The Face of Madness


This started out as a short vignette that follows the end of
'Grotesque'. Well, it sort of grew. But it was fun, anyway and I
tried to stay more within the actual framework of the series.
Therefore, Mulder is usually stable, he is not sleeping with Scully
and they still hadn't quite 'shook hands and made up.'

Standard Disclaimer: Let me see now, how do these things go? Oh,
right, I have no intentions of infringing on any copyrights, of Chris
Carter, FOX, or Ten Thirteen Productions or any of the major
castles and churches in Europe (where you are most likely to find
REAL gargoyles). Don't sue me, I invested all my money in diaper
stock and they are sitting in the baby's room right now :)

WARNING: THIRD SEASON SPOILER. Seeing the episode
'Grotesque' is a must before reading or a lot of this won't make
sense. No romance, some strong language, no violence. Rated PG

I love mail, and my e-mail is working fine after all the hours of
cursing I did at it, so please send comments to me at
vmoseley@fgi.net.

The Face of Madness by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net

She found him asleep at his desk, the computer cursor blinking at
the middle of a sentence in his report of the case. The blue screen
cast an ghostly light on his head and bounced off his glasses,
rendering them opaque. It did nothing to allay the fear for him that
she had been trying to deal with for the last three days and nights.
She walked across the small, cramped office hesitantly, as if the
floor was covered in eggshells. Cautiously, she reached out to
touch his shoulder.

"Mulder," she called softly. In some respects, she hoped just her
touch would wake him up. Her voice was trembling and she didn't
really want him to hear it. When he still didn't wake up, she took
another step closer and shook his shoulder a little harder. "Mulder."
This time it was more



forceful. It had an effect, but not necessarily the desired one. He
jerked straight up in the chair with a start.

"I'm sorry," she stammered as she took in his wild eyed expression.
"You were asleep and you were endangering evidence," she added,
pointing to the charcoal sketch he had been laying on. During his
sleep, his mouth had opened and a small pool of saliva was already
marring the surface of the drawing. He looked down at the paper
and bit his lip, but said nothing.

"Why don't you go home and get some sleep. You look awful," she
said casually or at least she hoped it sounded that way to him. He
turned a deadly gaze at her and then turned back to the computer
screen.

"Can't. It's not finished," he growled. 

<Well, so much for hoping he'd wake up in a better mood, Scully
thought sadly. "You can finish it after you get some sleep," she
tried again.

"Scully, don't you have your own office?" he returned, not even
bothering to look up this time.

"No, they turned it into the copy room," she shot back. He was
beginning to make her angry. That was not a good situation. He
was half- crazed and now she was angry. <Perfect formula for some
good old domestic violence, she pondered briefly before grabbing
his chin and forcing him to look at her.

It was the first time she had looked at him closely in over a day.
The cut on his face, by his right eye, was angry red and inflamed.
The surrounding tissue was red, as well. <Dammit, it's infected, she
noted in



her mind. But the eyes themselves were what scared her. His eyes
were black, like the charcoal drawings. There was no Mulder in
those eyes. Only the madness he had been living with the past three
days was reflected there and it took her breath away. She
swallowed hard to calm herself, and released his chin. She had to
do something or she could lose him for good.

"That cut is infected. If you don't get some antibiotics, it could
easily move to the eye socket itself. You wouldn't look that good as
a pirate, Mulder. Time to go visit ole Doc Stephens." It was her
'doctor's orders' voice and usually he obeyed it. Not this time.

"I have a report to write and I'm sure you have some work to do
_somewhere else_," he said, summarily dismissing her. When she
didn't leave immediately, he stood up and took her elbow, roughly
escorting her to the door. "I'll put something on it later. It's fine.
Goodbye." He gave her back a shove and she was suddenly out in
the hallway, with the door being firmly shut and locked behind her.

She stood in the hall for a moment in shock. He had _never_ done
anything like this before. Sure, when under the influence of drugs in
his water, he had acted irrational, even violent, but he had never
thrown her out of the office before. She tried to think of what she
should do next. She didn't want to stand there too long, either, for
someone was bound to wander downstairs and notice her glaring at
the closed door. She turned on her heel and stormed up the stairs.
"May I speak with the Assistant Director, please. It's a bit of an
emergency," she found herself pleading with the administrative
assistant outside Skinner's office.

"He's on an important call with the Director, Agent Scully. He's not
to be disturbed." The woman looked at her sympathetically and
noted the concerned expression go to desperation. "How urgent is
the emergency?"

Scully bit her lip. Was she over reacting? Mulder would kill her if
she called out the cavalry and he was just tired and grumpy. But she
couldn't get the look in his eyes out of her mind. And that cut was
seriously



infected. He probably had a fever. That could explain the eyes and
his



behavior. He was banged up and not taking proper care of himself.
Being irrational with a fever was a lot easier to explain away than
just being irrational and potentially violent after a case. <OK,
Scully, you aren't over reacting and even if you are, you have just
cause. Go for it.

"I think it is very urgent," she said firmly. The assistant gave her a
shrug and got up to knock on the door. She entered, closing the
door behind her and Scully paced in the outer office for what
seemed like an



eternity. Finally, the door swung open and the assistant motioned
her in.

"What's the emergency, Agent Scully," Assistant Director Walter
Skinner asked gruffly. He was sitting behind his desk, his jacket
hung over his chair, and was not looking like he was in a very good
mood. <I need this like a hole in the head, Scully mused as she
walked over to stand in front of the massive desk.

"Sir, may I speak off the record?" she asked timidly. The glare he
flashed her made her certain her request was about to be denied,
but the AD surprised her.

"Is this concerning your partner?" he demanded. She nodded. "OK,
off the record. What's the problem?" His voice had softened
considerably in just a few short sentences. So had his glare.

She had plenty of time to consider how to tell him about Mulder's
bizarre actions while she had been cooling her heels in the outer
office. She had decided to take the medical approach. It seemed to
have fewer potential landmines.

"Sir, I just saw him in his office. The cut on his eye has become



infected. He's exhausted, he hasn't gone home yet. I'm certain he's



feverish. I want him to been seen by a doctor and I want him on
antibiotics."

"So? Drag him over to Georgetown and see to it," Skinner replied,
slightly confused. "What's the emergency? You do that all the
time," he added, pointedly.

"He, eh, he threw me out of his office," Scully replied, suddenly
finding a spot on the carpet to be particularly interesting.

Skinner was on his feet. "He did WHAT?" he demanded.

Scully was quick to respond. "Sir, I'm sure it's because of his illness.
He's feverish, he's exhausted, he needs sleep. I don't think we need
to make more out of it than that. But I do think that he won't go to
the doctor on his own, and I. . ." she thought for a moment before
proceeding. "I really need your help to get him there. He doesn't
seem to be listening to me right now."

Skinner regarded her for a moment. She looked almost as
exhausted as she claimed Mulder was. This case had effected more
people than he could have ever imagined. <Thank god it's over, he
thought to himself. <I hope.

"Scully, since when has Mulder ever listened to ME?" he asked
half- joking as he pulled on his jacket and motioned to the door.

