mouth. Crashing to his knees in front of the toilet he clutched the
sides of the bowl and retched, moaning softly as each spasm shot agony
through his head.

When the dry heaves subsided he hauled himself unsteadily to his feet
and staggered to the sink, rinsing his mouth and splashing cold water on
his face. He ran damp fingers through his hair and stared at his
reflection in the mirror, squinting against the harsh fluorescent
lighting. His skin looked too pale, his eyes sunken.

Mulder swore softly under his breath. "Scully sees you like this and
next thing you know she'll be telling Palermo you need desk duty for
another month," he muttered.

Letting his eyes slip shut, he focused on taking several deep, cleansing
breaths and relaxing clenched muscles. The headache refused to be
pacified, but the churning in his gut did ease up a bit. With a final
grimace at the mirror, he squared his shoulders and headed back to the
office.

"Sorry about that, Scully, I just..."

*Shit*

Scully turned slowly to face him, her back rigid and her face dark with
fury. She silently extended her right hand, two of the crime scene
photos clenched between her fingers.

"So, did I hear you mention lunch?" Mulder asked weakly, taking the
pictures and brushing past her to sit down at his desk. He quickly
gathered the remaining photos and reports and stuffed them into the
folder, feeling her eyes burning holes in the back of his neck.

"Mulder, what in the hell do you think you're doing?"

He looked up at her, trying for innocence but flinching when the lights
shone in his eyes. "Clearing off a space to eat?"

"Stop it! This is serious!"

Unreasonably, his own anger flared, a reaction to being caught with his
hand in the cookie jar. He deliberately flipped the folder open to a
photo of the most recent victim and gazed up at her. "It is? Gee,
Scully, thanks for setting me straight!" He slapped it shut and leaned
back in his chair, arms crossed defensively over his chest.

Scully pressed her lips so tightly together they appeared bloodless. She
pushed the door shut with a bang and stalked around to the front of his
desk, where she braced both palms on the wood and leaned forward.

"Skinner gave you explicit instructions to stay away from that case,
Mulder. I heard you give him your word. Did that mean anything to you?"

Mulder gaped at her. Of all the accusations Scully might have made,
she'd chosen the only one for which he had no defense. Rules,
regulations, the chain of command... Those things meant nothing to him,
never had. But honor, trust -- they were the building blocks of his
identity. By calling his integrity into question she'd bypassed the
armor and gone for his tender underbelly. And she'd drawn blood.

"Scully, I... Of course, it meant something to me! I just... I couldn't
seem to get it out of my mind! I kept seeing the reports in the papers
and on the news and it got me thinking and asking questions and...and I
just..."

"You're tired of the scut work, and you figure you know more than me,
Skinner, or the doctors, so why not do whatever the hell you want and
just screw the rest of us! Is that right?"

"NO! No, that's not right!" Mulder snapped, shoving the chair back and
springing to his feet. "I need something, Scully, and I think this is
it. I was bored, yes, but that's only a small part. I told you I have to
get past what happened to me, to move forward -- well I can't do that
creating budgets and reviewing policies! I kept thinking about what
Skinner said, about how no one can get a handle on the case and that
Jeffreys approached him, and... Five women have *died*, Scully! Whatever
the hell else I am, I'm good at this -- you know that! If I can stop it
from happening again, can save even one life... How can I hide down here
and do nothing?"

If anything, his words seemed to stoke her anger. "Here we go again! Fox
Mulder, the last great hope! Single-handedly responsible for solving the
unsolvable, for catching a murderer and saving countless victims,
heedless of the cost to himself! Doesn't that God complex ever get
tiresome, Mulder?"

Another barb, unerringly finding its mark, and Mulder struggled to keep
the hurt from showing. Opted for anger as an effective camouflage. "I
told you already that I don't need you to take care of me, Scully. This
is *my* decision."

Her eyebrows lifted. "Oh really? Did it ever occur to you that I have my
own obligation to Skinner? He made it very clear that you were not to be
involved in an active case, particularly this one. He asked to be
informed immediately if that directive was ignored."

"He asked *me* to tell him if I was approached," Mulder argued
stubbornly. "I haven't been. This was my own initiative."

Scully threw up her hands and gazed at the ceiling in disbelief.
"Semantics, Mulder. You *knew* the intent." She wandered over to sink
into her chair, shaking her head. "I don't know what I'm more pissed off
about, your total disregard for your health or the compromising position
this little stunt puts me in."

He pitched his voice low and seductive. "Scully, I've been wanting to
put you in a compromising position for six years now."

He realized humor was the wrong choice the moment the innuendo left his
lips. Scully's eyebrows plunged and her hands curled into fists.

"This is all a game to you, isn't it?" she said tightly. "Break the
rules, manipulate the system, lie to Skinner, to me..."

Mulder's stomach did a long, slow roll, but he couldn't tell if it was
the headache or the disappointment on Scully's face. "I didn't lie," he
protested weakly, slumping back into his own chair.

"A lie of omission," she said, averting her eyes. "You waited until I
left the office to pursue this, didn't you? Are you honestly going to
tell me that you would've gone ahead with me present?"

The truth in that assessment effectively doused the residual spark of
anger, leaving only misery and regret. "I'm sorry, Scully. So much has
happened, I... I needed to work. To have something else to think about,
someone else to concentrate on. I never intended to hurt anyone, least
of all you."

Something in his voice pulled her eyes back from contemplating the
stapler. The anger faded just a bit and she appeared to really look at
him for the first time.

"You look terrible."

Sensing firmer ground beneath his feet, Mulder clutched at his heart.
"Scully, you wound me! I wore this tie because I thought it was your
favorite."

Scully's disapproving frown was marred by a barely perceptible curve of
her lips. "You know what I mean. Are you feeling all right?"

"Just a headache -- probably from reading without my glasses. I'm fine,"
he replied, meeting her appraising gaze while fighting the urge to scrub
at his forehead.

The little line between her brows deepened. "You seem to be having an
awful lot of those, Mulder. Are you sure that's all it is?"

"Scully," he growled.

She relaxed at the warning tone, smiling sheepishly. "Okay, okay."
Sobering, she indicated the folder with a tilt of her head. "We haven't
finished with this, Mulder."

"Are you going to Skinner?" he asked quietly.

She shrugged and dropped her eyes. "I have to think about it."

"I've been through the folder and I've got some ideas for the
profile..."

Her tone sharpened. "Don't push it, Mulder." She sighed.
"Let's see what Dr. Palermo has to say."

Not much of a concession, but more than he deserved. Mulder nodded and
propped his head on one hand so that he could unobtrusively rub his
temple.

"I'm sure you never thought of lunch while you were buried in those
reports," Scully continued, pulling the paper bag closer and lifting out
a carton. "Maybe some food will help that headache."

The pungent aroma of meat and spices filled the air. Mulder swallowed
hard and quickly switched to breathing through his mouth. "I had a snack
from the vending machine. I'm not really hungry," he replied.

Scully's eyes narrowed. "It's not like you to turn down Thai, Mulder.
Sure you're not interested?" She punctuated the question by extending
the carton so that it hovered within a foot of his nose.

He couldn't avoid jerking back as if she'd offered a live snake, tasting
bile at the back of his throat and feeling a cold sweat pop out on his
forehead.

"It's tempting, but I'll pass," he said, teeth clenched.

Scully mercifully removed the container, but a moment later her hand,
small and cool, was pressed to his forehead. "You were sick, weren't
you, Mulder? That's why you ran out of here like your ass was on fire
when I walked through the door."

Mulder pulled back from the questing hand. "I did not," he said
petulantly. When she folded her arms and said nothing he peered up at
her. "Alright, maybe I did. I'm just a little queasy from the headache,
that's all. Maybe you can save some and I'll have it for dinner?"

Scully relented. "Have you taken anything?"

Subterfuge no longer necessary, Mulder put both hands to work soothing
the pain. "Some Tylenol. Hasn't helped much."

Scully sighed again, walked over to her desk, and rummaged around in her
purse. A moment later she pressed two tablets into Mulder's palm. "Here.
Empirin 3's. I take them when I get a migraine. I'll get you a Sprite."

Relief, gratitude, shame. Mulder curled his fingers around the pills and
watched her walk to the door.

"Scully?"

She turned, one hand on the knob.

"Thanks. I..."

The apology -- trite and unworthy after all she'd done, all she
continued to do -- deserted him. Somehow, though, Scully understood. She
gave him wry but affectionate smile.

"Accepted, Mulder."


Continued in part 4

Reply To: sunrise@avenew.com

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>

Damaged Goods (4 of 24)
By Dawn


Alexandria
Friday
7:12 p.m.

