From: Emmalanna <emmalanna@aol.com>
Date: 19 Oct 1998 21:31:11 GMT
Subject: Preponderance I (1/9), by Alanna

DISCLAIMER:  The characters herein are the property of Fox Broadcasting and
1013 Productions.  The situations into 
which I have placed them are of my own creation.

CATEGORY: XRA
RATING: PG (certain chapters will be labelled NC-17)
ARCHIVAL: Please archive at Gossamer;  anyone else, just let me know!
SPOILERS: This story contains few specific spoilers, but a general knowledge of
Season 5 is assumed.
SUMMARY: Guilt is painted in shades of grey.  When Scully is involved in a
serious crime, how will Mulder react?

TIMELINE: This story takes place sometime after Folie A Deux but before The
End.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Much of what I have done in this story is harsh, for both the
characters and readers.  The harshness is within a specific emotional context,
however;  don't necessarily abandon the story if you're uncomfortable with the
first 
three chapters.  I could not have written this story without the wonderful
assistance of Kirsten, Dasha, and Elizabeth -- thank you very much.  And a
special thank you to Kem, who helped me create the original concept several
months ago.

Preponderance will be posted in two "Books".  The end of chapter nine marks a
natural ending point for the first half of the story, though it does end on a
cliffhanger of sorts.  :)


PREPONDERANCE
By Alanna Rabun.

Chapter One.

+++++

I can still hear the echo of the gunshot.

I can still hear the panicked voices of the witnesses.  

I can still hear her scream as she fell to the floor, a pool of carmine blood
spreading on the linoleum, filling the cracks between the tiles.

I can still see her long, curly brown hair slowly turning red from her own
blood -- a parody of my own hair, strawberry-tinted since birth and turned into
auburn after years of Clairol.

I can still feel my finger squeezing the trigger, and the mixture of rage and
exhiliration I felt at that moment.

I can still see Samantha, dead in front of me.  

+++++

The American interstate highway system was intended to link the nation in a
network of roadways, where even the smallest towns could feel bound to the
cities by four-lane divided highways.  Instead, the use of on-and-off-ramps and
kelly green road signs only made small-town Americana seem remote, only to be
accessed via ramps and smaller routes.  

The transportation this time was an '89 Ford Escort, paid for in cash, bought
from a man in western Virginia who wanted to get rid of it as quickly as
possible without the hassle of transferring license and registration.  Its
plates had already been 
changed twice, stolen from abandoned cars in deserted parking lots.  It
currently "belonged" to Jim Chisholm, yet it wasn't the '78 Chevy pickup
registered with the North Carolina Department of Transportation.  The Tennessee
state line was fast 
approaching, and another car would have to be obtained, lest this one become so
familiar that the highway patrol could easily trace it.

The driver diligently obeyed the posted speed limits, never exceeding them by
more than 5 mph, even in construction zones where 40 mph dragged at the car
like a ton of bricks and other motorists followed behind, honking their horns
and 
shooting dirty looks at the grandma -- the cultural stereotypes ran deep --
with an allergy to lead feet.  Though speeding tickets were the least of the
driver's worries, they promised the very real threat of license and plate
checks.

That kind of exposure could and *would* prove deadly.

The familiar golden arches on an upcoming off ramp beckoned a greedy stomach
unaccustomed to going so long without nourishment.  Pulling off the interstate,
the drive-thru was a beacon and the promise of Value Meal #2 was manna.

Karen Cooper, her thoughts consumed with the argument she'd had with her
boyfriend that morning, stole a glance at the clock as she took the order. 
Months of working the window had ingrained a mechanical set of actions as
predictable as 
Pavlov's dog.  As she stuffed the fries and burger into the paper bag and
snapped a lid on the large Diet Coke, she gave only a cursory glance at the
driver of the car.  The only relevant thought that entered her mind was that
the woman really needed to put on some lipstick and that Karen could have done
a better dye job in her sleep.  

And since she'd not bothered to look at the WANTED posters last time she went
to the post office, Karen had no idea that the driver was Dana Katherine
Scully, a fugitive wanted for first-degree murder.

+++++

Every time I close my eyes, the memories appear.  They perform a grotesque
slideshow of horrors on the backs of my eyelids.  In a perfect world I could
pretend that none of it ever happened, but I learned a long time ago that the
world was 
far from perfect.

I also wish I could just choose a reaction and stick with it -- that I could be
afraid or furious or guilty or sad, but not all of those at once.  They blend
together in a whirling kaleidoscope.  They mock me.

They slowly kill me.

On some miles of this road, I feel guilty and sad at what I've done to my
mother.  My actions have destroyed her, because they were my own.  Instead of
being the victim, this time I was the murderer, the criminal.

One of my first criminal justice courses at Quantico taught me that crime is
painted in shades of grey.  That no such set of events is ever so cut-and-dried
that motivations and repurcussions can be easily delineated.

I'm discovering the truth of that statement with each passing day.

Even when my life would seem to fall apart, I could do no wrong in my parents'
eyes.  I was their angel.  I was perfect.  But in the past ten days, I have
betrayed my mother twice.  

First, by the security camera footage showing me murdering... that woman.  CNN
must have played it a dozen times before the angry calls flooded in from
viewers, appalled that such violence could be shown on their television sets. 
When I first 
saw her in that stiflingly hot Rockville, MD, police station, she told me that
she would do everything in her power to clear my name.

But underneath the bravery of her words, I could hear her chant, "Videotape
doesn't lie."

I betrayed her again by jumping bail.  I don't know what she had to use as
collateral to secure the $500,000 bail from some bondsman, nor did I want to
know.  And I still shudder with self-loathing that my first thought upon my
release was not that I had to go back to my mother's house as I had been
instructed like some delinquent teenager, but that I had to get the hell out of
town.

Mom was probably going through hell right now, as much as from the bondsman
blaming her for my disappearance as from the hurt I've caused her.  

I'm also terrified.  I know that someone is tracking me, following my every
move.  I know that I'll never escape them.

But the emotion that bleeds through my mind as I cross over the Arkansas state
line into Oklahoma is fury.  A white-hot, seething anger at Mulder, for -- my
God -- for everything.  It is a throbbing fury that slowly consumes me.  

Damn him.

Damn him to hell.

I'll see him there.

+++++

Billboards along the interstate showed that a city was approaching.   The cheap
"Hits of the 60s" tape she'd bought at a gas station a few states back was
wearing thin, and the humor she'd felt at Del Shannon's song "Runaway" slowly
faded 
into bitterness and irritation.  She popped the tape out of the deck and began
scanning the stations.  On the low end of the dial, Scully found an NPR
station, and the announcers' plummy tones swept a wave of nostalgia through
her, bringing 
her back to D.C., to the relatively cultured, academic life she'd once led.

She didn't pay very close attention as the latest news was read, instead
letting it filter through her conscious as background noise.  After the voice
had read the latest financial reports, they broke for local news and Scully
heard everything which was going on in Oklahoma City.  Even as she tried to
concentrate, to give her something to think about aside from her own situation
and where she was going, she couldn't help but listen.  

One segment sent a shockwave through her body and she had to fight to keep the
car on the road.

"Today, attorneys for the family of Samantha Mulder, the woman who was murdered
in a Rockville, MD, grocery store last week, announced their intention to file
a multi-million dollar wrongful death civil suit against suspect Dana Scully
after her criminal trial."

Scully trained her eyes on the road and gripped the steering wheel so tightly
that spasms of pain shot up her arms.  

The announcer droned on.  "Before the O. J. Simpson murder trial, such wrongful
death suits were fairly uncommon, but as NPR correspondent Susan Bergman
reports, many families are turning to them as another way for them to seek
their 
own justice."  

She reached up and angrily snapped off the radio.  A thrill of sheer fury
coursed through her body, and she had to grip the steering wheel even harder,
lest she break out into a screaming, hissing fit.

Damn him.

He and his family couldn't be contented with the near-certainty that she would
be convicted of murder, could they?  She had always known that Albertina Mulder
was a bitter, vindictive old woman, but for so long, Scully had believed that
her son wasn't like that -- that he could see reason and had compassion.  

Apparently, she had been wrong.

That bastard.  

She was glad that each mile she drove carried her further away from him.

+++++

The lights of the road blurred into nothingness.  She jerked back in the
driver's seat of a '91 Camry she'd bought in Dallas and took another sip of
godawful gas station coffee.  Scully glanced over at her map in the darkness
and, comparing it to the signs she'd seen in the past few miles.  Scully was
about an hour outside of Lubbock and, much as she hated to stop her journey,
she had to get some sleep.  For nearly thirty hours straight, she'd driven,
with only the minimum of stops -- 
fast food, gas, and a couple of catnaps in rest areas where it wouldn't be
noticed.  She knew where she was going and had to get there as quickly as
possible, but her haste wouldn't be any advantage if she showed up on the verge
of exhaustion. 

The miles to Lubbock passed in a monotonous blur, full of flat lands and flat
emotions.  The only excitement came when she glanced in her rearview mirror and
noticed the flashing lights of a highway patrol car.  Panicking, she looked at
the 
speedometer and saw she was going only 3 miles and hour over the posted speed
limit, but knew that excessive speed was the least of the reasons why she might
be pulled over.

Scully could actually feel her heart stop beating...

... then start again as the patrol car sped past her in pursuit of someone
else.

As she caught her first glimpse of Lubbock's streetlights, she laughed, feeling
like she was caught in a bizarre country song.  Then again, if she tried to
sell her story to Nashville, even the most conservative, government-hating of
record producers wouldn't buy it for a second.

Several billboards announced budget chain motels in the coming miles, so she
pulled off the interstate at the indicated exit and sought out the first she
saw, a Red Roof Inn.  Despite the romance inherent in small, dingy diners and
rundown 
motor lodges, corporate lodging and dining offered the best anonymity by far. 
The clerk barely gave her a second glance as she paid for a single room in cash
under a name which really didn't matter.  

Rather than immediately going to bed, she headed toward the Wal-Mart next to
the hotel.  Scully wanted nothing more than to take a long, hot shower and curl
up on a firm mattress, but she had to stock up on a few supplies and Saturday
night would offer less visibility than a Sunday morning, when clerks would
glare at her for skipping church.  She pulled into the parking lot and checked
her pockets for the remains of her stash of money.  Scully was still surprised
that cleaning out her savings and checking accounts had been so easy --
apparently the authorities hadn't seen fit to freeze her assets.  She still had
plenty of money left, but not enough to waste.

Inside the store, she walked up and down the aisles.  Into her cart went
crackers and candy bars, shampoo and a toothbrush.  She carefully selected a
dark brown hair dye to cover up the bad bleached-blonde dye job she'd done at
home right before she left, then some scissors and mousse to complete the style
change.  In the clothing department, Scully chose some bland blue jeans and
t-shirts, plus a selection of underwear.  Lastly, she chose a flashlight and
pocket knife -- it wouldn't provide as much protection as the gun she still
carried next to her body, but additional weaponry wouldn't hurt.  

The supplies were paid for in cash, and at the checkout she resisted the urge
to glance at the covers of the newsmagazines, not wanting to see if her name or
photo were featured within.  Back in her room, Scully dialed the operator and
asked for the number for pizza delivery, and when it arrived, she was nearly
too tired to manage to eat more than a slice.  

Her hunger sated and her body clean, she stripped off all her clothes and
placed her gun under her pillow, then crashed into a deep sleep.

+++++

The place is dark, so dark.  

I take a step forward and a blast of frigid-cold air hits me like a wall.  I
cross my arms over my chest and find that I'm naked, my body unprotected from
the chill of this place.  My eyes slowly adjust to the darkness and I see that
it's a cave, filled with dripping stalagmites and stony walls.  

Somewhere in the distance, I hear a soft moan, followed by a louder wail.  A
disembodied voice begins calling out to me.

"Dana......."

I spin around to locate the sound and am caught off-balance, falling to the
hard, unforgiving floor.  Water seeps through my skin, bathing me in ice.  

The wailing gets closer.  

"Dana!"

I hazard a chance at opening my eyes, and there she is.

Samantha. 

Her clothes are bloody and I can see straight through the bullet hole in her
skull to the darkness behind her.  She looks at me, rage mixing with pity on
what's left of her face.