Mulder stared at the screen and then hit the 'save'. A second later,
he hit the print icon and listened to the laser printer whir to life at
his elbow. He closed his eyes just to see what would happen.
Within seconds, the horrible pictures started flashing through his
mind, in rapid succession, each one more appalling than the last.
Then, mixed with the charcoal sketches of the devilish winged
creatures, came the stills his own mind provided, the faces of the
victims, incased in clay, distorted and mutilated. His eyes sprang
open and he drew in a deep breath. He hadn't realized he was
holding it. <Oh, God, I didn't want to do this again, he shuddered



silently. 

He sat up straighter and looked around the room, as if just
remembering where he was. He noticed the door, closed and
locked. <When did I do that? he wondered. Then he saw Scully's
purse, on the desk she appropriated long ago, so she didn't have to
drag files up and down to her office. <When was she here? He
couldn't remember. His only conscious memory was of writing the
report, typing it in. He had to get it down on paper, out of his
system, he had to be finished or it would never be over. And he
wanted it to be over more than anything in the world. A loud knock
on the door startled him.

"Agent Mulder, this is AD Skinner. Open this door, immediately!"
It was an order, not a request. A little shakily, Mulder got up,
unlocked the door and opened it. The Assistant Director was
standing there with Scully and both were looking at him like he was
a lion and the cage door wasn't secure.

"C'mon in," he said with a shrug and moved back to the desk. As he
entered, Skinner flipped on the lights and Mulder clenched his eyes
tight against the onslaught. His eyes hurt. His head hurt. <Hell,
admit it, my whole body hurts, he thought as he slid down into his
chair with a sigh. "I was just about to bring this up, sir," he said,
motioning to the folder on his desk.

Skinner looked him over. He didn't look violent, but then, Scully
was never one to fantasize, either. Just because he was pulled
together now, didn't mean he hadn't been at wits end a while ago.
Be that as it may, he did look like death warmed over. "Mulder, the
cut on your face looks worse. Agent Scully thinks it's infected. I'm
putting you on medical leave until you have it properly attended to.
Effective immediately. Get your jacket, Scully will escort to the
doctor's."

Mulder was quick to protest. "Sir, it's nothing. I just need to put
something on it. Really, I'm fine." Skinner turned a steely gaze upon
him.

"Are you intent upon disobeying a direct order, Agent Mulder?" the
AD asked, sternly. 

Mulder shot a look over to Scully, hoping for moral support. What
he saw made it clear whose side she was on in this fight--and it sure
wasn't his. He closed his eyes in defeat. "No, sir," was the terse
reply.

"Good. Maybe you have learned something during the last ten
years, Mulder. Now, I don't want to see you in this building until I
have a signed statement clearing you for duty, is that clear?"
Mulder nodded mutely. Skinner turned his attention to Scully. "I
will be expecting you to ensure he follows orders, Agent Scully.
Consider it 'guard duty'. I'll see you both in a couple of days." He
turned on his heel and stalked out of the office.

Mulder sat there, stunned. "So, since when do you bring attack
dogs to do your dirty work, Scully," he grumbled as she walked
over to get her purse off her desk.

"About the same time you started being an asshole," she shot back,
none too happy with the recent events, either. "Come on, you heard
the man. He's prepared to back it up with security guards, if
necessary. I don't want any trouble, Mulder. Let's just get you to
the doctor and then home to bed, OK?"

He wasn't prepared for this. But then, he still couldn't remember
Scully coming in and leaving her purse. He followed silently as she
led him out of the building, racking his brain for a clue as to why
she was acting so distant. Their relationship hadn't been a lot of
laughs, lately, but he didn't remember it being quite this bad, either.
She led him to her car and unlocked the passenger door, waiting for
him to get in. He shivered in the cool air of the parking garage and
gave her a confused look.

It was only after she had started the car and had driven out onto the
street that he had the courage to ask her what had happened. "You
left your purse in the office," he noted, hoping this would get her to
talk to him.

"You didn't give me enough time to get it," she said tersely.

"I didn't. . .?" he asked, and truly sounded confused.

"Yeah, Mulder. When you threw me out of the office, you didn't
give me enough time to get my purse," she shot back.

"I threw you out?" It was a definite question, not a statement. He
laid he head against the seat back and tried again to remember even
talking to her this morning.

"You don't remember?" she asked, her tone softening.

"If I managed to throw you out of the office, I would think I would
remember it. I'm surprised I don't have another bullet wound," he
added, lamely trying for a joke. She was not in a joking mood and
her look confirmed that. "No, I don't remember," he said quietly.
"But I'm sorry," he added.

"I wondered about it. You have a fever. I can tell it in your eyes.
When was the last time you ate?" she asked. Now that she was sure
he was rational, she could finally get some answers out of him.

"A meal?" he inquired, letting his lips curl into a sly smile.

"Something other than seeds and coffee, yes," she intoned seriously.

"What day is it?" he asked back. 

"You are _not_ funny, you know," she replied. "I know you haven't
slept in a couple of nights. Mulder, you're making yourself sick, you
know. What is going on?" she demanded.

He closed his eyes as they pulled into bright sunlight. "I didn't want
to do this. Not ever again," he murmured.

"Do what? What are you talking about, Mulder? For the last three
days you've acted strangely. First, you find those corpses, then I
find you sleeping in Mostow's studio, then you take off and I can't
find you for a day--Mulder, what is this all about? Tell me, please, I
want to know," she pleaded.

"Scully, I don't know what to say. This is, . . . it's just how it gets. I
thought it was over when I left VCS, but it stays, I guess. Like an
alcoholic or something, I can't let myself get inside their heads
anymore." He sighed and leaned back again, as if the short speech
had exhausted him.

"Mulder, I don't understand. You've profiled other criminals. It
never effected you like this. This time it was. . .I don't know. You
scared me, Mulder."

She turned toward him at the sound of the bitter laughter. "Well, I
guess now we know what really scares you, huh, Scully," he said
sarcastically. "It's me."

She took her hand off the wheel long enough to punch him in the
arm. "I am _not_ afraid of YOU, Mulder!" she seethed. "I am afraid
FOR you! You are not eating, not sleeping, you let that cut get
infected, and all for what? What was it for, Mulder, I really want to
know."

He sighed again. "Well, maybe finding out that Patterson was the
killer and making sure he's behind bars is worth a couple of missed
meals and missing a few nights sleep," he said, and closed his eyes
and was silent for the rest of the ride.

Mulder's doctor worked out of the PromptCare at Georgetown
University Hospital and he was not that happy to see his most
frequent 'repeat offender' in the waiting area.

"I thought I was through seeing him for a while when you brought
him back from Iowa," Dr. Stephens muttered to Scully as he
ushered Mulder into a cubicle. "What is it this time?"

"Utility knife to the face," Scully replied. "I'm pretty sure it's



infected. And he hasn't been sleeping. Or eating."

"Sounds like you've been on a bad case," Stephens said, examining
the cut next to Mulder's eye. "And yes, that is a nasty little
infection." He stuck a thermometer in the patient's mouth while he
peeled off the steri- strips to expose the cut. Mulder winced, but
said nothing in his own defense. He knew it was useless with these
two.

"Well, at least he doesn't look dehydrated. Plenty of coffee, I
assume?" Scully nodded. "That doesn't help your insomnia, you
know," Stephens said pointedly to Mulder who rolled his eyes to
the ceiling and tried not to crunch the thermometer in half with his
teeth.

