Title: THE MASTODON DIARIES
Author: aka "Jake" 
Rating: NC-17 (Violence, Language, Graphic Sexual Content)
Classification: X; MSR; /O; post ep

Spoilers: "The Mastodon Diaries" takes place between "Folie A 
Deux" and "The End." It contains spoilers from throughout the 
series and is "canon compliant."

Summary: Mulder and Scully are thrown back in time...12,000 
years.

"Although common sense may rule out the possibility of time 
travel, the laws of quantum physics certainly do not. In case 
you forgot, Scully, that's from your graduate thesis. You were 
a lot more open-minded when you were a youngster." -- Mulder 
in "Synchrony"

Disclaimer: Do these characters really belong to Chris Carter, 
FOX and 1013 Productions? If so, no copyright infringement 
intended. Fun, yes. Profit, no.

Authors Notes: I liked Jean M. Auel's "Clan of the Cave Bear" 
novels when they first came out. Maybe it was the panoramic 
scope of her prehistoric adventure stories that I found 
interesting. Or maybe I liked them because I minored in 
anthropology in college. Or maybe I just enjoyed the raw, 
unbridled, primitive sex.

Whichever, Auel's stories got me thinkin' about sending our 
heroes into the Pleistocene. Lots of fascinating possibilities 
there. 

To see the illustrated version of "The Mastodon Diaries," go 
to http://akajake.philedom2k.com/

The paleo-indian terms listed here and used throughout "The 
Mastodon Diaries" are actually Navajo terms, as described in 
the Navajo Code Talkers' Dictionary at 
http://www.history.navy.mil/faqs/faq61-4.htm. 
For the sake of this story, I followed the X-Files' plotline 
that posits the Navajo language is similar to the language 
originally spoken by the Anasazi, a group of Native people who 
mysteriously vanished without a trace from the American 
southwest more than 600 years ago. The character Albert 
Hosteen, Native Navajo and a Code Talker during WWII, told 
Mulder and Scully that "Anasazi" literally means "ancient 
aliens." He believed the Anasazi tribe had been abducted "by 
visitors who come here still." Hosteen later helped translate 
the symbols discovered on several fragments of an alien 
spacecraft. His ability to read the extraterrestrial symbols 
implied a connection, or at least a similarity, between the 
languages of Anasazi, Navajo and the alien visitors.
My profoundest apologies if I have inappropriately used any 
Navajo terms in this fictional novel.

Definitions of the Navajo terms used in "The Mastodon Diaries" 
can be found at 
http://aka "Jake".philedom2k.com/TMDdictionary.html

Special thanks to mimic117, Dr. Guts, Jean Helms, jeri and 
xdks for beta. These "MastoBetas" kept me from sounding like a 
complete idiot. I can never thank them enough for their 
generosity and expertise. MWAH, gals! 


THE MASTODON DIARIES
By aka "Jake"

"Survival is the ultimate ideology." -- WMM, Fight the Future
 

PROLOGUE 

HILL AIR FORCE BASE
BOX ELDER COUNTY, UTAH
MAY 13, 1998
1:22 AM

Scully crouched on all fours, mimicking Mulder's low profile. 
She whispered into the dark, "I shouldn't have to tell you 
this, but we're breaking the law."  

"Shhhhh." Mulder pointed a cautionary finger at her. His hand 
glowed like a disembodied specter in the waning moonlight, 
while the rest of him remained cloaked in shadows. He wore 
black, as did she. Jeans, turtleneck, leather coat. Charcoal-
colored face paint camouflaged their cheeks. A faded Baltimore 
Black Sox baseball cap, circa 1932 and borrowed from Mulder, 
hid Scully's bright hair.

She listened to the snip-snip of his wire cutters, followed by 
the rattle of chain-link as he pulled aside a section of fence. 
He slipped through the breach like a cat burglar, then turned 
to help her trespass onto government property. 

Jesus, what had she been thinking when she agreed to come here 
with him? This was foolhardy...not to mention illegal.

"Mulder, if we get caught--"

"Shhhhh," he hushed her again. 

His fingers gripped her arm and drew her through the fence. 
Once on the other side, she knelt next to him...close enough to 
smell his antiperspirant, which to be honest was giving up the 
ghost. The hike from the car had been a long one, over rough 
terrain, and Mulder set a strenuous pace, jogging almost the 
entire way. She'd worked up a sweat trying to keep up and 
probably smelled equally sour. 

"Look," he whispered.

She followed the point of his finger to where runway lights 
illuminated a triangular-shaped aircraft to the east. Mulder 
was right. The ship was unlike anything they'd ever seen 
before.

Of course, that didn't make it extraterrestrial. Not in her 
book.

"Here they come." Mulder flattened himself in the weeds, 
stretching out on his stomach while he peered at the runway 
through a pair of high-powered binoculars.

Crickets whined in the scrub around them. Human voices drifted 
across the desert from the tarmac. The air smelled like dry 
grass, sage and ten thousand years of wind-scoured sand. 

"What are they doing?" Scully asked, squinting at the uniformed 
men who circled the craft. She crouched on hands and knees, 
hunching low, but refusing to lie on her belly the way Mulder 
was doing. The ground chilled her palms and she found herself 
wishing she'd worn gloves.

"I think they're gonna do it."

"Do it?"

"Fly." He adjusted the focus of his binoculars. "Uh-oh."

"What's the matter?" Goosebumps sprouted on her arms at his 
tone. Unable to make out anything from this distance, she had 
to rely on his eyes, trust his instincts. 

"I recognize one of them."

"Who?"

"Lisa Ianelli."

Lisa Ianelli -- girlfriend of time traveler Jason Nichols. 
What was she doing here?

"Hang on, Scully--" Mulder dropped his binoculars and grabbed 
her arm.

A chugging rumble emanated from the aircraft, causing the 
uniformed onlookers to scurry away. When the ship rose from 
the ground, it floated straight up, like a Harrier jet. It 
hung there, forty feet in the air, for ten seconds or so. 
Black and shaped like a shallow pyramid, it carried no 
insignia, no markings of any kind. Each of its triangular sides 
looked to be about thirty feet long. The bottom was flat and 
had a light at each point and a circular depression in the 
center. Six lights, arranged in a hexagon pattern, glowed 
around the inner circle.

The mysterious craft suddenly shot straight up, vanishing 
against the backdrop of stars, while causing an aftershock 
that rippled the sky. Sand and debris blasted the surrounding 
landscape. A stinging wind howled past Mulder and Scully, 
pinning them to the desert floor, while a sonic boom vibrated 
their bones.

Scully covered her head as the wind siphoned oxygen from her 
lungs. The last thing she remembered before losing 
consciousness was the feel of Mulder's fingers clutching 
desperately to the sleeve of her jacket.

* * *

Sun straight overhead. Painfully bright. Buzzing deerflies. 
Sweet smell of fresh grass...mixed with the musky odor of 
livestock.

Mulder groaned and tried to get his bearings. He was lying 
face down on the ground. Jesus, his head ached. His mouth felt 
bone dry and tasted sour, like...vomit. Oh, Christ, he'd 
thrown up at some point. He wiped his lips on his sleeve, and, 
blinking against the bright sun, looked around for Scully.

She was stretched out on the grass six feet away and appeared 
to be unconscious. 

"Sc-scully?" He coughed and swallowed, trying to moisten his 
mouth.

She didn't move, so he pushed himself into a sitting position. 
Every muscle pained him as he scooted closer and tapped her 
arm.

"Scully?" 

He could see dried blood caking her hairline, drawing flies. 
It pissed him off to see them there. What had happened to her 
cap? His head swiveled stupidly as he searched for it. 

"Scullee-scullee-scullee," he chanted, patting her hand. He 
felt queasy and lightheaded. How long had they been lying like 
this? he wondered. Where the hell was the Air Base? And the 
desert...?

Clearly, they weren't in northwestern Utah anymore. They were 
on a broad, grassy meadow. 

About ten yards away, six scrawny vultures formed a semicircle 
around them. The birds watched him with cautious eyes. One 
hopped closer.

"Get the hell outta here!" he yelled, causing the buzzards to 
flap their wings and retreat. 

In the distance, where the field met the forest, there was a 
herd of large, wooly...what exactly were those things? Too big 
for cows. Buffalo maybe? No, they had...tusks! Elephants?

He searched for his binoculars. Quickly locating them in the 
grass, he lifted them to his eyes and focused on the animals. 

"Oh, shhhit." 

Not elephants. 

Mastodons.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

CHAPTER ONE

SOMEWHERE IN NORTHWESTERN UTAH
LATE PLEISTOCENE
LATE SPRING, MIDDAY

Mulder removed his jacket, folded it in half and tucked it 
beneath Scully's head. Then he sat down beside her, prepared 
to wait as long as necessary for her to regain consciousness.

He passed the time by peering through his binoculars at the 
herd of mastodons, shooing flies from Scully's pale face, and 
chucking stones at the persistent vultures. 

He and Scully were in a hell of a predicament, and although he 
considered himself an able and brave man -- FBI-trained, with 
almost a decade of field experience -- he had to admit that 
the sight of Scully lying there as motionless as one of her 
cadavers scared the crap out of him. 

Watching over her, feeling utterly helpless, he was reminded 
of that terrible night when he was a kid, sitting beside the 
charred ruins of his boyhood friend's burned house. Would 
safeguarding Scully from a flock of hungry vultures give him 
years of nightmares, too? A phobia of buzzards, maybe, to go 
along with his fear of fire? 

And what if he lost her...?

Please, Scully, he pleaded silently. Open your eyes, pleeease.

The gash in her temple looked nasty -- ragged and oozing 
blood. A purple-black bruise the size of his palm darkened her 
forehead on the left side of her face, discoloring her skin 
from her hairline to her cheekbone. The size of the swelling 
unnerved him. He wished he'd been hurt instead of her, not 
just because he wanted to take away her suffering, but also 
because, with her medical knowledge, she would know how to 
patch him back together. As it was, he had no idea how to 
treat a head injury. And this one looked serious. 

He was wallowing in feelings of ineptitude when the mastodons 
began plodding west across the grassland, disappearing one-by-
one into the far off valley. The damn buzzards remained where 
they were, eyes trained on Scully's motionless form. Mulder 
hated their presumption, and considered shooting a couple of 
them with his gun. 

Common sense prevailed. His clip was full, but every bullet 
might prove precious later on.

Mulder picked up another stone and pitched it like a fastball 
at the second bird from the end. He caught the buzzard dead 
center in its chest, causing it to squawk and hop away. 

Take that, you fucking son-of-a-bitch.

The afternoon ticked slowly by. The sun beat down, intense and 
fiery hot. Mulder rotated his position as the sun moved, 
trying to keep Scully in the shadow of his body to shield her 
as much as possible from the sun's harsh rays. Her unprotected 
skin would burn easily out here in the open.

Should he pick her up and carry her into the shade? he 
wondered. The meadow merged into woodland about 500 yards to 
the north. He worried that moving her might cause some sort of 
internal damage. It was possible she had a neck injury or a 
broken bone. 

Chiding himself for not thinking of it sooner, he began to 
check her for breaks. He gently patted her arms and legs, and 
then unzipped her jacket to run his palms carefully over her 
ribs. Everything seemed fine. But what did he know? Maybe it 
wasn't possible to feel a rib fracture.   

For the next four hours he continued to lean over her, his 
back bearing the brunt of the sun's rays. The dark fabric of 
his turtleneck soaked in the heat, making him sweaty and 
restless. The vultures seemed to sense his discomfort and 
inched closer. In a fit of irritation, he yanked his shirt up 
over his head and flung it at them, only to become more 
aggravated when it fell short of its mark. 

Thank God, a steady breeze puffed across the open meadow, 
helping to cool his temper along with the sweat on his bare 
back. He plucked a blade of grass and chewed it, feeling like 
some hayseed from East Bumfuck, but thankful for the brief 
distraction of its tart flavor.

Late in the afternoon Scully finally stirred. 

"Mulder?" 

"I'm here." 

Gently, he stroked her hair, combing it back from her bloodied 
forehead. Her eyelids fluttered and opened. Relief prickled 
his skin when her eyes focused on his face and she appeared to 
recognize him. 

He smiled at her and said, "Hey."

She offered him a feeble smile in return, and then looked past 
him to the field of fresh grass and the semi-circle of 
vultures. 

"Where are we?" she asked.

"When."

"Excuse me?"

"Not 'where,' Scully -- 'when.' *When* are we."

She rose on one elbow and winced from the effort. The vultures 
backed away, beating their wings and clucking with almost 
human disappointment over her apparent recovery. 

"Mulder, what are you saying?"

"How's your American History?"

"Why?"

Deciding it might be best to ease into the truth, he gave a 
small shrug and tried to look unconcerned. "It's possible we 
might have...um...traveled back in time."

"Traveled--?" Now she sat bolt upright. "How far back in 
time?"

He wanted to tell her that everything was going to be all 
right and there was nothing to be overly concerned about. Her 
physical condition was the most important thing right now, and 
she needed to be careful not to injure herself any more than 
she already was. On the other hand, he knew she wouldn't 
tolerate being kept in the dark; she didn't like being coddled 
any more than he did. So instead of saying more, he offered 
her another shrug.

"70s? 60s? 50s?" she asked.

"Getting warmer."

"Jesus, Mulder." She gazed at the meadow, the forest, and, 
farther away, the snow-covered mountain peaks. 

No airplanes flew overhead, no traffic passed by, no buildings 
stood anywhere within view. 

"Turn of the century?" she asked.

"More like...Late Pleistocene."

"I don't believe it. It isn't possible." She tentatively 
prodded the bruise on her forehead as if her injury was the 
cause of her confusion. "People can't travel back in time."

"If you want, I can quote your graduate thesis. 'Although 
common sense may rule out the possibility of time travel, the 
laws of quantum physics--'"

"I know what I wrote," she snapped. "I was barely out of my 
teens at the time. What the hell did I know?" 

He didn't want to make her angrier by saying he agreed with 
her youthful hypothesis, so instead he kept his tone even and 
applied the practiced calm he usually reserved for reluctant 
witnesses. "We've seen something like this before," he 
reminded her gently. "And Lisa Ianelli was at Hill Air Force 
Base."

The weight of his words sunk in and Scully's shoulders 
slumped. 

"Tachyons," she said, understanding the implications. 

He nodded. "Subatomic particles that can travel faster than 
the speed of light and go back in time--"

"But only for a few seconds and only at a temperature of 
absolute zero," she interrupted. "Mulder, in case you hadn't 
noticed, we were never frozen."

"I can't explain that, but it's possible Lisa Ianelli 
discovered another method, a way to travel through time that 
doesn't require freezing." He reached out and stroked her 
cheek, careful to avoid the bruise there. "I saw something, 
Scully." He knew this was going to sound ridiculous. "I 
saw...mastodons."

"Mastodons?" She looked as if she might actually laugh. "Okay, 
Mulder. Let's assume for the sake of argument that we've 
somehow traveled back in time...to the Pleistocene...or 
whenever...not that I believe that. But *if* it were true, 
then how do we get back?"

Well, that was the sixty-four-thousand dollar question, wasn't 
it?

Now it was his turn to study their surroundings. The sun was 
low in the sky. It would be dark in another couple of hours, 
and no magic doorways to 1998 seemed to be presenting 
themselves. 

"I'm...I'm not sure we can get back."

Arching an eyebrow, she waited for him to say more. No doubt 
she expected him to launch into one of his typical numinous 
theories, but this was one X-File that had him stumped. It 
didn't help that he was too thirsty and too hungry to 
concentrate on gravitational anomalies, event horizons, or 
para-physics.

"We need to find drinking water before the sun sets," he said, 
rising to his feet. His knees ached from sitting for so long. 
He reached out a hand to help her up, and hoped she was 
feeling fit enough to travel. "Do you think you can walk?"

She nodded and took his hand, allowing him to pull her to her 
feet. Swaying on unsteady legs, she asked, "Which way, Mr. 
Indian Guide?"

He pivoted, considering the possibilities. Did it make sense 
to head toward the mountains? Snowmelt would mean freshwater 
streams, right? But which mountains? There were mountains on 
every side. The mastodons had headed west. They would be 
looking for water, wouldn't they? 

Or were mastodons like camels?

"West," he said, going with his gut and the wisdom of the 
mastodons. 