Obviously, ignoring her insistent knocking was not going to achieve the
desired effect.

The sledgehammer in Mulder's head picked up the beat and he let his eyes
slip shut, the pad of his thumb absently stroking the fourth finger of
his left hand. He was tired, pissed, and his head hurt like a son of a
bitch. Scully was the last person he wanted to see right now, but he
knew her well enough to realize he didn't have a choice. She'd put up
with him disregarding her rapping for only so long and then she'd...

A faint jingling, the grate of metal to metal, and the snick as his
deadbolt disengaged.

"Hey, Scully. Don't stand on ceremony. Come on in," he tossed
sarcastically over his shoulder.

He kept his eyes fixed on the computer screen, not really seeing the
words he'd just typed. His ears detected her quiet footfalls crossing
the room, his nose the subtle fragrance of her perfume. She stopped just
behind his right shoulder and in his mind's eye he could picture her
regarding him critically, evaluating the tense set of his spine, the
nervous bouncing of his leg, the slight increase in his respiration.
Ever the doctor, his Scully.

When she understood that Mulder did not intend to turn around, Scully
released a gusty sigh. "Mulder, I know you're angry about this
afternoon..."

"Angry?" he cut her off before she could continue, still showing her his
back. "I'm not angry, Scully. I'm disappointed."

"Bullshit."

Scully stepped around his chair, forcing her way into his field of view.
Contrary to the impatience in her tone, her face was calm. Mulder met
her gaze squarely, almost belligerently for a moment before his eyes
scooted back to contemplate the monitor.

"You sold me out, Scully. Palermo would have cleared me for fieldwork --
I nearly had him convinced. Thanks to your *professional opinion* I'm
benched for another week."

Rather than rise to his bait, Scully let her eyes map the contours of
his face, taking in the slight squint and the lines around his mouth.
"You have another one, don't you?" When he remained sullen and
unresponsive she pressed harder. "You told Palermo that the headache was
gone, that you were feeling good. Was that a lie, Mulder?"

His slammed both hands onto the arms of his chair and glared furiously
at her. "NO! Why would you ask me that? I felt fine all afternoon --
betrayed, maybe, but fine. And before you ask, yes, I ate dinner tonight
without any difficulty at all."

"But you're having trouble now."

Her soft statement, sympathetic rather than accusing, took the fight out
of Mulder and his shoulders curled forward. "It didn't start until I sat
down at the computer," he said, and she could see how much the admission
cost him.

Scully opened her mouth to point out that this time he was wearing his
glasses, but swallowed the words before she could speak them. Though
still angry, he was speaking to her -- a big improvement from the
afternoon. He'd been so upset after the appointment with Palermo he'd
actually called a cab, refusing to get into her car.

"Go ahead, say it," Mulder growled, tugging her back from the silent
reverie.

"Say what?"

"What you were going to say. What you're dying to say. 'You're pushing
too hard, Mulder,'" he mimicked bitterly. "'Your body is telling you to
slow down and you aren't listening.'"

Scully supposed she should be irritated by his impersonation, but found
it hard since Mulder was right. She *was* thinking along those lines and
the rebuke could easily have fallen from her lips. And given that just
three weeks ago he'd been completely unresponsive and strapped to a
hospital bed, a part of her reveled in his irascibility. These days,
even fighting with the man seemed a precious gift.

"Did you take anything?"

He pulled off his glasses and blinked at her owlishly. "Not yet, Doctor.
I was *trying* to get a few thoughts down first. Course, it's hard to
concentrate when someone's beating the hell out of your door."

Scully ignored the dig, pulling a small white bag from her pocket. "You
stomped out of the clinic before Palermo returned with your
prescription. I filled it on my way over."

Mulder's lip thrust forward. "I did not stomp." He stood up and accepted
the sack, fishing out the amber container and scanning the label.
"Thanks," he mumbled, veering towards the kitchen.

Scully followed, hip resting against a cabinet as she watched him pour
water from a bottle in the refrigerator. At his upraised eyebrow she
nodded, and he filled a second glass. Thrusting it silently into her
hand, he slid up onto the counter and tossed back one of the
painkillers.

The silence stretched long between them until she rested one hand on his
knee and looked searchingly up at him. "Mulder, it's not that bad. You
may not be cleared for the field, but at least you're off the Dilantin
and you can drive again."

When he simply glared at her, stone faced, she turned and walked away,
pausing in the kitchen doorway. "I'm sorry you're angry, Mulder," she
said quietly, "but I had to be straight with Palermo. If I hadn't, and
anything ever happened to you..." She let the sentence trail off,
walking briskly to the coffee table to collect her keys.

Mulder's hands cupped her shoulders and spun her gently around. He
ducked his head so their eyes met, contrition in his to offset the hurt
in her own. "I know you want what's best for me, Scully. But don't you
think I'm more qualified to decide that?"

Scully reached up to lay her hand on his cheek, tenderness and
resignation in her smile. "Honestly, Mulder? No."

He released his grip and stepped back at that, eyebrows drawing together
in consternation. "What?"

She wandered over to brace her hand on the desk chair, gesturing at the
fledgling profile on the monitor screen. "You were banned from working
on this case, Mulder. You defied Skinner's orders and wound up with a
nearly incapacitating headache for your trouble. Yet here you are again,
right back at it in spite of the physical repercussions. Would you call
that someone who knows what's best for himself?"

Mulder's mouth worked impotently for a moment before he gave up and ran
fingers through his hair until it stood in spikes. He rubbed the back of
his neck and stared at his bare feet for a moment before looking back up
at her.

"Would you do me a favor, Scully? Would you just listen to me for a few
minutes? Not as my doctor, and not even as my friend. As my partner."

Scully bit her lip, then nodded, feeling somehow guilty at the gratitude
and relief that transformed his face. He sank into the chair and she
shifted to peer over his shoulder.

"You remember the basic facts as I outlined them this morning?" He
plunged on, unable to hide the eagerness in his voice. "Something about
the crime scene photos kept bothering me, and I finally realized what it
was. All of the women's bodies showed visible evidence of their
pregnancies -- additional weight, fullness in the face, and even some
swelling of the ankles in one case."

When he paused, looking up at her expectantly, Scully frowned. "So?"

"So that means that the pregnancy had progressed, probably into the
second trimester. I made some phone calls to the clinics and discovered
that in each case the abortion had been scheduled only after the mothers
received test results indicating a genetic abnormality."

"What kind of abnormality?"

Mulder's hand crept up to massage his forehead. "Three cases of Down's
Syndrome and two of Spina Bifida."

Scully tapped her lip with her index finger. "It does seem significant."

"It has to be more than coincidence, Scully! The normal percentage of
genetic abnormalities is... is..." Mulder's face contorted and he
squeezed his eyes tightly shut against a sharp burst of pain.

"Mulder?"

He waved her off, panting a little but continuing. "Anyway, I think it's
worth checking out the labs that processed the test results."

Scully watched him grimace again, took in the agitated movement of thumb
brushing finger, the light sheen of sweat on his brow. "I agree."

"There's more. I was interested to learn that this was a first pregnancy
for each of the victims -- not unusual for a twenty-one-year-old like
Nicole Eddings, but definitely out of the ordinary for someone pushing
forty like Elizabeth Brentwood. It may have no significance at all, but
once again, it's worth keeping in mind."

His eyes lost focus and he began speaking more to himself than to
Scully. "I need to understand what's driving the UNSUB. The working
profile the police are using is all wrong. They're looking for a cold,
brutal killer, someone with a complete disregard for the sanctity of
human life. I disagree. There's no sign of gratuitous violence here. The
only cuts on the bodies are those that were necessary to remove the
baby. Blood tests show a sedative, though not enough to cause the victim
to lose consciousness. He drugs them and removes the fetus with a
minimal amount of physical trauma." Mulder's smooth tenor became
strained, each word forced. "The m...mother is then simply left to bleed
out, and the UNSUB leaves with the fetus."

He propped his elbows on the desktop and dropped head into hands, thumbs
moving over his temples in hard little circles. "He's dispassionate,
emotions under t...tight control. The murders are necessary, a task that
must be performed but n-not enjoyed. He's p-precise, c...cl...clinical,
and he could b...be, could b...be..."

He nearly plowed Scully over in a headlong dash for the bathroom. She
listened to him be noisily sick for several minutes before heaving a
sigh and following.

Mulder spat twice in a pitiful attempt to clear the foul taste from his
mouth, leaned over to flush the toilet and hauled himself up on wobbly
colt's legs. He snagged his toothbrush from its holder and the paste
from the medicine chest, ignoring trembling fingers. Scully leaned in
the doorway, worry and disapproval vying for dominance on her face as he
eyed her in the mirror while he brushed
.