The thin glass tube was whipped out of his mouth and Stephens
leaned over so Scully could see it. "102. And you say he hasn't been
eating or



sleeping. He looks exhausted. It probably wouldn't hurt to admit
him for a day or two. At least I could monitor his food intake and
sedate him to make sure he rests." Stephens was leveling his best
'I'm deadly serious' gaze at him. Mulder blanched visibly.

"Or, you could release him on his own recognance if he swears to
follow orders," Scully suggested. She caught the look of undying
gratitude in her partner's eyes, but chose to ignore it.

"Now, if I thought he would actually follow orders, Agent Scully,
why would I make you come in here and act as my witness," Dr.
Stephens harumphed. "Take him back to his apartment and sit on
him. I know I can trust you." He hurriedly wrote out three scripts
and handed them to



Scully. "I'll send Shelly in to give him a shot of amoxil before you
leave, but I want him on the orals for 10 days just to make sure.
The second one is for his stomach, which will probably be upset for
a while and the last one is for a sedative, which is NOT optional,"
he added, for Mulder's benefit. "If you can think of anything else,
just give me a call. I'll write out whatever you want."

"I gotta get a new primary care physician," Mulder growled as they
headed out to the car.

"Good luck, Mulder. I'm afraid the word is out on you. You're
lucky Doug Stephens took you when you dropped your last doctor.
You are not known as the world's best patient," she smiled. "Look,
you got off easy. Chances are real good that your fever will break
in 24 to 48 hours and then I'll ask Stephens to sign off on your
return to duty.

"oh, gee thanks, _mom_," he said through clenched teeth. "or
maybe 'warden' is more accurate."

"I think 'Nanny' fits," she retorted, slamming his door shut and
storming over to the driver's seat. She fumed while buckling her
seatbelt, then could hold her temper back no longer. "Look,
Mulder, I'm not thrilled with this detail, either! I have plenty of
things I'd rather be doing than playing nursemaid to a 34 year old
who can't keep a cut on his eye clean and dry. But I'm stuck with
this, Skinner's orders, and so you are stuck with me. Let's just try
not to do any permanent damage, OK?" She was furious with his
attitude and it was starting to eclipse her initial concern.

"I don't like being 'babysat'," he growled.

"Then stop acting like a 'baby'!" she returned and they were both
silent for the rest of the ride.

When they arrived at his apartment, Dana noticed that her partner
had finally fallen asleep. Not surprising, except that it had only been
a ten minute ride. <Never fails. The man can sleep absolutely
*everywhere* except his own bed. She started to wake him, then
stopped. He looked



so tired. She was used to seeing him like that, there had been more
than their share of sleepless nights and stakeouts to know him as
well this way as when he was rested. But there was something else.
He wasn't really resting--he was just barely even 'sleeping'. He
didn't look peaceful. He looked--haunted. She hated using the
word, but it was the only one that fit. Haunted. This case had a
deeper effect on him than she had imagined. Some of the wind went
out of her sails and the anger left with it.

She climbed out of the car and walked around to his side. Quietly,
so as not to startle him, she opened the door and gently shook his
shoulder. True to form, he jerked awake, grabbing for his gun, but
she already had her hand on his to stop him.

"Oh, we there already?" he asked, taking a deep breath and blinking
at the sunlight.

"Yeah, we're there. Come on. You can crash on the couch while I
run to the drug store and get your meds." He nodded in quiet
acceptance and followed her to the building. He didn't bother
pulling out his keys, he let her use the ones he had given her long
before. She kept glancing back at him, an action that usually
annoyed the hell out of him, but he made no notice. It was as if he
were sleepwalking and he had no knowledge of the world around
him. <I really don't like this, she thought.

After she had him safely on the couch, the remote, a glass of orange
juice and an extra blanket all within reach, she headed off to the
drug store. She stopped off at the grocery next door, knowing
instinctively that 'the cupboards were bare', since they always were.
Almost an hour had passed by the time she made it back.

Struggling with the grocery bags and her purse, she kicked the door
with her foot when she made it off the elevator. No answer. It
didn't surprise her, she figured he was so sound asleep that he
hadn't heard. She put the bags down with a grumble and fished the
keys back out of her pocket. Gathering everything up in her arms,
she went into the apartment. In a moment, she knew something was
wrong. It was empty. Mulder was nowhere to be found. ********






The pavement was broken near the alley and he stumbled for a
second before righting himself. It was enough to shake him out of
the fog that was surrounding his mind. The pictures, the gargoyles,
hundreds of them in stone, wood, on canvas, on prison walls drawn
in blood, all flooding his mind and his sight. But now, he looked
around and realized he was not in his apartment. <When did I go
out running? He glanced down and noticed he hadn't bothered to
change clothes, and he was running in his street shoes. <No wonder
I stumbled. He looked up and down the street and saw nothing
familiar. A street sign on the corner revealed that he was almost
two miles from his building. He sat down on the bench at the bus
stop to get his bearings. His feet hurt from running in shoes not
meant for that purpose. He shivered, he was in his shirt sleeves, he
hadn't bothered to put on either his suit jacket or his raincoat. After
a moment, he fumbled in his pants pocket and found enough money
to take the bus back to his place.

It wasn't until he was at his door that he realized he didn't have his
keys. He had left them in the apartment in his raincoat pocket. He
was about to go to the building super and ask to be let in when he
remembered seeing Scully's car in front. He knocked timidly on the
door and waited for her to answer.

Dana had the phone to her ear as she answered the door, fully
expecting to see the Assistant Director. When it was her wayward
partner, she nearly fell over in an effort to drag him inside and
secure him on the couch. 

"Mulder, goddammit, where in the hell have you been? I've been
looking for you for the last hour! Where did you go? You know
you're supposed to be resting! I refuse to sit here and let you play
'hide and seek' just because you're offended at the prospect of being
'babysat'. Now, you better. . ."

He cut off her tirade with a feeble wave and kicked off his shoes.
His socks were worn through on the heel and toe and she could see
were a couple of blisters had formed and popped. He winced as he
examined them. "Damn it," he muttered and laid back on the couch,
only to stare at the ceiling.

Scully stared at him for a full minute before walking over to perch
on the coffee table. She lifted one of his feet and then the other,
checking out the damage. Without a word, she left to get the first
aid kit she had bought him and went about putting antibiotic
ointment and bandages on the worst of the blisters. Then she went
to the kitchen, measured out the dosage of each of the three bottles
of medicine and brought them to him with a glass of water. He had
found the blankets and was huddled under two of them, looking
completely miserable. "Would you like to tell me where you were?"
she asked calmly.

"Gotta watch those mood swings, Scully. You're scaring me," he
joked, or tried to, as he tossed back the handful of pills and gulped
half the water. When she continued to stare at him, he decided it
must be his turn to talk. "I woke up about two miles from here. I
took a bus back. I had to transfer, that's why it took me so long."
He regarded her serious expression and sighed. "I don't remember
running. I don't remember going out. Scully, I don't remember us
getting to the apartment." He closed his eyes and hoped the
sedative was fast acting so he wouldn't have to answer the
questions he knew she was about to throw at him.

She started to say something but a knock on the door interrupted
her. Skinner was looking not the least bit happy at being dragged
away from the office to intervene in what he could only assume was
the second squabble these two agents had gotten in during the last 6
hours. "So you found him," he said gruffly, and glowered down at
Mulder. "Where was he?"