"Why did you kill me, Dana?" she half-moans, half-screams.

I try to stand but some unseen force is pinning me to the ground.

Her voice rises to a scream.

"WHY DID YOU KILL ME?"

+++++

I wake up, drenched in sweat, my arms and legs akimbo and the bedspread kicked
to the floor.  Bright sunlight streaming through the window blinds me and I
turn away, burying my face in the pillow.  

Shards of dream-memory assault me, but they won't fuse into a whole and tell me
what they mean.  

I finally open my eyes and look over at the digital clock.

11:47. 

Oh, God!  I race out of bed and frantically pull on my clothes.  My few
possessions are bundled into a plastic Wal-Mart shopping bag, and I shove my
pistol into the waistband of my jeans as I hurry out of the room.  The room key
is dropped into the return box just minutes shy of the noon deadline, and I
fight the urge to peel out of the parking lot, instead taking my time so as not
to attract attention.

At the stoplight where I'll turn onto the interstate onramp, my hand moves to
the back of my neck, fingering the plastic band-aid there.  The skin was still
sore.

The chip was gone.

+++++

END (1/9)

Chapter Two. 

+++++ 

My fingertips scratch at the back of my neck. 

The bandage is dry, nothing more than an ordinary band-aid.  As I rub it, I can
feel the tiny hairs on my skin sticking to the adhesive, and the pull almost
makes me wince.  I can still feel the scalpel in my hands, and the way I held
the small mirror in front of me to catch my reflection in the larger mirror,
performing self-surgery in a dingy motel bathroom.  I should be terrified of
having picked up an infection, but my body has already been through so much
hell, my immune system must be made of iron. 

The chip is the double-edged sword of life and death, in so many ways. 

Keep it, and live.  Remove it, and die. 

Get rid of it and escape Their tracking system.  Hold on to it and keep the key
to oh-so-goddamned-much. 

Do I have a choice? 

If They want to find me, They will.   And at this point, whatever the hell They
could do to me, it couldn't be any worse than going back to D.C. and facing a
life in prison. 

As I get out of the car and unscrew the gas cap, I can feel the faint rattling
of the chip in the amber prescription bottle in my pocket.  Though the cadence
is erratic, it has all the strength and surety of a timebomb. I angrily shove
the keys into the ignition after filling up the car, then fight the urge to
press down on the accelerator with all the force left in my weary body. 

And then I feel the soft, liquid tricking in my nasal cavity. 

Oh, shit. 

My thumb brushes over my upper lip and smears fluid onto the pad of my finger. 
If I weren't driving, I'd close my eyes and steel myself, but I'm hitting the
interstate and I don't have that luxury.  Instead, I grip the steering wheel
tightly with my other hand and take a deep breath, then look at my hand. 

It's clear. 

No blood. 

I nearly faint with relief. 

Just a cold.  Just a runny nose.  My shoulders shake with relieved, sardonic
laughter.  No cancer.... at least, not yet.  I don't have any kleenex, so I
sniffle until my nose is slightly clearer, and resolve to steal a roll of
toilet paper at the next place I stop. 

I've been given a reprieve. 

In the middle of my death sentence. 

+++++ 

Her moment of realization had been slow in coming.  When she'd first realized
just why all this was happening, she almost felt jealous of those trademarked
Mulder Leaps of Logic.  Why hadn't she thought of it sooner? Why hadn't she
known that the goddamned chip would give her one thing and take away everything
else? 

It had given her life.  It had taken her control. 

That incident at the dam in Pennsylvania should have been Scully's first clue
-- that it was a means of control, not salvation.  The distinct, overpowering
yearning feeling came on so slowly that she hadn't noticed it at first, so
caught up as she was in all the other horrors of their situation. Chaos, born
from crises of faith and power, confused her and rendered her helpless.  She'd
grown so accustomed to suppressing these for so long that ignoring them had
become as much a part of her biological makeup as breathing and the beat of her
heart. 

It was rational.  It was expected, she'd told herself.  One doesn't go through
what she had endured over the past year without having their entire life thrown
into disarray.  She could handle it -- she always had.  Despite having been
educated in exploring every aspect of any given situation, the thought that a
small piece of metal implanted in the back of her neck being the cause of this
newest crisis hadn't even occurred to her. Before, when she'd first returned
from her abduction, she'd walked around with the chip for nearly a year with it
in her neck without experiencing any problems, so after she'd implanted the new
one, she thought that just maybe, she could go back to the way things had been
way back then. 

That ride home from the Rockville Police Department after her mother had posted
bail had been excruciating.  Instead of feeling guilt or horror or even the
urge to investigate, she'd merely stared out the window as her mother's Buick
navigated the familiar streets home.  When they'd finally arrived at her
apartment building, Maggie Scully made her first error, though the naive woman
hadn't known it at the time. 

"You get settled in, Dana -- take a shower, lie down, get some sleep. Okay? 
I'm going to run home and get some things so I can stay here with you." 

Court orders, of course, but a devil sitting on Dana's left shoulder neglected
to tell the older woman that leaving her daughter alone would be the biggest
mistake she could have made.  Scully watched with bated breath as her mother
went through the motions of turning on the lamps and walking through the
apartment, then made to leave, and she'd felt for all the world like she was
sixteen again, waiting for her parents to get out of the house so she could
finally have some fun. 

Maggie left, and Dana counted to a hundred, then raced around the apartment,
gathering what she would need.  As she piled toiletries into a ziploc bag,
stiff neck muscles screamed at her and she stopped for just a second to roll
her head on her neck, stretching out the muscles. 

She felt the chip. 

She felt a bolt of realization. 

That was it. 

That savior-chip was causing all this hell. 

Without even stopping to rationally consider her options, she fumbled in a
drawer where she kept her medical supplies, and grabbed a scalpel enclosed in a
hard plastic case.  Shoving it into the bag, she threw some clothes on top of
it and ran to the entryway for her spare set of car keys.  Not bothering to
take the time to worry that leaving in her own car would leave her open to
exposure, she fled the apartment and headed toward freedom. 

She would remove that goddamned chip the first chance she got. 

She knew it could kill her. 

She would go away to die. 

Alone. 

And find the Truth along the way. 

Before it was too late. 

Dana Katherine Scully would die with a clear name.  A clear soul. 

If only she could slough off the mantle of guilt. 

+++++ 

She left Texas behind after another few hours of monotonous driving. Everything
around her felt dead -- the grass, the sky, even the occasional house she
passed. 

Of course, Scully thought, maybe I'm the one who's dead. 

Ever since she'd removed the chip, she could feel the small changes in her
body.  She was easily distracted.  If she'd had anyone to talk to, she probably
would have found herself easily irritable.  Her entire body felt tightly-wound
-- a kite without the benefit of being high. 

Scully self-diagnosed herself.  Panic attacks.  Was complete emotional
breakdown far behind?  Remove an animal from its environment and, unless
properly nurtured, it flounders and eventually dies.  Just as she was doing
now. 

Shit. 

A macabre bubble of laughter forced its way through her throat.  If she died
tomorrow, Mulder would get everything.  Granted, there wasn't much to have, but
she'd built up a fairly decent savings portfolio over the years. As she passed
a sign welcoming her to New Mexico, Land of Enchantment, memories of the time
she'd written her most recent will were summoned to the front of her mind... 

... choosing which mementoes to leave her family .... arranging for the
perpetual upkeep of Emily's tiny grave .... then the words, "All my remaining
possessions, monetary and tangible, I hereby bequeath to Fox William Mulder. 

//With this ring, I thee wed.  With this body, I thee worship.  With all my
worldly goods, I thee endow.// 

A quick trip to the Bureau's LegAtt offices, and it was official. 

And then it all went to hell in a handbasket -- or, in this case, a shopping
cart. 

She'd intended the gesture as a final gift of love when she'd been dying of the
cancer.  Now, the cruel irony of it slapped at her.  What would Mulder do with
his bequest now?  Throw her possessions in the sea?  Build a bonfire with the
cash from her savings? 

She pulled into the first gas station she saw across the border, and went
inside to buy a couple of Diet Cokes and a big bag of chips, and use the
bathroom.  Glancing down at the map on the passenger seat, she saw she still
had about four hours of driving before she got there.  Four more hours of what
was left of her life. 

+++++ 

Hours after her arrest, she'd been summoned from the holding tank at the police
station.  The guard refused to tell her who had asked to meet with her, but
Scully had assumed it was the attorney she'd asked her mother to call. 

It was Mulder. 

She watched his body settle into the wooden chair across the table.  His entire
body was tense, a masterpiece drawn on the tight lines of his face. He said
nothing, but she could see the skin of his hands stretched taut over his
knuckles. 

They remained there, a stalemate of two, for minutes too long to count.  A
basic wall clock hung proudly behind him, but Scully had no interest in
watching it.  She couldn't.  Not with Mulder there. 

The room grew humid with tension.  She had so many things she wanted to say to
him -- a thousand pleas rising through her belly like nausea.  But the death in
his eyes rendered her mute. 

He finally stood and began to pace under the watchful glare of the security
camera perched in one corner.  Each step was a measured dance of fury -- a
suppression of emotion she'd seldom seen from him before.  Mulder was a man
whose emotions were a window display at Macy's, heralding each new season with
a splash of different hues and textures.  She scarcely recognized this Mulder. 

And the fear continued to build within her, sucking at the marrow of her bones.


He stopped pacing and turned to look at her.  The man she had once loved -- and
might still love, were she not so damn afraid -- looked so old.  So old. 

And his voice was dead. 

"I saw the videotape." 

Having not spoken to anyone since she'd been spirited away from the Safeway in
a squad car, the existence of video was news to her. 

"What does it show?"  She didn't have to ask, but the latent masochist in her
forced the question. 

"It shows a woman -- you -- walking up to another woman -- Sa..." he caught
himself, "her -- saying a few wordxs, then pulling out a gun and shooting her
twice in the chest and once in the head, at point-blank range."  His hard voice
tripped a rhumba over the words. 

She did not know what to say in response, so she remained mute, marveling at
her complete lack of any emotional response.  If he were to ask her how she was
feeling, she would have murmured, "I'm fine." 

Before her, Mulder wrung his elegant hands with a dowager's fury. 

"Preliminary blood tests came back.  The woman was human.  An old friend of
ours," without saying the name, she knew he referred to the Smoking Man,
"informed me that the woman you murdered was my sister." 

//The woman you murdered// 

The words rang through her ears with a hollow clamor.  She wanted to feel
angry, ashamed, ANYTHING, but she just felt dead. 

Mulder leaned forward and rested his face in his hands.  It was the first time
she saw him allow himself to show any emotion.  Any weakness. 

His voice wept salty tears when he once again raised his face to meet hers. 

"Why did you kill Samantha?" 

At those words, she could literally feel the tendons of her strength snap,
brittle and twisted.  A wave of fury began at the back of her skull and spread
through her body in crashing waves. 

And she could not control her bitter anger as she spat out the damning words. 

"She had to die." 

+++++ 

Everything around me is so quiet, so still. 

The road to Albuquerque stretches before me, a ribbon of gray curling over
fields of brown and dusky green.  I let my mind drift, lulled into suspended
animation by the monotony of the car's vibrations. 

I wonder what is happening back in D.C. right now. 

I wonder what Mulder is doing. 

I feel so damned alone. 

Are they all searching high and low for me?  Are they doing the forensics
investigations I've done a million times before, gathering evidence to link me
to my crime?  I know what Mulder's doing.  He's meeting with his attorneys,
plotting how he can make me pay for what I've done. 

Mulder. 

His lack of trust in me still stings my heart, but I can't say I'm surprised. 
After all, I saw the videotape of me murdering Samantha.  The evidence is there
-- the preponderance of facts pointing to my guilt were too much for him to
bear.  And all those years of our trust, our connection, vanished at what I'd
done.  I can't blame him.  I don't. 

But I do. 

Goddamn you, Mulder!  How can you not trust me?  How can you have such faith in
truth, only to let it melt away when I betray you? 