"You okay?"

He pulled the brush from his mouth and bared his teeth in a foamy and
insincere smile. "Just peachy."

Scully rolled her eyes and retreated, leaving him to finish in relative
peace. Mulder drew himself a tumbler of water, startled when her hand
materialized under his chin, another pill in her palm. He eyed it
distastefully, making no move to accept the offering.

"Two's going to make me fuzzy."

"Oh for God's sake, Mulder, you just spent the last five minutes
throwing up your toenails! Take the damn pill!"

Stubborn, but not stupid, Mulder recognized that he'd just run out of
rope. He meekly accepted the capsule and washed it down, rode out a
smaller wave of nausea, and decided it would stay in place. He wandered
over to his couch, unable to suppress a soft grunt of relief once the
familiar leather cushions cradled his aching head. Scully perched on the
coffee table, her knees just brushing his.

Mulder flung one arm over his eyes, a shield to the light and Scully's
probing stare. "You going to out me to Skinner?"

He didn't need to see her face; the disbelief colored her voice. "You
intend to continue? Mulder, can't you see what this is doing to you
already? It's only going to get worse! How much more do you think you
can take before you wind up hospitalized?"

"I hope you're referring to medical treatment and not five point
restraints," he replied, one eye peeking out from the crook of his
elbow.

Scully dug her tongue into her cheek -- annoyed, not amused. "Once
again, Mulder. Not funny."

Mulder dropped his arm and sat forward. "You're right. It isn't funny.
Five women are dead, Scully. I can stop it, I know I can."

"Can you honestly tell me that you think you're physically capable of
handling this case?" Scully demanded.

"Were you listening to me tonight? Can you honestly deny that I'm
needed? Scully, they're stalled, at a complete standstill. I've made
more headway in the last six hours than they've made in the last six
months! I'm not capable of making any other choice."

She sighed and slipped her hands over his restless fingers, tilting her
head back to regard his face. She read no arrogance, no bravado, in
spite of the words. Just iron determination and a plea for her support.
Almost seven years now, and in some ways she'd grown to know this man
better than she knew herself.

In others, he would always remain a mystery.

For better or worse, come hell, high water, or Skinner, Mulder would
pursue this case to its conclusion. Nothing short of a bullet or those
five point restraints could stop him now. Like a driverless car
careening downhill at full speed, he'd only gain momentum. Her options
were twofold -- stand in the road and be run down, or hop aboard and try
to steer.

Maybe even judiciously apply the brakes when necessary.

"Okay," she acquiesced. She quickly lifted her hand, palm out, to freeze
his smile. "On my terms."

Wariness replacing triumph, she could feel him stiffen.

"Go on."

"You stick to profiling. That means deskwork, not legwork."

Mulder scowled. "What if I need to follow up a piece of information? Or
to interview someone?"

 "If you need a lead run down you get me or one of the other agents on
the case to take care of it. If you need an interview, you conduct it
over the phone or at the Bureau,"
Scully's reply was smooth and hard as steel.

Mulder withdrew his hands and slumped back on the couch. "Okay," he
sulked. "What else?"

"You call Skinner first thing tomorrow morning to confess what a naughty
boy you've been and to update him on your progress."

"Are you crazy? You want me to out *myself* to Skinner?"
 
"That's the idea," Scully said calmly.

"Scully, he'll not only chew my ass for ignoring his directive, he'll
forbid me from continuing!" Mulder whined.

"You underestimate the power of my promise to keep you in line, Mulder,"
she replied, a smirk turning up the corners of her mouth. "He'll come
around."

Mulder opened his mouth to argue, but snapped it shut and nodded
instead. "Is that it?" he asked unhappily.

"Just one more," Scully said gently. "I will not stand back and let you
sacrifice yourself. Not for the victims, and certainly not for the
UNSUB. If I think you've crossed the line, if I believe for one minute
that you're jeopardizing your health, I will go to Skinner and convince
him to pull the plug. I'll make sure you're hospitalized, suspended -
anything to keep you from continuing. I can live with your anger,
Mulder. What I can't live with is the knowledge that I stood by and let
you self destruct."

Mulder's hard gaze softened, the resentment melting under her warmth and
affection. "I'll try not to give you either one. You drive a hard
bargain, G-woman, but you've got a deal."

Scully shook her head ruefully, rising to her feet. "If I drive such a
hard bargain, why do I get the feeling I've been snookered?" she asked
wryly.

Evidently the second pill had kicked in. Mulder's eyes were
heavy-lidded, the hazel dominated by oversized pupils. "Guess I coulda
sold a few boxes myself, huh Scully?"

It took a moment to make the connection. Scully struggled against the
grin, heading for the door. "Maybe so, Mulder. But the real question is,
how would you have looked in the skirt?"


Continued in part 5

Reply To: sunrise@avenew.com

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>

Damaged Goods (5 of 24)
By Dawn


A. D. Skinner's Office
Saturday
9:03 am

Skinner finished reading a sheet of Mulder's handwritten notes and set
it aside, flipping slowly back through the photos and finally closing
the folder. The palm of one hand smoothed the manila surface while the
fingers of the other drummed against the blotter, his jaw clamped
tightly shut. The angle of his head and the reflection of light off his
glasses conspired to lend him an air of inscrutability that defied
Mulder's best attempts to discern his mood.

Mulder smoothed an invisible piece of lint from his tie, willing himself
not to fidget. Sitting on this side of the massive mahogany desk,
delivering news he was certain Skinner wouldn't want to hear, remained
an unpleasant, though certainly not unfamiliar experience. He hated
feeling like a recalcitrant ten-year-old sent to the principal's office
to give account for his errant behavior, Mom in tow. He snatched a quick
sideways glance at his partner, not sure whether to be reassured or
annoyed by her patience and attentiveness as she awaited their
supervisor's response.

When Skinner finally raised his eyes from the file it was to pin Mulder
with an icy stare. When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerously
mild.

"Agent Mulder, do you recall our conversation about this case?"

Mulder licked his lips, fighting the urge to evade Skinner's eyes. "Yes,
sir."

"Did I fail to communicate my directive regarding your participation in
the case, in any capacity?"

"No, sir."

Skinner planted his elbows on the desk and leaned forward, giving Mulder
the uncomfortable impression of a mouse being stalked by a cat. "Did I
leave you with the misconception that your capitulation with that
directive was optional?"

Tendrils of resentment and rebellion entwined with the honest regret he
felt, tainting it. "No, sir. You were perfectly clear," he replied
sullenly.

Skinner leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin but
gaze never breaking from Mulder's face. "So what you're saying is that
you were willfully insubordinate."

Mulder's eyebrows plunged. "I just... I knew that if I..." He folded his
arms across his chest. "Yes, sir."

Skinner retrieved Mulder's notes and let his eyes wander up and down the
page, one thumb stroking his jawline. Mulder chewed the inside of his
cheek, the resentment expanding within him like a hot air balloon until
it burst.

"I realize that I ignored your instructions to steer clear of this case.
But you can't deny that I've made progress. I've uncovered some leads
worth pursuing and developed some insights into the UNSUB. You and I
both know the team has just been spinning its wheels for months. I've
begun to construct a profile, and I intend to finish it. So if you're
planning to suspend me, *sir*, just get it over with and put us both out
of our misery."

Mulder felt the daggers of Scully's eyes but stubbornly refused to
acknowledge them. Skinner, who had kept his gaze on the paper throughout
Mulder's tirade, met his challenging glare coolly.

"A lot of people besides Bill Patterson were sorry to see you leave
VICAP, Mulder. Myself included. I don't dispute the talent, just the
cost."

The concern, rather than the expected anger, completely bypassed
Mulder's defenses and he floundered for a reply.

"I'm fine, sir. I can do this."

Irritation seeped back into Skinner's face. He turned to Scully, who
stiffened under his scrutiny.

"Agent Scully, I know you've kept in contact with Agent Mulder's
physician. What is his current physical status? In your professional
opinion, is he capable of undertaking this assignment?"

Mulder shifted slightly in his seat so that he could see her face. Her
blue eyes flicked briefly toward him before locking onto their boss. She
sucked in a deep breath and cleared her throat.

"Agent Mulder had a follow-up visit with his neurologist yesterday and
everything appeared to be healing normally. Dr. Palermo took him off the
Dilantin and lifted the driving restriction." She hesitated, then
continued. "He did suggest that Agent Mulder confine himself to desk
duty for an additional week, mainly as a precaution."