"He went out running," Scully replied evenly.

"In a suit?" Skinner asked, a note of surprise replacing the angry
tone of before.

"And good leather wingtips, apparently," Scully said.

"Is he asleep?"

"No, but I don't think he feels much like talking at moment." She
got up and motioned for the door. Skinner took a long look at the
'fugitive' and followed.

"So what is it this time, Scully?" Skinner asked once they were in
the building hallway.

Dana sighed. It _did_ feel like she was running to the principal to
report a fight on the playground. "Sir, I'm sorry I called you about
this. When I got back to the apartment, he was gone. He got back a
few minutes ago. He claims to have no knowledge of leaving the
apartment. He says he 'woke up' about 2 miles from here and took
the bus back." She couldn't help but notice the concern registering
on the Assistant Director's face. "I know, sir. You asked me the
other day if I was worried about Mulder. At the time, I hoped it
was just the stress of the case. Now, I'm not so sure. Now, I really
am worried about him." The admission was more than she had
intended to say, but somehow, she felt better getting it out in the
open.

"Is this a psychological matter, Scully? Maybe we should be calling
in EAP, rather than taking him to Georgetown," Skinner said
pointedly. He had never considered Mulder crazy, although most of
the rest of the Bureau hierarchy did. But in light of what had
happened to Patterson, even Walter Skinner was beginning to see
how thin the tightrope of sanity could be for someone as dedicated
to justice and truth as Mulder. And how easy it would be to slip and
fall from the tightrope.

Scully's heart dropped to her stomach. This is not where she
wanted to go and she definitely didn't want the Assistant Director
going there, either. 



"No, sir. I hope it's a simple case of exhaustion. Things really
haven't settled down since. . ." She hesitated to bring up the
incident in Iowa. Mulder, running off to jump a train, stranded on a
sidetrack, narrowly escaping a fatal explosion--that just didn't seem
like much of a sanity defense at the moment. She was still
wondering if she shouldn't have his water tested again because of it.
But the Assistant Director was still staring down at her. "Sir, let me
handle this, at least for the next day or two. I think Mulder needs
rest and real food. If he disappears again, well, then maybe we
should reevaluate the situation. But until then, I think we'd be
overreacting if we called in EAP." In the final analysis, she just
couldn't do that to him. It would be exactly what *they* wanted--to
nail the coffin shut. And with that realization, she knew she would
have to deal with Mulder alone, by herself.

He could see Bill Patterson's face, the horror of his deeds reflected
in



his eyes. And the looks in the eyes of the other agents as Patterson
was escorted to the waiting police car. The looks that said 'that
could never be me, I'd never let that happen', the looks that showed
just how easy it was to lie to yourself so that you could get up in
the morning, go to work and do the same thing all over again. He
saw Patterson being led to his cell, saw him cowering on the bed as
the door was slammed and locked behind him. Patterson had his
face covered with his hands, the hands that still had a covering of
clay from the gargoyle model that encased his latest victim-- his
partner. And then Patterson removed the hands from his face, let
them fall to his lap and as he looked up, Mulder realized it was not
Bill Patterson sitting in that cell--it was himself. And he screamed,
just as surely as Patterson had done before him.

A hand came down on his shoulder and Mulder jumped. He tried to
catch his breath, to calm down, to get the sweat out of his eyes. He
blinked, and saw Scully, kneeling next to where he was laying on
the couch in his apartment. She was talking, but he couldn't
understand what she was saying, like the mute button had been
accidentally hit on. All that he could hear was the faint echoes of his
own screams, and Patterson's.

"Mulder. Mulder, it was just a dream. Just a dream. You're all right.
You're in your apartment." She was running out of soothing things
to say and he still didn't look like he knew where he was or even
that she was speaking to him. <Oh, shit, please, don't fall apart on
me now, she prayed. "Mulder, do you want something to drink,
some water?"

Finally, her voice broke through the static in his mind. "water?"

"Yes, do you want me to get you some water?" she asked, and the
relief was all too evident in her voice. He swallowed, his throat was
dry and raw. He nodded weakly and she got up to get him a glass.
She noted ruefully that he now bought his water from the grocery
store, a jug was on the shelf in the refrigerator, next to the food she
had picked up earlier. She shook her head sadly at the memory of
why that would be important to him--safe water. Quickly, she put
the jug back in the refrigerator and took the glass to him. He gulped
it down but shook his head when she asked if he wanted more.

"You had a nightmare," she stated quietly. "Was it about
Samantha?"

He let out a short bitter snort, not a laugh, more like a growl. "No.
I haven't had that nightmare for a while. Not since before. . .long
before New Mexico."

"Then what was it?" She hoped he would talk to her. There was
nothing she could do if he kept it all bottled up inside of himself.

He ran a hand through his hair and stood up, only to wobble slightly
before gingerly walking to the bathroom. "The drugs, probably. The
sedative, or the stomach stuff, I don't know. It's was nothing,
Scully. Don't worry about it, huh?" She wanted to protest, but
knew it was useless. He would have to open up on his own.

When he came back into the living room, he looked around. The
charcoal sketches were missing. "I see you chose to redecorate. I
don't remember giving any orders to that effect," he said calmly and
she almost thought for a moment that he might not be joking. Then
he smiled faintly.

"I didn't think you'd mind. I put the pictures in a box I found. I
figured they should go back to the office." She stopped just short of
reminding him that they were evidence in a capital crime. She also
didn't mention how terrified she had been when she had come
looking for him two nights before and found the sketches, close to
100 of them, taped to every available surface in his apartment. It
was the first clue she had that something was wrong, very, very,
wrong.

"Yeah, thanks, they should go back." He sat back heavily on the
couch and stared into space.

"Are you hungry? You've been asleep for almost 5 hours. And I
don't think you had much breakfast. I picked up some lunchmeat
and some tomato soup. Is that all right?"

He broke his stare to look over and grin at her. "Salami?"

"*Turkey* salami, yes," she grinned back. "And honey roasted
turkey breast. I even picked up lettuce and a tomato for the
sandwiches."

"Sounds good. Let's eat.

He had thought he was hungry, until he sat down at the little table
in the kitchen. The sandwich stared up at him and the tomato soup
was. . .it was far too *red*. It reminded him of the gargoyle sketch
on the floor of Mostow's cell--the one the prisoner had drawn in his
own blood. Mulder closed his eyes to try and forget the image, but
it came back stronger than ever. Suddenly, he pushed his chair back
and stumbled out into the living room. He sat down on the couch,
breathing heavily, trying to calm himself. It wasn't working. All he
could see were those damn sketches. . .

Scully had been busy fixing her own sandwich and hadn't notice her
partner until she heard the chair scraping the floor. He all but ran
past her to get to the living room. She followed him, called his
name, but again, he didn't hear her. More than a little frightened,
she slowly entered the room. He was staring the television, but it
wasn't even on. Carefully, she moved over to stand a few feet in
front of him, and again tried to get his attention.

"Mulder," she said softly. "Mulder, look at me." He made no move
to comply. Her heart was thudding loudly in her chest as she
walked around the coffee table and sat next to him on the couch.
She put her hand to his face and turned it toward her. "Mulder,
please look at me," she pleaded. Finally, as if he was coming home
from a very long trip, Mulder found himself back in his apartment.
Scully was staring at him, more scared than he could remember
seeing her. "Scully?" he asked. "Are you all right?"