I loved you once.  I loved you so passionately every cell in my body sang in
your presence.  Every doubt in my mind at my own worthiness evaporated with one
look from you.  But I can't love you anymore, not when you couldn't stand by me
when I needed you most.  Not when you become me, believing in the evidence
without standing by me, searching for the truth. 

I hate you. 

A million miles couldn't bring me far enough from you. 

The hunter becomes the hunted.  I've spent the past five years searching for
criminals, trying to track them down and capture them.  I've gained a wealth of
knowledge in the process.  But, just like every criminal I've hunted, I know
that I will be caught. 

Time is of the essence. 

Miles to go before I sleep. 

Miles to go before I die. 

And I am so alone. 

+++++ 

END (2/9) 

Chapter Three. 

+++++ 

She rolled into town with the impact of a muted trumpet. 

After passing through Albuquerque, Scully found an abandoned car on a side
farm-market road, and hotwired it, managing to get it down the highway to Las
Cruces without having to kill the engine.  As the signs of approaching
civilizations emerged as phenixes from the dry land -- several fast-food
restaurants, a couple of gas stations, a grocery store -- she began scoping out
locations where she could decamp safely. 

Though she'd managed to change her appearance enough to keep casual observers
from recognizing her from the images flashed over television and newspapers,
she didn't dare become complacent.  Short, black hair and a mild sunburn went a
long way toward distancing her from her F.B.I. persona, but they could never
provide safety -- and they only made her feel more foreign and uneasy, so far
removed from the control she'd always exercised over her appearance. 

Once she'd reached the old, beautiful downtown, she stopped the car and let it
die in a parking lot.  Gathering her meager possessions into a shoulder bag,
she carefully cleansed all remnants of her occupation from the vehicle,
spit-polishing the steering wheel and gearshift to clear her fingerprints. 
Emerging from the car, she slung the bag over her shoulder and took her first
tentative steps. 

She fished a few coins out of her jeans pocket and bought a newspaper.  It was
Sunday and the small paper contained a scattering of classified ads. Scully
slipped into a Denny's and scoured the ads over bottomless cups of coffee and a
full breakfast, welcoming the eggs and bacon even though the hour was fast
approaching twilight.  She circled a few housing possibilities and then turned
to the main news section. 

The only mention of Rancho Cardenas was a small ad in the metropolitan section,
announcing an upcoming cattle auction.  She didn't need to call the number
listed to know how to get there -- every minute detail had already been etched
into the grooves of her mind.  Turning back to the classifieds, she held her
breath while she looked over the few employment listings, then her heart nearly
lept out of her body as she spotted a listing for domestic help wanted at the
ranch.  The date at the end of the listing showed that the ad had been placed
the Friday before, and Scully glanced up at the ceiling, finally believing that
just perhaps, God had finally chosen to give her a break. 

After nearly an hour of reading and planning, she paid her bill and emerged
from the restaurant.  Scully walked down the street to a Budget Inn she'd seen
earlier, and requested a room under the generic name, "Barbara Smith".  Once
inside her room, she stripped off her clothing and ran a bath, then immersed
herself in a scalding hot pool of water.  The bath invigorated her, giving her
a false optimism that perhaps her body wouldn't fail her after all. 

But she knew better than to hope. 

Each heartbeat brought blood coursing through her veins, spreading all the
impurities in her body.  Each heartbeat brought the potential of death. 

Hope was a luxury, and she was poor. 

+++++ 

Sleep chose not to pay her a visit that night.  After several hours of lying on
the bed, too tense to enjoy the cartoons on the television -- she didn't dare
turn on any news programs -- the time for her to leave finally approached. 

Before going to the office to pay for another night at the motel, she picked up
the phone.  Taking several deep breaths, she dialed the number in the
employment listing. 

A pleasant voice answered.  "Rancho Cardenas.  How can I help you?" 

"Yes, hi."  Scully's hand gripped the phone so tightly her hand ached. "I'm
calling about the help wanted ad?" 

"Ah, great!  We only placed that ad last week!  Are you interested in the
housekeeping position?" 

Scully knew better than to let the voice give her any optimism.  "Yes, I am. 
Could I come out there this morning to apply?" 

She heard the rustlings of papers and a distant voice asking "Carla" a
question.  After a few seconds, the woman spoke again.  "Sorry, it's been a
crazy morning around here.  Sure, come on out.  We'll be here." 

"Great, thanks."  Scully allowed just a small bit of tension to release from
her body. 

"Do you need directions?" 

"Um, no."  She tried to keep her voice neutral and just a little bit naive. 
"Someone already told me where you're located.  I'll be walking out there,
though, so it might take me a while." 

"Good Lord, don't walk!"  The woman's -- Carla's? -- laughter echoed down the
wire.  "Are you downtown?" 

"Yes ma'am." 

"Okay.  Go to North Alameda Boulevard.  Bus #27 south will take you right to
our front gates.   I'm sorry, what is your name?" 

Scully caught her breath, then said, "Barbara Smith." 

"Hi, Barbara.  I'm Carla Mendoza.  I look forward to meeting you!"  With that,
the line disconnected. 

Scully felt like she'd just bought a dollar's worth of hope. 


+++++ 

After buying a few groceries at a small Hispanic store, Scully made her way
over to North Alameda Blvd. and found a bus stop.  She glanced up at the sign
and saw that #27 was indeed stopping on that street.  She sat down on the bench
and pulled out one of the pastries she'd bought, the egg bread covered with
sugary dough waging war with her stomach.  Pan de huevo was one of a
progression of new, foreign experiences. 

Of all the risks she'd taken in her years with the Bureau, the one on which she
was embarking was the most frightening. 

She waited for a few endless minutes before the bus pulled up in front of her. 
Gathering her bag in her arms, she boarded the bus and gave the drive enough
fare for the trip, then settled onto one of the hard plastic seats. The
anonymous bus carried her through the city, then civilization began to fade as
they emerged into ranch country.  The slight roll of scrub-and-grass-covered
hills exacerbated the roiling of her stomach. 

Scully kept a vigilant watch of every mile they covered, until she saw a
wrought-iron arch appear on her right.  Pulling on the bell-cord, she signaled
her desire to stop, then made her way to the bus' exit as it pulled to a stop
at Rancho Cardenas. 

The dusty earth was firm under her feet, giving her mission a sense of levity
it had already possessed in spades.  She walked down the paved road for nearly
a mile, until the ranch house emerged from behind a bluff.  It shimmered in the
midmorning heat, reminding her of Xanadu. 

Her stately pleasuredome.  Her truth. 

+++++ 

She had never been a good liar.  In fact, she was awful at it.  Mulder told her
once that he hoped she never had occasion to lie to someone besides him,
because she'd never be able to pull it off.  Of course, she had honed the art
of lying to him to perfection over the years. 

And now, her biggest test loomed before her. 

Scully smoothed down her hair and rubbed her palms over her face, trying once
again to redden her complexion.  The motion stung her sunburn, but she knew
that every small movement was necessary.  Finally, she pulled open the door of
the ranch's business office, and stepped inside. 

Everything was normal -- almost too normal for a business linked with such a
nefarious corporation.  The building was merely a generic, prefabricated
building, but someone had made an attempt to dress it up slightly, with a vase
of cut flowers on the secretary's desk and some framed posters advertising
rodeos on the walls.  She walked up to the empty desk, and stood there, waiting
patiently for the secretary to return.  Just as she began to feel impatient, a
young woman emerged from a closed office. 

"Can I help you?"  She wore jeans and a short-sleeved sweater with buttons down
the front, making Scully feel better about her own casual dress. 

Scully stood up straight, pushing some stray hair out of her eyes, trying to
look somewhat nervous.  She didn't have to try hard.  "Yes, I'm here to apply
for a job." 

The woman smiled.  "Wait, you're Barbara.... I'm sorry, I don't remember your
last name." 

"Barbara Smith," Scully supplied. 

"Oh, right.  Hi there!"  The woman held out her hand for Scully to shake. "I'm
Carla Mendoza.  Nice to meet you.  Why don't you come into my office?" 

The women went inside and Scully sat down in the plain chair in front of the
desk.  "I'm sorry I don't have an application for you to fill out, but Dolores
just ran into town to Office Max to pick up some more of those standard ones. 
So, why don't I tell you a little bit about the job and you can tell me about
yourself." 

"Fine with me."  Scully forced herself to smile in return. 

"Well, to be honest, there really isn't much to tell.  The woman who used to do
the housekeeping around here just got de-- had to leave the area suddenly, and
we're looking to replace her." 

Deported, huh?  The news was music to her ears -- a company which hired illegal
aliens would probably be quite willing to overlook Scully's own lack of
documentation. 

"So, tell me a little bit about yourself, Barbara." 

Scully looked down at her hands, trying to appear nervous.  "Well, I... um... I
had to leave home pretty suddenly too.  My husband, he took things a little too
far." 

"Ah."  Carla leaned back in her chair in feminine understanding.  Scully felt a
stab of guilt at preying on sympathies by using such a ghastly excuse. 

"I'm sorry, but I can't give you any references or social security numbers --
that sort of thing.  I don't want him to track me down." 

Carla placed her hands flat on her desk and smiled softly.  "No, I understand. 
That won't be a problem."  She paused for a moment, then continued, "Well,
since I'm in charge of hiring, you're in.  I like you." 

This is far too easy, Scully thought. 

"We can pay you $4.50 an hour for eight hours a day.  I know it's below minimum
wage, but we can also provide you with free housing here on site." 

Far too easy. 

"That's great.  Thank you."  Scully plastered a not-insincere smile on her
face. 

"Hey, can you start today?"  She reached into a desk drawer and pulled out some
papers while Scully gave her assent.  "Okay, when Dolores gets back with the
application, I'll need you to fill out at least the basic information, but we
won't file any paperwork with the government, so you won't have to worry about
your husband finding you." 

Once again, Scully murmured her thanks.  She jotted down her name and a made-up
social security number on the paper Carla handed her, and rose to her feet. 
Carla gave her a quick tour of the office and ranch house, and Scully paid very
close attention, quickly memorizing the layout and estimating where she'd be
able to find the information she'd need.  Once the tour was completed, Carla
led her out to the cabin which would be hers.  It was clustered with three
other small one-room cabins, but the lack of many windows gave it some privacy.
 A key was pressed into Scully's palm. 

"Why don't you go put your stuff inside and we'll meet back in the office in an
hour.  How does that sound?" 

"That's great.  I can't begin to thank you for all the help you've given me." 

Carla smiled over her shoulder as she began the walk back to the office. "Hey,
no problem!  Call it New Mexico hospitality."  With that, she was gone. 

Scully walked into the cabin and sat down on the faded brown sofa, letting the
darkness flow over her.  The words "too easy" echoed through her mind. 

And she waited for the other shoe to drop. 

+++++ 

Everything feels so foreign.  Though the office I'm cleaning is quite similar
to any other small-town office, the ranch itself is so different. Wide open
spaces, wood fences -- it's like I've stepped into a Ralph Lauren ad, save the
emaciated models. 

I've made little effort to meet anyone here, save Carla and Dolores.
Fortunately, I've never been the social type, and anonymity is essential to my
safety right now.  Exposure would mean death.  My reclusiveness hasn't caused
many problems, either.  Gossip spreads quickly in small communities, and most
of the ranch hands probably assume I'm too traumatized by my "husband" to be
social. 

I am traumatized, but for reasons I doubt they suspect. 

It's my third day here.  Every night I go back to my small cabin, turn up the
air conditioner, and settle onto the sofa.  I wish I had a computer and
internet connection, but all I can manage is low-tech brainpower. 

The days are beastly hot but the nights are cool.  I walk over to my two small
windows and open them, letting the day's heat seep out of the cabin. The owners
do not provide televisions, and I'm glad.  I have enough to worry about without
having to hear my name on the nightly news. 

I write down one word:  WestAssure.  Rancho Cardenas' HMO.  And that is why I'm
here. 

This evening, after the ranch had finished its daily business and I'd emptied
the trashcans and wiped off all the surfaces, I went into Carla's office and
pulled out the WestAssure file.  She'd saved the company prospectus, and I
quickly photocopied it, along with the rest of the contents of the file.  I
commune with it tonight. 

It is all I have to go on.  It contains the keys to the truth I seek. 