Skinner absorbed her words, studying her facial expression carefully.
"Thank you for the update, Scully, but you haven't answered my question.
Do you recommend that Agent Mulder be allowed to continue working on
this case?"

Scully's eyes darted to Mulder's once more, the warning clear. *Don't
make me regret this*

"I don't see any reason why Agent Mulder can't continue to work on the
profile and participate in the investigation, provided he respects his
limitations and doesn't overdo."

"That's the real issue, isn't it?" Skinner sighed, rubbing the bridge of
his nose with thumb and forefinger. "All right. I'll notify SAC Jeffreys
that you both have joined the team. I expect you to keep us informed of
your progress. And Mulder..." Skinner's eyes narrowed and he pointed a
finger for emphasis. "Just because I'm choosing to ignore this (he waved
the sheet of notes) blatant disregard for orders doesn't mean I won't
step in if I think for one minute that you're abusing this agreement.
You are still restricted from venturing into the field and you will keep
reasonable hours. If I hear from Agent Scully that you aren't eating or
sleeping to her satisfaction you'll be off this case so fast you won't
know what hit you." He leaned closer with a predatory smile. "I hear SAC
Burgess in Wiretapping is short a few bodies. I'm sure he'd be eager for
the help."

Mulder blanched at the image Skinner's threat conjured. Reassuming his
mask of indifference, he nodded. The important thing was that he'd been
cleared to complete the profile. He felt confident that he could work
around Scully.

As if she could sense his thoughts, Scully suddenly turned so that her
eyes bore into his. "Don't worry, sir," she said, her voice deceptively
calm. "If it comes to that, I'll call SAC Burgess myself."


South Suburban Clinic 
Saturday 
11:14 a.m.


Scully crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt, glancing out the window.
A beautiful Saturday, temperature a little cool but plenty of sunshine
in a clear blue sky. A day for strolling the mall, window shopping,
maybe even a drive to Baltimore to visit Mom. The last place she wanted
to be was a stuffy little clinic, waiting to speak to Elizabeth
Brentwood's doctor.

*You owe me for this, Mulder. Big time.*

"Agent Scully?"

Scully stood, pasting on a smile and extending her hand. "Dr. Lathrop.
Thank you for seeing me."

Dr. Lathrop was cartoonishly tall and thin, his skin stretched tight
over the bones of his angular face. His dark eyes were deep set but
kind, and his answering smile transformed his features from dour to
pleasant.

"I'm not sure I can add anything to the statements I've already given,
Agent Scully, but I'm certainly willing to try." The smile winked out of
existence and his face darkened. "These murders have cast a pall over
this clinic that has affected us all -- doctors, technicians, and
certainly patients. This lunatic has got to be stopped."

He gestured for her to follow him down a long corridor and into a
spacious office filled with books and plants. Scully accepted the
proffered chair, grateful for the softness of the cushions after the
hard plastic of her waiting room seat. Lathrop surprised her by
collecting a folder from the desktop and sinking into the companion
chair in front of his desk.

"This is Elizabeth Brentwood's file," he said grimly, "though there's
not much for you to see. She came to me strictly for the abortion; her
OB and all her prenatal testing were from a different clinic. I
performed the obligatory pre-exam and ran some blood work. She was
murdered less than twenty-four hours before the scheduled procedure."

Scully accepted the file folder and flipped through it as she listened
to Dr. Lathrop. "Did she confide in you the reason she'd decided to
abort?"

"Frankly, Agent Scully, that's none of my business. I don't make it a
practice to pry into my patient's personal lives, nor would I betray any
confidences they might share. Abortion is an extremely emotional
decision and I would never presume to question the patient's right to
make this choice."

The cool, barely concealed anger in Lathrop's tone pulled Scully's eyes
from the file to study his tense, slightly flushed face.

"I understand patient confidentiality, I'm a doctor myself. I assure you
I didn't mean to call Mrs. Brentwood's decision into question, doctor.
I'm just trying to establish areas of commonality between victims."

Lathrop refused to be mollified. "Perhaps. But I can't help but sense
disapproval in the question. We both know this is an extremely volatile
and controversial issue, and many people have a hard time maintaining an
unbiased attitude. Would *you* ever consider abortion, Agent Scully?"

Somehow, she managed to keep her professional mask intact, though
Lathrop's question, uttered with more than a trace of sarcasm, pierced
the most fragile portion of her soul. Closing the folder she set it back
on the desk, the simple mechanics allowing her to catch her emotional
breath.

"This interview isn't about me, Dr. Lathrop," she answered quietly. "But
I will tell you that since I am unable to conceive a child, I will never
be faced with such a decision." 

Scully was proud that her voice remained level, pleased to see Lathrop
squirm at her response. Neither feeling, however, assuaged the dull ache
somewhere between her stomach and her heart.

"I'm sorry, Agent Scully. Please forgive my impertinence," he said, the
remorse on his face genuine. "I'm afraid it's difficult not to become
rather thin skinned in this profession. Passions run high, and there's a
lot of hate out there."

"Do you receive many threats?"

Lathrop shrugged. "What constitutes many? The clinic has certainly borne
its share of negative publicity. The Right to Life groups picket us
periodically, try to get patients to change their minds."

"But has anyone ever crossed the line? Openly threatened .harm for you,
your staff, or the patients?"

Dr. Lathrop scowled. "There's only one man I've ever feared would follow
through with his words."

Scully leaned forward. "Go on."

"His name is Ike Dalton. He's a genuine crazy -- even the Right to Life
groups won't have anything to do with him. He's vandalized the clinic on
more than one occasion and openly threatened the doctors and nurses. I
honestly wouldn't put it past him to do something like this, but."

"But?"

"We were able to file a restraining order on him about a month ago to
keep him off the property. Haven't seen or heard from him since."

Scully jotted the name down on the small spiral notepad she kept in her
jacket pocket, then stood and offered her hand.

"Thank you for your time, Dr. Lathrop. You've been very helpful."
 
Lathrop's hand was dry and smooth, his expression relieved. "As I said,
Agent Scully, I'm only too glad to help. I just hope you catch the
killer soon."

"As do we," Scully murmured, following him back to the lounge area.

Lathrop paused, contrition back on his face. "I apologize again for my
harsh words earlier," he said. "As a doctor I'm sure you realize that
some patients get under your skin more than others. Elizabeth Brentwood
was one of those for me. You might be interested to know that she had
been attempting to have a child for many years. This was to have been
her miracle baby. She was devastated when the Alpha Fetal Protein
indicated Spina Bifida, and she and did not reach the decision to abort
easily."

He shook his head sadly. "So many from both sides see this as a black
and white issue, Agent Scully. Truth is, there's an amazing amount of
gray."

Stepping out into the crisp autumn air, Scully couldn't seem to shake
the oppression of the clinic and Lathrop's words. She leaned against her
car and turned her face to the sun for several minutes before pulling
out her cell phone.

"Mulder."

His voice was tense, distracted, with just an edge of annoyance, a clear
indication that he'd been deep in the profile.

"Mulder, it's me. I just finished speaking with Elizabeth Brentwood's
doctor and I'm heading out to the clinic where Janet Garson and Eve
Roberts were patients."

"Did you find out anything new?" The irritability vanished and his voice
softened. Scully smiled, warmed by the knowledge that her voice had
provoked the change.

"Not much. That a man named Ike Dalton has a history of vandalism
against the clinic. And that Dr. Lathrop can be a bit touchy on the
subject of his chosen profession," she said, screwing up her face at the
memory.

He chuckled softly. "Guess it's just as well you handled the interview,
Scully. I'm not exactly known for my tact."

She rolled her eyes, even though he couldn't see. "Big revelation there,
Mulder."

"Anything else?"

Lathrop's disclosure of Elizabeth Brentwood's infertility crossed her
mind, but since it had no bearing on the case she decided not to mention
it. Mulder would only vacillate between worry over her mental state and
his own guilt, both unwelcome emotions.

"'Fraid not. How's the profile coming?"

She could almost hear him grimace. "Slow."

Scully knew him too well not to hear the undercurrent. "Headache?"

"Scully, I'm fine. Don't let me keep you from that interview."
Defensive. Dismissive.

She deliberated only a moment before letting it go. "I'll see you back
at your place when I'm done. You're buying dinner."

Amusement displaced the guardedness. "I am, huh?"

"Definitely. The way I see it, I'm worth egg drop soup, shrimp fried
rice, and an eggroll. From Bamboo Garden."

Ripe with affection rather than humor, his reply took her by surprise.
"You're worth more than that, Scully. Much, much more."


Continued in part 6

Reply To: sunrise@avenew.com

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>

Damaged Goods (6 of 24)
By Dawn


Alexandria
Saturday
6:43 p.m.