*   *   *

Peach-colored clouds striped the evening sky, promising a 
spectacular sunset. The sun appeared wedged between two 
mountain peaks, which Scully guessed were part of the 
Newfoundland Mountains...assuming she and Mulder were still 
anywhere on or near Hill Air Force Base in Box Elder County, 
Utah. Unfortunately, they'd left their map in the car, which 
would be in the opposite direction, if anywhere at all.

She tried to picture what the map had looked like. She knew 
Hill was a large backward z-shaped parcel of land located 
between Great Salt Lake to the east and the Great Salt Lake 
Desert to the west. The Base included the southernmost region 
of the dry Newfoundland Evaporation Basin, as well as the 
foothills of the Newfoundland Mountains. Squinting at the 
tallest rise, she guessed it might be Desert Peak, the range's 
highest point.

Or not. The grassy meadow they were crossing bore no 
resemblance to the desert they'd been in last night.    

Mulder was walking several paces ahead of her, leading them 
along a broad trail of trampled grass. She concentrated on the 
relentless swing of his jacket, which dangled from his left 
fist. He had slung his binoculars around his neck so that the 
strap crossed his back from right shoulder to left hip. His 
shirt was tied loosely around his waist.  

Not feeling as warm as he seemed to, she kept her coat on and 
hugged it tightly across her chest. In the back of her mind, 
it occurred to her that she might be in shock, a result of the 
blow to her head.

The meadow sloped gradually downhill. Mulder's elongated 
shadow stretched out behind him, reminding her of Dr. Chester 
Banton, the dark matter scientist with a lethal shadow. She 
didn't fear Mulder's shadow; to the contrary, she kept herself 
purposely inside it, feeling it somehow tethered her to him. 
If she happened to stumble or fall, it might pull him up 
short, alerting him to her trouble. Crazy idea, she knew, but 
she refused to step outside it in any case.

"Watch out for the prairie pies," he warned, pointing to an 
enormous mound of fresh dung. "Told you I saw a mastodon. That 
ain't no cow patty."

Had he really seen mastodons? 

No, it was impossible; this was just a bad dream, it had to 
be, and she was going to wake up any minute in her own bed. 
Maybe she would tell Mulder about her nightmare over coffee 
and Danish at the cart outside the second-floor bullpen 
tomorrow morning. He would tease her and then, after they 
returned to their office, he would pull out a stack of 
mastodon-related X-Files. "Mastodon Footprints Discovered on 
Mars" or "Woman Gives Birth to Boy With Tusks and Trunk; 
Father Was Mastodon in Former Life."

"You okay, Scully?" He was suddenly beside her, one arm 
gripping her shoulders, holding her up. She felt dizzy. Had 
she stopped walking? "Do you need to rest?"

"I'm fi--" Her knees buckled. 

He lowered her gently to the ground. "Sit for a minute. Your 
forehead's bleeding again." He untied the shirt from his waist 
and gently blotted her temple with it. 

"I'm thirsty."

"I know. Me, too." He held her tenderly. "We'll find water 
soon."

She leaned into him, thankful for his company and his care, 
and wanting more than anything to believe him about the water. 
Her throat ached for a drink. Then the edges of her vision 
began to fray, as if her eyes were falling victim to a too-
early sunset. Mosquito-sized flecks floated between her and 
Mulder's worried expression. The flecks swarmed and thickened 
until Mulder became lost in a gray snowstorm that made her 
think of all the grainy television sets in all the sleazy 
motels where they'd stayed over the years. Like the two-room 
hotel in Home, Pennsylvania, where she watched Mulder rotate 
the TV antenna, trying to bring its picture into focus. Wild 
animal sounds came from the staticky set. Not mastodons, but 
jackals or wolves. Predatory creatures. She'd left Mulder 
alone in that room, which couldn't be locked because he'd let 
her have the safer room, the one with the lock that worked. 
He'd risked his life for her.

She suddenly felt as if she were being bent in half and lifted 
off her feet. Blood rushed to her face as her head hung lower 
than her heart. Her hands weighed a thousand pounds, it 
seemed, and she let her arms dangle there, above her head...or 
below her head, whichever. Someone embraced her legs a million 
miles away. She guessed she was being carried, not like a 
fairytale princess, but in the undignified position of a 
fireman's carry. Was it Mulder who stole her away?

Blinded by her lightheadedness and the drape of her upside-
down hair, she wanted to cry for help, but her voice wouldn't 
cooperate.

Again she thought of Home, Pennsylvania. Not the Peacock 
brothers or their bizarre, over-protective mother, but 
Mulder's romantic notions about country life. 

//Only place you had to be on time was home for dinner. Never 
had to lock your doors. No modems, no faxes, no cell phones.//

Like here...the Pleistocene, according to Mulder.

//If I had to settle down, build a home...be a place like 
this.//

Had he brought them here on purpose, in search of a simpler 
life? No, that was ridiculous. He was a city boy, despite his 
protestations. That day in Home, he'd been high on "eau de 
baseball."

She took a sniff. No smell of cowhide. Eau de Mulder? He was 
right under her nose. Or maybe she was underneath him? God, 
everything was topsy-turvy.

Usually she hated feeling so muddled. But right now, she felt 
inexplicably calm. Breathing in his familiar scent, she 
allowed herself to fall deeper into the safe haven of his 
shadow.

*   *   *

//Hopes are dashed 
People forget 
Forget they're hiding.// 

Was Mulder singing? 
 
//In a tachyon flux 
Tachyon flux -- it's a put on 
Come on join the party...//

Yes, Mulder was singing...a butchered rendition of The Who's 
"Eminent Front." 

"That isn't how the song goes," she murmured.

"Scully?" 

She felt herself slide from his shoulder. His fingers gripped 
her hips as he lowered her feet to the ground.

"You're awake."

"Yes, I'm awake." She put a hand on his arm for balance and 
looked around. Only the barest hint of sunlight remained, 
outlining the far-off mountains. A quarter moon rose in the 
east, brilliant white against a purple-black sky. A spray of 
stars glittered overhead. Trees dotted the meadow, their 
leaves whispering in the evening breeze. The landscape was 
storybook beautiful. "How long was I...?" She gestured at his 
shoulder.

"Not long."

"We're not going to find water tonight, are we?"

A smile tugged at his lips. "Don't be so pessimistic." He 
pointed past her, and she turned to see moonlight on water at 
the bottom of the grassy slope. 

The prospect of a drink drew her forward. She began to walk, 
and then run. Water! Thank God! Sprinting down the hill, she 
suddenly felt as giddy as a child. The cool evening air rushed 
past her ears, swept her hair away from her overly hot 
forehead, filled her eyes with a blur of tears. Each breath 
ballooned her chest with fresh energy. The ground was spongy 
beneath her feet, making her feel weightless, as if she could 
fly, and she could smell the sweet scent of fresh grass with 
every step. 

Fifty yards from the river, she pulled up short. Something was 
moving at the water's edge. Several somethings. She heard the 
splash of water, a muted thud, a chuff of air from large 
lungs.

Mulder caught up with her, and stopped, too, his skin shiny 
with sweat in the moonlight. He raised his binoculars to 
survey the riverbank.

"What are they?" she asked, trying to steady her breathing. 
"Mastodons?"

He lowered the binoculars and dovetailed his fingers with 
hers. "No. Just horses. Not even very big ones. Come on." He 
tugged her toward them. 

As all trace of sunlight vanished from the western sky, stars 
multiplied in the heavens and a mirror image of the moon 
floated on the river's inky surface. Scully could smell the 
water, and the sharp, dusty odor of the horses. 

The horses caught wind of them, too, and moved downstream. At 
the water's edge, she released Mulder's hand and dropped to 
her knees on the grassy bank. She filled her cupped palms. The 
water was cold, numbing her fingers, but tasting delicious. 
She scooped handful after handful into her mouth. Mulder knelt 
beside her and drank greedily, too, before plunging his whole 
head beneath the surface to rinse his hair and scrub at his 
neck.

Raising his head, he waggled his eyebrows and asked, "Wanna go 
skinny dipping?"

As far as she could tell in the dark, the river was about a 
hundred and fifty yards wide, and curved in a giant oxbow. Its 
current appeared to be slow moving. There were no exposed 
boulders and no whitewater rapids.

"We don't know what's in there."

"Nothing, I hope, since we just drank a couple of gallons."

"No, I mean like snapping turtles or the equivalent of 
Pleistocene piranha."

"As long as there are no flukemen." 

He stood, untied his shirt from his waist, and let it drop to 
the ground on top of his jacket. Was he really going to--? He 
removed the binoculars from around his neck and set them 
beside his clothes. 

"No peeking," he warned as he toed off his shoes and 
unfastened his pants.

"You're not--?"

Socks and shorts off, he released a bloodcurdling Tarzan yell, 
and then bulldozed naked into the water.

Well, that was Mulder for you, jumping in feet first. Good to 
know he hadn't changed, even if the rest of the world was 
unrecognizable.

 "Whoa! Water's cold! Come on in."

"No thanks."

"Don't know what you're missing." 

He dove beneath the surface as if to prove his point. When his 
head popped back up a moment later, he shook water from his 
hair, and then swam in a leisurely circle several yards out 
from shore. 

Scully wrapped her arms around her knees and watched him roll 
onto his back to float with arms outstretched, his skin gilded 
by moonlight. Fireflies blinked all along the riverbank, 
dancing above the tall reeds. Bullfrogs harrumphed, marking 
territory with their deep base voices. A nervous horse 
whinnied somewhere downstream.

Had they really traveled back in time more than ten thousand 
years? Or was this place a 20th Century Garden of Eden, an 
untouched oasis in an otherwise modern world? Mulder claimed 
to have seen mastodons. But did he know the difference between 
a modern day elephant and a prehistoric one? 

Suppose an elephant or two had escaped from a local zoo, like 
the time Ganesha escaped from its cage in Fairfield, Idaho... 
Wasn't that a more likely explanation than time travel?

Scully suddenly missed her comfortable apartment. A hot bubble 
bath would feel wonderful right now. And some take-out Thai 
food would hit the spot. She mentally added Ibuprofen for her 
headache, scented candles for her nerves, and an interesting 
novel -- maybe Jose Chung's newest thriller -- to take her 
mind off air bases and time travel.

Out in the river, Mulder swam lazily toward shore. He waded 
the last few yards, rising from the river like a merman. Water 
poured from his glistening skin as he returned to her. 
Silhouetted against the moonlit water, liberated from his 
everyday attire, he looked extraordinarily handsome -- lean, 
graceful, even a little dangerous. 

And sexy. 

Blood rose in her cheeks as a pleasant heaviness settled into 
her pelvis. The sight of him was arousing her, she realized, 
and she quickly looked away, averting her stare and feeling 
voyeuristic and a little ashamed of herself. Mulder was her 
partner. Their relationship was based on professional respect. 
She had no right to ogle him.

Hand raised to her temple, she worried she was losing her 
mind. She was feeling dizzy and acting irrationally. Her head 
was pounding.   

She heard him drop down on the grass beside her, and she 
glanced in his direction, being careful to keep her eyes 
leveled above his shoulders. He used his shirt to briskly dry 
himself. 

"No piranha," he said.

"Your teeth are chattering."

"But I smell better." 

He began to dress, so she moved away -- to give him privacy, 
and to wash her face. 

Crouched at the water's edge, she removed her jacket, and 
rolled up her shirtsleeves. Again she filled her hands with 
cold water, but this time she used it to gently clean the gash 
at her hairline. Her forehead felt tender where it had been 
cut. She gently rinsed away grit and dried blood, careful not 
to reopen the wound. 

"Can I help?" Mulder appeared beside her, fully dressed and 
carrying a handkerchief in his hand. "It's clean, I promise." 
He dipped the handkerchief into the water and then used it to 
dab at her wound.

She marveled at the fact he carried something as old-fashioned 
as a handkerchief. It made her realize she knew almost nothing 
about his upbringing. The handkerchief brought to mind an 
image of a well-mannered little boy, dressed and pressed like 
a gentleman, which contradicted her earlier impression of him 
as a hellion -- a daredevil who would jump feet first and buck 
naked into an Ice Age river.

As always, Mulder was difficult to peg.    

"How does it look?" she asked.

"Not too bad." He stroked the area, pushing her hair away from 
the wound. "The mark of an experienced G-Woman."

"Wonderf--" 

She startled when a pair of yellow-green eyes caught her 
attention on the opposite shore. They peered back at her from 
behind a veil of tall weeds. 

She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Mulder, look."

"I see it."

She heard him release the snap on his holster and pull out his 
gun. 

"Let's go," he whispered.

"Where?"

"Uphill. Away from here." He gripped her arm and hauled her to 
her feet.

She glanced across the river. The green eyes had vanished. She 
grabbed her coat.

Then a growl sounded -- a large cat of some kind. A splash of 
water told her it was coming after them. Her heart began to 
hammer in her chest. Her legs felt rubbery, her feet numb. 

Mulder yanked hard on her arm. "Hurry! Unless you want to 
become cat food for a saber-toothed tiger."

Saber-toothed tiger? 

The cat suddenly roared, and Scully ran for all she was worth.

*  *  *

Mulder sprinted up the hill, clutching Scully's arm. He could 
hear her gasping for breath. God, please don't let her pass 
out, he thought. How far back was the damn cat?

As soon as they reached the woods, he began searching for a 
tree to climb. He selected a tall, straight evergreen, not too 
big around, but with lots of stout branches.

"Up," he ordered Scully, shoving her through a veil of lower 
limbs. Unsure of the cat's location, he quickly grabbed a 
branch and hauled himself up after her.

"Mulder, I can't see."

"Just climb." 

He heard her scrambling for footholds. 

Grasping her hips, he propelled her higher. 

"Watch your head." 

He scaled several more branches.

"I think I'm about as high as--"

The cat roared beneath them.

"Higher."

"Mul--"

"Go!"

Three, four, five more branches. They were nearing the top; he 
could feel the tree beginning to sway.

Below them, the cat growled. Mulder pushed Scully higher.

Finally, they could go no further and Scully settled on a 
sturdy branch. He perched next to her and dug his flashlight 
from his pocket. Aimed down the trunk of the tree, the light 
reflected in the cat's yellow-green eyes. 

Jesus, the animal was huge -- it looked twice as heavy as a 
modern day lion, although not any taller or longer. Its tail 
was stubby, like a bobcat, but what it lacked on the rear end, 
it more than made up for on the front, where foot-long fangs 
protruded from its enormous upper jaw. No doubt they could rip 
open a man's belly with one swipe. 

It was an honest-to-fucking-goodness saber-toothed tiger. 

"Must be the kitty chow," he commented.

Scully sat shivering between him and the tree trunk. He 
wrapped his gun arm around her to secure himself to her and 
the tree. With his other hand, he kept his light aimed at the 
cat.

"Can it climb up here?" Scully asked.

"If it tries, it won't get past *this*." He waggled his gun.

She glanced at the weapon. "Don't drop it."

 "When have I ever dropped my gun?"

She said nothing. After a few moments of silence, he angled 
his flashlight at her face, revealing her skeptical 
expression. She arched one graceful eyebrow.

"Never," he argued.

Her other eyebrow climbed to join the first.

He turned the flashlight back on the cat. "Not while sitting 
in a tree."

Suddenly the cat lunged upward and positioned itself on the 
bottommost branch. The tree shook, and Mulder and Scully both 
gasped.

He leveled his gun at the cat. The motion put her off balance, 
and she caught herself by latching onto his thigh, squeezing 
hard.

"Not that I'm objecting, Scully, but now may not be the best 
time," he whispered, indicating her hand with a tilt of his 
head.

"I just...I didn't want to fall." She released him.

They watched the cat balance on its hind legs, while it 
searched with its forepaws for a higher perch.

"You won't fall," he assured her, hugging his arm around her 
again. "I won't let you." 

The cat jumped back to the ground and resumed its pacing.

"There. You see? Nothing to worry about."

"We could still fall out of the tree in our sleep," she said.

"I won't be sleeping." He tracked the cat with his light. 

"Maybe you should sing," she suggested. "That way, I'll know 
you're awake." She leaned into him. Her trembling seemed 
worse. 

Okay, he'd sing. Just to keep her mind off their predicament. 
Hell, to keep *his* mind off their predicament. He cleared his 
throat. 

"Mulder and Scully, sitting in a tree, "K-I-S-S-I-N-G." 

He shined his light at her to see her reaction.

She shook her head. "In your dreams, Mulder." 

He smiled, and continued his sing-songy rhyme, "First comes 
loooove..." 