It would have been funny, if she hadn't been reaching to dial the
paramedics. She took his wrist in her hand and checked his pulse,
then looked into his eyes. He seemed fine, aside from the mild fever
he was still exhibiting. She could tell he was back, she just had no
idea where his mind had taken him. "Mulder, why didn't you eat?
You need to eat something. Doctor orders," she said with a mock
seriousness to her voice. She was relieved he was at least looking
more normal.

"I'm not hungry," he swallowed. To be exact, the thought of food
was turning his stomach. He was becoming more aware of his
surroundings, and his own body. His head was pounding again.
"My head hurts. Can I have an aspirin?" He was begging.

"Mulder, that's a really dumb idea on an empty stomach. And I
don't want you taking the amoxil on an empty stomach, either or
you'll just lose it in the bathroom in a couple of minutes." He closed
his eyes and leaned back in the couch cushions. "Look, if that was
too much, I'll get you something else. How about some dry toast,
or some crackers and some tea?" He nodded weakly and she
hesitantly got up to make it for him. When she came back, he
looked no better than he had, but at least he seemed aware of her
presence. She sat the crackers down on the coffee table and handed
him the tea. He drank it down, ate four of the crackers and laid
down on the couch, eyes closed.

"Can I have that aspirin, now?" he asked in a whisper. She bit back
her fear for him and went to get the medicine. She brought back not
only the aspirin, but his amoxil, stomach medicine and his sedative,
and a glass of water to wash it all down. He threw back the pills
without comment and laid back down on the couch. She pulled the
comforter off the back and covered him with it, then sat down in
the chair on the opposite side of the room and watched as he fell
into a fitful sleep. *******

Dana sat in the chair and watched as her partner's face twisted and
twitched in his sleep. It wasn't working. Just letting him get some
rest was not getting rid of whatever demons were possessing him.
<God, I'm starting to *think* like him now! she thought with a
shake of her head. No, this was not demons, this was something
else. This was Mulder himself and he needed help. Help she was
becoming increasingly sure that she was not able to provide. 

After letting the issue tear her apart a few more minutes, and
getting tired of watching Mulder's tortured face, she finally made
her decision. He was not going to like this, not one bit. But then,
their relationship had been on the rocks for some time and if this
was the last straw, she would just have to accept that. She could
put up with his ditching her, she could put with his occasional
flirtations with other women <well, maybe not Det. White. . .or that
'Bambi' woman, she could even put up with his taste in videos and
reading material in addition to the women. But she was not going
to sit back and say nothing while he quietly drove himself mad.
That was something she could never forgive herself for allowing.

She dug through her purse and then her wallet. Finally, she came up
with the little white card, the edges slightly dog eared. She picked
up the cordless phone and walked into the kitchen, out of earshot in
case Mulder woke up. She dialed the number that had been hastily
scribbled on the back of the card.

"Karen Kossloff," the soft woman's voice said into the phone and
Dana almost hung up. "This is Karen, is anyone there?" she asked
again, and Dana sighed.

"Karen, this is Dana Scully," she said simply.

The voice on the other end lightened. "Dana! How are you? I
haven't seen you in the cafeteria for a while. Have you been in the
field?" 

"Well, yes, now that you mention it, we have been gone a lot
lately," Dana admitted. "Karen, I'm sorry to have bothered you at
home, but I really need to talk to you."

"Now, Dana, you know I told you that you should call whenever
you needed me," Karen chided. "There's no rest for the wicked and
that goes double for Bureau shrinks," she added with a laugh. Dana
smiled, in spite of herself. "So, what's up? Another bad case?"

"No, well, yes, in a way, but this isn't about me. Karen, you
remember by partner, don't you?"

"You're still working with Fox Mulder, aren't you?" Karen's tone
was neutral and that almost made Dana laugh. She very seldom
heard those words in a 'neutral' tone. Usually they were said with
much derision. 

"Yes, I am. Karen, I'm at wits end. I think this last case hit a little
too close to home for him. We were working on a case with ISU. .
."

"The Patterson case, yes I heard. Horrific case, I'm sure. As I
understand it, your partner was personally responsible for solving
the murders," Karen interrupted.

"Yes, he was. He spent the last week on that case. He spent every
waking moment on it, and since he didn't really sleep much of that
time, that was the equivalent of 24 hours a day."

"Not to mention the fact that he worked with Bill Patterson for 2
years in ISU. I'm sure having to arrest a colleague for those kinds
of murders must have been very trying on him. I know it's effected
several of the agents that worked in the unit. Everyone's asking
themselves, since it could happen to Bill, when will it happen to
me." Dana could hear the concern in the social worker's voice. "But
Dana, I can't treat your partner third hand. Can you get him to
come in to see me?"

Dana sighed heavily. "How *well* do you know Fox Mulder?" she
asked.

"The myth or the man?" Karen said lightly. "I know that most of
EAP runs screaming at the sound of his name. I know that several
of the hierarchy were trying for involuntary commitment while you
were. . .gone. They couldn't find any evidence that he was a danger
to others, so they had to let it drop."

"I had no idea," Dana whispered.

"I'm sure you didn't. I don't think he even knows how serious they
were. Or how close they came. After the incident in the hospital
when you were found. . .well, Dana, if it hadn't been for your
mother's account of the events, I don't think you'd be working with
him now. I think they would have thrown away the key."

"So you think he's crazy," Dana said bitterly.

"I said nothing of the sort. I'm giving you the myths I've heard. I've
see him in action. Just once or twice, when we've bumped into each
other on consults. He's brilliant, he's driven, he's got some rough
edges, but Dana, so do we all. I don't think he's any more crazy
than you or I. But I do know that he has a much harder time
accepting help. He seems like the type that keeps it all inside. Like
someone else I could mention," she added, and Dana could tell that
was meant for *her* benefit.

"Well, you're right on that one. He would bottle it up and just let it
eat him from the inside out. But Karen, I think he's really scared
this time. I don't know for certain what's going on, why this one's
different than the other cases we've worked on, but it is. And I want
to help him and I don't know how," Dana moaned.

"Dana, let me clue you in on a little secret," Karen said, now deadly
serious. "Psychologist make the worst psych patients. I know that's
true of medical doctors being the worst patients, but for shrinks, it's
tenfold as bad. Because not only are they more likely to second
guess the treatment, they are also more likely to deny the problem,
ignore the symptoms, and avoid any and all treatment. But they will
still 'play the game', so you think they're doing what you want them
to do, but they aren't. You think you're making headway, and they
are so far out on a limb that it makes you dizzy thinking about it
and they're sawing the limb off behind them!" Karen stopped for a
moment and caught her breath. "Sorry about the soapbox, but
believe me, I know what I'm talking about. I've been there, Dana.
And it's a scary, scary place."

"So what do I do?" Dana whined.

"Talk to him. Try and make him realize that you are very worried.
Threatening won't work, it has to be his idea. And then call me. I
know someone who specializes in the, well how can I put this, . .
.the hard cases. His entire practice is made up of psychologists and
social workers. People who deal with this stuff on a daily basis and
should know how much easier it is just to sit back and let someone
help them get better. But they don't. But that's OK, this guy knows
all the tricks and won't let him get by with any of them. But it has to
be your partner's idea to call him. Otherwise, we're spitting into a
fan," Karen quipped. "So, call if you need me. This has got to be
hard on you. Even if you just need to 'vent your spleen' as my old
advisor used to tell me. I'm here, OK?"