+++++ 

The damning words come easily enough. 

"Barbara, I forgot to tell you," Carla said the next afternoon as she got ready
to leave for the night.  "You're going to need to go into town to the clinic to
get your pre-employment checkup." 

"Checkup?"  Scully tried to keep her voice even. 

Carla ruffled through her handbag, looking for something or another. "Yeah,
sorry I forgot to tell you earlier.  The name is WestAssure -- it's the HMO our
employees use." 

"But can I--" 

The woman pulled out a business card and handed it to Scully.  "You're not a
documented worker, but WestAssure has always been great about letting us send
undocs to their clinic for basic health care.  Kinda makes you wonder about all
those stories that HMOs are really just heartless corporations, huh?" 

Heartless corporations, indeed, Scully thought.  "I really don't think I'll
need it, Carla.  In fact, I'd rather not." 

Carla slung her purse over her shoulder and stood to walk out of the room. "I
hope not, too, but better safe than sorry.  Want me to call tomorrow and get
you an appointment?" 

"No, that's okay,"  the business card shook slightly in her trembling hands. 
"I'll do it tomorrow." 

"Great!  See you then." 

"See you,"  Scully called out to the exiting woman. 

WestAssure. 

The name was both infuriating and incredibly welcome.  Scully remembered the
research she'd done on the corporation before her arrest.  They were ostensibly
a large corporate health management organization, but, not surprisingly, only
had offices in "abduction" hotspots:  Allentown, PA, Bellefleur, OR,
Hattiesburg, MS, McKinney, TX.  According to their financial reports, major
shareholders included executives on the boards of TransGen and Roush
pharmaceutical companies, and Scully had no doubt they were a Consortium front.


The possibility of getting inside their facilities was what had led Scully to
violate bail and throw caution -- everything -- to the wind and come out here. 
And here was her chance.  Why the hell was she suddenly so apprehensive? 

Though she'd never admit it to them, Scully had been known to read the
occasional issue of The Lone Gunmen.  A couple of months ago, they had run an
article saying that WestAssure was using its clients for all kinds of medical
experimentation, and Mulder had told her that among the unprinted allegations
was that they were implanting chips like hers into their patients.  She'd given
her typical Scully non-answer to his comment, but the idea had insinuated
itself into her mind, surfacing again when she'd first removed the chip after
fleeing D.C. 

And now, her opportunity was at hand.  She picked up the phone and dialed the
number on the business card. 

Scully set up an appointment for the next afternoon.  When she'd expressed
difficulty in finding transportation to their clinic, the nurse told her that
they'd be more than willing to send someone out to Rancho Cardenas to pick her
up.  Scully almost laughed at the offer -- they were probably quite eager to
have fresh blood. 

After hanging up the phone, she quickly finished her cleaning duties, then set
the office alarm and locked the door behind her.  Scully was once again
surprised at the trust the ranch had placed in her, but not the least bit
guilty for abusing it. 

As she walked the quarter mile to her cabin, she halfheartedly returned the
wave of one of the ranch hands who was rounding up the cattle.  She still
didn't know his name, nor did she have any desire to find out what it was.
Looking ahead at the horizon, she watched the sun slowly disappearing over the
mountains, with a sky the color of blood. 

Blood. 

The sky was an omen.  Her breath caught when she felt the familiar pressure in
her sinusoid cavity.  Raising a finger to her upper lip, she brushed it over
the slick skin, and it came away red.  A nosebleed.  Oh, God. 

She had staved off death so far, but here on the plateaux of southern New
Mexico, it came calling for her. 

Her steps quickened as the cabin approached.  Scully's hand dug furiously in
her pocket for her key, and she stabbed it into the lock just as the sun
slipped behind the mountains.  The cabin was dark, so dark, and she welcomed
it, wanting nothing more than to slip into darkness herself.  To die, to bring
an end to all this agony. 

Scully hurried over to the sink in the small kitchenette, and grabbed a paper
towel, dousing it in warm water before bringing it up to her nose. Pinching the
bridge of it between her fingers, she held her head back and closed her eyes,
letting the blood wash down her nasal cavity.  Maybe she'd choke on the blood. 
Maybe mercy would finally be found. 

She turned around and leaned against the hard counter, the edge of the formica
pressing into her upper back.  One deep breath after another slowly began to
relax her as she kicked off her shoes and allowed fat tears to begin falling
down her cheeks. 

And just as her world became dark, a familiar, dreaded voice echoed through the
small room. 

"Scully." 

Her eyelids flew open and through the veil of tears, she saw him. 

Mulder. 

+++++ 

END (3/9) 

Chapter Four. 

+++++ 

A cold war was waged in a small cabin near Las Cruces, New Mexico. 

The man felt every muscle in his body tense as fury flashed across the woman's
face.  She took a step forward, he took a step back.  Immediately cursing
himself at the reaction, he planted his feet firmly on the wooden floor, and
held his ground.  Anger and tension became infused with the air they breathed. 

Then, just as the woman made a move to lunge forward in anger and
confrontation, she suddenly dropped to the ground.  A pool of blood spread from
her face onto the wood floor. 

And the man rushed to her side, one word emerging in a strangled voice. 

"Scully!" 

+++++ 

The cell phone in my coat pocket rings shrilly, distracting me from the forms
in my hand.  Like so many times before, I pull it out and hit the send button,
then raise it to my ear. 

"Mulder." 

The voice on the other end hesitates just a moment.  It can't be Scully, I can
already tell that.  As I hear breathing on the other end, I begin to wonder if
perhaps those phone-sex operators have gotten hold of my cell number. 

"Fox?  It's..."  I recognize the voice.  "Maggie Scully." 

I can already tell something's wrong.  Mrs. Scully wouldn't be calling me
unless.... 

"Something's wrong.  Um, Dana wanted me to call you." 

Panic seizes hold of my motor functions.  "What?  What is it?"  I don't bother
to disguise the fear in my voice. 

Mrs. Scully is having a tough time keeping calm, I can tell.  "She.... there's
been a shooting." 

I can hear chaos in the background, along with the faint sound of a police
siren.  "Is she okay?" 

"Yes, she wasn't shot.  Fox, um, you need to get to the Safeway on Randolph
Road as soon as you can.  It's near the Parklawn Cemetary." 

"Randolph Road?  Which city?" 

"Rockville."  I quickly commit the location to memory.  "Fox, I'm sorry, but I
have to go." 

The line disconnects.  I drop the file in my hand and rush out of the building,
on my way to Rockville. 

+++++ 

Mulder rushed to her side, easily scooping Scully up in his arms.  He carried
her over to the bed and set her on the mattress.  Rushing back over to the
sink, he grabbed some dingy white handtowels and doused them with water, then
brought them back over to her. 

Scully remained still, so still, on the bed.  Mulder had come here full of
anger, desperate to confront her with what she had done,  and fully expecting
both of them to break with the fury of their argument. 

He had never expected this. 

As darkness bathed the room, he wiped the blood from her face and placed a cool
washcloth over her brow. 

And over and over again, he whispered, "Scully," while his heart slowly broke. 

+++++ 

I can see the flashing lights from a block away. 

The parking lot is still open, though yellow police tape blocks off the
entrance to the store.  I pull my car into an empty space and tear out of it,
pulling my badge out of my coat pocket as I run.  Scanning the officers
standing around the perimeter, I look for one who might be clueless enough to
let me in, and when I spot him, I run up. 

"Agent Mulder, FBI," I yell. 

The young officer pulls himself up straighter.  "I'm sorry, agent, but you
can't go in there." 

Goddammit, I really want to slap this greenhorn.  Making my voice menacing, I
bark, "I have reason to believe that my partner is in there." 

"Who's your partner?" 

"Special Agent Dana Scully." 

His face becomes very serious, and a look passes across it so quickly I can't
place what it is.  "Oh.  I think you should go see the Captain over there."  He
gestures over to a cluster of officers around a squad car. 

Not giving him a second glance, I hurry over there.  When I'm a few steps away,
I see the flash of red hair in the backseat of the squad car.  Oh, God.  Why
the hell is Scully -- SCULLY! -- in the back? 

A man, his uniform showing the markings of a police captain, spots me and
approaches.  He sees my badge held in front of me and immediately calls out,
"Agent Mulder?" 

"Yes, where is she?"  I try to keep my voice calm, but it's so damn hard.
Scully hears my voice and turns around to face me, a look of uncontrolled panic
on her face. 

Just as I get close enough to the car to grab the handle, the captain grabs my
arm and leads me away from the car.  "I think you'd better come with me,
Agent." 

"I think you'd better let me talk to my partner!"  I try to pull out of his
grasp, but despite being several inches shorter, the man is fucking strong.  He
pulls me about fifteen feet away from the car.  I want to scream.  I want to
pull out my gun and shoot my way back to her. 

"Agent, there's been a situation." 

"NO SHIT!  What the hell is going on here?"  My voice is more scream than
anything else. 

"Your partner is under arrest." Before I can interrupt him again, he continues.
 "Thirty witnesses say she shot another woman point blank.  The other woman is
dead." 

I am stunned.  It was self-defense.  The other person was a suspect. Anything,
ANYTHING but murder.  The other woman was -- "Agent Scully tells us that the
victim's name is Samantha Mulder." 

+++++ 

He must have dozed off, because the stirring of her body next to him startled
him out of a dream.  In it, he was wading through knee-deep blood on the cabin
floor, trying desperately to get to her.  But she always remained an arm's
reach away, moving further from him with each step he took.  Sitting up
straight in the hard-backed chair, he shook the cobwebs from his brain and
looked down at her.  Mulder could barely see Scully in the darkness, so he
walked over to the wall and flipped on the overhead light, wishing that he
could use a lamp instead of the harshness of the cabin light. 

He wanted to feel anger -- God knew he'd spent most of his trip out there in a
state of fury so intense he could barely see straight -- but instead he just
felt hollow. 

And terrified.  He was terrified. 

The nosebleeds were supposed to have been a thing of the past.  They were
supposed to have been gone with the insertion of that small computer chip in
the back of her neck.  The two of them were never supposed to relive the horror
of that time.  But then she stirred again in the bed and her neck was bared to
him from under her short black hair. 

A bandage was where the chip had been. 

Goddammit, Scully!  Why the hell did you get rid of it?  Do you have a
deathwish? 

Thinking back on the past couple of weeks, he realized that she most likely
did. 

Angry tears stung his eyes.  How could this have happened?  How could they ever
survive? 

Did she even want to? 

+++++ 

The drive to the police station takes forever. 

Mrs. Scully is in the car with me.  She tells me that the two of them had been
out running Saturday errands, when suddenly Dana had steered the car toward
Rockville, telling her mom that she "had" to go there.  Mrs. Scully had been
confused, but followed along.  Next thing she'd known, her daughter was in the
Safeway, pointing a gun at another customer.  And then all hell had broken
loose. 

I can feel hell swirling around me. 

Samantha.  What the fuck was she doing there? 

What the fuck was Scully doing killing her? 

Before we left, the officer came up to me, after I'd told him that I needed
more information about "Samantha Mulder".  Before they'd taken away her...
body... they had checked her ID, which listed her as "Samantha Moriarity", of
Gaithersburg. 

The name of the woman who had met me in that diner so long ago, while Scully
had been dying. 

Mrs. Scully fell silent beside me, and I can't find my voice to ask her any
questions.  I'm too busy trying to make sense of this ghastly situation. I'm
too busy trying to hold myself together, until I can find out what the hell the
truth is. 

We pull into the parking lot and I nearly forget the older woman as I rush into
the station.  They won't let me see Scully while she's being booked, no matter
how much I scream and demand that they let me talk to her. 

I feel so damned helpless. 

Finally, after standing around the headquarters for over an hour, about ready
to jump out of my skin, a detective approaches me. 

"Agent Mulder?" 

"Where is she?"  I bark at him. 

He motions for me to follow him into an office.  "I'm Det. Stanhope, and I've
been assigned to your partner's case." 

I don't take the chair he offers me.  "Could you please tell me what the fuck
is going on here?" 

His voice hardens in the manner of someone not wanting to put up with my shit. 
I'm very familiar with that look.  "Agent, if you're going to be difficult, you
can wait outside." 