Warm air and the spicy aroma of Kung Pao Chicken drifted through the
open door. Scully pocketed her keys and stepped inside, letting the door
snick closed at her back.

"Mulder?"

No answer, so she moved into the kitchen. Two brown bags emblazoned with
the logo from Bamboo Garden sat on the counter, unopened. She pressed
her fingers to the paper, frowning a little at the lack of warmth. He'd
obviously ordered the food some time ago -- why hadn't he unpacked it or
put it in the oven to stay warm?

"Mulder? You here?"

Cold fingers of unease skittered up and down her spine. Scully moved
into the living room, investigator's eyes taking over. The computer was
on, still logged onto the Net. She peered at the screen, a web page on
genetic testing, specifically the Alpha Fetal Protein test. Frown
deepening, she grasped the mouse and logged off. The ever-present yellow
pad sat to the right of the monitor, an uncapped pen lying on top. A
half-filled mug of liquid, now stone cold. Scully sniffed -- chamomile.
Her eyes narrowed. How many cups had he brewed for her during her cancer
to ease nausea from the chemotherapy? Mulder was a caffeine and sugar
kind of guy. If he'd switched to tea, there was a definite reason.

She turned, gaze sweeping over the empty couch to rest on the bedroom
door, hanging slightly ajar. She walked quickly over but hesitated once
her fingers touched the wood.

"Mulder, it's me," she called softly, then pushed gently.

The room was shrouded in near total darkness, blinds drawn and lamps
off. A swatch of light from the living room spilled over the foot of the
bed to illuminate Mulder, sprawled in a loose tangle of long limbs atop
the comforter, face slack in slumber. A glass of water and the bottle of
painkillers, cap off, sat on his nightstand. Scully's eyes crinkled in
amusement. Mulder had a terrible time manipulating childproof caps, a
fact she found endearing.

Moving cautiously to the side of the bed, she watched him sleep for a
moment, trying not to admit to herself how much pleasure she derived
from the simple act. An image of him strapped down and defenseless, the
marks of Cancerman's violation fresh on his pale skin, appeared before
her with such clarity she felt her eyes burn. He'd come back to her, but
changed. Like metal refined by the fire, strengthened in his resolve and
his purpose. Not that he was alone -- the experience with the etching
and Mulder's illness had irrevocably left its mark on her. And, perhaps
more importantly, left its mark on their relationship. The difference
crackled in the air between them, she could see it in the warmth of his
gaze, hear it in the cadence of his voice. And, God help her, she could
feel it in the suddenly irrepressible smile on her lips.

They were poised on the precipice, and she sensed Mulder waiting
patiently for her to jump. She hadn't quite gathered the courage yet,
but she was close. Very close. Her feet might not have left the ground,
but her toes were hanging off the edge...

 Giving herself a mental shake Scully sat carefully on the edge of the
bed, mindful of Mulder's hair-trigger reflexes.
He didn't awaken, however, just mumbled something unintelligible while
his right hand moved restlessly as if searching for something.

*Probably dreaming he lost his gun.*

Scully smirked at the thought even as she gave his shoulder a gentle
shake.

"Mulder, it's me. Wake up, I'm starving."

His eyes fluttered open and stared at her blankly for a moment before
comprehension seeped in. He propped himself up on his elbows and ran one
hand over his face, squinting in the light.

"Timizzit?"

Two pills, not one. Mulder hadn't been exaggerating when he said they
made him fuzzy.

"Six o'clock." She couldn't seem to control the hand that touched the
back of its fingers to his forehead and then brushed back a spiky strand
of hair.

Chagrined, she stood quickly and turned back toward the door, hearing
the rustling sound of Mulder swinging his legs off the side of the bed,
then the popping of tendons as he stretched.

"I picked up the food around five," he said, following her back to the
kitchen. "Sorry -- guess we'll have to nuke it."

Scully shrugged, pulling plates from the cupboard and sniffing
appreciatively as he opened the carton of fried rice. She took in the
slight tremor of the hand that spooned some onto her plate, nibbling on
her lip to keep from commenting.

"What good is the miracle of modern technology if you never use it?" she
said lightly.

"Spoken like a true scientist," Mulder replied, grinning as he popped
her plate in the microwave and then prepared his own.

They stood in silence but for the hum of the oven, Mulder slouching
comfortably against the counter while Scully stared sightlessly at the
rotating plate through the little window. Finally she could stand it no
longer.

"It must have been bad if you broke down and took two of those pills,"
she said, never breaking eye contact with her revolving rice.

To her amazement, Mulder chuckled. "I wondered how long you'd last. I
could see how it was killing you not to bring it up." He leaned over to
insinuate his face between hers and the microwave. "Go ahead, Scully.
Come right out and ask me -- you know you want to."

Only the playfully affectionate tone to his voice kept her from smacking
him. "Okay, Mulder. How ba..."

"Very bad. On a scale from one to ten I'd give it a nine," he cut in,
smiling smugly.

She folded her arms, pursing her lips. "And did you..."

"Nope. No instances of tossing my cookies. Blowing chunks. Worshipping
the porcelain god."

"Mulderrrr."

He desisted, though mischief still sparkled in his eyes. "Not that I
didn't come close."

Scully shot him a longsuffering glare. "How do you..."

"Great. Never better. And I'm starving."

Scully sent him her most dangerous scowl. "You know, Mulder, sometimes
you can be a real..."

BEEEEP

"Your food's ready, Scully. Why don't you take it in by the coffee table
and I'll bring your soup," Mulder said brightly.

Settled on his couch, the rice melting in her mouth, Scully allowed
herself a smile. Hard not to be won over by Mulder in a good mood. It
was almost enough to make her forget her worry over the fact that his
headaches, rather than disappearing, had increased in frequency and
intensity.

Almost.

Mulder deposited a Styrofoam container of hot soup in front of her, then
returned to fetch his own food from the kitchen. When he'd seated
himself on the floor across from her, legs folded pretzel-like, his
expression turned serious.

"Bring me up to speed, Scully. What did you find out?"

Scully blew gently on her soup before putting the spoon into her mouth,
thinking.

"The most obvious, I guess, would be that our friend Ike Dalton has
vandalized and generally harassed the staff at all three clinics. In
fact, two out of three have filed restraining orders to keep him away.
This is not your average Right to Lifer, Mulder. At the very least the
man has poor impulse control, if not downright psychotic tendencies. At
the moment he's the police's number one suspect."

Mulder took a bite of chicken and chewed slowly, his eyes far away. He
shook his head. "Uh-uh."

Scully leaned forward, brow creased in annoyance. "What?"

"He's not the one, Scully," Mulder replied dismissively. "What else do
you have?"

Scully could feel her fingers curling into fists, consciously flexed
them. "Do you mind sharing with me how you can reject Dalton so easily?
Have you heard some of the things the man has done? Read what he said to
the police when they questioned him?" She congratulated herself on her
own impulse control -- Mulder could have wound up wearing her soup.

"As a matter of fact, I have read the interview, Scully. It doesn't mean
anything," Mulder said, using the patient tone that made her want to
scream.

"It doesn't mean anything? Mulder, he threatened to eviscerate the
doctors! You don't think that's significant?"

Mulder looked at her a little blankly and his thumb began the familiar
motion over his finger. "Scully, the guy is a nutcase, there's no doubt
about it. But he doesn't fit the profile. In fact, he's about as far
from the profile as you can get. He's enraged, irrational. I'm not
saying he isn't capable of murder. But I guarantee that he wouldn't
confine himself to the methodical cutting we've got here. And he'd never
use drugs, he'd want her to feel every slice."

Scully blanched at his cool recitation. It was always disconcerting to
hear someone as inherently empathetic as Mulder discuss brutal crimes
with such detachment. Though she recognized the defense mechanism, it
still bothered her. Mulder continued, oblivious to her discomfort.

"Our guy is a professional, someone who knows what he's doing. Could
even be a doctor, a veterinarian. He's comfortable wielding the knife,
unaffected by the blood, the mess." His leaned an elbow on his knee and
dropped head into hand, fingers scrubbing the flesh just above his
eyebrows. "He doesn't hate them, probably even feels he's helping them
in some warped way. He believes in what he's doing, Scully." He sighed.
"What else? You mentioned the doctor at South Suburban was pretty
defensive. Did he give you a hard time?"

Scully kept her eyes on her soup. "He accused me of showing disapproval
for Elizabeth Brentwood's choice to abort. After a bit he calmed down
and apologized."

Mulder raised his head, scrutinizing her face. "Scully, I hope you'll
tell me if you have trouble with this case. It's understandable that it
might push some buttons for you."