He lightly tapped the tip of her nose with his flashlight, 
making her frown. She batted his hand away. 

"Then comes marriage..." 

She still refused to smile. 

"And then comes Mulder with a baby carriage," he finished 
quickly.

"Isn't that supposed to be 'and then comes *Scully* with a 
baby carriage?'"

"I'm a man of the 90s, Scully."

"Ah." After a minute of silence, she asked, "Mulder, are you 
afraid?"

"Nope," he lied.

"It doesn't worry you that we may be thousands of years from 
where we're supposed to be?"

Oh yeah, there was that pesky time travel thing. "Who says 
we're not supposed to be right here?"

"In a tree? With a tiger waiting to devour us the moment we 
fall?"

"I told you, we're not going to fall." 

Tucking her more firmly into the crook of his arm, he decided 
to sing some more. Something appropriate for the occasion. 
Something like...  

"I see a bad moon rising. I see trouble on the way--"

"Oh, brother."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

CHAPTER TWO

Mulder hadn't slept a wink. And it had been a helluva long 
night. Ass aching, he shifted a bit on his tree branch in an 
unsuccessful effort to find a more comfortable position 
without waking Scully. Miraculously, she was asleep, wedged 
between him and the trunk of the tree, her head resting on his 
shoulder. The sun was still hidden behind the mountains, but 
the eastern sky was beginning to lighten above the craggy 
peaks, and a blond strip of clouds had developed along the 
horizon.

The saber-toothed tiger was gone. It had abandoned its night-
long vigil more than an hour ago when a herd of small horses 
passed close by, skirting the edge of the woods, heading 
toward the river. The cat followed the ponies. Several minutes 
later, Mulder was startled by the pitiful bleat of an animal 
in its death throes. The noise woke Scully from her sleep, and 
Mulder reassured her, convincing her to settle back against 
his shoulder. Apparently exhausted, she laid her head on him 
without argument and dozed off again. 

The cat was probably up on the hill right now, filling its 
belly with fresh meat. Mulder's stomach growled. He hadn't had 
a bite to eat since the day before yesterday when he'd downed 
two bacon double-cheeseburgers, a pistachio flavored milkshake 
-- extra large -- and a side order of jumbo onion rings. 
Shoulda super-sized it, he thought. Damn, he was hungry; the 
bark on this tree was beginning to look good enough to eat. 

He was thirsty again, too.

And he had to pee. 

Badly.

Looking down at the ground, he estimated they were sitting 
about twenty feet up. Hmm. If he peed from here, he might be 
able to hit that pinecone on the second branch from the 
bottom. He tried to gauge the necessary trajectory. The lack 
of wind would help his aim, but he wasn't altogether sure he 
could piss sitting down. And suppose Scully woke up before he 
was finished. How embarrassing would that be?

On the other hand, his bladder felt ready to bust. He had to 
do *something* -- now.

"Scully?" He reached over and traced her jaw from earlobe to 
chin with his index finger. 

She stirred and slowly opened her eyes. "Time z'it?" she 
asked, stifling a yawn.

"Sunrise. Almost."

She blinked sleepily at the still-dark sky. "No it isn't."

"Yeah...well...I gotta whiz, so good morning, sunshine." He 
slid off the branch and lowered his feet to the limb below 
him.

"No chance you could wait until it's actually light out? The 
tiger--"

"Scully, when a man says he's gotta go, he's gotta go." He 
pivoted so that he could help her down. "Besides, the tiger 
left." 

She gripped his shoulders while he guided her hips off her 
perch. After setting her feet on the branch beside his, he 
acted as a spotter while she got herself turned around.

"You want me to climb down first?" he asked.  

"No, I'll go...if you're sure the tiger is gone." 

"You can see for yourself it's not there."

"Yes, but where is it?"

Telling her it killed and ate a horse seemed counterproductive 
to getting her out of the tree, so he dodged the truth by 
saying, "It's probably peeing." 

She rolled her eyes, then began to slowly inch her way down to 
the next branch. Then the next. He stood above her, rocking 
from foot to foot, his bladder aching. 

"Any chance you could speed things up a little, Scully?" 

"I'm going as fast as I can."

"Well, you're gonna need an umbrella if you don't pick up the 
pace," he warned, looking down at the top of her head. 
"Raindrops keep fallin' on your head--"

"All right already." She began to descend more quickly, either 
out of sympathy or because she was now closing in on terra 
firma. He followed her down, just a step or two above her 
head. When she reached the bottom branch, she jumped to the 
ground. 

"Little girls' room is around back," she said, circling the 
tree. "Don't even think about peeking."

"I've got something else on my mind, Scully." He jumped the 
last few feet to the ground, too. "And it has nothing to do 
with looking at you." He spun to face the trunk, and unzipped 
his pants...just in the nick of time. Ahhh! Holy Jesus, Joseph 
and Mary. 

His head began to clear as his bladder emptied. 

When he finished, he called to her, "You done?"

"Yes."

Zipping his fly, he waited another moment or two, just in 
case. Didn't want to catch her with her pants down -- 
literally. When he did finally step around the tree, he found 
that she was standing several paces away, her back to him, 
pants up, shirt tucked in. She was looking out through the 
drape of evergreen branches at the distant mountain peaks, 
where clouds the color of nickel split the morning sun into 
finger-like rays.

Without taking her eyes from the prehistoric dawn, she began 
to recite a poem: "Way back in the days when the grass was 
still green, and the pond was still wet and the clouds were 
still clean..."

The verse sounded familiar. Edna St. Vincent Millay?

She continued the verse, "And the song of the Swomee-Swans 
rang out in space, one morning, I came to this glorious 
place." 

Not Millay. Dr. Seuss.

Honestly, he had expected her to be...well, less than 
enthusiastic about their circumstances. Yet here she was 
quoting Dr. Seuss, extolling the beauty of the landscape. 

A gentle wind wafted through the branches. It carried the 
scent of pine and it fluttered her hair. He sidled up next to 
her. 

God, she was beautiful.

Kiss her, his body urged. And although he'd experienced the 
impulse many times in the past, familiarity didn't keep his 
desire from sucker-punching the breath from his lungs or 
turning the bones of his legs to Jell-o. Without even touching 
her, he could feel their imaginary kiss. Her lips, soft 
beneath his. Her breath, hot on his mouth. The wetness of her 
tongue.  

Stop it! If she suspected what was on his mind, she would knee 
him in the nugs. Five years as partners, he knew she didn't 
think of him in a sexual way. Never had and probably never 
would. No sense fantasizing about things that weren't going to 
happen. Besides, he owed her more respect than that. 

To prevent himself from acting on his impulse, he lowered his 
head, and whispered the last line of Seuss' verse into her 
ear: "The bright-colored tufts of the Truffula Trees, mile 
after mile in the fresh morning breeze." 

She turned to smile up at him. God, her lips were so close. If 
he leaned in juuust a little more... 

"Pleistocene air seems to agree with you, Scully," he 
whispered. 

"Not at all. I've simply come to the conclusion that this is 
all a figment of my imagination, a hallucination caused by the 
blow to my head. I'm going to wake up any minute at Hill Air 
Force Base."

"Scully, we're in the Ice Age." 

"So you say. But until I see proof, I'm sticking to my 
hallucination theory. It's more plausible than your time 
travel idea."

"What does it take, Scully? A saber-toothed tiger to bite you 
on the ass?" Please, not this old song and dance, their 
perpetual pas de deux. "You saw the cat. We both saw it." 

"I was tired and dizzy and it was dark. I'm not sure what I 
saw--"

Groaning with frustration, he closed his eyes and threw back 
his head. 

It wasn't that he minded debating theories with her. As a 
matter of fact, he rather enjoyed the way she challenged him. 
She kept him on his toes, honed his investigative skills, 
prevented him from becoming analytically lazy. However, it 
irritated him to hear her refute what she'd seen with her own 
eyes, or rationalize irrational events by forcing them into 
more commonly held perspectives. Being rigorous was one thing, 
but denying the truth was unacceptable. 

He knew the only way to sway her, however, was to do it 
logically, and that would take some time.

Scully squinted at the sunrise. "I admit I don't know where we 
are or how we got here, but I can't accept that we're not 
still in the 20th Century."

It was true the landscape looked nothing like modern day Utah.

He bent and plucked a flower from a scraggly patch at his 
feet. "Something happened on that Air Base. Something that 
sent us back tens of thousands of years."     

"People can't travel through time," she maintained.

As usual she was going to make him work to prove his point.

"Physicists like Stephen Hawking have hypothesized the 
existence of wormholes and closed time loops -- actual portals 
through which matter can travel backward through time."

"Mulder, phenomena like extreme heat and gravity would make 
the trip lethal for any organism." 

"Maybe not. Three years ago, Jason Nichols was working on a 
catalyst for a self-sustaining endothermic reaction that would 
render those factors inconsequential." He held the flower 
under her nose.

She sniffed it. "Sweet," she said, before continuing her 
argument. "Jason died before he actually created his rapid 
freezing agent." 

"We saw it, Scully. And Lisa Ianelli saw it, too. Suppose she 
finished Jason's work?" Mulder tucked the flower behind his 
ear. 

"Let me repeat what I said yesterday: We were never frozen." 

"Suppose Lisa discovered another way..."

She raised a questioning eyebrow. "To withstand a trip through 
a wormhole?" 

"Yes, making time travel possible." 

"Mulder, Lisa never administered any compound."

"Yeah, but suppose the catalyst isn't a compound, but a set of 
circumstances."

"Caused by...?"

"Something mechanical, not biological."

"That kind of technology doesn't exist."

"Unless it's extraterrestrial."

She smiled. "You sound like Max Fenig, you know." 

He supposed he did sound like Max. 

"I mean it, Mulder. I can see your future crystal clear, and 
unfortunately, I see myself right there with you." Her 
expression changed to one of concern. "Mark my words: we're 
going to end up as two card-carrying MUFON members, wearing 
matching tinfoil caps to protect our minds from the imaginary 
rays of extraterrestrial thought-control devices, while we 
travel from one UFO hotspot to the next shouting to anyone 
who'll listen 'they're here, they're here,' ad infinitum."

"Imaginary rays?"

"Don't you ever worry about driving everyone away, all of your 
friends, your family, winding up old and lonely because you 
were -- you *are* -- obsessed with things that the rest of the 
world considers...well, insane, frankly?"

"I'll always have you. Won't I?" He nudged her arm until she 
nodded in agreement. "Scully, I don't care what the rest of 
the world thinks. Most people have their heads up their 
asses."

She glanced at him. "You really believe that?"

"Seeing is believing, isn't it?"  He placed his hand on the 
small of her back, turned her around and steered her out from 
under the tree branches, intending to head back to the river 
for a drink. "If it's right in front of your eyes, it must be-
-"

The river wound like a silver ribbon through the valley below. 
Animals crowded its banks. Lots of animals. Lots and lots of 
animals.

"Oh, my God," Scully gasped. Her voice rose in pitch. "Are 
those...?"

Yes indeedy. Mastodons. At least two dozen of them. And a herd 
of small horses. And bison, and something that looked like 
camels, and a few unrecognizable things. The landscape was a 
scene out of an African documentary, only these animals 
weren't zebras or elephants or water buffalo. They were...

"Mastodons."

*   *   *    

"My God," Scully repeated, unable to believe her eyes. 

The behemoths certainly looked like illustrations she'd seen 
of mastodons. She'd taken enough anthropology courses at the 
University of Maryland to recognize the difference between Ice 
Age proboscideans and their modern day cousins, and these were 
definitely not elephants escaped from a zoo.

Whatever they were, at least two-dozen of them had gathered in 
the valley along the riverbanks. The mature ones stood about 
ten feet tall -- somewhat shorter than modern day African and 
Asian elephants. Their ears were relatively small, and their 
tusks were straight and parallel to the ground. 

Scully tried to recall more details from Dr. Diamond's 
classes. He'd described a wide variety of Pleistocene 
megafauna, including mastodons, which had ranged across North 
America from Alaska to central Mexico. Archeologists had 
discovered mastodon bones alongside prehistoric spear points 
and stone cutting tools, leading to the assumption that early 
humans -- Clovis and Folsom cultures, the Paleo-Indians of 
ancient North America -- had hunted and eaten the giant 
mammals.

If memory served, all genera of megafaunal mammals, like the 
musk oxen, giant bison, and camels she could see drinking 
alongside the mastodons at the river below, had died out 
sometime prior to 11,000 B.P.

Which could only mean... 

Impossible. This had to be a hallucination. She and Mulder 
were *not* in the Ice Age.

She needed to sit. Sinking onto her heels in the grass at the 
edge of the meadow, she continued to stare at the prehistoric 
scene in the valley below.

Mulder sat, too, and scanned the riverbanks through his 
binoculars. "Looks like you gotta get up pretty early in the 
morning to beat the breakfast crowd. Shall we cut the line?"

Was he insane? "N-no. We're staying right here until they're 
gone."

"That could be quite a wait." He offered her the binoculars, 
but she shook her head. She didn't think she was ready to look 
at the gargantuans up close...not yet. 

Ten minutes later, the mastodons began migrating slowly 
downstream toward the forest. A group of camels moved in to 
take their place. Camels...in northwestern Utah? It boggled 
the mind. Oversized bison stood shoulder-deep in the river. A 
variety of unfamiliar birds dotted both banks of the river, 
looking like crumpled Kleenex from this distance. Horses, 
deer, and some kind of big-horned sheep shared the watering 
hole in cautious harmony.  

Mulder plucked a blade of grass from the field and stuck it in 
his mouth. He chewed on it for a minute or two before asking, 
"Is there any significant difference between a mastodon and a 
mammoth?"

"Their teeth," she answered numbly, wondering why he cared.

"Their teeth?"

"Yes...the word 'mastodon' is derived from the Greek 'mastos,' 
meaning breast, and 'odont,' meaning tooth. It translates 
literally to 'breast tooth.'"

"Breast...?" A smile nudged his cheek. "That's interesting."

"Yes, well...mastodons fed on spruce, primarily. So their 
teeth had crowns consisting of distinct rounded cusps, which 
helped them chew tough foliage. Mammoths, on the other hand, 
grazed on grasses, so their teeth are...uh, *were* dissimilar. 
Mammoths were also generally bigger than mastodons, with wider 
heads, and curving tusks. Those..." -- she nodded at the 
retreating behemoths -- "look like mastodons." 

God, was she seriously considering the possibility that they 
had traveled ten or twelve thousand years back in time? Her 
hope that this was all a hallucination began to dwindle with 
each new Pleistocene animal she spotted along the riverbank. 
Faced with such a preponderance of evidence, she felt 
compelled to acknowledge Mulder's theory of time travel as a 
possible explanation for their present predicament.

"I guess I owe you an apology, Mulder."

He nodded his acceptance.

That was one of the things she liked most about Mulder. He 
wasn't an I-told-you-so kind of guy. He didn't gloat. 

"We've got to find a way back," she said.

He chewed his blade of grass with as much zeal as he crunched 
sunflower seeds. "That might be a problem." 

If they couldn't find a way back, they were in serious 
trouble. 20th Century city slickers lost in an Ice Age 
landscape, with no survival skills to speak of. They were FBI 
trained, and could catch your average murderer or mutant 
easily enough, but what good were handcuffs on saber-toothed 
tigers? The Pleistocene world was full of larger-than-life 
threats. And they carried only three guns between them. Ten 
rounds per automatic plus the six rounds in Mulder's .38. That 
wasn't going to last long here. Every single bullet would be 
essential for protection *and* food. 

Food. She was hungry right now. Mulder must be, too. It'd been 
almost two days since their last meal. 

She looked again at the excess of wildlife lining the shore. 
Tons of protein on the hoof and no way to butcher or cook it. 

They were without knives, matches, or anything that could hold 
water. For that matter, they had no shelter, no sunscreen, no 
insect repellent. No compass, either, or first aid kit. Not 
even an aspirin. And already she missed the more commonplace 
comforts of modern life -- like toilet paper. 

They weren't prepared to last two days let alone...

Jesus, how long would they be here? Her heart began to hammer 
at the thought of a week, a month, a--

"Empty your pockets, Mulder."

"Excuse me?"

"Inventory. I want to know what we've got to work with." 

He shoved a fist into his right jacket pocket and pulled out 
his flashlight and car and house keys, which he laid on the 
ground beside the binoculars.