I bite my lip and clench my fist to keep from hitting the bastard. 

Det. Stanhope holds up a videotape, and I notice a television and VCR in the
office.  "I can't tell you much about the case while it's under investigation,
but I can tell you that it doesn't look good for your partner." 

"Define 'good'."  Somehow I keep my voice under control. 

"All I can tell you right now is that we have witnesses who say that Agent
Scully shot the woman in what appears to be a premeditated manner.  We also
have security camera videotape, and though I've not watched it yet, I have
reason to believe it will show exactly what is being described." 

I sway slightly on my feet.  "Show it to me,"  I demand. 

His voice becomes condescending and I want to shoot the bastard myself. "Agent
Mulder, you know I can't do that.  Now, if you can get yourself assigned to the
case, you can see it.  Until then, you're just going to have to sit back and
wait while we take care of this." 

My voice strains in my throat.  "Tell me, Det. Stanhope.  If your partner was
in this situation, how would you react to being told to 'sit back' and let
someone else take care of it?" 

For the first time, I see him relent slightly, then the proverbial rod is
shoved up his ass.  "Look, there's nothing more I can tell you right now. I
probably shouldn't have even told you this much, but I thought you'd want to
know."  He pauses, and leans back in his chair.  "Now, if you'd please, step
back and let us handle the situation, and I'll make sure my captain keeps you
informed of what's going on." 

I wish I had something to break, to lash out at.  Instead, I grip my fists
tighter, feeling my fingernails dig into my palms.  Trying to make my voice
sound as threatening as possible, I growl,  "You do that, *detective*." 

I don't give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing me out of the office. 

And so I go out into the precinct and wait, as my soul threatens to collapse. 

+++++ 

Mulder stood in the kitchenette, making instant coffee.  The ritual of the
motion comforted him, mocked him.  This could have been any time in their past
-- discussion and debate over coffee, though it was usually some wonderful
gourmet blend she'd concoct, rather than Folger's Instant Crystals.  He poured
the black liquid into two chipped mugs, and turned back to her. 

He found her sitting up in the bed, a look of confusion on her face.  It was
quickly replaced by anger. 

"What the HELL are you doing here?"  She spat out the words. 

The man nearly dropped the mugs, hot coffee sluicing over his hands.  He
somehow managed to set them on the counter, as she continued her tirade. 

"Do you want to kill me?  Do you want to ruin my life some more?" 

Before he could reason out his response, his heart took over and his words
ricocheted off the walls of the cabin. 

"No, Scully, I think you're doing a good enough job of that on your own." 

She winced, and her voice became ice-cold. 

"Fuck you, Mulder." 

With that, she rose to her feet, so unsteady that she had to grab onto the edge
of the bed for balance.  He remained planted in place, watching her stagger
over to him.  Mulder could hardly move, hardly speak, as she closed the
distance between them, each step seeming to increase the reddened lividity of
her skin. 

And as his hands still smarted from the coffee burns, she reached out and he
felt the sting of her palm against his cheek. 

+++++ 

I'm finally allowed to see the videotape. 

Scully walks up to Samantha, a look of fury on her face.  Samantha reacts with
surprise, and before she can even move her lips to say anything, Scully pulls
out her gun and shoots the other woman twice times in the chest.  Samantha
collapses on the floor, a pool of dark gray blood spreading out from her body. 
And then she moves to stand over the woman on the floor, and aims for the
woman's brain.   My partner steps forward and just stares at her. 

That's all I'm allowed to watch. 

Fury targets me from all sides, from the Moriarity family lashing out at Scully
for taking their beloved wife and mother, to my own mother, asking me what the
hell my partner had done.  And I want to collapse from my own confusion and
pain. 

The night of Scully's arrest, I'm finally ordered out of the building by Det.
Stanhope, but rather than go back to my apartment, I decide to barricade myself
within my car and stay until I'm allowed back into the headquarters the next
morning.  Just as I reach my car, the Smoking Man appears out of nowhere. 

He says nothing, and I try in vain to smother my urge to shoot him myself.
"Agent Mulder, I have some information for you." 

I don't reply. 

His face changes slightly -- becomes something resembling sad, as if the
bastard could actually experience emotion.  "The woman that Agent Scully
killed....  She was your sister." 

My hand tightens on my gun in the waist holster.  I could shoot him now, I
could kill him.  But then, not only is doing so outside a police station
definitely not a good idea, I just can't do it.  God only knows why, but I
couldn't kill him. 

"Why the hell should I believe you?" 

"Why the hell would I lie to you?" 

I laugh, the sound scraping along my throat.  "You tell me." 

"It was her, Agent Mulder."  With that, he turns and walks away. 

I don't go after him.  Instead, I collapse back against my car.  My world
dissolves around me. 

My partner has murdered my sister. 

I'm not sure how I managed to make it inside my car, but the next morning I
come to, sitting inside of it, my muscles stiff from the cramped area.  I
immediately peel out of it and stalk toward the front door of the station. 

I find my mother waiting for me at the door. 

I can't speak to her, not now.  I can't deal with the hatred on her face. I
walk past her, ignoring her demands for me to stop. 

Inside the headquarters, I find Det. Stanhope's desk.  He's busy polishing off
a pastry and coffee, and I want to shove them down his goddamned throat for
daring to be relaxed while all this is happening. 

He looks up at me and I order, "I want to see her." 

"What?" 

"I want to see her.  Now!  Get me an interrogation room." 

I think I've intimidated the hell out of the asshole.  He stumbles off to the
captain's office and I walk over to a secretary, asking where the interrogation
rooms are.  She gestures down a hallway and I go over there, choosing one
without Stanhope's directions. 

And I go inside to wait for Scully. 

+++++ 

"What the fuck is going on here, dammit?" 

He grasped her wrists in his hands and stared her down, his height relative to
hers giving him an advantage.  Mulder felt like Goliath, able to crush David
with one blow.  He had never even entertained the thought of striking her, but
it was all he could do not to lash out with his body, as she had just done. 

"You tell me, Mulder.  How the hell did you find me?"  She paused, her face
cherry-red with wrath.  After a short pause to catch her breath, she spat, "Why
the hell did you desert me?" 

"Desert YOU?  I'm not the one who jumped bail and got the hell out of town!" 

Scully struggled against him, trying in vain to wrestle her wrists out of his
grasp, but each motion only increased his grip on her.  He wanted to bruise
her, to make her feel all the pain he'd endured since all this had happened. 
And yet, he knew that her words were only the tip of the iceberg. 

Finally, he let her go, shoving her backward, and he watched her struggle on
her feet before finally regaining balance. 

"Couldn't take the heat, huh Scully?  Little Miss Logic couldn't stay and clear
her name, so she ran away."  Mulder hadn't realized how bitter his words could
become.  "But then, isn't that just like you?  You can't handle something so
you just avoid it altogether." 

Her voice was a whisper. 

"Fuck you." 

+++++ 

My life has become a blur. 

Everything happens in a progression of macabre events.  Clinical and concrete,
unlike the horrors I deal with at the Bureau.  But what makes this my ultimate
nightmare is that it's all about me, in a way the past never has been. 

All about me. 

God, what a self-centered statement.  But then, Scully and I are at the center
of this hurricane. 

And she is gone. 

I got the call from Maggie Scully earlier this afternoon.  She was frantic, of
course, as she told me that she had come back from getting some thing at her
house to find her daughter gone, along with the car and a suitcase.  I wanted
to reach over the phone lines and shake her, to ask her how she could be so
foolish as to leave Scully alone.  But I didn't. 

The parade of horrors continued.  Just as I disconnected the telephone, it
rang.  I answered and found myself talking to Mom's lawyer.  He told me that my
mother was already making plans to file a wrongful death civil suit against
Scully, and would I be available to come in sometime in the next few days to
discuss it with him?  I hung up on the bastard, and fought the urge to call my
mother and tell her exactly what I thought of her.  But the same insecurities
and fears which have plagued me all my life kept me from doing it.  I need to
wait and get my thoughts together -- to figure out just what the hell is going
on -- before I can confront her. 

What the hell IS going on? 

My partner -- the person I trust more than anyone else in the world, the person
I once loved with every ounce of my being -- killed my sister.  My SISTER.  The
object of my search for my entire life.  Why couldn't this have been different?
 Why couldn't Samantha Moriarity have come to me on her own, and we could have
had a reunion full of joy and promises of a future, instead of our reunion
being over her bloody corpse. 

Her death caused by my partner. 

Fuck. 

I had the presence of mind to call personnel and let them know I needed an
indefinite leave of absence, and fortunately they didn't argue with me. They
gave up a long time ago.  Then I hit the road. 

My powers of intuition and profiling are failing me now.  I have no idea where
the hell Scully could have gone.  I only know that I have to get to her. 

I only know I have to hear from her just what the hell happened. 

I only know that we have to work through this together. 

Or lose ourselves in the process. 

+++++ 

Flecks of blood clung to her upper lip, drying around the edges of her nose. 

He felt the fury of her gaze as she tried to stare him down.  It pierced his
body as strongly as any gun she could have fired.  Mulder stood his ground,
refusing to let her get to him. 

"Tell me what happened." 

Her lips parted and she stared at him, gaping slightly as if she couldn't
believe the absurdity of his words. 

"Come on, Scully, you're far from stupid, so quit acting that way."  He took a
step forward and she flinched. 

"Why the hell should I tell you anything?"  It was less a question than a
dagger. 

Mulder placed his hand on his pocket.  "I have my telephone with me.  I could
call the police station right now and turn you in."  A look of fear briefly
flashed over her face.  "Which option is more attractive?  Talking to me, or
spending the rest of your natural life in prison?  Maryland has the death
penalty, so if you're tried for Murder One, you could easily be sentenced to
lethal injection." 

Her gaze shifted to a spot past his shoulder, as he could feel her wrestling
with her obstinancy. 

"Of course, lethal injection is just your style, right, Scully?  Nice and
clean.  The scientific way to die." 

Mulder could see an epithet forming on her lips, but she remained silent. 

"I want to know why you killed my sister, Scully."  His voice broke on the
words.  "God damnit, my *sister*?  What the hell possessed you to do that?" 

Her hand involuntarily raised as if to touch the back of her neck, and then he
realized what she thought. 

The chip. 

That was why she'd removed it. 

Good Lord. 

Despite the few threads of common sense to which he still clung, he wanted to
take her in his arms and tell her that he understood, that he'd be with her. 
But the memory of being told that the dead body on the Safeway floor was
Samantha kept the current of anger alive. 

"I can't,"  she whispered. 

"You 'can't' what?"  he whispered back. 

Like mercury, her mood shifted and her voice became bitter.  "I can't tell
you." 

Suddenly, the urge to destroy something engulfed him.  His hands blindly
reached out for the cooling mug of coffee, and he dashed it to the floor,
barely noticing the cacophany as it shattered in a hundred clay pieces at his
feet. 

"Fine,"  Mulder growled.  "If you're not going to talk to me, maybe you'd like
to talk to the Sherriff."  His hand moved to his pocket and he pulled out his
cell phone. 

Just as his finger pressed down on the 9 key, she catapulted forward and
tackled him.  Her small body overpowered his own, knocking them both to the
ground.  Shards of clay pressed through his shirt, knifing into his back as
Scully lashed out at him, her primal fury making her actions brutal and without
finesse. 

He easily overpowered her. 

Pushing his body up, he grabbed her forearms in his hands and rolled them over,
until his long, bigger body pressed hers into the cheap linoleum of the floor. 

And he stared her down, cursing her and willing her to break. 

+++++ 

END (4/9) 

Chapter Five. 

+++++ 

They remained in suspended animation for what seemed like years. 

Scully tried to move under him, to push him away and regain her composure, but
he was too damned heavy.  And the look on his face told her that he wasn't
about to budge. 

Talk.  Was it as easy as that? 

No.  It could never be that easy with Mulder. 

Still, he was crushing her lungs and a part of her cried out for relief -- not
only to be able to catch her breath, but to tell him everything and await his
reaction.  She wanted to be able to talk to him again, even if it meant losing
him altogether.  She wanted to be able to touch him again, without all this
tension and fear.  His body pressed into her own, and she was so attuned to it
above her that she barely noticed the shards of the coffee mug digging into her
back.  His body was hard -- not in a sexual sense, but the hardness born of
tension and pain. 