"Yeah, thanks, Karen. I'll try in the morning. He's asleep right now.
. ."

"Not really," came a voice behind her. Dana froze while a dozen
excuses flooded her mind. Slowly, she disconnected the phone and
turned to face him.

"Hi," she muttered. "Have a good nap?"

"Depends. I guess I didn't expect to wake up to a knife in my back,"
he seethed. "Who were you talking to?" he demanded.

"Karen Kossloff in EAP," she admitted. Then she squared her
shoulders. "I talked to her during the Pfaster case. I called her
because, . . . because I was worried about _you_," she said
defiantly.

"EAP? The shrink dept.? Now you think I'm crazy," he cried and
angrily started to pace. "Or maybe you just finally decided to do
something about what you thought all along."

"Don't give me that crap, Mulder," she shouted. "I have never
treated you with anything but the utmost respect! And there have
been times when your sanity was the only thing I _was_ sure of.
But I think even you have to admit that this is different. Mulder,
you have blanks of time! You said yourself that you don't remember
talking to me this morning. You can't account for how you ended
up over 28 blocks from this apartment, in your street shoes, running
for all you were worth. Now, tell me, if it was _me_ doing all that,
what would you do?" she huffed.

He stopped and stared at her for a moment, then she saw the fear
invade his shoulders. He remained silent, but he looked miserable.

"I thought so," Dana said quietly. "So do you see why I called
Karen? I was worried. I AM worried. And I don't have the psych
degree, Mulder. That's your department," she added with a faint
smile. She watched him stumble awkwardly over to the couch and
slump down into the cushions. "Talk to me, Mulder," she pleaded.

It looked like he was about to dismiss her, but he stopped. The
pained expression was there in her face, he was really hurting her.
All he really wanted was for the hurt to go away. But he knew it
wouldn't. And he



knew why. Finally, he looked into her eyes as she sat across from
him in the chair on the other side of the room. Her eyes were
glinting the reflection from the lights of the fishtank, but for a brief
moment, it looked like all the knowledge and wisdom of the world
just might be there in her eyes. He took a deep breath and started.

"When you were teaching at Quantico, what happened when you
finished with a class of recruits?" he asked calmly.

The question threw her for a loop. "Well, we got a new class," she
said, hesitantly. She was just curious enough to want to go where
this was leading, but she couldn't shake the feeling he was avoiding
her original question.

"Was there any down time, any breaks, any time between one class
and another?" he continued to hold her gaze. He looked rational
enough, she noted.

"No, ah, not really. We usually finished classes on Friday. The next
week they spent at the testing center, but that was all proctored by
other agents. So, we just started with a new class. We had the
weekend, of course. . .Mulder, why is this so important?" she finally
got up the courage to ask.

"So you had two days to switch gears, learn new names, rework
your lesson plans, right?" he asked.

"Yeah, about that. So what? What difference does that make?" She
was trying not to get annoyed, but he had become so darned
annoying lately. <We have to work on that, she reminded herself.

"You know, when I was back in Investigative Support Unit,
working under Bill, I would have *killed* for a weekend. Two
whole days, 48 hours, would have seemed like I'd died and gone to
heaven! Oh, there were a couple of times. But more likely than not,
if I did get a Saturday, on Sunday afternoon I'd get called in on
another case. Or the case would last through the weekend. See, I
was always the 'profiler of last resort', which meant that _every_
single time somebody got stuck, I got called." He put his feet up on
the coffee table and regarded them as if they could tell him the
mysteries of the earth.

"At first, Bill was real good at playing to my ego. 'You're needed,
Mulder.' 'You're the best, Mulder, we can't do it without you.' But
that was at the beginning and it sure didn't last long. Then,
somewhere he decided that praise took too much time and so he
just started throwing the case files on my desk and more or less
daring me to solve them. That worked the best. Because basically I
thought old Bill was an asshole and the praise had never really felt
real. The dares, those felt real. So I 'rose to the challenge', so to
speak." He got up slowly and went into the kitchen, coming back
with a bottle of Gatorade she had bought that afternoon.

"Before I knew it, I was on this 'treadmill' of cases. All the really
shitty stuff, that came to my desk. And not just my desk. I got the
flu one time and was home throwing up my guts and when I could
make it to the phone, it was Bill. He faxed the damn file over the
modem and I wrote the profile right there, " he pointed to his desk.
"And I threw up right in that," he pointed to his wastebasket. "Or
rather, the one I threw out afterward. So you see, I didn't even get
time off for good behavior." He chuckled bitterly.

He just kept talking, almost as if she wasn't even in the room, not
looking at her anymore, looking off into space. "It went like that for
a long, long time. I don't even know how long. Sometimes I would
get hauled out to do field work, on the spot kind of stuff, but not
really that often, not like now. That was the worst, the field stuff. I
was the 'magic man', I was just supposed to come in, wave my
wand and tell them to pick up this bastard or that bastard and then
disappear in a puff of smoke. But to talk to somebody, have a beer,
huh, that was forbidden. It was some sort of Frigging taboo or
something."

"Then, this one time, I was sent out to California. San Diego, to be
exact. And the agent who picked me up at the airport, well, he was
a real hotshot at the wheel. The AIC had said to get me to the
crime scene PRONTO, and he was going to do just that." He
looked at her for the first time in a long time. "You know Scully, it
really does rain in Southern California. I know that's a dumb song,
but I have first hand, personal knowledge. Only it rains so hard, you
can't see three feet in front of you.

And the highway is slicker than the BW Parkway after a January
snowstorm. We spun out, got smacked by a florist delivery van.
Passenger side collision. I was wearing my seatbelt, but it screwed
up my back royally. Two weeks of traction at the base hospital.
And you thought Alaska was fun," he added with a sneer. "Let me
tell you, Eisenhower Field was Macy's at Christmas compared to
the base hospital in San Diego with the bar fights and the drug
addicts. . .ah well, that's not part of the story, or maybe it is." Now
that he had started, he couldn't seem to stop.

"Well, the first week, I was on morphine or something like it and I
was out of it, in another galaxy, really. So that wasn't so bad. Then,
they didn't want me on stuff that strong for long enough to get
hooked so they started to 'wean' me off it, you know the routine.
And that's when it started. The black outs. I wouldn't remember
these big chunks of time, sometimes two or three hours. But the
nurses seemed to remember. I was a real pain in the ass during
those times. Mean, let me tell you. I guess you saw some of it this
morning. But I don't know, it was all second hand information to
me. I guess they were telling the truth. So, in come the
neurologists. I have to give them credit, at least they *looked* for a
physiological reason first. Lots of x-rays, cat scans and MRIs later,
I'm given a bill of health, brainwise, but the black outs are still
happening. And I was still an asshole. Or maybe people were just
starting to notice," he said, shooting her a wicked grin. She gave
him her own 'Scully Look' and he went back to his story.