"And in here..." He pawed through his left coat pocket and 
produced handcuffs, cell phone, a pair of latex gloves--

Wait! Her cell phone.

She snatched her own phone from her pocket, and dialed the 
local FBI field office. "Why didn't I think of this sooner?" 

"That's not gonna work."

"We'll see--"

The display window was lit, but blank.

She turned off the phone and tossed it onto the growing pile 
of useless modern day junk.

"Anything else?" she asked, hopeful.

A newspaper clipping about UFO sightings at Hill Air Force 
Base. FBI badge. Pack of sunflower seeds -- empty. That seemed 
to disappoint Mulder more than anything so far. Dry cleaning 
receipt. Car rental agreement. A pocketknife. The knife was 
small, but serviceable. 

"Wait." He held up a finger and dug into his pants pocket. 
Handkerchief. Wallet. Comb. "Except for my gun, that's it," he 
announced. 

"Don't you mean *guns*?"

"No, I brought only one."

"But you always carry two guns."

"Well...not this trip."

Of all the times -- "Twenty rounds. That's all the protection 
we've got."

"I'm pretty sure I have two condoms in my wallet." He grinned 
at her.

"Oh, that's helpful."

"Not really. I think they expired in '95." He leaned back on 
his elbows. "How about you, Scully? You packin' anything 
useful?"

She emptied her pockets. Handcuffs. Latex gloves. Small pad of 
paper and pen. House keys. Badge. Wallet. Oh! Breath mints! 
She unwrapped the foil roll, popped one into her mouth and 
then offered the rest to Mulder. She continued to pull items 
from her jacket. Emery board. Freebie hotel sewing kit. 
Compact. Lipstick. Was lipstick edible? 

"That's all I have," she said, disappointed.

"Know what I'm wishing?" Mulder asked. He removed the flower 
from behind his ear and tossed it to the ground.

"For a time machine?"

"No, but that's not a bad idea." He gave her a wry smile. "I 
was wishing I'd been a bigger MacGyver fan." He began to 
pocket his possessions. "That way I could build a time machine 
out of our cell phones and my empty packet of sunflower 
seeds." He waved the cellophane bag at her.

"You think MacGyver would need both phones?" She returned her 
belongings to her pockets, too, and then rose to her feet.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Back to the field where we first arrived. If there's a way to 
get home, it has to be there."

Mulder stood, too, concern creasing his brow. "Not 
necessarily. We have no idea how we got here -- a wormhole, 
time loop, something else. The portal may be closed, or 
located elsewhere, or it may not exist at all."

 "We came through it once, we have to assume we can go back 
the same way." She began hiking upland, determined to get away 
from the river with all its strange creatures and frightening 
implications. There had to be a portal of some kind back in 
the field. There just had to be.

They hiked for about ten minutes, heading east, when Scully 
suddenly slowed her pace. She realized she didn't know the way 
since she'd been unconscious when Mulder carried her to the 
river last night. 

"Straight ahead," he said, in response to her confused look. 
"It's not much further."

She pushed on, moving upland into the wind, which was picking 
up. Clouds were gathering and the air felt considerably cooler 
than it had yesterday.

They hadn't gone far when Mulder pointed to an area of 
trampled grass thirty yards ahead.

Scully jogged to it. "Here?"

"This is the place." He joined her at its center.

The spot looked entirely unremarkable. No obvious portals, no 
distortions in space and time, no shimmering doorways to the 
future. This couldn't be it. 

"You're sure?" she asked. 

He pointed to a stain of dried blood in the grass. "That's 
where you were laying."

Okay...the portal must be here then. They just needed to look 
harder. She walked a tight circle around him, searching the 
ground for any anomalous signs, waving her arms in front of 
her, hoping to feel an inconsistent air current or an abnormal 
gravitational pull. When she found nothing out of the 
ordinary, she frantically widened her search. 

There had to be a way out. They would find it; they had to. 
Just keep looking. She circled him again. And again. Her head 
throbbed where she'd been injured, and the pain made her 
stomach queasy. 

Mulder remained standing over the bloodstain, watching her 
spiral outward around him. She thoroughly searched the ground, 
the sky and everything in between.

"Scully..."

"It's here, Mulder." 

"Scul--"

"It's here, I know it!" 

It had to be...it had to be! They weren't equipped for the 
Pleistocene. She didn't want to be stuck tens of thousands of 
years in the past. Her family and her life were in 1998. She 
liked living there. She wanted to go home. She didn't belong 
here. Neither of them belonged here. Why wasn't Mulder 
looking? Why was he just standing there? 

"Help me, Mulder!"

Three strides and he was in front of her, blocking her search. 
He took hold of her arms just as she collapsed against him. 
She felt angry and frightened, and her head hurt so damn much. 
When she buried her face against his chest, it was all she 
could do to hold in her tears. 

He stroked her back and said nothing. His soothing caress and 
the soft kisses he pressed against the crown of her head 
helped calm her pounding heart. He felt solid and real beneath 
her fingers. She breathed him in. Felt his pulse drum beneath 
her cheek. 

When he cocooned her in his arms, she began to cry in earnest, 
because she knew his embrace offered only an illusion of 
safety.    

He sank to his knees, taking her with him, cradling her 
against his chest. 

"Shhh," he whispered into her hair, and let her cry herself 
out.

*   *   *

For several minutes after Scully's tears stopped, Mulder kept 
his arms looped around her and smoothed her wind-whipped hair.   

"Sorry," she sniffled.

He shrugged off her apology. 

"No, really," she insisted. "I'm embarrassed."

He wiped tears from her flushed cheeks. The jagged slash at 
her hairline looked inflamed and painful. Her skin felt fiery 
beneath his hand.  "You're sick, Scully." 

She stiffened in his arms. "I'm fine." 

Yeah, right. He'd heard that damn phrase more times than he 
cared to count. 

Fuck fine. No one knew better than he did how hard Scully 
worked to hide her vulnerability -- from the good ol' boys at 
the Bureau, from her family, from him. 

Especially from him. 

The word vulnerable was an insult to her. Yet despite her 
tough-as-nails demeanor, he'd seen her crack on occasion, 
allowing him the rare opportunity to play hero. It was a role 
he simultaneously loathed and aspired to. Loathed because it 
necessarily meant she was in harm's way. Aspired to because he 
wanted to be brave when it counted most, stopping at nothing 
to protect her, trading his life for hers without a moment's 
hesitation.

Truth was she almost never needed his help. She was able to 
take care of herself and him, too. 

He made no further comment about her injuries because he knew 
it would make her uncomfortable, but he planned to keep a 
close eye on her, whether she liked it or not.

A roll of thunder battered the surrounding hills. Storm clouds 
packed the sky to the east.

"Looks like we're in for some bad weather," he said. "We need 
to find cover."

And food. Christ, he felt as hungry as a liver-eating mutant 
coming off a 30-year hibernation. 

Another clap of thunder vibrated the air. Closer this time. 
His decision was made. Shelter first, then food. Rising to his 
feet, he hauled Scully up after him. All the color drained 
from her face as she tried to balance on unsteady legs.

"Can you walk?" he asked, securing her in the crook of his 
arm.

"Yeah. I'm just a little shaky." 

Food momentarily vied for the top spot on their To Do list. 
Scully's condition wasn't going to improve if she didn't get 
some nourishment into her. 

"Come on." He steered her toward the forest, which he hoped 
would provide both food and shelter.

Slate-gray clouds blotted out the daylight. Thunder crept 
closer each time it resounded. Mulder quickened his pace when 
the first fat raindrop slapped his cheek. He towed Scully 
across the wind-flogged meadow toward a gnarled evergreen that 
protruded high above the surrounding pines. Its upper trunk 
was corkscrewed in an odd s-shape, which he took as a good 
sign. The deformity was testimony to its stamina and survival. 
It had endured hardship, but in the end stood tall.

A lightning bolt sizzled through the dark sky, followed 
immediately by a heart-stopping crack of thunder. The storm 
was upon them and it was going to be a whopper.
 
"You okay?" he shouted, keeping his course. Her answer was 
lost in the next explosion of thunder. With less than twenty 
feet to go before they reached the tree, the sky opened, 
deluging them with cold rain. 

By the time they ducked beneath the branches, they were soaked 
to the skin.  

"Jesus!" she said, shivering.

A fork of lightning brightened the sky behind them, and 
thunder crashed on the heels of the strike. Wind and rain 
penetrated the boughs. They would need to move deeper into the 
forest to find adequate cover.

"Mulder, look." She pointed overhead, up the trunk of the 
tree. 

Near the top was an ancient scorch mark just below the s-
shaped trunk.

"Lightning?"

"Maybe."

"Let's get out of here."

He snagged her hand and tugged her away from the tree, heading 
for lower ground and denser cover. Lightning flared again and 
the sharp odor of ozone fell with the rain. 

The trees were enormous here, with broad old-growth trunks. 
Giant ferns filled the understory. When a blowdown the size of 
a tanker truck blocked their path, they detoured along the 
rocky edge of a ravine.

"Watch your step," he warned. Hopping from one wet, moss-
covered stone to the next, he tried to avoid tripping on tree 
roots that were as thick as his upper thigh. Off to his left, 
a swift-moving stream ran north-south in a gully thirty feet 
down. The banks were steep. Slippery pine needles and a layer 
of last year's rotting leaves made walking hazardous. A fall 
would be long and painful.

"You doing okay?" He glanced back at Scully. Rain had 
plastered her hair to her head and her teeth were chattering 
nonstop. Her chalky pallor shocked him. She stared back at him 
with dull, red-rimmed eyes, the left one entirely surrounded 
by the ugly bruise on her temple. 

"I think I need to sit for a minute," she admitted.

"Just a little further," he urged, pulling her forward. Her 
hands were ice cold. Her lips blue. He had to get her out of 
the rain.

A densely needled evergreen up ahead looked like it might 
provide some cover. It wasn't tall enough to attract 
lightning, but might be thick enough to keep out most of the 
rain. He stepped forward, heading for it, when the stones 
beneath his feet rolled and gave way.

"Shit!" He struggled to keep his balance, but the ground 
dropped out from under him and he stumbled over the edge into 
the ravine, hitting his hip and shoulder hard as he fell. 

Rolling and skidding, he grasped frantically for a handhold. 
Gravity hauled him toward the stream. The wind was knocked 
from his lungs when his ribs hit an outcropping of stone. He 
somersaulted several more yards through mud and leaves, until 
he landed with a splash in the water-filled gully. 

God damn, the water was cold.

Gasping for a breath of air, he struggled to his knees and 
scanned the trees on the upper embankment for Scully.

Fuck. Where the hell was she? 

"Mulder!" 

He followed the sound of her voice, and spotted her scrambling 
down to him. She half-jogged, half-slid between boulders and 
fallen branches. 

Getting his feet under him, he staggered from the water. Now 
his teeth were chattering, too, and he imagined his lips were 
as blue as hers.

"Mulder...?" She made it safely down the embankment and rushed 
to steady him. Eyes rounded with fear, she patted his arms and 
legs, presumably checking for broken bones. Then she combed 
through his rain-soaked hair, no doubt trying to rule out head 
injury.

"I'm fine, Scully. Really." He looked down at his mud-
streaked, waterlogged clothes. "Just...wet."

His words didn't reassure her; she continued to feel him, 
squeeze his arms, stroke his cheeks. Her hands were shaking, 
he realized. Apparently his fall had scared her more than it 
had him.

"I'm okay," he said again, capturing her nervous hands between 
his palms. He brought her trembling fingertips to his lips and 
kissed them. "Honest."

Tears filled her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but 
nothing came out, so she simply nodded, letting him know she 
believed him.

"Let's find a dry place to sit...relatively speaking." He 
scanned the ravine, looking for any sort of shelter where they 
might rest and catch their breath. 

An outcropping caught his eye about a third of the way up the 
embankment. Tucked beneath its overhang was a shallow notch 
that looked big enough to hold them both and provide a modicum 
of protection from the rain. 

Gathering Scully beneath one wet arm, he helped her climb. The 
notch turned out to be wider and deeper than he'd first 
thought, roomy enough for the two of them to sit side by side. 
With their knees drawn up, they would be completely out of the 
rain.

Water sluiced over the outcropping above it, but the floor of 
the little cave was bone dry. Moss softened the hard edges of 
the stone floor and walls. He climbed in first, then offered a 
hand to her. She allowed him to tug her in beside him, and 
once they were seated, they backed as far into the cleft as 
they could.

"Comfy?" he asked.

"Mm-hm." She slumped against the wall.  

Lightning continued to flash outside, while thunder vibrated 
through the ravine. Rain pounded the forest floor, cutting 
visibility to no more than twenty or thirty feet. He could 
barely see the stream from where they sat.

"Thirsty?" he asked.

"Yeah."

He leaned forward and cupped his hands beneath the spout of 
water that was pouring from the rocks above. He managed to 
hold onto a small amount, which he offered to her. She drank 
eagerly from the well of his hands. "More?" he asked.

"Please."

He reached again for the waterfall.

"Mulder! Don't move!"

He froze, arms outstretched.

"What is it?"

"Snake."

"Bad snake?"

"Is there a good kind?"

He heard something slither above his head to his left. Then he 
caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye. Jesus, it was 
enormous. 

It oozed out of a hole in the rocks, dropping its head to his 
eye level. He held his breath while it dangled there, flicking 
its tongue at him. Christ, the thing's head was as big as a 
housecat's and its body was as thick as his arm. 

Shit, when it rains, it fucking pours. 

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

CHAPTER THREE

"Mulder, don't move."

That was easy for her to say -- she wasn't nose-to-nose with a 
huge, nasty, probably poisonous snake. Mulder held his breath 
while it explored the air in front of his face with its 
tongue. It was so close he could see his own panicked 
expression reflected in its amber eyes. 

Its skin was tannish-brown, as far as Mulder could tell with 
his colorblind vision, and it had diamond-shaped markings 
along its back. Two diagonal stripes ran from behind its eyes 
to its upper jaw, just forward of the corners of its mouth. 
The markings didn't tell him much; he knew next to nothing 
about snakes...other than they tended to have sharp fangs and 
gave him the creeps.

Not that he was *afraid* of them; he just didn't particularly 
like them.

His eyes widened when its tail rattled. *Now* he was afraid. 
Even a neophyte herpetologist knew a rattlesnake was 
poisonous. 

Scully whispered, "Hold perfectly still." 

He heard her gun slide from its holster.

No, no, no, Scully, don't shoot it!

It was only an inch or two in front of his face! And she was 
weak from fever and exhaustion, arms shaky, vision blurred--

CLICK! He flinched when he heard the safety released.

She leaned closer, gun held in outstretched hands. Her arms 
were trembling...badly. He could hear her panting -- quick, 
shallow, nervous-sounding breaths. 

Or maybe that was him.

She repeated, "Don't move."

As if.

Her gun inched closer still and the snake began to rattle more 
furiously. It opened its mouth. Two fangs, wet with venom, 
glistened inside its gaping jaws, millimeters from Mulder's 
nose.

Shit, shit, shit.

Scully's trigger finger slowly squeezed --

BANG! JESUSFUCKINGCHRIST! The gun went off, and the snake's 
head exploded. The noise was god-awful. Mulder clapped his 
hands over his ears, too late to block out the blast. 
Gunpowder seared his cheek. Bits of snake splattered his face, 
his clothes, the surrounding rocks. He swiped at his eyes, 
clawed away scraps of gore, and hoped he wouldn't vomit.

Scully was saying something to him, but he couldn't hear a 
word. His ears were ringing badly from the blast.

The headless reptile dangled from its crevice, bleeding from 
its neck onto the stone floor. 

He yanked it from its hole. "I may be deaf for the rest of my 
life, but at least we have something to eat now," he said, 
unable to hear his own voice. 

The snake was eight feet long if it was an inch. He coiled its 
thick body into a pile between his legs, and then dug into his 
pocket for his knife.

Scully tapped his arm. Using hand signals, she volunteered to 
skin and gut the snake. He was tempted to take her up on the 
offer -- he didn't relish the idea of slicing and dicing a 
giant snake -- but Scully looked absolutely drained of energy. 
She held her gun loosely in her lap, shoulders slumped, eyes 
shadowed by fatigue and fever.

"I'll do it," he said, not certain if she could hear him or 
not. "You rest." 