Oh, God, what had she done to him? 

The thought that his lack of faith in her had brought this on lurked at the
back of her mind, but she also knew she couldn't blame him.  She alone was at
fault for this debacle, this horror.  And somewhere in the midst of the pain in
his eyes, she saw a lust, a passion.  Slipping into his mind, she saw that
though he didn't realize it, he wanted her. 

And God, she wanted him too. 

But not now.  She couldn't raise her mouth up to his and ...  not now. 

Scully took as deep a breath as she could manage, and held his gaze. "Talk.  Is
that all you want?" 

He didn't blink.  "All I want is to hear the truth." 

She forced herself not to bite her lip or show weakness, then rasped, "Get off
of me, and I'll talk." 

Mulder gave her a wary look.  "Are you sure you're not going to try to escape?"


"Goddammit, Mulder!  No, I will not try and escape.  Now get off of me." 

He complied. 

A rush of blood flowed through her body as he lifted his own off of her.
Instinct flushed disappointment through her, followed by the physical release
of freedom.  She caught her breath and the air rasped through her lungs,
causing her to cough violently.  Scully sat up and the headrush combined with
the coughing made her double over.  Through the throbbing in her head, she
opened her eyes and was surprised to see him holding out a hand to help her up.
 After a moment's hesitation, she accepted it. 

Mulder led her over to the sofa, his hand resting in the same familiar place on
her back.  She was too dizzy to pay close attention, but she thought she heard
him whisper, "I'm sorry." 

Her breath caught at the sound. 

The couch was hard and unforgiving under her.  She wanted to get comfortable
but the tension pervading her body wouldn't let her.  Scully closed her eyes
and tried to regain her composure while Mulder walked back over to the
kitchenette and got them some water.  Her eyes tracked him as he returned to
where she was sitting, and Scully could sense him training himself to remain
guarded. 

But he couldn't disguise his pain. 

Though barely big enough to seat one person comfortably, the sofa stretched a
mile between them as he sat down on the opposite end from her.  Scully took a
long sip of water, trying to figure out how she should begin. 

He started for her.  "Why did you leave?" 

"Why do you think I did?"  She could barely manage more than a whisper. 

"You tell me."  He granted her no favors. 

Lacking a coffee table to set it on, she kept the glass in her hands, rolling
it in her hands.  The tepid glass felt hot against her clammy palms.  Finally,
she decided to tell him the truth.  She had nothing left to lose. 

"I had to get out of there.  I had to find the answers for myself.  I had to--"
Despite her vow of truth, she couldn't bring herself to speak of the very real
possibility of her death. 

Mulder's voice remained steady.  "What did you hope to find out here?" 

She turned to look at him.  He was staring into the middle distance before her,
not focusing on anything in particular.   Scully reminded him,  "A few months
ago, the Gunmen ran an article about an HMO which they suspected was using its
clients for medical experimentation --" 

"-- And I thought that they were implanting...."  His voice trailed off as she
saw him make the connection.   "Why did you remove the chip, then?" 

Her fingertips traced the bandage on her neck.  "It was the key.  It's the
reason all this happened." 

Mulder didn't respond, but she could hear his breathing elongate and sense his
muscles tense.  Scully could feel the beginnings of exhiliration, as she
finally started to slough off her fears and tell the truth.  "I'm not sure of
exactly how it happened, but I think the chip was making me do things -- that
it was creating involuntary actions.  I don't know how, but somehow it
triggered a response in me when I saw Samantha, and that's why I shot her." 

There.  She'd said it.  Now, all she could do was await his response, and brace
herself for it. 

"So, that's why you removed it...."  Mulder's voice was thoughtful, and oh so
haunted. 

"Yes," she whispered. 

"And you knew what would happen."  The haunting became horror. 

She closed her eyes.  Oh, God.  In her incredible self-centeredness of the past
two weeks, she hadn't given much thought to how he would react.  All she had
seen was his anger and hurt.  It smothered everything else they had ever felt
for one another.  She had never realized that this would kill him as much as it
could her. 

Scully shifted on the sofa until her body was facing  his.  He turned toward
her and naked terror was painted on his face.  It was the physical
manifestation of everything inside of her.  She wanted so much to reach out and
touch him, but instead set the glass of water on the floor and clenched her
hands in her lap. 

"Mulder, I'd rather die than live like that.  I *can't* live like that, not
having any control over my own actions.  And even though this seems to be
bringing back my cancer, it's nothing I don't deserve."  She could feel the
sobs rumbling in her chest.  "I killed a woman.  I killed your SISTER.  I
deserve this." 

The sobs broke free, and she bit her lip and closed her eyes to keep from
dissolving into them. 

And there he was, his arms circling her, crushing her against him so fiercely
that she couldn't have breathed if she'd remembered to.  His embrace was enough
to overcome her composure, and she buried her face in his shoulder, letting
herself cry -- cry for herself, cry for them.  She needed him so much.  God,
she needed him. 

As the tears stung her eyes and bathed his shoulder, she whispered, "I'm sorry.
 I'm so sorry." 

She heard him whisper the same. 

Though their world had crumbled -- exploded -- around them, she had never felt
as safe as she did at that moment.  Anyone could come for her and she could
conquer them. 

But death chose to call for her first. 

Mulder's hands clenched around her arms and he pushed her away from him,
looking at her with his beautiful tearstained face.  His chin tilted up and he
lowered his lips to her forehead so softly, so gently, kissing away the tumor
which just might lurk below.  His lips were warm against her skin, a
benediction in the icy hell her life had become.  Mulder shifted her body in
his arms until her cheek was pressed against his, the dark shadow of his
stubble pressing into her skin.  It comforted her.  It made her feel alive. 

Finally, he pulled back and she opened her eyes to look at him, then gasped in
horror. 

Blood coated the side of his face where she had pressed her cheek against his. 

She felt an unbearable, knifing pressure in her sinusoid cavity, and the
scalding bath of blood flowing over her upper lip, dripping onto her lower lip.
 Instinctively, she licked her lips and tasted the bitter, metallic blood. 

It was back. 

But this time, she was not alone. 

+++++ 

Despite all the horrors and dangers he had faced in his life, he never thought
his final breakdown would come in a small cabin in the middle of nowhere. 

Mulder scarcely noticed the chill of the icepack he pressed against Scully's
brow as they lay on the small twin bed.  She drifted in and out of sleep, and
when she was awake, neither of them spoke.  Words seemed trite. 

Rivulets of melted ice began coursing down her face, bathing her hair.  He
finally tore himself from her side and took the icepack over to the
kitchenette, emptying the ziploc bag into the sink and wringing out the towel. 
The flow of blood had stopped some time before, but he couldn't resist running
the washcloth under some warmer water, then shaking it out and folding it back.
 Mulder walked back over to her and almost sat down on the edge of the bed next
to her, but instead pulled over a battered plastic chair and settled himself
into it, placing the washcloth on her forehead. 

And, in a need to confess to her which he hadn't felt in so long, he opened his
mouth. 

"Scully,"  she stirred slightly at his voice, but didn't wake.  "There are so
many things I wish I could change about my life.  There are so many mornings
when I wake up and wish to God that I'd never met you.  That I'd never brought
you into this hell my life has become.  That you could be somewhere else far
away from me, safe and happy." 

He paused, as the tears he'd kept in check so he could remain strong began to
fall down his cheeks. 

"But then I get to work and I see you, and I don't regret a minute of it. And I
want to see you every day for the rest of my life.  You're more important to me
than a thousand crusades, or," he bit his lip, "a thousand sisters." 

Tears started to pour, and his voice caught.  "I was mad when I found out what
had happened.  I was furious.  I didn't know what to think -- all I knew was
that my sister was dead and that you had quite obviously killed her.  I didn't
stop to think about what might have caused it.  All I could think of was...
well, nothing.   Then you were gone, and it all fell apart. 

"Scully, I'm sorry, I am so sorry I wasn't there for you.  I was furious -- not
that you'd killed her, but that you'd turned away from me and disappeared. 

"I fucked up.   I need you to stay alive and give me a chance to earn your
trust again." 

He reached down and clasped her hand in his. 

"I need you to stay alive for yourself.  But more importantly, I need you to
stay alive for me." 

And as the tears fell, he rose from the chair, stepped out of his shoes, and
lowered himself into the bed next to her.  The mattress was too soft and lumpy,
but he barely noticed as he slowly drew her into his arms. Scully stirred and
hec aught his breath as she awoke. 

Her tired, haggard face turned to meet him, and if this had been a happy
occasion, she would have smiled.  Instead, she merely looked at him under a
veil of sorrow and fatigue, and pressed her body into his. 

Mulder fitted his body to hers, every curve melting into his hardness and
fusing them together. 

And they lay there together, dreading the morning to come. 

+++++ 

END (5/9) 

Chapter Six. 

+++++ 

I never want to sleep again. 

I never can sleep again. 

My dreamscape tonight is a hellish pit of quicksand.  I furiously kick and push
forward, but my feet refuse to move.  And when I look down, I find myself
trapped knee-deep not in sand, but in blood -- viscous, ruby-red blood,
congealed and curdling around me. Rising.  Mocking me.  Threatening to consume
me whole. 

And then Mulder is in front of me.  He seems to be walking on top of the blood,
immune to its effects.  The look on his face -- it's furious. Angry.  Mocking
me just like the blood. 

In his hands he has a rope, which could easily pull me out of this dire mess
even as I sink further into it.  I call out to him, imploring him to help me. 

Something in his eyes changes, and his anger melts into a reserved compassion. 
He begins walking toward me, unfurling the rope which will save me.  But with
each step, he becomes as mired as am I.  The rope snakes out toward me,
skittering away everytime I try to reach out to it. 

Then suddenly Mulder is beside me, his legs caught in the glue of blood. And
before either of us can scream, we are sinking together. 
 
+++++ 

Mulder was shaken out of sleep by an audible gasp near his ear.  His eyelids
flew open and quickly adjusted to the hazy morning light.  Beside him, Scully
struggled to sit up, a terrified look on her face. 

"Scully?"  His voice rasped in his throat. 

She shook her head and climbed over him to get out of the bed.  Her body
pressed down into his, one leg scraping over the stirrings of his morning
erection.  Instinctively shivering at the stimulation, he tracked her with his
eyes as she scrambled over the wooden floor in her wrinkled t-shirt and jeans,
still bearing the stains of her nosebleed. 

The sight of it brought all the memories of last night flooding back.  Her
anger, her fear.  Their fight and his pain at her words, her actions. 

Was she reliving it?  Had the truce he'd thought they'd reached all been an
illusion? 

Again, he called, "Scully?" 

Once again, she shook her head and walked over to the kitchen, keeping from
looking back at him.  Mulder watched her fill a kettle with water and place it
on the cookstove, then rest her hands on either side as if to steel herself. 

"Everything okay?"  He stepped out of the bed and stood, feeling the blood
pumping furiously through his veins.  His arousal faded, but he barely noticed
as he watched her. 

"I'm fine," she called over her shoulder. 

Of course. 

She's fine. 

That didn't make the traces of blood on her pillow disappear.  That didn't make
everything fine. 

Mulder chose not to pursue the issue, because he knew he'd never get anywhere. 
Instead, he asked, "What are we going to do now?"  He meant more than simply a
schedule. 

She finally turned to face him, two cups of instant coffee in her hands.
Without looking him in the eye, she walked over to him and handed him a mug. 
"I have to go to work in a few minutes.  This afternoon I have an appointment
at WestAssure." 

"The HMO?" 

"Yes."  Scully set her mug down on the small coffee table and stretched
slightly, then walked over to the foot of the bed and rummaged through a bag. 
She pulled out another t-shirt and pair of jeans, then disappeared into the
bathroom.  Mulder was slightly amused by her modesty, but found himself
grateful for it as he remembered how her body could affect him. And that was
the last thing they needed right then. 