She looked up, eyes hard. "Why, Mulder? Because I'm Catholic, or because
I'm infertile?"

His jaw tightened and he glanced away. "I'm not worried you'd act
unprofessionally or fail to do your job, Scully," he said softly. "Quite
the opposite. I'm worried you'd continue to do the job, even if it was
killing you."

Scully's expression was incredulous. "Said the pot!"

Mulder's jaw dropped, then snapped shut. "Guilty," he said ruefully,
then wriggled his eyebrows. "I throw myself on the mercy of the court."

Scully snorted, but the flint left her eyes. "Mulder, I'm fine. Yes, as
a Catholic I have to admit that I find the idea of abortion repugnant.
And I'd be lying if I said it didn't hurt to know that women are
terminating their pregnancies when I'd give my right arm to be in their
shoes. But none of that really matters, does it? What matters is that we
catch whoever is perpetrating these horrendous crimes and put him
someplace where he can't hurt anymore women. That's my job, and I intend
to do it."

Mulder reached across the coffee table to squeeze her hand, then nodded.
"Okay. Anything else turn up at the clinics?"

"I stumbled onto something very interesting when I was at
Dreyer Medical Clinic," she replied, excitement driving away her
tension.

"That's the one for both Eve Roberts and Corrie Jenkins?"

Scully nodded. "During my interview with the doctor he mentioned that
both Eve and Corrie had undergone genetic counseling at Copley Hospital
after receiving their test results. I made a few calls and guess what?"

Mulder's head returned to the cradle of his left hand, pressing the heel
hard against his temple. "All the women received counseling there?"

"Not only that, all five spoke to the same counselor! A woman by the
name of Miriam Richardson."

Mulder's brows drew together and the motion of his thumb quickened. "A
woman?" he muttered absently. "It would explain a lot of things.
Th...the precision, the n...neatness of the scene. The alm...most gentle
approach t...to the m...murders. Even the a...absence of a struggle. A
w...woman would be m...more likely t...t...to trust another woman."

When he began to stutter, Scully dropped her spoon and reached over to
snag his arm. "Mulder, stop. You're going to make yourself sick."

He shrugged her hand off impatiently, though his eyes were reduced to
mere slits from the pain. "They have the p...preliminary test, the Alpha
F...Fetal Protein, at the re...recommendation of their OBs. Then,
w...when the r...results are positive there's an amniocentesis. Right,
Sc...Scully?"

"Yes, that's right," Scully snapped, shoving her plate aside and
standing. "We'll talk about this later, Mulder, I want you to lie down.
*Now.*"

Mulder ignored her, wincing at a particularly sharp stab of pain and
swiping distractedly at the beads of perspiration on his upper lip with
his index finger. "I'll j...just bet you th...those amnios were d...done
at Copley, Scully. Sh...she could h...have access to the r...results
and...and..."

At his low cry of pain Scully darted around the table but she wasn't
quite fast enough. Mulder's eyes rolled back in his head and he tumbled
to the floor, muscles twitching in small spasms eerily reminiscent of
the seizures he'd experienced as a result of Goldstein's treatments.

"Mulder!"

She sank to her knees, barely refraining from touching him until his
body went completely boneless. Blinking hard, she carefully pulled his
head into her lap and cupped his jaw, her thumb caressing his cheek.

"Mulder, come back to me now," she murmured, hating the tremor in her
voice. "Come on, partner, wake up."

To her immense relief his eyelids quivered and then slipped open, though
his gaze was vague and unfocused. "Scully?" he rasped.

The fact that he didn't immediately try to get up bothered her almost as
much as whatever colonic event he'd just had. "I'm right here, Mulder.
Just take it easy and lie still, okay?"

"Wha..."

The word trailed off to a moan, his whole body tensing with agony, his
breath coming in rapid pants. "H...hurts. Wha's happening?"

Scully shushed him, her fingers smoothing back his sweaty hair. "I don't
know, Mulder. But I think it's past time we found out."


Continued in part 7

Reply To: sunrise@avenew.com

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>

Damaged Goods (7 of 24)
By Dawn


Georgetown Medical
Saturday
11:52 p.m.


Scully hopped to her feet and strode quickly across the waiting area.
The nurse, a middle-aged woman with curly brown hair and a nametag
identifying her as Donna, maneuvered Mulder's wheelchair back into the
cubicle and parked it beside the gurney.

"All right, Mulder, up you go," she said, nodding to acknowledge the
hovering Scully.

Mulder, who had been splayed in the chair with his head propped on one
fist, got unsteadily to his feet and placidly allowed her to situate him
on the bed.

"Thanks for the lift, Donna. You can drive me anytime," he said, the
words slurring lazily on his tongue and a loopy grin on his face.

Donna gave Mulder's arm an affectionate squeeze and Scully a
surreptitious wink. "My pleasure, hon. Just rest now and the doctor will
be with you in a bit."

Scully took one look at her partner's eyes, lids already sliding down to
shroud dilated pupils, and plucked Donna's elbow as she passed.

"What did you give him?" she asked bluntly, keeping her voice low. "He
left here for a CAT scan, why does he look like a refugee from a
Grateful Dead concert?"

Donna smiled and patted Scully's fingers reassuringly. "Doctor Palermo
ordered a pretty stiff shot of Dilantin to be administered once the scan
was completed. Coupled with the Demerol it packs a pretty powerful
punch. Don't worry
-- he'll sleep it off once you get him home tonight and be back to
normal in the morning."

"Hey, Scully, c'mere. 'S a stain on the ceiling tha' looks jus' like
Fluky!"

Scully rolled her eyes but the corners of her mouth twitched. "You did
say *sleep*, didn't you?"

Donna chuckled and looked over to where Mulder was lying, glassy-eyed,
with his head cranked back. "Personally, Honey, if I were taking *that*
home, sleep would be the farthest thing from my mind! Doctor Palermo
will be in shortly with the test results."

Scully stood, slack-jawed and pink-cheeked while Donna collected the
wheelchair and left the room, still chortling softly to herself. Shaking
her head bemusedly, she walked over to her partner's side. He'd ceased
his contemplation of the ceiling and was sorting through his keys,
tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth and nearly cross- eyed
with concentration as he tried to manipulate clumsy fingers.

"Mulder, what do you think you're doing?"

His gaze meandered to her face and he blinked, processing her question.
"Les get outta here, Scully, I feel fine. I'll drive."

Scully pursed her lips to camouflage the grin. Nothing riled Mulder more
than the idea you weren't taking him seriously. "Sorry, G-man. I'm
afraid you're grounded. Besides, we have to talk to Dr. Palermo,
remember?"

Mulder's face twisted into a stubborn pout, complete with protruding
lip. "Don't need Palermo, Scully. I'm tellin' ya, I feel really good!"

"That's because you're stoned, Mulder."

He affected a shocked expression, all wide-eyed innocence. "I am?" When
Scully nodded he looked at her slyly from beneath his lashes. "Wanna
take advantage of me?"

Scully pocketed his keys. "No, but I think Donna might take you up on
that offer."

Mulder allowed his head to drop back onto the pillow with a small yawn.
"Donna likes me," he pronounced with satisfaction. "She said 'm very
catip...capti...very charming."

Scully's lips curved. "You have your moments. Now just sit tight for a
few more minutes until Palermo gets here and I promise we'll go home.
And *I'll* drive, Mulder."

He yawned again, giving her a heavy-lidded smirk. "Sure those lil feet
can reach the pedals?"

She pulled over a chair and sank into it. "I'll manage," she replied
dryly.

By the time the doctor stepped into the room ten minutes later Scully
had kicked off her shoes and Mulder was snoring softly and drooling on
the pillow. Palermo regarded him quizzically for a moment before turning
to Scully.

"How's he doing?"

She slipped on her loafers and stood, arching one eyebrow. "Feeling no
pain, for the moment," she said with a wry grin.

"And, for once, the picture of cooperation," he observed, deadpan.

Scully chuffed quiet laughter, pleased to realize that she genuinely
liked Dr. Palermo. Frantic over Mulder's mysterious brain surgery, his
calm, professional demeanor and willingness to treat her as a colleague
had assuaged her feelings of helplessness and eased her fears. But what
had really won her over (in addition to a thorough background check by
the Gunmen) had been his skillful handling of her frequently
cantankerous partner, with patience and dry humor.

"I have the analysis of the CAT scan," Palermo continued. "Shall we have
the guest of honor join the party?"

"The guest of honor can barely form a coherent sentence," Scully
replied. "I'll catch him up when the street value of his blood drops."