He scooted to the edge of the shelter and out into the pouring 
rain, hauling the headless snake with him. It was too awkward 
to carry down the steep embankment, so he heaved it into the 
gully. It hit a ledge about two thirds of the way down, then 
skidded and rolled to the bottom, where rainwater was chugging 
through the valley, roiling around rocks, carrying leaves and 
other debris with it. 

He half walked, half slid down the muddy hillside, gathered 
the carcass and dragged it into the chilly water. Wading up to 
his knees, he searched for a flat stone to use as a work 
surface. He quickly located one midway across the stream.

Once the snake was laid out on the stone, he had abso-fucking-
lutely no idea what to do next. Oh, sure, he knew the skin had 
to come off, and there were probably bones that needed to be 
removed, as well as guts of some sort that should come out. 
But did snakes have lungs? Intestines? And what about the 
venom? Where the hell was that located? 

Guessing the poison was probably in or near the head, which 
was now gone, he decided to not worry about it. He rolled the 
snake onto its back and exposed its belly. Using his knife, he 
made a shallow cut lengthwise from neck to rattle.

He inserted a finger beneath the skin at the neck and tugged. 
It was difficult to grasp onto at first, but once he got the 
hang of it, the skin pulled off easily in one unbroken piece. 
When he got it stripped down to the tail, he cut it away, 
rattles and all.

Well, that hadn't been too difficult. 

Now for the messy part. Cutting a deeper slit the entire 
length of the snake's belly, he exposed its guts. He plowed 
the viscera out with his thumb, slopping them into the stream. 
Bile stung the back of his throat as he shook a stubborn, 
sticky rope of entrails from his fingers. Unlike Scully, he 
hated touching the insides of things. 

Slicing the meat into six-inch chunks was easier and less 
messy than the gutting. He rinsed each piece in the stream, 
cleaning off any blood and unidentified slime. It surprised 
him how much the sight of the raw meat made his mouth water. 
There was no way to cook it, of course, but at this point he 
was too famished to care. And he doubted Scully would be 
squeamish about eating it either. Hell, he'd seen her eat a 
live bug once. 

The amount of meat was substantial. He needed to find some way 
to carry it. Leaving it temporarily on the stone, he waded to 
shore to find an appropriate container or plate. 

Ferns? Cedar boughs? Bark? He crossed to a birch tree and, 
using his knife, cut a vertical slit in its smooth white bark. 
It pulled easily away from the trunk in a large, rectangular 
sheet.

Tah-dah! Instant platter. Eat my dust, MacGyver.

He returned to the stream and mounded the meat onto the bark. 
He estimated he had about ten pounds altogether -- a veritable 
feast for an Ice Age king and queen.

Carrying it proved more awkward than he'd anticipated. Two 
steps from the stream and the topmost chunk tumbled onto the 
ground. He stooped to grab it out of the dirt. Dried leaves 
and mud clung to its sticky surface. 

"Five second rule." No sense throwing away perfectly good 
food. He shook off the debris and stuffed it into his mouth. 

Jesus, it tasted wonderful, even with the dirt. A little 
stringy. And bony. But firm and fleshy. Different from 
anything he'd ever eaten, but in a good way. He carefully 
extracted two needle-sharp bones from between his teeth and 
flicked them to the ground.

That's when he saw it. The distinct imprint of a human foot in 
the mud beside the stream. 

The foot was bare, smaller than his own, but considerably 
larger than Scully's, and the little toe was missing. The 
print was relatively fresh; water filled the impression, but 
the mud still held its shape despite the downpour.

Mulder glanced over his shoulder and scanned the surrounding 
woods. The banks of the ravine rose steeply, twenty to thirty 
feet on either side of the gully. Large old growth evergreens, 
widely spaced with trunks as big around as train cars, lined 
the upper rim. The understory was clogged with blowdowns, 
ferns and large boulders. Plenty of cover for anyone who 
wanted to hide. Nothing appeared to move on the ridge or in 
the ravine, but his gut told him he was being watched, and the 
feeling prickled the back of his neck.

He examined the footprint more carefully. Left foot. About a 
size nine or ten, men's. He wondered what happened to the toe. 
The track pointed downstream, so he followed it and soon 
discovered two distinct sets of prints, the second slightly 
smaller than the first, with all ten toes. 

The plate of meat was growing heavy. And he was starving. It 
was still raining hard -- a cold steady deluge that chilled 
him to the bone. Better eat first and then follow the 
strangers on a full stomach, he decided.     

Turning back toward the shelter, he hiked up the embankment. 

At the cave he found Scully asleep, gun cradled in her lap. 
Dirt streaked her face and pine needles stuck to her hair. The 
bruise around her eye reminded him of a Rorschach's inkblot 
and he was sure he could see the shape of a grim-looking 
mastodon in its blue-black silhouette.  

"Scully?"

She stirred at the sound of his voice and her eyelids 
fluttered open. Evidently her hearing was okay. His was slowly 
returning, too, although noises, including his own voice, 
still sounded tinny and a million miles away.

"Let me help." She reached for the platter and set it on her 
lap. 

Hands now free, he eased into the shallow cave, ass end first. 
It was a cozy fit with the two of them wedged side-by-side. 

"You're freezing." She wiped water from his dripping chin.

 "Wanna warm me?" he asked through chattering teeth. He leaned 
more heavily into her and exaggerated his shivering. Water 
rained from his hair onto her jacket.

"Mulder!" She gave him a gentle nudge with her elbow. "You're 
soaking wet." 

True. Water was pooling uncomfortably beneath him. Beneath 
them both.

"Eat up. It's good," he said, hoping to divert her attention 
from the growing wet spot.

"You started without me?"

"Just a sample."

She selected a chunk and bit into it.

"Mmm. Y'right. S'good." 

"Watch out for bones." He helped himself to a large portion. 

They ate for several minutes without speaking, eager to fill 
their empty bellies. The mound dwindled faster than Mulder 
would have guessed. Scully ate as ravenously as he did, 
matching him piece for piece. Soon, more than half the meat 
was gone, replaced by a stack of delicate rib bones. 

She leaned back with a satisfied moan, and proceeded to lick 
her fingers clean, one at a time. He watched her, hypnotized 
by the way each dainty finger disappeared into the circle of 
her lips. Jesus, she had no idea how sexy she looked. Hair 
tousled, cheeks flushed, a scrap of raw snake stuck to her 
chin. It was all he could do to stop himself from grabbing her 
and licking that lucky piece of meat right off her-- 

Poised to swoop in like a Pleistocene buzzard on a fresh 
mastodon carcass, he felt himself growing hard. He was hyper-
aware of every move she was making, every breath she was 
breathing, the way her tongue was swirling seductively around 
her left thumb. Imagining that pretty little tongue licking 
snake slime from his own fingers...oh...God... When she slid 
her middle finger deeply into her mouth, he almost groaned out 
loud. 

She stopped mid-lick to look over at him. As if reading his 
mind, she sloooowly withdrew her finger from her mouth. It 
made a delightful kissing noise when it popped free. 

Was she coming on to him?

"Did you swallow a, uh, bone, Mulder?" she asked, her tone 
sultry.

Okay, *that* was definitely a come on. She must have noticed 
the boner in his pants was pressing uncomfortably against his 
zipper. He wanted like hell to readjust himself. Fuck, he 
wanted *her* to readjust him. 

Mouth agape, he racked his brain for a smart-ass retort, but 
came up blank. Scully had turned the tables on him, upsetting 
the natural order of their relationship. *He* was supposed to 
lob the innuendoes and then she was supposed to ignore them. 
After five years, a precedent had been set, a pattern had been 
established. This unexpected role reversal made him wonder if 
there was something in the prehistoric air affecting her, or 
him, or both of them. 

Maybe it was the snake meat.

"I thought you might have a..." -- Scully selected a slender 
snake rib from the pile of bones and held it up for him to see 
-- "caught in your throat." She used the flat edge of the bone 
to trace a tickling path over his bobbing Adam's apple. 

She *was* flirting with him. 

Wasn't she? 

Or was he just imagining it?

Shit. He had no fucking idea. 

Somewhere he'd read that the human male thinks about sex 
approximately once every five minutes. At the time, he thought 
the estimate sounded a bit conservative, but he'd been willing 
to let it go. Hell, he was younger then, and averages were 
just averages. Besides, someone had to be on the upper end of 
the scale to balance out all those politically correct Men of 
the '90s who never, ever had sexual fantasies about the women 
they worked with. 

Lying bastards.       

Okay, big deal if he *occasionally* pictured Scully...uh...how 
could he put this delicately? Fucking him blind? Was it really 
so wrong? 

Yes, yes, he understood the evils of sexual harassment, he 
really did; he'd been to the seminars, had the sensitivity 
training. But come on, his feelings for Scully went waaaay 
beyond simple lust. For chrissake, he *loved* h--  

Don't go there, Mulder, do *not* go there, he told himself. 
She is *not* interested in you that way. Just concentrate on 
something unsexy and get past this.   

Flukeman. 

Nope.

Leonard Betts' head.

Nope.

Peacock brothers.

Nope, nope and nope. This wasn't helping. 

Okay, bring out the big guns: Bill Scully, Jr. defending his 
sister's honor by pounding the crap out of her hound dog 
partner.

Bingo. Worked like a charm every time. 

Ardor diminishing, Mulder signaled to Scully that she had some 
food on her chin. "You've...uh..." 

"Oh, thanks." She scrubbed her face with a fingertip. "That 
was delicious. I'm full."

"Mm. Me, too." He selected a bone from the pile and used it to 
pick meat from between his teeth. "Just like Thanksgiving. All 
we need now are a couple of La-Z-Boys and a football game."

She slid the platter of leftovers to the front of the shelter, 
out of the way of their feet. "No TV, no remote, no cable -- 
you're going to slip into catatonic shock. You realize that, 
don't you?"

"I miss my VCR already." Which reminded him, "I'm gonna have a 
hell of an overdue triple-X bill when I get back."

"Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?"

"No more than usual." Would Skinner notice if he added the 
cost of the videos to their expense account? Yeah, he probably 
would since he'd never signed the 302 in the first place. 
Their trip to Hill Air Force Base was unauthorized. "Who's 
your favorite redheaded porn star, Scully?"

She arched an eyebrow at him, but said nothing.

"Sorry. My five minutes were up."

The other eyebrow rose, giving her a "what the hell does that 
mean?" look.

"Never mind." He sighed, feeling full and content.

They listened to the rain for a minute or two without 
speaking. Lightning flashed in the east and Mulder silently 
counted the seconds between the flash and the rumble of 
thunder -- a game he and Sam used to play. They would sit on 
the porch at Quonochontaug, estimating the distance of an 
approaching storm as thunderclouds, gray as the sea, plowed 
northward along the coastline, bringing the smell of rainwater 
and the promise of cooler air. Eight-one-thousand, nine-one-
thousand, ten-one-thousand...a soft rumble would ricochet 
against the shore. Then when the storm finally closed in, Sam 
snuggled beneath his arm. Goosebumps dotted her bare arms and 
legs, and she shivered against him, insisting she was chilly, 
not scared. But he wasn't fooled. She was just putting on a 
show of bravery, the way she always did whenever she wanted to 
prove she was as courageous as any boy. 

A lot like Scully.

Instinctively he wrapped an arm around Scully. To his surprise 
and delight, she didn't shrug him off, but settled comfortably 
against him.

Another flash of lightning brightened the sky. One-one-
thousand, two-one--   

"Mulder, how are we going to get home?"

He had no answer. For all he knew, they might be stuck here 
permanently. "I don't know."

She turned to look up at him. "We can't give up. We have to 
try *something.*"

"I haven't given up. I just don't have any useful suggestions 
right now."

More lightning. The storm seemed to be circling around. 

"We need to go back to the field where we first arrived," she 
said, sounding determined.

"To do what?"

"Wait for the time portal to reopen."

"How long do we wait, Scully? There may not be a portal. 
Ever." He knew she didn't want to hear this. "We have to 
consider the possibility we may never get back."

"I won't accept that. I can't." She targeted him with angry 
eyes. "Can you?"

"I don't know that we have a choice." He didn't want to fight 
with her. They needed to work on this together. "I saw some 
footprints," he said, trying to redirect the conversation. 

"Human footprints?"

"Yes. Down by the stream. When I was cutting up the snake."

"Who do you think they belong to?" She looked hopeful.

Probably not a rescue party, he thought. "You took 
anthropology in college. You tell me. What do you remember 
about early human groups in North America?"

She frowned and thought for a minute. "The oldest reliably-
dated human remains were only about 11,500 radiocarbon years 
old...that's 13,350 calendar years."

"What were the people like? Were they friendly?"

"No one knows for sure. The fossil records indicate they were 
nomadic, living in familial groups of about fifty men, women 
and children. They were artisans and skilled big-game hunters. 
They followed migrating animals, like mastodons and mammoths, 
camels, peccaries, stag-moose, musk-oxen...you can stop me at 
any time, Mulder." 

"Sounds like they had plenty to eat."

"Mm. For a while. A major megafaunal extinction occurred 
around 11,400 B.P."

That sounded ominous. "Caused by what?"

"There are several theories. Some scientists believe early 
humans hunted the animals to extinction. Others claim that a 
catastrophic climactic event killed them. A third theory 
posits that humans brought dogs, birds and other animals with 
them to the New World, and these Old World animals carried 
viruses that may have killed or weakened American populations, 
which had no immunity to the new pathogens. Most likely, the 
extinction was the result of a combination of stressors."

"Something extraterrestrial perhaps?"

A laugh chuffed from her nose. "You would ask that, wouldn't 
you?"

He shrugged. "Asteroids are extraterrestrial."

"Is that what you were thinking?"

"Nah," he admitted. He suddenly felt very tired. Three days 
and two nights without sleep were catching up with him. "I was 
thinking more along the lines of visitors from outer space, 
planetary invasion, the usual stuff. Although..." -- he 
pointed to the rain and wind outside the shelter -- "maybe the 
explanation is Biblical. This is looking a lot like Noah's 
flood."

"Let's not go there, Mulder." She yawned and rested her head 
against his shoulder. "We just ate the serpent in this 
particular Garden of Eden. I hate to think what ramifications 
there might be in that." 

Her yawn sparked one of his own. "Dining on the symbolic cause 
of The Fall. That can't be good." He leaned his head back 
against the rocks and closed his eyes. "How are you feeling?" 
he asked, not really expecting an honest answer.

"Better, thanks."

He brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers, 
surreptitiously checking for fever. Her skin felt cooler. 
Maybe getting some food into her had helped.

She folded his hand beneath her own. "I'm fine, Mulder. 
Really."

Wrapped by the warmth of her palm, he let his hand lie in her 
lap.

The two of them were safe for now, their bellies full. It was 
as good a time as any to catch forty winks.   

*   *   *

"Let's shoot it," Bill, Jr. says, tossing the garter snake 
onto the ground and aiming his BB gun.

Dana is tempted. She loves her new BB gun -- a birthday gift 
from her brothers. But... "Dad said we're only supposed to 
shoot cans, Bill."

"Well, Dad's not here, Miss Goody Two Shoes."

True, Ahab isn't with them. 

And Dana hates to be called Miss Goody Two Shoes.

Bill, Jr. looms over her left shoulder and chants in her ear, 
"Dana's a chicken...Dana's a chick--"

"I am not." She is a little afraid to disobey her father, but 
she's not afraid to shoot the snake. 

Charlie stands off to the side, a big grin on his freckled 
face. He points his own BB gun at the snake. "Come on, 
Dane...SHOOT!"

The boys fire one shot after another as the snake side-winds, 
eluding the hailstorm of their BBs. Dana is certain she can 
hit it. She's a good shot already, as good as her brothers. 
Better, in fact. She hit five cans out of six! Charlie hit 
only two. The moving snake is more of a challenge, but she 
plans to show Bill she's not a chicken or a Miss Goody Two 
Shoes. Closing one eye, she takes aim. Her heart pounds with 
excitement. The snake slithers through the autumn leaves, and 
Dana pulls the trigger. POW! 

Delight skates up her arms when the gun pops and she sees the 
snake knocked forward by the impact of her BB. A hit! Dead 
center!

"You got it! You got it!" Charlie's face lights up with 
admiration. Even Bill, Jr. looks impressed.

The three children move closer to inspect the injured animal. 
Snapped practically in half, it continues to squirm, blood 
oozing from its wound. 

Dana kneels and picks it up. It's moving very slowly now. Soon 
it just hangs limply in her hands. She gives it a little 
shake. Then a gentle squeeze. A more frantic shake. Nothing 
rouses it. Is it dead? She didn't mean for it to die.