He walked over to the bag he'd set near the door and pulled out a shirt for
himself.  After buttoning up the generic blue shirt, he ran his fingers through
his hair and felt himself finally completely waking up.  Calling through the
bathroom door, Mulder said, "Since you're going to be here at the ranch all
day, I'll go into the city and find out some more about WestAssure." 

"Okay." 

Scully was nothing if not reticent this morning.  He couldn't say he was
surprised, though.  The scars of the experience she'd -- they'd -- endured were
etched over her body and words.  They would talk about it.  They had to talk
about it.  But not now -- not until she was ready to be completely honest with
him. 

"When is your appointment?" 

She emerged from the bathroom, ready for her day.  Even with cropped black hair
and the haggard face of someone under great stress,  she still managed to be
the most beautiful sight he could ever see. 

Walking over to the kitchenette to make some toast, she said, "It's at 5pm, if
I remember correctly." 

There was one question they hadn't asked themselves. 

"How are you going to keep them from seeing the scars on your neck during your
exam?" 

She froze, a slice of bread in her hand and a drawn expression on her face. 
Without her saying anything, Mulder could see that she hadn't yet considered
that possibility. 

Then she spoke what must have been the hardest words for her to say. 

"I don't know." 

He rocked back on his heels, thinking furiously, but couldn't come up with a
solution. 

Warily, she murmured, "I have an idea." 

"Yes?"  He drew out the word. 

"When I first got here, I told Carla -- the supervisor here -- that I was
escaping an abusive husband." 

Mulder winced, picturing himself as such a batterer. 

She continued, her voice steady.  "I can't backdate bruises, and fresh ones
would stand out too much. "  She glanced down at her arms, and Mulder could see
the faint tracings of fingertip bruises from their struggle the previous night.
 He cringed.  Scully took a deep breath and continued.   "I need you to help me
with something." 

"What?" 

"I need to cut myself, so that the bandage from the chip will blend in." 

A wave of tension spread through Mulder's body.  Blood.  Mutilation.  The mere
idea of it chilled him. 

Scully kept on talking, as if the idea didn't alarm her in the least.  "I can
scratch myself on my arms and legs, maybe even hard enough to draw blood.  You
could scratch my back, though I doubt they'd look underneath my shirt."  The
toaster popped and she took a small tub of margarine out of the refrigerator. 

A slideshow  of images filtered through Mulder's brain.  Fingernails coursing
down his back.  Faces flushed in ecstacy.  Lips trembling with kisses given and
promised. 

Scratches like those were meant to be given in passion, not fear and deception.
 They were supposed to be brands of love, of lust.  Not like this. 

Mulder remained rooted to the spot, as Scully moved from behind the counter to
in front of him.  Hunching her shoulders, she pulled on the hem of her t-shirt
and lifted it so her back was bared to him. 

He caught his breath. 

The expanse of the golden-peach skin of her back glowed in the early morning
light.  His fingers itched to touch it, but all he could do was clench his
fist, feeling his own fingernails dig into his palms. 

Not like this. 

His gaze traveled down to the small of her back, and saw the top of her tattoo
inching up from the waistband of her jeans.  Dark as a bruise, red eyes mocking
at him.  Unable to resist, he placed one fingertip on it and traced the curve. 
She stiffened, and he could feel her repressing the sensations flooding through
her body.  Mulder didn't try to repress his own, as the electricity slithered,
snakelike, along his nerves. 

Scully looked at him over her shoulder, her face commanding but with an
inscrutable look lurking underneath. 

"Do it, Mulder." 

He wanted to shake his head, but he couldn't move. 

"Now!' 

Mulder wedged his tongue between his teeth, biting down on it as he tried to
smother all the erotic, dark thrills the command brought out in him. Finally,
he unclenched his palms and placed his hands flat on her back. 

Her skin scorched his palms, warmth and softness and... Scully. 

Taking a deep breath, he curled his hands until his fingertips pressed lightly
into her back. 

"Mulder...."  Her voice was plaintive and commanding, all at once. 

Squeezing his eyes shut until stars exploded behind the lids, he bit his lip
and yanked his fingernails down her back, hard, feeling her skin slightly
shredding at the motion.  She jerked on her feet, gasping hard and swaying,
nearly losing her balance and toppling backward into him. 

Jumping slightly, she regained her footing and he watched her shiver.  The
panting of her breath echoed around the small cabin, mixing with his own. 

He saw parallel trails of red on her back, small welts rising on her perfect
skin. 

"I'm sorry," Mulder whispered. 

She took a step away from him, and through his self-recrimination, Mulder
wanted nothing more than to draw her into his arms and soothe away the pain --
all of it. 

"No, don't be."   Her whisper matched his own. 

The t-shirt billowed down to her waist, and she retreated to the safety of the
kitchen.  A forgotten slice of toast trembled in her hands. 

It wasn't supposed to be like this. 

+++++ 

I slowly walk along a dusty path.  But this time, instead of a nightmare, it is
a waking dream.  The ranchhands have already risen and are preparing the horses
for the day's work.  One of the men waves at me and I raise a boneless hand to
return the gesture.  Another ordinary day at Rancho Cardenas for them, perhaps.
 But not for me. 

The stucco main house shines like the proverbial phoenix in the morning
sunlight.  Though I walk in a deliberate march, clouds of dust rise with each
step I take.  I feel like I'm caught in the middle of one of my dreams, a
cumulus cloud slowly smothering me as I frantically try to escape. 

Each minute brings me closer to my appointment this afternoon.  Each step takes
me closer to work.  Each step takes me further away from Mulder. 

I want to be away from him.  I can't be with him. 

But I need him as much as I do the clean New Mexican air. 

Self-loathing floods through me -- dirty water in the midst of a desert. When
had I become so dependent upon him for my sanity and my life?  This was
supposed to be my final assertion of independence, a way for me to find my own
truth in what might be the last days of my life.  Instead, he has come to me,
damnation packed into his luggage alongside the salvation he brings. 

He seems to think it's all so easy.  He's always been like that.  His windmills
are powered by the air he breathes, able to be conquered with the cessation of
wind.  Mine are intricately engineered, each gear and pulley relying on the
others, compounded by electricity and wiring and myriad other constructs, none
of which can easily be disconnected. 

What had he been thinking when he found where I was and set his path toward New
Mexico?  That he could find me and I'd fall into his arms, everything I'd done
evaporating in the desert heat?  Problems might be that simple for Mulder, but
they could never be for me. 

I killed a woman.  I aimed a gun at her and fired twice, then stood over her
lifeless body and emptied another bullet into her head for good measure.  I
accept responsibility for that, though I also know that I was not in control of
my actions. 

Every crime has its punishment.  I merely chose to punish myself by removing
the chip in my neck and accepting my possible death rather than stay and
subject myself to the whims of a court of law.  The preponderance of evidence
against me condemned me to guilt.  I knew I might die -- but I wanted to find
the truth first.  Not the truth to set me free in the eyes of the Law, but the
truth to set me free in my soul. 

My mother always said that our sins are lain bare when we face St. Peter at the
gates of Heaven.  I've already prepared a list for Him.  I'm ready for whatever
St. Peter might choose as my fate.  But until then, *I* need to be the one in
control of finding my truth.  It is all that will follow me whenever I die --
not a court's judgment, not a windmill of Mulder's making. 

I reach the house and turn the knob in my hand.  Stepping inside, I compose
myself and begin yet another day of work.  Who knows how many I have left? Yet
even if their number is rapidly declining, I must use them to save myself --
not my life, but my soul. 

+++++ 

"Are you okay, Barbara?" 

Carla's concerned voice rang through the small office area.  Scully stiffened. 
The other woman looked over Scully from head to toe, then her gaze rested on
Scully's face.  The older woman's hand flew up to her face and her shoulders
hunched forward in a deliberate  show of confusion and self-consciousness. 

Before Scully could ask what the question had meant, Carla stepped forward and
gestured toward Scully's face.  "Your nose is bleeding."  

Oh, God.  Scully stiffened and swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She had
known this would be happening with increasing frequency, but she couldn't
stifle her panic. 

Forcing her voice to sound calm, she replied, "Oh, I've gotten a few nosebleeds
since I got out here.  Must be the dry air." 

Carla continued to study her face, as if searching for chinks in her story. 
Finally, she said, "Here, let me get you a paper towel." 

"Thanks," Scully murmured, as she tilted her head back and pinched the bridge
of her nose.  She remained rooted to the spot as Carla walked over to the small
sink and ran some water.  Scully had spent her life repressing all shows of
emotion, so maintaining composure proved a mild challenge. 

As Carla approached her again, her voice grew quieter.  "I wanted to ask you
something, Barbara." 

"Yes?"  Scully tried not to show suspicion. 

"Um... how do I say this?  One of the workers told me that he'd seen a man
outside your cabin last night." 

Scully took a deep breath.  "Oh?  Nobody came to see me."  She hoped she
sounded convincing. 

Carla's relief was visible.  "Oh, that's good, then.  I was afraid that bastard
husband of yours had tracked you down." 

The older woman nearly laughed, and had to bite her lip to smother a sardonic
chuckle.  Bastard husband tracking her down -- not as far from the truth as it
might seem. 

"Thanks for your concern, Carla, but you don't have to worry about me. Really."


Carla smiled.  "Okay.  Good."  She walked back over to the door of her office. 
Turning back to face Scully, she said, "I'm going to have to go into town this
morning to meet with some suppliers, so it'll just be you and Dolores today." 
Carla disappeared into her office. 

Scully finally allowed herself to breathe again.  She wiped the wet washcloth
over her upper lip, hoping that she'd be able to remove all the traces of
drying blood.  Goddamn nosebleeds -- such a small thing to act as a harbinger
of death. 

Dolores arrived for work and studiously ignored Scully -- the woman had seemed
to have shown the new cleaning woman a condescending contempt ever since
"Barbara" had filled the job. 

That morning, Scully's mind was miles away as she mechanically cleaned the
offices.  She wondered why the ranch had hired a full-time custodian,
considering Scully really didn't have much to clean.  After giving the office a
once-over, she headed out the front door and over to the main entry of the
ranch house, to clean up the main living quarters.  Thank God the owner spent
most of his time in Santa Fe -- Scully didn't want to have to construct her
facade for yet another group of strangers, especially one who seemed to be in
cahoots with WestAssure. 

The temperature had risen considerably since she'd arrived at work a few hours
earlier.  As she transversed the gravel path, she craned her neck to get a
glimpse of the cluster of cabins where she lived.  No car outside, no sign of
life. 

No sign of Mulder. 

Closing her eyes as she walked, it was easy to imagine the previous night had
never happened.  But, as a gust of wind buffeted her and made her shirt billow,
the jersey cotton brushed against the welts on her back.  Scully gasped.  She
could still feel Mulder's fingers on her back, his nails pressing into her
flesh. 

The memory sent fire coursing through her veins. 

God, how could he do this to her?  How could he be this all-consuming? 

The stucco steps up to the front porch were solid under her feet.  She reached
into her pocket for the key which would let her in to clean -- Scully had been
surprised to have been entrusted with a key, until she discovered all the
valuables in the house were either bolted down or locked away.  The lock gave
easily and the house seemed to shudder around her as she opened the front door,
but she barely noticed the sounds until they grew louder. 

Turning to look over her shoulder, she saw a dark SUV speeding up the front
drive.  Squinting, Scully noticed that Mulder was behind the wheel. Before she
had a chance to gasp or to summon fury that he was destroying her cover, he
stopped the car and peeled out of it.  Running up to her, his face was flushed
and his body heaving with fear and adrenaline. 

She felt the same adrenaline flooding through her at the sight of him. 

And then he grabbed her arm and hissed, "We have to get out of her.  Now!" 

Though she could barely move from shock, she knew what to do. 

She dropped the house keys and ran to the car. 

Stirring up a hurricane of dust, they sped away. 

+++++ 

END (6/9) 

Chapter Seven.

+++++

A week after she'd fled through Texas, everything still appeared the same.
Mulder's rented Ford Explorer crossed the state line and the same plains
tretched before them.  Nothing ever really changes.  Scully had learned that a
long time ago.

Mulder had barely spoken since he'd met her at Rancho Cardenas, and the only
time Scully had pressed the case, he'd simply said, "I'll tell you when we're
out of New Mexico."  The silence of the drive so far had resembled a funeral
procession.  Appropriate, she thought, considering she was on a death march.