"So enter the psych guys. Starting with a MSW, just to test the
waters. I blew her away. Next, they brought in a Ph.D. in
Psychology. No contest. Finally, the resident Psychiatrist was about
to put me on some really mean shit when the black outs stopped.
Just like that. No more



problems. I'm cured," he had the biggest grin on his face, his arms
thrown out in a gesture of victory. "I went back to DC and Reggie
sort of 'scooted' me out from under Bill. And about that time, since
I *knew* I wasn't Frigging cured, I started going to see Max, the
hypnotherapist. In the short span of six months, I remembered
Sam's abduction and found the X files. A couple of months later, I
help nail Monty Props and the rest, as they say, is history." He
finished off the Gatorade with one gulp.

"So, you're thinking that these black outs are caused by, what,
profiling?" Scully asked, when she could find her voice.

"No, Scully, not the profiling, per se," he moaned. "A combination
of the profiling, and working with Patterson and just getting too
deep. I should have seen it coming. But to tell you the truth,
Patterson played me like a cheap violin. He threw that case in front
of me and 'dared' me to



solve it. Just like the good old days. And the bastard didn't even
realize he was doing it," he said, lips pursed, staring off into the
darkened window.

"So, you figure it will just go away," she asked tersely. <What was
it Karen said, something about avoiding treatment.

"Or I could go wrap my car around a tree and hope it helps," he
suggested in his best deadpanned expression.

"Lousy idea, and it would shoot your car insurance through the
roof," she pointed out, just as seriously. "How about talking to
somebody?"

"Oh, you mean like a real person, as opposed to you, my partner?"
he teased.

"I mean, someone who can help you," she intoned.

He gave her his warmest smile. "You always help me, Scully.
You're the only person I can think of who has ever consistently
tried and definitely the only one who has ever succeeded."

His words made her smile in return. "But I don't know if it's
enough, this time," she said, slowly shaking her head. "Mulder, I've
been watching you. When you wake up from. . .where ever you've
been. . .you're scared. Was it like that before?"

He was silent for a moment. The slowly he shook his head. "No. I
don't remember being scared. Just confused."

"So this is different?" she prodded.

Suddenly he jumped up, pacing. "What do you want me to say,
Scully? That this time is worse, that I really am in trouble this
time?" She started to protest, but he waved her off. "Because that's.
. ." he took a deep breath. "That's what I've been thinking myself."
He stood at looking out the window on to the darkened streets, his
back to her. "You're right. I am scared." Dana got up and stood just
behind him, looking out the same window, but not seeing the same
scene. "What is it? What's so scary?" she asked gently.

He gave a half laugh. "All my life, I've tried to be different. Not
'Spooky' different. Different than my role models. I never wanted to
be like my father, but this year, I found out just how close to him
I'd become.

And I hated Bill Patterson. I vowed I would never get that deep,
never let it take over my life. And look at me, Scully. That's exactly
what's happened."

She put her hand on his shoulder. "Mulder, that's not true." she



objected. "You are _not_ like your father. You are fighting to find
the truth, not cover it up. You know that. And you are _not_ like
Bill Patterson. And you never will be," she concluded.

"Bill never thought he would be like John Mostow, either, Scully,
but it



happened. He spent his whole life fighting that and look what
happened?" His shoulder's started to shake and she realized he was
silently crying. "I don't want that to happen to me. That's what
scares me. I keep having the same dream. . .that I _am_ Bill, that I
did all that, the murders. That it was me. . ."

She took him by the arm and led him to the couch. She sat him
down and then sat on the coffee table in front of him. He wouldn't
look at her and so she grabbed his hands and forced him to look
into her eyes. "That is _not_ going to happen, Mulder for one very
simple reason." He let his eyes ask the question for him. <Why?

She smiled tenderly. "Because *I* am not going to let that happen."




*******************************






Fox Mulder regarded his partner for a long time. "Funny, that's not
the impression I got as we left Comity," he said sarcastically. The
minute the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. He also
knew he was not about to take them back.

Dana Scully's first reaction was to stiffen. Her second thought was
that her fist would make almost perfect contact with his jaw from
her current postion and he wouldn't be a problem for the rest of the
night. Her third thought, the one she acted on was to finally have it
out. This 'thing' had been brewing for far too long and now was just
as good a time as any to get it over and done with. But in the back
of her mind, she was more determined than ever to make him get
the help he needed. The help he deserved.

"OK, Mulder. You want to get sidetracked," she said evenly. "Fine.
I'm willing, *for tonight*, to get sidetracked. But we are laying
down some ground rules. One, you can only say what you really
mean, so don't say it in the heat of battle. We are going to be
rational about this. Two, we don't leave this room until it is all out
in the open, discussed, and over. Oh, and three, we hold hands."
She almost laughed at the shocked look on his face. "Are you
willing to abide by those rules?" 

"Not exactly Marquis of Queensbury, but they'll do," he said,
recovering quickly and matching her tone. He reached out and
clasped her hands in his. "Ladies first."

She took a deep breath. She thought for a moment. "You still
blame me for giving back the tape." 

"That's a moot point," he countered. "The tape was stolen before
we could give it back." But his eyes betrayed the fact that she had
hit the mark.

"So what if it was stolen. You left the decision up to me and I made
it and you didn't like it. And usually that would be the end of story.
But the fact that it was 'that' tape and that you almost died to keep
it away from them. . ." She clenched her eyes shut tight and took
several breaths. "Mulder, I have had nightmares for months about
that damn tape. And I wish. . .I wish that I had never told Skinner
to give it back." He could tell that it was everything she could do to
keep control of her emotions, but she was doing a darn find job of
it, in his opinion. But he also noticed a decided increase in her
pressure on his hands. "It didn't save Missy. It didn't get me there in
time to see her. . .to see her before she died. We gave it up for
nothing. And I'm sorry." The tears burned in her eyes. <Not now,
Starbuck, don't you dare! Rational, you have to be rational. She
swallowed again, and relaxed a bit, still every bit the Dana Scully he
knew and admired. "I'm right, aren't I?"

His first impulse was to deny. Then he remembered the first rule.
There really had been times, times when he was so tired and sad
and wanted it all to be different, that he really hated her for being so
weak. At those moments, that is how he saw it, a weakness. Then
he would shake himself out of his self pity and realize who really
was the weak one in this partnership and it wasn't his partner. "OK,
you've got me. There have been times that I wished you hadn't done
that. I wish we had kept the tape, deciphered it for ourselves, used
it for more leverage, the truth,



whatever. But in all honesty, Scully, the result would have been the
same. And instead of attacking Skinner in the stairwell, they might
have murdered him in his sleep, or me or you or your mom. Face it,
the price of human life is pretty cheap to these people. So, we need
to get past it, both of us."

"Then you forgive me?" she asked.

He wanted to jump to an immediate 'yes' to reassure her, but that
wasn't in the rules. He had to mean it. He thought for a moment. In
all reality, he had already forgiven her for the act. It was the pain
that the act inflicted that he still resented. And apparently, that was
what was she was sorry for as well. "Yes," he said finally, giving
her hand a gentle squeeze. "I forgive you." He sat forward and
looked her directly in the eyes. <I could lose myself right here, he
thought, but steeled himself. "My turn."

She nodded and worked her shoulders a bit, waiting for the
onslaught. After all their time together, she was pretty sure of what
he was going to say. She just didn't quite know how she was going
to answer.