"Starbuck, I warned you. You weren't supposed to shoot at 
anything but cans." Ahab is sitting at the head of the dinner 
table, where the family has gathered to eat their supper. His 
expression is stern and he stares directly at his youngest 
daughter. She knows he is ashamed of her. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to kill it." She looks down at her 
dinner plate. Her tears are unstoppable. She wants to put life 
back into the dead snake, but already her brothers have buried 
it in the woods and now her father is mad and she can't stop 
crying. She is to blame for killing the snake and it's going 
to be dead forever--

"Who are the men who would create a life whose only hope was 
to die?" Dana hears herself ask, but her plate has disappeared 
and she is no longer at the dinner table. She is a grown 
woman, standing in front of a child's coffin. The casket is 
for Emily, her beloved, lost daughter.
 

Mulder stands beside her. He has brought flowers for her dead 
child -- a pretty white bouquet, fragile and pale. "I don't 
know," he answers. "But that you found her and you had a 
chance to love her...then, maybe she was meant for that too."

A chance to give a mother's love to a child. Such a brief 
blessing and all the more painful because of its brevity. Does 
Mulder understand how much her heart is breaking over the loss 
of Emily?

She turns away from the coffin to tell him she feels bereft, 
and is surprised to find he is wearing a flower tucked behind 
his ear. His suit and tie have vanished; he wears black jeans 
and hiking boots, and a dead snake is looped around his neck, 
dangling over his shoulders onto his bare chest.

"Touch it," he says. His voice floats past her ears like 
cottonwood seed on a spring breeze. Puffy clouds slink across 
a cornflower-blue sky high above his head, while white field 
flowers nod at his feet. The air smells like fresh grass and 
cherry blossoms. 

And him. Masculine. Aroused.

She is suddenly aware that her clothes have disappeared and 
she stands completely naked in front of him. Her partner...oh, 
God. Embarrassment pounds in her veins, while at the same 
time, desire tickles her inner thighs, her breastbone, the 
tips of her breasts. She yearns to touch the snake, and 
recognizes the urge is Freudian and vaguely inappropriate. 
Even so...

She reaches for it. Tentatively strokes its head.

Its amber eyes open and she knows this is going too far. She 
is crossing a line. 

"Are you hungry, Scully?" Mulder asks. Concern has etched 
shadows into his brow.

She realizes she is ravenous. 

The snake stretches forward and prods her palm with its nose. 
She can't eat it alive, can she?

Mulder whispers, "Taste it," and her doubts evaporate at the 
sound of his voice. Grasping the snake behind its head, she 
raises it to her lips, opens her mouth, accepts Mulder's gift. 
The snake glides into her, over her tongue to the back of her 
throat. It tastes earthy. The texture is surprisingly dry and 
smooth.

It slips past her throat more easily than she would have 
guessed, considering its size. It feels thick and warm in her 
neck. She doesn't gag as it wriggles downward toward her 
belly.

"You okay?" Mulder asks.

She nods. The serpent now rests in her stomach. She feels 
deliciously sated and inexplicably happy. Mulder strokes her 
face and smiles at her. He appears pleased. Satisfied that she 
is satisfied.

"We did it, Scully." He points to her stomach.

Her naked belly has grown large. Her skin is stretched tightly 
across the hard expanse of her abdomen. Mulder strokes the 
pregnant mound. She feels something move inside her beneath 
his palm. A baby's kick? Or the uncoiling of a snake? 

"I'm scared, Mulder." 

He nuzzles her neck. "Of what?"

Hot liquid floods her inner thighs and a painful cramp sizzles 
in her womb. "Mulder?"

In the blink of an eye, she is lying on a hospital bed. The 
room is familiar. Calumet Mercy Hospital. Chicago. Last week. 
Only it had been Mulder strapped to the bed rails that time, 
not her. The Pincus case. A monster that hid in the light. 

"Mulder?"

He is dressed in scrubs and latex gloves. A surgical mask 
covers the lower half of his face. He stands at the foot of 
her bed. She feels him grip her ankles, part her legs.

"You have to push, Scully."

No, no, no. This can't be happening. She can't be pregnant. 
She is unable to have children. Another stab of pain twists 
her insides. 

"Push, Scully! It's up to you."

She bears down, unable to stop herself. Oh, God, oh, God, the 
pain is awful. She can feel herself stretched to the point of 
tearing as something forces itself from between her legs. The 
mound of her belly blocks her view. All she can see is the top 
of Mulder's bowed head as he struggles to help her deliver her 
child.

Suddenly the pain is gone. Mulder looks up, eyes wide with 
tears. Not tears of joy. He is frightened. Oh, Jesus. Please, 
no. 

"I'm sorry." His mask puffs in and out against his face as he 
pants for breath. 

She tries to sit up, but the restraints hold her back. "What 
is it, Mulder?"

His head wags with pity.

"What *is* it?"

"I warned you. You weren't supposed to shoot at anything but 
cans." He stands straighter and places her baby onto her now-
flat belly, only it isn't a baby, just as she knew it wouldn't 
be, knew it couldn't be. It's the dead, headless snake. Not 
the little one she killed with her BB gun, but the big 
Pleistocene one she shot in the cave.

"But I *had* to shoot it, Mulder. It was going to kill you. I 
was trying to save your life!"

Mulder tugs the mask from his face, and she sees he is no 
longer Mulder. He is Ahab.

"You made a bad choice, Starbuck."

He frowns, turns his back, and walks to the window. His 
shoulders are broad and stiff. Full of authority and 
expectation. He draws the curtains back, raises the blinds. 
Outside is a valley with a silver river winding through it, 
and on the banks of the river are herds of unfamiliar animals. 
Saber-toothed cats, camels, giant mastodons. 

"Dad?"

Ahab turns. And he has become Mulder once again.  

"There's no going back, Scully."

"There *has* to be!" She struggles against her bonds. The 
snake slips off her belly and rolls to the floor. "There has 
to be...there has to be..."

*   *   *

"There has to--" Scully's eyes flew open and she fought to sit 
upright. Panting, sweat slicking her back, her neck, the palms 
of her hands, she tried to get her bearings. Restraints no 
longer bound her wrists. The hospital bed was gone. She was in 
the rock shelter. Mulder was dozing beside her.

A nightmare. She'd had a nightmare. Thank God. None of it was 
real...except maybe the part about eating the snake. In a way. 
A very Freudian way. She eyeballed the leftover meat, then 
kicked it. Bones, bark and meat tumbled out of the cave.

Outside in the ravine the rain had stopped and the sun was 
shining. Evergreen boughs, ferns, moss-covered stones -- 
everything glistened. Water continued to drip from the upper 
canopy, slapping the lower branches with an erratic rat-a-tat. 
Leaning forward to inspect the sky, she squinted against the 
glare. The west was clear and pale blue, while the east 
remained dark with clouds. Down in the gully, steam rose from 
the forest floor as the sun heated the sodden ground.

Scully checked her watch. Four-thirty-four. She'd been asleep 
for more than six hours, and felt better for it. Her headache 
was gone and it seemed her fever had broken.  

Mulder stirred beside her, but didn't awaken. This didn't 
surprise her. He'd been without sleep for three days.

His clothes were still saturated and hers weren't much drier. 
She felt sticky and unclean, and wished she could take a hot 
shower. Glancing at Mulder's feet, she noticed his boots were 
soaked. Better get them off him and set them out in the sun to 
dry. 

She managed to unlace and gently pull them from his feet 
without waking him. Deciding to remove his sopping socks while 
she was at it, she peeled them from his feet one at a time, 
and found his toes were wrinkled from being wet so long. She 
placed her palm along the sole of his left foot, testing the 
temperature of his skin. He felt damp, but warm.

He sighed in his sleep when she patted his pruney toes. 

"I'll be right back," she whispered, intending to climb down 
to the stream to wash up after setting his footwear out to 
dry. On an impulse, however, she paused before leaving to 
stroke his unshaved cheek. His two-day stubble felt prickly 
against her palm, and it made her realize that he would have a 
full beard in just a matter of days. 

She'd never seen him with a beard before. 

She tried to picture him with his chin and cheeks buried 
behind a thick layer of whiskers. Unexpectedly, the image 
caused her to shiver with desire. 

The Pleistocene air must be making her crazy. On the job, even 
during off hours, she was usually able to ignore Mulder's 
physical appeal. Usually. But here in this primeval place, she 
found herself tantalized by his masculinity. His beard, his 
height, his weight, the size of his hands, the thickness of 
his fingers...and just look at those gorgeous feet! Damn it, 
everything about him seemed to ooze sexuality. All of his 
manly attributes were conspiring to make her feel, 
well...horny, to put it bluntly. The depth of his voice, the 
smell of his sweat, the swell of his Adam's apple, not to 
mention the bulge-- 

What the hell was wrong with her? 

Must be the snake meat.

Determined to put temptation behind her, she grabbed his socks 
and shoes, and scooted out of the shelter.

The sunshine felt good on her face and the air smelled earthy 
after the rain, like Shitake mushrooms and Christmas trees 
rolled into one delicious natural perfume. She placed Mulder's 
boots in a sunny spot and laid his socks out to dry on the 
stone overhang. Then she carefully picked her way to the 
bottom of the ravine, being watchful of slippery stones.

Down in the gully, she took a moment to inspect her 
surroundings. Mulder had mentioned seeing footprints, but she 
saw no sign of them. Even his tracks seemed to have been 
washed away by the rain.

She glanced back at the cave where he was sleeping, hidden in 
the shadows. His boots, perched on a mossy, sun-drenched 
boulder, and his fluttering socks assured her she wasn't the 
only living human being left on the entire planet. It was easy 
to feel alone in this place. And powerless. The world had 
become gargantuan in the blink of an eye, with its enormous 
trees, oversized animals, and danger lurking around every 
corner.

How long could they survive here?

She wandered upstream a short distance, searching for a spot 
where the water ran deep enough to take a bath. Eventually she 
came to a fallen log, which had dammed the stream, creating a 
wide pool. Mist floated above its inky surface, giving the 
scene a fairytale feel and reminding her of legendary places 
like Camelot or Eden.

The ravine rose forty feet or more on either side of the 
stream, banked at a steep angle, craggy with stone and 
speckled with vegetation. Wild orchids, curly-leafed ferns, 
emerald-green groundcovers dotted with diminutive, star-shaped 
blossoms grew on and between the slate-gray ledges. Massive 
tree roots ran vein-like down the near-vertical embankments, 
questing for water in the lowlands. The trees themselves 
guarded the upper banks like giant gnarled soldiers. Sunlight 
dripped between their splayed fingers to puddle like molten 
gold on the forest floor. 

Woodland animals chittered angrily in the branches overhead, 
making Scully feel she was an unwelcome trespasser. All 
around, birds screeched -- high-pitched, frantic calls. A 
desperate, anxious sound. They ballyhooed their territories, 
extolled their genetic virtues, prepared to drive out unwanted 
interlopers. 

The birdcalls prickled her scalp as she stepped to the edge of 
the pool. She quickly stripped off her coat and draped it over 
a nearby boulder. Wanting to give herself a thorough washing, 
including her hair, she removed her turtleneck and her black 
camisole, and laid them both neatly on top of her coat. The 
idea of putting the soiled clothes back on after her bath was 
not a pleasant one, but she was thankful she'd worn several 
layers. These clothes might have to last a long while, in all 
sorts of weather.

She crouched to untie her boots. A wet knot in her laces 
stalled her for a minute, but she eventually was able to pick 
it loose. She stood again and toed off her boots and then 
removed her socks. Lastly, she unbuckled her belt and slid her 
pants from her legs, adding them to the pile with her gun, 
which she balanced on the very top.

It felt strange to be standing in the forest wearing nothing 
but bra and panties, especially since she'd decided to take 
Mulder's advice literally, and put on something "black and 
sexy" for their night of funky B&E. Her black silk underwear 
was a brand new set. Not exactly utilitarian. Made for show 
more than for wear and tear. What had she been thinking?

Kneeling at the edge of the small pool, she dipped her hand 
into the water. It was startlingly cold -- as icy as if it had 
just trickled off the Wisconsinan glacier.

Well, maybe it had, she realized.

She drank from her cupped hands. The water tasted sweet and 
slightly metallic, and was ice cream-headache cold. A long-
legged beetle skated quickly out of her way when she began to 
wash. Bill used to call insects like these Jesus Bugs, because 
they were able to walk on water. One time when their mom 
overheard him using the name she grounded him for a week, 
which delighted Missy no end. She called him "Bill the 
Blasphemer" for months afterward.

Wishing for a bar of soap, she scrubbed her face and neck with 
her palms. Then she leaned forward, dipped the crown of her 
head into the pool, and wetted her hair. Too late she realized 
she hadn't thought to bring Mulder's comb with her.

Water streamed past her ears, preventing her from hearing the 
approach of footsteps, until a twig snapped behind her.

"Mulder?" 

Twisting to look over her shoulder, she discovered two men 
standing about an arm's length away, blocking her access to 
her gun. They had dun-colored eyes set in deeply tanned faces, 
long corkscrewing beards and dark flyaway hair that fell well 
below their shoulders. They wore animal skin garments wrapped 
around their waists and fur capes hung across their muscular 
shoulders. Each carried a spear and a hide sack. Bone jewelry 
decorated their ears, necks and upper arms, which were 
tattooed with dark, geometric patterns.

One man, the closest one, was taller than the other by several 
inches. He was missing a toe on his left foot, and ropey scars 
scissored up his left leg from his damaged foot to his upper 
thigh. She guessed they were from animal bites, healed years 
ago. His forearm was scarred, too. And his face. His left 
cheek and chin were disfigured by two parallel slashes that 
ran from his eye to his jaw. Considering the extent of his 
injuries, it was a wonder he had survived.  

Both men sniffed the air, their nostrils flaring as they 
breathed in her scent. The scarred man stepped closer, near 
enough to jab her bare upper arm with the point of his finger. 
The poke was so hard it knocked her back on her haunches.

He growled something to the smaller man, who smiled. Their 
proximity set her heart hammering and she chided herself for 
putting herself at risk this way.  

"Li-chi tse-gah!" shouted the scarred man, startling her.

"Li-chi," the smaller man repeated, more softly.

They moved in, crowding her. She wanted to rise up but thought 
they might mistake any sudden move on her part as a threat, so 
she hunkered low and hoped like hell they didn't want to harm 
her.

The scarred man reached for her again, and it took all her 
willpower not to duck out from under his hand. He patted her 
hair, his touch tentative, curious. "Li-chi," he repeated, this 
time in a whisper. Combing his fingers through her hair, he 
suddenly laughed out loud, a harsh, gritty sound that crackled 
from his throat. The other man laughed, too, then stuttered a 
few words and pointed at her breasts.

Bending low for a closer look, the scarred man studied her 
black bra. He stroked the fabric, running his index finger down 
one strap. He hooked his finger behind the silky cup, tested 
its smoothness by rubbing it between his finger and thumb.

"Ne-zhoniiii..."

She wasn't sure if that was a word or a sigh. 

When he suddenly prodded her breast, she slapped his hand.

"Don't," she warned.

He drew back and began jabbering at her, his tone angry and 
maybe a little frightened. The other man watched, poised to run 
or stay, depending on what happened next.

She realized this was probably her best opportunity to go for 
her weapon. Springing to her feet, she tried to lunge past the 
scarred man. His arm shot out, blocking her. Lightning fast, he 
grabbed her hair and yanked, bringing her up short and then 
forcing her to her knees. Both men were yammering now.

Damn it, he was dragging her away from the pool.

She filled her lungs and screamed as loudly as she could.

"Mulllderrrr!"

*   *   *

"Scully?" Mulder blinked awake. Had she called out to him or 
was it just a dream? She wasn't in the shelter, that much was 
obvious. He sat up and scrubbed sleep from his eyes with the 
heels of hands.

Where were his boots?

Bright sunshine jabbed his eyes when he slid from the cave to 
locate Scully. He squinted against the glare and quickly found 
his boots and socks, but Scully was nowhere to be seen. 
Touching one of the socks, he discovered it was still sopping 
wet, which meant she hadn't been gone long.

"Scully?" he shouted, only to hear his own voice echo back to 
him. "Sculleeee!"

There was no answer. Evidently she hadn't just ducked behind a 
bush to pee. His heart began to race as all manner of 
irrational fears zigzagged through his mind.