This time Palermo chuckled, but his expression quickly turned serious.
"Doctor Scully, you're not going to be happy about the results."

Her stomach twisted painfully and her throat constricted. "What did you
find?"

The doctor frowned, shaking his head. "Nothing."

"*Nothing*?" Scully felt a giddy sense of euphoria for a full ten
seconds before the real implication of Palermo's words hit her. "Wait a
minute. How could you find nothing?"

Palermo lifted one shoulder, looking a bit perplexed. "I went over it
with a fine toothed comb, even got a second opinion. It is completely
normal."

Scully nearly trembled with frustration. She strode to the gurney and
clamped both hands onto the rail, staring into Mulder's peaceful face.
Whirling around so that the metal dug into her back, she crossed her
arms tightly as if to avoid fragmenting into pieces.

"The man has been enduring headaches so intense he vomits. Tonight the
pain got so bad he actually experienced a kind of seizure and briefly
fugued out. How can the scan possibly be normal?"

She knew she was misdirecting her anger and frustration toward Palermo,
but couldn't seem to stop herself. None of this was supposed to be
happening. Mulder had survived the psychosis, and even brain surgery.
How much more could either of them be expected to take?

"The residual effects of the seizure are evident, of course," the doctor
conceded, not taking offense at her words. "But there is no sign of
swelling, intercranial bleeding, or tumor. Nothing to explain why Mulder
should be experiencing any of the symptoms you've described."

Scully pressed the backs of her fingers to her lips, closing her eyes.
"What do you propose we do now?"

"Nothing."

When her eyes flew open he raised a quelling hand. "For tonight. Take
him home and let him get some sleep. You and I both know that's key
right now. As recovered as he may look on the outside, his body is still
healing and needs plenty of rest. Who knows? Maybe these headaches are
simply a manifestation of his inability to handle stress right now."

"*Stress*? Doctor, I'll admit we have an extremely demanding occupation,
and that Mulder is a very driven individual. But these headaches are way
beyond what you'd expect from stress, and they seem to pop up out of the
blue. One minute he's feeling great and then as soon as he even attempts
to work..." Her eyes widened and she felt abruptly lightheaded. "Oh my
God," she whispered.

Palermo reached out to steady her. "Easy, there. I know it's
frustrating, Dr. Scully, but we have to take this one step at a time,"
he said soothingly. "Bring him back tomorrow morning. I'd like to do an
MRI and possibly an RN scan. Until we figure out exactly what's going
on, I want him back on the Dilantin. Does he have any left or do I need
to write you a scrip?"

Scully focused on the question with effort, still reeling from her
epiphany. "Um, yes."

Palermo chuckled. "Yes, he has some at home or yes, you need me to write
a scrip?" he pressed.

Scully blinked, then shook her head. "I'm sorry. Yes, he still has the
pills at home."

Palermo gave her arm a squeeze before releasing it. "Get some rest, Dr.
Scully. You look like you could use it. And try not to worry about your
partner -- we'll get to the bottom of what ails him."

Scully forced herself to concentrate on smiling and nodding
convincingly, though she felt as if she were falling down a deep, dark
hole. Once Palermo had left she collapsed back into the chair beside
Mulder's bed and stared sightlessly at him, her mind replaying each time
he'd suffered a headache in her presence. The result only fed her alarm.

*At her apartment looking over casefiles, Mulder trying to pull
information from his normally infallible memory only to draw a blank.
Reading over the casefile in the office, beginning a preliminary profile
and identifying possible avenues of investigation. Taking information
she'd gathered and executing what Skinner called "The Leap" -- that
uncanny ability to pull together pieces of seemingly- disjointed
information and assemble them into a coherent whole.*

All examples of Mulder being uniquely...Mulder. Exercising the genius of
his eidetic memory paired with his "out of the box" thinking. In each
case, he'd felt fine until he'd engaged that complex brain and attempted
to do what he did so well.

She'd called the headaches crippling -- was that statement truer than
she'd realized?

On the surface it seemed a ridiculous idea, the stuff of fairy tales.
The evil wizard casts a spell on the handsome prince, turning him into a
helpless toad.

Helpless.

Useless.

Had the headaches ever struck while they were filling out expense
reports? Or in one of those interminably long and tedious budget
meetings -- God knows, they certainly gave *her* a migraine. Scully
wracked her brain, looking for something, anything to disprove the awful
suspicion that had taken root and wouldn't seem to go away. Just one
instance when they'd been in the middle of a totally innocuous activity
and he'd whined about his head or popped some Tylenol.

She came up empty.

She buried her head in her hands, no longer able to look at the serenity
in his face. Again, the image of him strapped, Christ-like, to a
stainless steel table assaulted her senses, Palermo's baffled voice a
counterpoint.

*Frankly, Dr. Scully, I'm at a complete loss. It's clear
he was subjected to surgery and there are indications that something was
excised and removed near the brain stem. I just can't tell you what.*

They'd been so concerned, so absorbed by what that cigarette-smoking
bastard might have taken from Mulder. But what if the question they'd
failed to ask was far more important?

What damage could he have done while he had the chance?

Continued in part 8

Reply To: sunrise@avenew.com

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>

Damaged Goods (8 of 24)
By Dawn


Georgetown
Sunday
8:53 a.m.


Mulder drifted slowly back to consciousness, comfortable but with the
nagging sensation that something was amiss. The sun was wrong, he
decided, studying the flickering pattern of light and dark on the
insides of his eyelids. Lying on his couch, the rays usually spilled
over the top of his head -- this illumination originated somewhere past
his right shoulder. And speaking of his couch, the smooth, slightly worn
leather beneath his cheek had been replaced by soft flannel. He sniffed.
Flannel that smelled of soap, the faintest hint of vanilla, and...
SCULLY?

Mulder's eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright, clutching the sheet.
His gaze darted around the bedroom while he ran the fingers of one hand
through tousled hair. A towel and the spare pair of his sweats that
normally resided in the bottom drawer of her bureau lay beside his
clothes and shoes, neatly piled on a chair. His clothes...

For the first time Mulder registered that not only had he awakened in
Scully's bed, he'd done so clad only in boxers. He felt the heat rise in
his cheeks, uncertain whether to be worried by the gap in his memory,
embarrassed that Scully had witnessed such vulnerability, or turned on
that she'd undressed him.

He swung his legs gingerly over the side of the mattress and stood,
relieved by the absence of pain and dizziness. His last coherent memory
was bright shards of agony pulsing relentlessly through his brain and
obliterating all thought. Beyond that he had only a collection of vague
impressions. Scully cradling him as he writhed on the floor. His
forehead pressed hard against cool glass and the rhythmic drone of
rubber on pavement. Hands guiding him into a long, dark tunnel echoing
the rumble of a freight train. The sting of a needle that banished the
pain, leaving him first giddy with relief and then heavy-limbed with
lethargy...

Mulder scrubbed his palms over his face. He desperately needed a shower,
coffee, and help filling the blanks -- in that order. He picked up the
towel and sweats and padded into the bathroom.

Scully looked up from her computer at the groan of water through pipes.
She worried her lower lip with her teeth, then logged off and went to
the kitchen to start a fresh pot of coffee. Her hands completed the
simple tasks of drawing water and measuring grounds (decaf -- Mulder was
sure to bitch and moan about *that*) while her mind spun in useless
circles like tires on ice.

By the time she'd hauled her semi-conscious partner up to her apartment,
stripped off his clothes, and deposited him in her bed, Scully's body
ached with exhaustion. Her mind, however, had other ideas. She'd tossed
and turned on the couch, finally admitting defeat around five-thirty.
Once she'd determined Mulder was sleeping like a rock, she'd brewed a
pot of coffee, logged onto the Internet, and begun searching for
information on neurological disorders.

Three hours later she possessed a broadened knowledge base but no facts
that would back up her theory about Mulder's headaches. Yet she knew in
her heart that she was right. Each time Mulder tried to work, to put his
mind to solving the case, the headaches struck with a vengeance. Not
while they were filling out old expense reports. Not during Skinner's
weekly staff meeting for department heads. Not even when they'd fallen
into an intense argument over an old case and he'd been tight-lipped
with frustration. Coincidence? As Mulder often pointed out, if it's
coincidence, why does it feel so contrived?

"When you're done staring at it, I'd love a cup."

Scully jerked back from where she stood, palms propped on either side of
the coffee maker and eyes fixed on the trickle of brown liquid. She
glanced at Mulder in irritation -- slouched in the doorway with damp
hair and a teasing grin. How many times in the past week had he caught
her daydreaming?

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," he said in a voice that indicated
he was anything but. "I just never knew you could absorb the benefits of
coffee through osmosis."