"You blame me for Melissa's death," he said flatly. When she
started to answer that, almost on instinct, he stopped her by
tightening his grip. "And you blame me for all the pain you've been
through. When I was lost and hurt, when you've been hurt, the pain
your mom has had to endure. You blame me for all of it. I know
you do, Dana, because any sane person would. And I blame myself.
And I am very, very sorry." He broke his gaze with her, afraid he
would be the one to lose control.

"Mulder," she said quietly, trying to draw him back. "Mulder, look
at me, please," she pleaded. He swallowed hard and finally
complied. "You did not cause Melissa's death. But I did blame you
for my not being able to go to her when she was shot. I said that
already. I'm over that. What hurts me more than anything is how
much pain you cause yourself. I hate the way you take all this on
yourself. It's not fair. And I deserve a good part of that blame. I
took you off to New Mexico. I could have kept you right here in
DC, at my apartment, or someplace nearby. I wanted to go on that
quest as much as you did. I wanted to know what was in that tape.
I sent you off to that boxcar. . ." she stopped and struggled with her
own



emotions. "Whatever blame you think you deserve, the least you
can do is share."

He didn't want to say the words, but he had to. It was as necessary
for him to ask as it was for her to answer. "Then you forgive me?"

She didn't bother to hesitate. "Yes, Mulder, I forgive you." It
gladdened her heart to see his shoulders relax and a gentle smile
form on his lips.

"But Scully, one more thing. About that 'latex' remark," he said
with mock innocence. For the first time that evening, her reserve
was lost. She broke into uncontrollable giggles.

When she gained a little control, she countered, "Well, you were a
pretty horny little beast, but I guess I can forgive you." She started
shaking her head. "I still can't believe what you were doing with
Det. White," she laughed.

"You mean 'protecting my manhood', Scully," he said in a perfect
deadpan.

"Oh Yeah!," she howled. "And 'denial' isn't just a river in Egypt,
Mulder." She looked down and realized they were still holding
hands. "So, I forgive you, do you forgive me for all those little
digs?"

"There's nothing to forgive, but yes, I forgive you." He released her
hands and leaned back on the couch. "I don't know about you, but
I'm exhausted," he muttered as he closed his eyes. He was asleep
before she knew it and she settled him down on the couch, covered
him up and finally made her way into his bedroom to get some sleep
herself.

The sun was high in the sky when Scully woke up enough to realize
she was not in her apartment. She stretched and got up, padding
down the short hall in sock feet. Mulder was still sprawled out on
the couch, almost in the same position he had been in when she had
left him. She glanced at the clock and noted that it was 11:15 am
already. It had been 1:30 am when she had fallen asleep. <Finally, a
decent night's sleep for a change, she thought with a smile. She sat
on the coffee table to look at her sleeping partner.

The cut was responding to the antibiotics that had been given IM at
the doctor's office. With a couple more days, it would be healed
completely. She rested her hand against his forehead. The fever was
gone, too or at least down to negligible levels. Still, she'd wait until
the next day to call Doug Stevens about signing off on the return to
duty. She was not about to let Mulder rush back to work this time.
There was still some unfinished business to attend to. She started to
get up to make coffee.

"Taking up voyeurism as a hobby, Scully," he muttered as he rolled
over and pulled the comforter under his chin.

"It's more interesting than 'playing possum'," she countered. "Your
fever broke sometime last night."

"Yeah, I got the sweats to prove it. I got up and took a shower
about 7. Then I crawled back into bed like a good little invalid." He
yawned and stretched as he sat up. "I'm hungry. Did you remember
to get bagels at the store?"

"Mulder, do you *ever* shop for yourself?" she asked in mock
indignation. He simply flashed he a big grin and wiggled his
eyebrows. "I thought not," she responded to his antics and left him
to hunt for his remote.

Giving up on his hunt, for the time being, he followed her into the
kitchen and pulled out the bagels and cream cheese while she busied
herself with his coffee maker. He ate three bagels to her one, she
noted happily and drank two glasses of the orange juice she had
bought as well. <Appetite seems to be back, she grinned to herself.
"Feeling better," she asked.

"Don't look so smug," he warned her. "I would have crashed last
night anyway. You really didn't need to drag other health care
professionals into it," he said, stealing her last bite of bagel and
picking up the plates to put into the sink.

"Oh, no you wouldn't, Mulder!" she shot back. "And you would
have been in the office this morning at the crack of dawn. And once
you keeled over from the amount of toxin in your bloodstream, we
would have be treated to a nice ride in an ambulance," she said with
mock cheeriness. "Face it, you don't take very good care of *you*."

"That's why I have you, Scully. That's your punishment for
tormenting me so much," he said, and this time, she could tell he
was joking. Still, it was the opening she was looking for.

"OK, then Mulder, let me torment you a little more. I want you to
see



someone." She watched as his face took on it's stubborn set and he
started shaking his head. "Hear me out, Mulder. We decided last
night that what you've been going through is different than anything
you've experienced in



the past. I think you need to talk about it with someone who can
help you work through it." She watched him as he continued to
shake his head and when he started to talk, she cut him off. 

"Mulder, look, I know that last night we got a lot of stuff out in the
open. And this morning, we both feel pretty darned good. But it's
just like the antibiotic. If we both assumed that you were cured
simply because your fever broke, and you tossed all the rest of the
orals down the toilet, you'd be sick as a dog in a month. That's the
way these things work. Outward appearances can be deceiving.
And I don't know about you, but I'm tired of deceiving myself."

The gleam that formed in his eye was almost blinding. He had been
wanting to bring this up for months, ever since New Mexico and he
had always been afraid of her reaction. <All right, Dana Katherine,
you asked for it. And you're gonna get it, right between the eyes! he
mused. "So, your tired of deceiving yourself, huh?" He got a very
self satisfied look on his face when she nodded, somewhat
apprehensively. "Then, I'll make a little deal with you. I'll go talk to
this person, whoever you and Kossloff dream up, on one
condition."

"And that condition is. . .?" she asked, almost too afraid of the
answer. But at this point, she was willing to do anything, give up
anything, if he would agree to get help.

"*You* do something about *your* demons, Scully." He lifted her
chin, which had dropped to her chest in realization, and looked into
her eyes. "You try to find out more about what happened when you
were



abducted. You told me that Melissa got you to see a
hypnotherapist, but you bolted. Maybe that guy wasn't right for
you. If I help you find one, you have to agree to give it a chance."
She started to say something and then stopped when he held up his
hand. "We'll be each other's barometer. If you want me to keep at
my part of this bargain, you have to keep at your part of it as well.
If I give up, you can give up, too. But if I stick with it. . ."

She didn't let him finish the sentence. She stuck out her hand.
"Deal," she said.

Her readiness took him by surprise. "You're sure about this?"

"I'm sure, Mulder. You're right. I need to know. We both do. We
have to if we're ever going to get beyond that. This way, at least I
know we're helping ourselves and each other." And she gave him
that precious smile that he drifted off to sleep visualizing. He took
her hand and then pulled her into a hug.

"Then we have a deal," he said. "You call Kossloff and get an
appointment set up for me. I'll call some people I know and get one
set up for you. The first one with a set appointment gets to pick the
movies tonight," he offered.

"And the loser has to cook," she countered. "Or at least place the
order," she added with a laugh.

the end

and this time, I mean it. I wasn't a psych major, somebody else can
write the sequel : )