"Scully! Scullllleeeee!"

He pulled on his boots, leaving the socks behind and not 
bothering to tie his laces. Which direction had she gone? And 
why the hell had she gone alone? He scrambled down the 
embankment. 

At the bottom her footprints led downstream and he followed 
them at a jog. When he spotted two additional sets of prints 
alongside hers -- one with a missing toe -- he broke into a 
full run.

"Scully? Where are you? Sculleee!" He bulldozed through a patch 
of waist-high ferns only to be stopped dead in his tracks by 
the sight of her black, silk camisole lying on a boulder.

Blood roared in his ears and his legs felt like rubber as he 
lurched toward it. Fuck, fuck. He grabbed it and hugged it to 
his chest while he tried to make sense of what might have 
happened here. Her tracks, now barefoot, and the strangers' 
clearly showed signs of a struggle. 

Find her...find her...find her...

The footprints led further downstream, where the sides of the 
ravine were too steep to climb. That meant Scully and the two 
men would have to stick close to the stream, at least until the 
land flattened out. But there were so many places to hide. 
Trees, shrubs, boulders, crevices.

Find her!

"Sculleee!" Please, please answer.

In the distance he heard her faint yell. "Mulder!"

He aimed for her voice and ran for all he was worth.

x-x-x-x-x-x

CHAPTER FOUR
  
The stream rushed through the ravine like blood through the veins of a 
hunted beast. Mist shrouded the entire gorge and pointed firs lined the 
upper embankment like rows of colossal shark's teeth. The scarred man 
followed the flow of water, hauling Scully by the hair along a swampy, 
overgrown path, while his companion trotted a few paces behind, lugging 
the packs, spears, Scully's clothes and her gun. Briars clawed their 
bare legs and bit into Scully's unprotected feet.

Kicking, cursing, throwing punches, she tried to free herself, but the 
scarred man ignored her blows and maintained his tight grip on her 
hair. She dug in her heels at every opportunity, flailed her fists, 
scratched his arms and face, drawing blood...along with what was 
undoubtedly a string of caveman curses. 

She swore back at him. "Bastard! Let me go, you son of a bitch!"

They continued on that way for more than three quarters of a mile, with 
Scully struggling and arguing. Physically she was no match for the 
scarred man, but even so she was prepared to be as contrary as she 
needed to be to slow his progress and give Mulder a chance to catch up 
with them.

From somewhere far behind them he called her name again. She returned 
his shout, screaming at the top of her lungs. Her cry earned her a 
wallop; the scarred man struck her hard in the mouth, splitting her 
lower lip. Blood spattered her chest, her arms, the ground, and she 
hissed with pain.

Scarface drew back his fist to strike again, daring her to defy him.
 
Damn Neanderthal. She had no intention of giving in to his bullying. 
Eight million years out of Africa, and she was being hauled off by the 
hair? This fucking caveman was pissing her off!

Glowering at him, she shouted,  "MULLL--"

Knuckles plowed into her jaw, causing an explosion of pain that dropped 
her to her knees. The grip on her hair was the only thing that kept her 
from falling flat on the ground. 

The scarred man must have sensed her next scream coming, because he 
jerked her to her feet and pressed his huge palm tightly over her 
bruised lips, locking her jaw with granite fingers so that she could 
neither scream nor bite. 

Son of a bitch must have done this before.

"Tehi," he growled into her ear, securing her with the crook of his 
arm. He steered her roughly toward the stream. "Kut."

She reached up to dig at his eyes, but he dodged her scraping 
nails and tightened his hold, towing her into the water, hand 
still clamped over her mouth. Her bare feet slipped and 
stumbled on the wet stones. Her toes went numb almost 
instantly in the ice-cold water. Trying to pull away from his 
one-armed bear hug, she repeatedly punched him -- in the 
stomach, in the chest. He ignored her blows...until she aimed 
for his groin. Catching hold of her swinging fist with his 
free hand, he held it firmly in place.  

"Nil-ta," he said, chuckling.

His companion laughed, too. "A-nah-ne-dzin."

They continued wading downstream. The water was picking up 
speed, sucking at Scully's legs with every step. A waterfall 
thrummed somewhere up ahead.

About a hundred yards short of the falls, the scarred man 
dragged her to shore. His hand still held her jaw, and her 
split lip throbbed beneath his palm. Blood filled her mouth. 
Unable to spit it out, she swallowed it.  

Scarface manhandled her to the edge of a cliff where the falls 
tumbled eighty feet or more into a valley. At the bottom, the 
land flattened out into a floodplain of dense forest and 
interlocked ponds. The valley appeared trapped in the embrace 
of two, jagged mountain ranges. Scully looked out across acres 
of treetops. Pools of wind-scuffed water peeked through the 
canopy like the glittering eyes of predatory animals, skulking 
beneath the murky foliage. 

Without warning, the scarred man seized her around the waist, 
hoisted her off her feet, and slung her over one shoulder. Jaw 
finally freed from his iron grip, blood poured from her mouth 
and she began to shout at the top of her lungs. 

"Muldermuldermul--"

A knife pricked the back of her bare thigh as her captor 
pressed its sharp stone blade to her leg, silencing her once 
and for all. He continued to hold the weapon against her as he 
lugged her down the cliff, where twisted tree roots and slanted 
stone outcroppings served as steps. Obviously born to this 
terrain, both men climbed with the natural skill of mountain 
goats. The added burden of her weight seemed to have little 
effect on the scarred man; he wasn't even breathing hard when 
he reached the bottom. 

"Lit." He pivoted to look back up the hill, raising his nose in 
the air and sniffing.

The smaller man turned and sniffed, too, then rattled off a 
sentence or two that brought a frown to the other man's face. 

Concern darkened their eyes and they slipped into the forest's 
shadows, with Scully still draped over the bigger man's broad 
shoulder.

*   *   *

"Sculleeee!"

Clutching her camisole tightly in his fist, Mulder careened 
toward the sound of her voice. Her tracks disappeared into the 
stream along with those of the men. Now he had to rely on his 
FBI training, eyeballing both banks for any sign that she or 
her kidnappers might have left the water for higher ground. 

Why wasn't she wearing her boots? Or her camisole? The silky 
undergarment slapped his thigh with every stride, conjuring up 
a picture of her with no shirt, no shoes, and two Ice Age Don 
Juannabees doing things he'd rather not think about.

If those bastards harmed her...

He pumped his legs faster, taking longer strides. Images of 
past threats floated unbidden through his mind: Warren Dupre, 
Donnie Pfaster, Gerry Schnauz. Scully's life was in danger. 
Again. Adrenaline flooded his body, hammered his chest and 
thundered in his ears, making him deaf to everything except the 
memory of Scully's faint cry for help.

A dark, shiny blotch on the bank up ahead caught his eye. He 
waded through briars, ignoring their pull and his god-awful 
fear. In three strides, he reached the stain, and crouched over 
it. It was blood. Lots of blood. On the stones, the leaves, the 
mud. Was it Scully's?

Damn it. He would kill those sons of bitches.

The men's footprints were clearly visible in the mud. Scully's 
prints, however, had vanished. 

One of the men must be carrying her.

A spotty trail of fresh blood revealed the kidnappers had taken 
a path down a near-vertical hillside, where the stream 
thundered into a valley below. Stuffing Scully's camisole into 
his jacket pocket, Mulder descended after them. The steep path 
wound around boulders, over narrow, stone ledges, between trees 
that clung precariously to the embankment, their twisted roots 
providing meager footholds. His boots slipped in the mud, 
skidded over loose gravel. Tangled vines snagged his toes. He 
was constantly on the brink of losing his balance.

Halfway to the bottom, he caught a whiff of woodsmoke. His 
first thought was that Scully's captors had decided to camp 
somewhere down below and were preparing a cook fire, until he 
realized the odor was coming from above, to the south.

It was possible there were other men in the area. And they 
weren't apt to be any friendlier than the two he was following.  

Mulder scanned the surrounding hillside for more blood. The 
spots were smaller here and spaced farther apart: on a rock to 
his left and several feet further down on the bark of a fallen 
tree. He scrambled past it, his sense of urgency ballooning. 

*   *   *

Jogging through the forest along a nearly invisible trail, the 
scarred man kept his knife pressed to Scully's thigh. Its blade 
scraped painfully with every jouncing step, reminding her to 
keep silent and still. The second man followed only a pace or 
two behind the first. 

Scully tried to memorize the route they were taking, but the 
trees all looked alike and her upside-down view was confusing.  
Tree roots, ferns, her captors' running feet...she could see 
little else. The men's bare feet were heavily calloused, their 
legs tanned and crisscrossed with scrapes and fine scars. Quiet 
as cats, they made almost no noise as they navigated through 
the lowland forest. 

Scully's jaw throbbed where she'd been struck, but her lip was 
no longer bleeding. That wasn't necessarily a good thing. No 
blood meant no trail for Mulder to follow.

Her hope of being released or rescued grew dimmer with each new 
path her captors took. They veered off in yet another 
direction, where the trees became sparser and the terrain more 
flat and sandy. It was here that the men finally slowed to a 
walk and exchanged a few words -- the first they'd uttered 
since the waterfall. Their tones sounded almost casual now, as 
if they were confident they had lost Mulder.

The smaller man bounded around his bigger companion like an 
excited child, asking questions, laughing a lot. Too much, 
evidently. Scarface soon became irritated and growled at the 
smaller man, effectively shutting him up.

They stopped when they reached a clearing where the forest gave 
way to a view of a small lake. A ratty tent-like structure sat 
near the shore. It was made of animal hides that had been 
loosely lashed together and draped over some sort of curving 
supports, giving the shelter a dome-like shape. 

Scully was unceremoniously dumped onto the pebbly beach, where 
she fell hard on her backside, her dignity jarred along with 
her tailbone. She landed between the tent and the remains of a 
cooking fire. Traces of smoke still sifted up from the ashes.

Small Man tossed his gear, along with Scully's clothes and gun, 
behind the tent. She desperately wanted to get to the gun, but 
Scarface was already squatting in front of her, blocking her 
way. The smaller man tended the fire. 

"Li-chi tse-gah," the scarred man said, his eyes focused on her 
hair. She recognized his words from before, back at the pool. 

He reached for her and combed his thick fingers through her 
hair. Then his attention dipped to the cross at her neck. With 
the tip of one ragged finger, he traced its delicate chain down 
to her cleavage.

"Don't touch me." She shoved his hand away. 

He scowled. "Ha-gade!" He reached for the necklace again and, 
this time, yanked it off her, breaking its chain and raising a 
razor-thin welt on the back of her neck. "Ha-gade," he 
repeated, shaking it in his fist.

"Give that back." She grabbed for it, but he quickly tucked it 
away inside a small pouch he wore around his neck. 

She loathed the way his glittering eyes studied her. Sitting 
with her knees drawn up, she tried to hide as much of her body 
from his curious stare as possible.

Nostrils flaring, he leaned forward and sniffed her: her neck, 
her lips, her shoulder...her cleavage. Suddenly he grabbed her 
knees, forcefully spread her legs apart, and inhaled deeply.

"Stop it!" She scrambled backward. 

He laughed and grabbed hold of her ankles. She fought him as he 
dragged her back toward him. The smaller man stopped tending 
the fire to watch them.

"Nih-tsa-goh-al-neh." The scarred man licked his lips and then 
opened the skins at his waist to reveal his swollen penis.

No, she wasn't going to let this happen. She kicked at him. 
Grabbed a fistful of stones and hurled them at his face. The 
stones bounced off his upraised arm.

He signaled to the smaller man, who rose from the fire to stand 
behind her. Evidently they had no intention of letting her 
escape. The scarred man took hold of her upper arms and drew 
her to him. She pummeled him with her fists, boxed his head and 
ears, but more quickly than she would have thought possible, he 
flipped her over onto her hands and knees and then pushed his 
own knees between her legs, spreading her thighs with his own. 
He leaned over her back and pressed her head to the ground with 
his left hand, while he steadied her hips with his right. She 
struggled to escape, but he held her head firmly and pinned her 
legs in place by pressing his knees onto her calves. Bent over, 
she could see nothing but the muddy, calloused feet of the 
smaller man, who silently waited his turn.

"Leave me alone! Get off me, you damn son of a bitch!" 

The scarred man yanked her panties down, exposing her backside. 
Anger and embarrassment raged through her. No, no, no! 
*Please*, no. She held her breath against the stink of her 
assailant's sweat. Felt the tickle of his beard on her 
shoulders as he draped himself over her. His engorged penis 
prodded the backs of her legs.

"NOOOOOO!"

*   *   *

 "Get the hell away from her!" Mulder bellowed from the edge of 
the woods. Seeing Scully dressed in nothing but her panties and 
bra and mounted from behind by a hulking Neanderthal filled him 
with unimaginable rage. It didn't occur to him to pull his gun; 
the only thing he could think to do was wring the fucker's neck 
with his bare hands.

He launched himself at Scully's assailant, screaming at the top 
of his lungs as he crossed the clearing. The startled caveman 
had no time to react before Mulder plowed into him full force, 
shoulder to ribs, toppling him from Scully's back. He grunted 
from the impact and they both rolled toward the blazing 
campfire.

Mulder scrambled to his feet. The Neanderthal did the same, 
rising like a mountain in front of him. 

The brute was thickset, as muscular as Conan the Barbarian, his 
limbs, chest and face streaked with deep battle scars. He 
balled his fists, puffed his chest, and locked eyes with 
Mulder.

Mulder straightened to his full height, a satisfying inch or 
two taller than his brawny opponent.

"You okay, Scully?" he called, not taking his eyes off Conan.

When she didn't immediately answer, he chanced a quick glance 
over his shoulder and discovered the smaller man had her in a 
hammerlock. She was struggling to free herself, clawing at his 
arms and elbowing his ribs.

"Scull--"

Granite knuckles plowed into Mulder's jaw, rocking him back on 
his heels. He regained his balance and struck back. Missed. 
Threw a second punch and, this time, connected. Jesus, it felt 
like he'd hit stone.

Conan appeared unfazed by the blow. He sneered and raised his 
fists...fists that had held Scully hostage only moments ago, 
fists that had pushed her head to the ground --

Mulder missiled at him, skull to gut. A satisfying yowl 
exploded from Conan's lungs as he was knocked backward. Mulder 
pressed his advantage. He threw a haymaker that failed to 
connect when the other man ducked. Conan responded with a punch 
of his own. It hit Mulder with astonishing force and sent him 
tumbling. He landed on the ground with a spine-jarring jolt.

Conan wasted no time coming after him. He leapt on top of him, 
wrapped thick fingers around his throat and pressed forceful 
thumbs into his larynx. Mulder thrashed and bucked as the 
pressure on his throat intensified. His lungs hitched for 
oxygen. Desperate, he clapped the heels of his hands against 
Conan's ears. The impact knocked the man back.

Gulping for air, Mulder scrambled to his feet. "Scully?" he 
gasped, not daring to take his eyes off the scarred bastard 
long enough to look for her. He could hear the scuffle of feet 
several yards behind him, the dull thud of a punch, a low, 
masculine grunt.

"I'm..." -- another grunt from her attacker -- "I'm okay, 
Mulder." 

Conan growled and charged, bulldozing Mulder across the 
campsite toward the shelter, where an uppercut sent him 
pinwheeling onto the tent. The skins collapsed beneath his 
weight. Conan leapt on him and began pummeling him in the ribs. 
Mulder responded by kneeing the Neanderthal in the groin. Conan 
yelped, curled into a ball, and rolled off him to lie on the 
ground, moaning, hands clamped over his genitals. 

Mulder staggered to his feet to help Scully, who was being 
dragged off into the woods by Little Big Man.

Before he could take a step, Conan grabbed his ankle and yanked 
his legs out from under him. Mulder toppled and hit the ground 
hard. He twisted onto his back. Conan scrambled to his feet, 
took hold of his right leg and began dragging him down the 
beach toward the lake.

Mulder grappled for a handhold and craned to get a glimpse of 
Scully. He was shocked to discover she was no longer on the 
beach. Little Big Man was gone, too. Fuck, where were they? 
Desperate to free himself, he fumbled for his gun, chiding 
himself for not remembering it sooner. He drew the weapon. 
Aimed--

Conan jerked on his leg and the gun bounced from his hand. It 
landed with a metallic thud just out of reach. He frantically 
tried to retrieve it, but Conan pulled him into the water. 
Jesus, his leg felt like it was being ripped from the socket. 