"You're a real riot this morning, Mulder," she said sarcastically,
reaching into the cupboard for a mug. "Almost as funny as you were last
night."

It was hitting below the belt, but he deserved it, she thought smugly.
His eyes slid away to contemplate the cross stitched picture that hung
on the wall near her table, lower lip caught between his teeth.

"Uh...Scully? That reminds me of a question I wanted to ask you," he
said, shifting his weight from right foot to left.

Scully poured the coffee, grinning while her back was to him. She
turned, offering him the mug and a wide-eyed look of innocence. "Yes,
Mulder?"

She was extremely amused to see a flush spread across his face and his
respiration quicken. "Um. My recollection of last night is pretty poor.
I mean, the last clear memory I have is of sitting around my coffee
table and discussing the case. How exactly did I wind up in your bed?"

How could she possibly resist when he'd just handed her the perfect
opening, all laid out on a silver platter? Scully thrust her own lip out
in an exaggerated pout and lowered her voice to a sultry level.

"You told me you'd never forget last night, Mulder."

His shock was comical. His jaw attempted to scrape the floor and his
eyes blinked dazedly. To his credit, he recovered quickly and mustered a
passable leer.

"Oooh, Scully. Was I good?"

Scully snorted at that. "You were in rare form, Mulder. What *do* you
recall?"

Mulder frowned, wandering over to the table and sinking into a chair.
She sat across from him, studying the faded lines of pain around his
eyes and mouth. He stared into the mug, swirling the liquid in a gentle
circle.

"Pain," he said simply. "Possibly more intense than any I've ever felt,
more than the gunshot in North Carolina. I think I remember being in
your car?" When Scully nodded he continued. "Then... It doesn't make any
sense. I have this image of being trapped in a tunnel with a train
coming."

Scully's lips curved but her eyes were sad. "The CAT scan," she
murmured. "You were pretty out of it when they took you down to
radiology." She released a small puff of air, not quite a laugh. "And
high as a kite when they brought you back."

Mulder dropped his head into his hands and groaned. "I suddenly got this
vague impression of flirting with a middle-aged woman in blue scrubs.
Please tell me I'm exhibiting false memory syndrome."

Scully grinned. "That would be your nurse, Donna. Don't worry, she
thought you were very captivating."

Mulder wrinkled his nose and mouthed, "Ha, ha," then shook his head,
puzzled. "Demerol doesn't usually affect me that strongly."

"Palermo gave you a shot of Dilantin, Mulder. On top of the Demerol, you
could say it was a one-two punch. Once the euphoria over being pain-free
wore off you were out like a light. I barely got you back here -- at one
point I thought you were going to curl up on the front step and camp out
for the night."

Mulder's eyebrows knit together. "Dilantin? Why?"

Scully sucked in a long draught of air, releasing it slowly. He really
didn't remember.

"Mulder, you seized on me. Not full blown, but enough to scare me.
Palermo wants you back on the Dilantin full time, at least until we can
figure out what's going on."

The scowl deepened. "Nothing's going on, Scully! I just must've overdone
things a bit, that's all. I'll slow down, take more breaks when I'm
working and..."

Something in her face, an expression he wasn't sure he recognized, made
the words dry up in his mouth. Until that very moment he would have said
he knew every possible combination of Scully's features -- fury, scorn,
sorrow, guilt, joy, affection. That he couldn't put a tag on this one
left Mulder's heart thumping unevenly in his chest.

"Scully?"

"Mulder, you don't have a seizure from working too hard," she said
slowly. "You admitted that that the pain from this latest headache was
excruciating. Those are symptoms, partner, the body's way of warning
that something is wrong. Palermo was correct to put you back on the
Dilantin, a more severe seizure could be the beginning of the end of
your career as an agent."

Mulder leaned back in his chair, studying her intently. Something was
wrong, all right -- the way she was acting. Words spoken too gently and
carefully, tiptoeing instead of marching. She should be angry with him,
reprimanding him for his stubborn refusal to acknowledge her concerns
for his health. One thing he could count on from Scully -- she never
pulled her punches.

"What are you not telling me, Scully?" he demanded bluntly. "What do you
know that I don't?"

 Scully spread her hands on the tabletop, tracing the wood grain with a
finger. "I don't *know* anything, Mulder." When he uttered a small grunt
of impatience she held up a constraining hand. "But I do have some
suspicions."

He frowned. "Go on."

She met his eyes, choosing her words carefully. "Mulder, we never really
figured out what was done to you when you were with Spender..."

"Besides the fact that he had them cut my head open, you mean?" he
interrupted acidly. "Gives the term 'playing doctor' a whole new
meaning, doesn't it?"

"Are you listening to me or not?"

The rebuke came out more sharply than Scully had intended and she sighed
inwardly when Mulder folded his arms and nodded sourly. She knew he
didn't like talking about this, that he still suffered from nightmares
in which he was forced to relive the surgery, restrained but completely
conscious of every slice of the scalpel. The biting sarcasm was his
method of deflecting the horror and convincing himself he'd regained
control. Understanding it didn't mean she had to like it.

"As you know, we ran the gamut of neurological tests. We could see that
something had been removed near the brain stem, largely due to minor
trauma of the surrounding tissue. Even that diagnosis made no sense,
however, since the CAT scan also indicated your brain was essentially
intact. All our discussions, our suppositions, have focused on that
anomaly and what it might mean."

Mulder jerked his eyes free from hers, teeth grinding in frustration.
"You aren't telling me anything I don't already know, Scully. What's
your point?"

The flash of anger his words inspired died as Scully caught a slight
tremor beneath the fury in his tone, naked fear concealed by the
insolence in his gaze.

"My point, is that we were distracted by the clear link between your
surgery and loss of telepathy, and never adequately considered the other
possible ramifications." She reached across the table, plucking one hand
from its chokehold on his ribs. "It was an ideal opportunity for Spender
-- you were completely defenseless, Mulder. What if the surgery entailed
more than just removing the alien element from your brain? What if he
saw the chance to slow you down? To ensure you'd no longer be a constant
thorn in his side?"

Mulder pulled his hand back as if scalded, his face pale. "You think
these headaches are engineered? That they're the result of something
that black-lunged bastard did to my brain?" he asked, his voice
thrumming with a combination of fury and panic. "I... Maybe I'm just a
slow healer -- you said there was visible trauma from the surgery! I
just need a little more time."

Scully's stomach churned at his desperation but she resolutely shook her
head. "Mulder, you're getting worse, not better. And I think I know the
reason. Last night, talking to Palermo, I realized that each of the
headaches I've witnessed has occurred while you were working. The first
time occurred while we were arguing over that case involving
lycanthropy. It happened again when you began delving into the
Pro-Choice murders, and has escalated each time you've attempted to work
on the profile. Last night, just as we'd begun to make some real headway
towards identifying the killer, you had the worst attack yet. You'd have
to be blind not to recognize the implications."

Mulder swallowed hard and licked his lips. "Are we talking permanent
brain damage, Scully? Is that what you think? Then why was the CAT scan
normal?"

"No test is infallible, Mulder," she answered gently, then grimaced.
"Maybe what they did won't show up on conventional tests. Maybe it's not
really damage at all, but some sort of...of chemical rewiring
accomplished with drugs."

A trace of amusement seeped into the bleakness of Mulder's eyes.
"Rewired? I'm supposed to be the one with the wild theories, remember
Scully? Next thing I know you'll be suggesting that little green men did
this to me."

The humor was forced but Scully credited the effort by mustering the
shadow of a smile. "Gray, Mulder. And I wouldn't start picking out china
patterns just yet."

Mulder blew out a harsh breath of air and lifted both hands, palms up.
"So...what do we do?"

"We take it one step at a time. Palermo expects us back at the hospital
this morning for some additional tests. I also want a more complete tox
screen run on your blood. They can draw it at the hospital but I want it
analyzed at the
Bureau."

"And if we come up empty?"

Scully's words were as soft as the brush of her fingers on his hand.
"One step at a time, Mulder." She collected his empty mug and walked
over to the counter. "Coffee?"

"I'd love some. Where are you hiding it?"

Scully masked the smirk with an arched brow, taking obscure comfort in
his predictability. "Just for that, you can pour your own. I'm taking a
shower."

When Mulder didn't jump on the obvious opportunity for a lewd remark,
she paused and turned back. He was sitting very still, shoulders hunched
and eyes distant.

"Mulder, try not to worry. We'll do everything in our power to find out
what's wrong."

He didn't move, didn't shift his gaze, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm not worried we won't figure out what they did, Scully. I'm worried
we won't be able to do anything about it."

For that she had no answer.


Continued in part 9