Once in the lake, Conan dove on top of him and sank him to the 
bottom. Mulder tried to keep his head above the surface, but 
the scarred man pressed his shoulders into the mud. Waves 
closed over his face. He peered up through a blur of silt and 
bubbles and churning water to see the bastard was grinning at 
him. Conan had him pinned in place and was enjoying his 
escalating panic.

Or maybe he was already thinking about what he was going to do 
to Scully as soon as Mulder was out of the picture.

Did he plan to finish what he started? Or was it going to be a 
repeat performance? Had Mulder been too late? Had the bastard 
already raped her? And what about the other guy? Was he taking 
his turn right now?

Outraged, Mulder dug down for every ounce of strength in him. 
He rose up out of the water and shoved Conan back. Bone to 
muscle, he bullied him toward shore, where he threw his entire 
six-foot frame at the mother-fucker's goddamned, sorry ass. 
Nothing, *nothing* was going to stop him until this son of a 
bitch was dead.

He pushed and pushed and pushed, maneuvering the scarred man up 
the beach, connecting every punch, relishing the surprised look 
on Conan's bug-eyed face. 

He landed three more hard hits. Knocked Conan onto his back 
beside the fire. Lunging, he body-slammed his startled 
opponent, and pinned him to the ground.

They lay nose to nose. Mulder could smell the man's sour 
breath, the sharp odor of his sweat, the tang of his anger. 
Conan's eyes fell to half-mast as he studied Mulder's bloodied 
nose. Suddenly he broke into a satisfied grin.

What the hell?

Mulder glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Little Big 
Man swing a charred stick of driftwood at his skull. He ducked 
and raised an arm, deflecting the blow. The upper end of the 
club glowed with fire. Smoke and sparks spewed in an outward 
arc when Little Big Man swung again, clubbing Mulder in the 
shoulder and dislodging him from the scarred man's chest.

"Two against one? That's not fair." Mulder somersaulted out of 
the way as the club came down a third time. "Guess that's how 
you cave guys like to operate, huh?"

Little Big Man drew back for another strike. He swung the 
weapon like a Louisville Slugger, connecting this time with 
Mulder's ribs.

Mulder folded in pain. 

The men laughed and moved in on him. Little Big Man aimed the 
club at Mulder's bowed head, but was stopped in mid-swing when 
a blast from Scully's gun bored a hole through his right hand 
and blew the stick from his grasp. The man's eyes rounded at 
the sound of the gun and the sudden appearance of the wound. He 
howled in pain.

Conan turned to gape at Scully, who stood twenty feet away, 
dressed in nothing but her black, silk underwear, her Smith & 
Wesson now aimed at his chest.

The wounded man was the first to run. The other blinked in 
astonishment, seemingly undecided what to do. When he finally 
made up his mind, he aimed hateful eyes at Mulder, snarled 
menacingly and bolted for the woods.

"Why do I get the feeling we haven't seen the last of those 
two?" Mulder rubbed his aching ribs and stiffly retrieved his 
lost gun.

Scully remained where she was, hands shaking, mouth pressed 
into a tight line, eyes filling with tears.

"Scully...?" He limped toward her.

Trembling all over, she lowered her gun and sank slowly to her 
knees.

*   *   *

She hurt all over: her jaw, her neck, her calves. Mulder 
crouched beside her and gathered her into his arms. He held her 
tenderly, and she responded by leaning into the welcome curve 
of his over-heated body. She only half-listened as he repeated, 
"You're okay, you're okay." She concentrated on the rapid thud-
thud-thud of his heart beneath her cheek, feeling safe in his 
embrace, momentarily protected from the evils of the 
Pleistocene world.

Oh God, if he hadn't arrived in time...

She bit down on her swollen lip and held back her tears.

She wanted to explain to him what had happened while he was 
fighting with the scarred man. How the smaller man had dragged 
her into the woods, tied her up with a strip of rawhide so that 
he could go back to help his friend. She'd managed to loosen 
the bindings and find her gun. She'd intended to kill the small 
man when she saw him swing that awful burning log at Mulder's 
head, but her shot missed its mark. 

The words wouldn't come, not without tears, and she refused to 
cry. Mulder was right -- she was okay. He was okay. They would 
be fine. 

She felt drained of every ounce of energy, so spent that when 
Mulder pulled her into his lap, she let him. When he slipped 
one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back, 
lifting her up as he stood, she allowed that, too. And she 
didn't object when he carried her to the shore and into the 
water.

Gilded by a setting sun, the lake's surface shimmered as he 
plowed through it. He waded out until he stood thigh deep, then 
he carefully, slowly lowered himself to his knees, dipping her 
beneath the waves as he sank. The water was chilly, but it took 
the sting out of her scratched, bruised skin. And the heat of 
his legs, chest and arms radiated into her numbed limbs, 
cushioning her with their warmth. He eased back on his haunches 
and cradled her in his lap.

Wetting one hand, he began to gently wash blood from her cheek. 

"Too cold?" he asked when she shivered.

"No." Her shiver was a reaction to his tender caress, not the 
temperature of the water.

His left arm buoyed her while he scooped clean water over her 
injuries. Her shoulders, her arms, her fingers. He gave special 
attention to each scraped knuckle, loosening the dirt and dried 
blood. He didn't speak as he caressed her raw flesh. 

She surrendered to his care, allowing him to wash the filth 
from her body and hair. Again and again his fingers swirled 
over her, his touch displacing theirs, washing away their ugly 
intentions. Her blood tinted the water pink around them.

She needed him to do this, she realized. She needed him to 
cleanse away their brutality.

His thumb grazed her breast and she gasped. 

"Sorry." He stopped his ministrations.

A streak of mud in the shape of a large handprint stained her 
cleavage. He stared at it and waited, apparently unwilling to 
wipe it away without permission.

"It's okay," she said.

Still, he didn't move. Eyes glossed with uncertainty, he 
searched her face, her eyes, as if trying to decipher her true 
feelings. 

"Really, Mulder. It's okay," she assured him, and to prove it, 
she took his hand and placed it on her breast. 

He swallowed hard. A sigh stuttered from his lungs. Then he 
began to slowly wash her. 

"Where's your cross?" he asked, his voice tighter than she ever 
remembered hearing it. He massaged the mud from her skin, 
sliding his wet thumb over the smooth mound of her breast, 
dipping, just barely, beneath the satin of her black bra. 
Although his touch was gentle, she could feel emotion boiling 
beneath his controlled caress, anger toward the men who did 
this to her, regret that he hadn't arrived sooner.

"He took it," she answered. "The scarred man took it."

Mulder shook his head; anger hissed from his nose. A muscle 
twitched along his jaw and the veins in his neck bulged. He 
tried to hide his rage beneath lowered lashes, his attention 
focused on his task, but his breathing was shallow and too 
fast, and his nostrils flared with every exhalation.

As a doctor, she knew he was experiencing a sustained, 
involuntary physiological reaction to the threat against them. 
His heart rate, pulse, respiration still soared. Blood sugar, 
lactic acid, the cortisol that had readied his body to fight 
still dilated his eyes, quickened his impulses, intensified his 
awareness.

"Scully...did they--" His voice cracked and stalled.

"No, Mulder. I'm okay." 

Two tears slipped from beneath his lowered lashes to drizzle 
down his flushed cheeks. His mouth opened, but no words came. 
The sound of swallowed grief hummed faintly, briefly, in the 
back of his throat.
     
*   *   *

They had no right... No right to touch her... 

He would have killed them if she hadn't intervened. He wanted 
to kill them still, for putting their hands on her, hurting 
her, trying to... 

Fuck! 

She was *his*, God damn it! His! He loved her. He had loved her 
for years, wanted her for years, but had waited, curbed his 
urges, because he believed he should win her heart before 
yielding to his physical desires.

Now he felt cuckolded by a couple of fucking Neanderthals. 

His hand lingered on her breast. He couldn't bear to remove it, 
yet he couldn't bear touching her either. Jesus, he wanted her 
so damn much!

More than anything, more than *everything*, he wanted to pin 
her to the ground and fuck the bejesus out of her. Right now. 
In spite of what happened, or maybe because of what happened. 
He wanted to plunge into her, possess her, mark his territory. 
Claim her as his, forever and ever. He wanted to assure himself 
she was alive and safe, belonging only to him. The relief of 
having her beneath him, around him, would feel 
so...God...damn...good.

He felt himself grow hard and his arousal disgusted him even as 
it excited him. Avoiding her eyes, he preferred not to know if 
she felt his desire poking her in the backside.

To his surprise, her arms snaked around his neck and her 
bruised lips brushed his cheek, kissing the stream of his 
tears. "I want you, too," she whispered. When her swollen mouth 
slid over his, oh God, he was lost.

He gathered her in his arms, rose to his feet, and carried her 
from the water. Mouth fused to hers, he ached to be inside her. 
Water streamed from them both, leaving a wet trail up the beach 
to the shelter. 

She broke their kiss and shook her head. "Not here."

He worried she was changing her mind, refusing him. Maybe she 
was angry at his presumption and audacity. Hell, he was no 
better than the men who had assaulted her, wanting her for his 
own pleasure, disregarding her desires. He loathed his actions, 
wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

But she smiled at him, stroked his face, reassuring him, 
forgiving him. "The skins smell like them," she said. She 
nodded at the forest. "Take me beneath the trees." 

A layer of pine needles carpeted the ground below the evergreen 
boughs. They smelled spicy, clean, nothing like the sweat of 
strangers. He laid her there. Kissed her nose, her chin, and, 
ever so gently, her split, swollen lip. Then he gingerly 
lowered himself on top of her.

"You're sure?" he asked. His timing seemed lousy. His reasons 
even worse. Their first time together should be inspired by 
love, not an overdose of testosterone and masculine pride. This 
was wrong.

Scully's fingers careened into his hair and she pulled his face 
down to hers. "Yes. Please."

A beautiful flush crept up her neck into her cheeks, making her 
the most desirable woman he'd ever seen. Her motives stymied 
him, but his body didn't seem to need or want explanations. He 
realized he was grinding his hips into her pubic bone, and his 
own cheeks blazed. What must she think of him?

"Take off your wet clothes," she urged.

No. This wasn't right. As much as he wanted her, it couldn't be 
now. Reluctantly, summoning every ounce of his diminishing 
willpower, he rolled off her and got to his feet.

*   *   *

"Mulder?" What the hell was he doing? Why was he walking away? 
"It's okay. Really."

"No. No it's not. This..." -- he gestured at his crotch -- 
"makes me no better than them."

How could he think that? How could he compare himself to those 
animals? He was nothing like them. *Nothing*. He was respectful 
and tender and compassionate. She trusted him with her life.

And she was willing to trust him with her body.

"You're not like them, Mulder. This isn't the same."

Scully sat up, drew up her knees and hugged her bare legs. It 
seemed Mulder had stolen the heat from her body when he walked 
away, because now she felt suddenly cold. And absolutely alone. 
She wanted him, yearned for him in a way she never had before. 
Her craving was elemental, almost more than she could bear. 
"Maybe it's something in the air," she whispered.

Still in silhouette, he spun to face her, hands on his hips. 
"What?"

"I said maybe there's something in the air."

"Why...what makes you say that?"

"It was a joke." Only it wasn't. Not really. To be honest, she 
couldn't remember ever wanting him so much. Sure, she'd thought 
about him in sexual ways before, had had fantasies. He was a 
sexy guy. But never in five years had her desire for him 
overwhelmed her this way.    

Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he returned to her. He sat 
and dovetailed his fingers with hers. The setting sun gilded 
his hair like a halo. "Have you been feeling, um...kinda 
primal...since we came here?" The depth of his voice caused a 
pleasant loosening of the organs in her abdomen, as if her womb 
were melting.

"P-primal?" She felt absolutely out of control. 

"You know. Aroused. Horny."

That's exactly how she'd been feeling. For a couple of days 
now. Earlier today, she'd blamed it on the raw snake meat. 
"Maybe. A little. Uh...more than a little."

He remained quiet for a moment. The warmth of his hand singed 
her entire body. 

"That's interesting," he said.

"Why is it interesting?"

"Suppose... we were somehow changed when we traveled back in 
time."

"In what way?"

"Stripped of whatever it is that makes us civilized."

"Mulder, civilized behavior is learned, not inherited."

"Is it? Psychologists have been arguing the case of nature 
versus nurture for years." His eyes locked with hers, and in 
them she saw his familiar I've-got-a-theory-so-hear-me-out 
look. Clearly, he wasn't going to make love to her, at least 
not anytime soon. She was surprised at how disappointed that 
made her feel. 

"Genetic determinism. I've heard the argument before, Mulder, 
but scientific evidence doesn't support the claim that our 
genes are solely responsible for our behavior. We're a product 
of our biology *and* our experiences. Besides, even if it were 
true that our behavior was genetically determined, the fact 
remains: you and I were 'civilized' as recently as two days 
ago. It doesn't track that we would suddenly be uncivilized 
today."

"Maybe traveling back in time turned back the clock on our 
genes, too, reducing our evolved behaviors to basic animal 
instincts."

"That theory doesn't hold a drop of water. It flies in the face 
of at least a dozen scientific principles."

"Who said anything about science?"

"Mulder, if what you're positing were true, why was it I didn't 
want sex with them, too? Why just you?"

"I can't explain that."

"Well, I can. Not everything is an X-File."

He smiled softly. "No?" 

"I admit it's tempting to think we're no more than the sum of 
our genes. It absolves us of responsibility for our actions. 
Instead of blaming ourselves, we can blame our genetic 
heritage. It gives us an excuse for lack of self-control."

His tiny smile vanished and he released her hand. "Is that what 
you think? That I just wanted to fuck you and now I'm looking 
for a way to defend myself?"

"Are you denying you wanted to have sex?"

"No...I did...I *do*...but not by force. Never by force. You 
have to believe that, Scully."

She reclaimed his hand. "I do. I believe you. But I think the 
reason for your actions...and mine...have nothing to do with 
genetic manipulation or time travel."

"Then what?"

"We're under a lot of stress here--"

"It's *not* stress, Scully. We've both been under stress before 
-- plenty of times -- and I've never...overreacted...this way."

"You've never seen two men sexually assault me before either." 
The memory made her blush and she was grateful for the low 
light. She didn't want Mulder to see her embarrassment. She 
felt foolish for going off on her own back at the cave, putting 
herself in unnecessary danger. Putting him in danger, too. It 
was irresponsible. The fault was wholly hers and she didn't 
want him shouldering the blame. He had nothing to feel guilty 
about. "Mulder, you didn't force yourself on me."

"No? Then why does it feel that way?"

"I wanted you, too, every bit as much as you wanted me." She 
took a deep breath. "I still do."

He narrowed his eyes. "Why now? Why here? Why not back home, or 
in Home, Pennsylvania, for that matter, or Chicago during the 
Pincus case, or the Apalachicola National Forest?"

Why not Florida indeed? If memory served, she'd been more than 
willing to consort with Mulder in his hotel room that night, 
but he was the one who had shied away in favor of a mutant 
hunt. 

"The Pincus case? Mulder, you wound up in hospital restraints 
during that case. That's a bit kinky for a first time, don't 
you think?" she joked, trying to lighten his mood.

"You know what I mean." He offered her another small smile. "My 
point is we've had plenty of opportunity, but seemingly no 
motive...until now."

"I'm not sure I agree, but leaving that argument for later, I 
think your motives in this case may have been more generous 
than you think."

Disbelief chuffed from his nose. "In what way?"

"I think you wanted to assuage the actions of my assailants 
with your own, for my sake. I wanted the same thing, but my 
reasons were purely selfish."

"You give me too much credit--" He stopped and sniffed the air. 
"Do you smell that?"

She inhaled. "Smoke." 

"Get dressed." He rose to his feet and pulled her up after him.

"What is it?"

"I'm not sure." Walking to the shore where the view was 
unobstructed by trees, he dug his binoculars from his jacket 
and held them up to his eyes.

"Mulder?" She quickly gathered her clothes, pulled on her 
pants, her socks, her boots.

"Forest fire," he said.

She yanked her turtleneck over her head. Slipped into her 
jacket. "Headed this way?" 

"Uh-huh."

"How far off is it?"

"In the ravine. By the waterfall. I don't think we have a lot 
of time."

She hurried to join him on the beach. Jesus. The entire 
southern horizon was ablaze with orange-yellow flames.

x-x-x-x-x-x