She remembered his earlier words and was about to ask him to finally explain
himself, when Mulder spoke.

"When I left that cabin yesterday morning, I went into Las Cruces and did some
research at the Chamber of Commerce.  I asked for their files on all the
medical companies in town, so they wouldn't wonder why I was just looking at
WestAssure."  He paused, then glanced over at her.  "Did you know that several
of the executives from Roush and TransGen are on the board of directors of
WestAssure?"

Scully nodded, and turned to face him, watching him as he spoke.  His face was
drawn, but she saw a spark of life within him.

"The finances are completely above reproach, and I couldn't find anything
unusual which stuck out.  So I went to the city hall and looked over the tax
records.  Apparently, even though the offices are only on the first floor, they
own and occupy all five floors of the building.  And according to what they've
registered with the the office in charge of safety codes, WestAssure has all
sorts of sophisticated medical equipment which an ordinary HMO clinic wouldn't
have."

Scully bit her lip and absorbed what he was saying.  "So you think they're
doing experimentation?"

"Wait until you hear this."  Mulder's voice took on the liveliness of old. "I
went to the library and did a little more research.  According to newspapers, a
woman was found wandering the roads just outside of town last week, probably
before you got there.  She was disoriented and had no identification.  The
police took her to the hospital and had her checked out, and the paper ran a
story, hoping someone would identify her.  When she got better, the police
found out she was an undocumented immigrant and shipped her back to Mexico."

"Wait--" Scully interrupted, as the gears clicked and turned, "When I applied
at Rancho Cardenas, Carla told me that their previous housekeeper had been
deported, though not in so many words."

"She's not the only one, though."

Scully held her breath.

"In the past year, four other employees of Rancho Cardenas have disappeared. 
No missing persons reports were ever filed, until the families of two of the
workers stepped forward and contacted the police."  He stopped, then spoke
again, his voice quieter.  "It's a good thing we got you out of there before
WestAssure found out about you."

She remained quiet.  Though neither of them said the words, they both knew....
she could have been the next to disappear.

Silence stretched before them once again.

Finally, she asked the question which had been forefront in her mind for the
past day.  "How did you find me?"

He looked over at her and a soft chuff of laughter emerged from his chest.
"You're not very good at covering your tracks, Scully."

She raised an eyebrow but didn't try to defend herself.  What he said was true;
 had some part of her expected, even wanted, to be found?  She couldn't answer
her question.

"I easily traced you through to Kentucky.  After that, it was more difficult,
but then I got lucky when you used your credit card to check
into the motel in Lubbock." 

Scully bit her lip.  Shit.  Who else had found that slip? 

"So I flew out to Lubbock and went from there.  In Albuquerque, I found the car
you'd abandoned, and compared it with the license plate you'd used when you
registered at that motel.  Someone in Las Cruces recognized you from television
and reported someone matching your description to the police in Rockville, but
the idiots up there didn't think it was worth investigating.  Why, I don't
know, but since it fit with what I'd already figured out so far, I drove south
and found you pretty easily."  He paused for a moment.  "I'm actualy really
surprised you made it this far without detection, though you were probably
lucky that the news reports on the murder--" he hesitated slightly on the word,
"died down after a few days."

Sighing, Scully said, "I'm not sure whether to be relieved or outraged."

They drove in silence for nearly ten minutes more.

Mulder finally spoke in a darker, sadder voice than she'd heard from him in
some time.  "Why didn't you tell me, Scully?"

A rush of disbelief flooded through her at his words.  "Mulder, you were on
*their* side!  I couldn't trust you anymore."

At that comment, she could hear his gasp and glanced over to see his knuckles
become white on the steering wheel.  His face slowly reddened and she watched
the rise and fall of his chest become measured, controlled.  A muscle at the
side of his jaw twitched.  "Scully, I was shocked and upset by what you did,
but I was not on 'their' side.  I will *always* be on your side.  Don't you
know that by now?"

She looked away.  "I don't quite know what I believe anymore."

"You said something last night, Scully."  His voice couldn't disguise his hurt.
 "You said you'd rather die than live with that chip in your neck. Did you ever
stop to think about what that would mean to us?" 

She turned to look over him, horror flooding through her, along with the
beginnings of shame.

In a much softer voice, he continued.  "Did you ever stop to think what it
would mean to me?"  Tears began to shine in his beautiful eyes.  "You thought
you could just leave, that you could go away and escape it all, and die in
peace.  But dammit, Scully, don't you know that it would have killed me too? 
If you were dead and nobody could have identified you, I would have spent the
rest of my life not knowing where you were or what happened to you."  His voice
rose.  "I've done that once, Scully, and it nearly killed me.  I refuse to do
it again." 

She couldn't speak -- she couldn't *think* -- as his words began to absorb
through her skin.

"You know," he continued, as if his fury could be sloughed off if only he could
scream at her, "I thought I meant more to you than that.  I thought that I was
important to you, that we were everything to each other.  Was I wrong?"

Scully bit her lip again, wanting desperately to tell him yes, but honesty won
the battle and she whispered, "No."

He huffed and shuddered next to her, the nearly-spent fury overpowering his
body.

"I'm so sorry.   God, Mulder, I'm so sorry."

She reached over and placed her hand over his on the steering wheel.  It was so
tense, so warm, beneath her palm.  After a few moments, his hand finally turned
and he clasped hers so tightly that she feared her bones might break.  The
entwined hands lowered to rest between the seats, and Scully finally began to
feel an emotion other than deep shame.

It was hope.

And the road continued to stretch before them.

+++++

Lubbock emerged before them.  The city lights twinkled in the darkness like a
thousand birthday candles.  Mulder followed the interstate into the center of
the city.  Life was all around them -- it was almost a comfort, as if by
reentering society they would be safer than they had been out on the barren
plains.  But he knew better than anyone that life loved to play tricks on us. 
Life liked nothing better than to take itself away from us when we least
expected.

He glanced over at Scully.  Though their hands remained clasped, she had leaned
her seat back slightly and her eyes were closed, though he doubted that she was
asleep.  She looked so beautiful beside him.  Skin pale in the glow of the
streetlights, all the planes of her face softened and curved, giving her a look
of innocence.  She looked as if she could live forever, promising safety and
happiness to anyone she touched. 

Mulder had rented the Explorer in Lubbock and technically had to return it
there, but his credit card was paid in full and flying back to D.C. wasn't a
good option for them, so he made the decision to keep it until they got back
home, even if the final bill was ridiculously high.  Besides, he wasn't sure if
he could give her up yet.  When they got home, she would have to turn herself
in -- they'd be watching her apartment and they couldn't hide easily in the
capital.  He wanted nothing more than to have her with him for just a few more
days, both so that they could plan what they'd do and so that he could savor
her presence for just a while longer before she'd be incarcerated indefinitely.


He needed her more than they did.

Rather than changing drivers with the hour approaching midnight, he noticed
signs for motels a few exit ramps ahead and decided that they should get some
sleep and start again tomorrow.  A delaying tactic, a voice inside him said,
but also a wise move.  Squeezing her hand, he moved into the exit lane and
said, "Scully?  You awake?"

She stirred and though he wanted to watch her return to alertness, he had to
keep his eyes on the road.  "Mmm... yes.  Are we in Lubbock?" 

"Yeah.  I'm going to find us a motel room.  How does that sound?"

"Fine."  She pulled the lever and the seat moved back upright.  "But not the
Red Roof.  That's where I stayed when I passed through here."

He nodded.  That's where he had also stayed.  "There's a Motel 6 across the
road.  I'll try it."

"Okay."  As they pulled up to the stoplight at the top of the ramp, he saw her
wince.  Her hand pulled out of his and she brought her fingertips up to her
temples.

"You okay?"  Mulder didn't bother to hide his concern.

She kept her eyes closed and creased her brow.  "I have a really bad headache. 
Do you have any ibuprofin?"

Damn.  He wished he did, but hadn't brought anything like that with him. "Tell
you what:  you get us a motel room and I'll run over to the Wal-Mart and get
you some.  Okay?"

"Okay."  Her voice was a whisper, and he clenched the steering wheel, afraid of
what the headache might mean.  As if reading his mind, Scully murmured, "It's
just a headache, Mulder.  Don't worry about it."

"Can you blame me for worrying?"  Mulder asked in a harsh voice.

She didn't answer.

He pulled into the Motel 6 parking lot and stopped the car in front of the
office.  "I'd better go get the room -- don't want to take the chance of their
recognizing you."  Scully barely nodded and he got out of the car and  went up
to the night check-in desk.  Paying for one room under the name, "Greg and
Debra Johnson", he pocketed the key and walked back to the car. Scully was
nearly hunched over in the seat, her face paler than ever. 

With a rising sense of alarm, he drove over to their room and got out of the
car.  Hoisting his bag over one shoulder, he noticed she hadn't gotten out, so
he went over to her side of the car and opened the door.  "Scully? Can you
manage to get out?"

She nodded with faint resolve and stepped out of the car, nearly folding over
when her feet hit the pavement.  He half-carried her into the room and helped
her onto the bed.  Her eyes remained closed and she lay back, panting slightly.
 Mulder hated to leave her, but had to get her something for the headache.  He
placed his hand on her shoulder and looked down at her.  "I'm going to run over
to the Wal-Mart, okay?  I'll be back in five minutes."

"Okay," she whispered, and before he could talk himself out of leaving her, he
went out the door, nearly running over to the Wal-Mart across the parking lot.

In the health care department, he easily found a bottle of extra-strength
ibuprofin, and also grabbed a couple of toothbrushes and toothpaste.
Surprisingly, he had to wait at the check-out, despite the late hour.  As he
glanced down at the items in his basket, the thought hit him with the force of
a ton of bricks.

Scully could be dying.

Again.

Suddenly, he couldn't get close enough to her.  To the checkout woman's
surprise, he flung a $20 bill down on the conveyor belt and grabbed his
purchases.  "Keep it," he barked, and ran out of the store.

Feet pounded on pavement as he ran back to her, the loud steps sounding like a
heartbeat coursing through his body. 

Scully could be dying.

He stabbed the key into the motel room door and pushed it open.  A blast of
cold air hit him, making his sweaty body shiver.  The room was dark and through
the faint light from outside, he could see her already under the covers, her
clothes pooled on the floor.  One pale shoulder was bared under the bedspread
she'd pulled up over her.

Mulder stopped in his tracks, looking at her, then walked over to the bed.
"Scully, get dressed.  I'm taking you to the hospital."

"No!"  Her voice was faint, but harsh.  "Please, just give me the pills and let
me get some sleep."

"Scully, no, you could be really sick.  You need to go to the emergency room."

She rolled onto her back and raised slightly, the bedspread falling to her
waist.  Her breasts rose and fell with her labored breathing, her beauty
shining through her pain and fury.  "NO!"  she repeated.  "I won't go." 

He rocked back on his feet and stared her down for a long moment.  She
maintained his gaze, strength still there even though her body was failing. 

Finally, he took a deep breath and walked over to the small bathroom. Taking a
plastic cup from its cellophane wrapper, he filled it with water and walked
back over to her.  Mulder set the water on the bedside table and sat on the
edge of the bed, fumbling with the safety seals on the pill bottle.  She
watched him from under hooded eyes, then took the pills when he handed them to
her.  After swallowing them with a long draught of water, she lay back and
closed her eyes.

He watched her slowly settle into a pained sleep.  Mulder brought his hand to
her forehead and felt for a fever, but it was only slightly warm.  He pulled
the blanket back up to her chin, affording her modesty once again, even though
he could sit and stare at her naked body for hours on end.  The minutes
stretched as fatigue claimed her, but he was far from sleep.

She could be dying.

Losing her was not an option -- not here, not ever.  As tears stung his eyes,
he stood and walked into the bathroom, then shut the door.  Sinking down onto
the lowered toilet seat, he let the sobs overtake him, but they refused to
cleanse him.

No matter what she might want, he could not let this happen.  Even if she
didn't want to fight, he would selfishly fight for her.  It wasn't what she
wanted, but it was what he needed more than the air he breathed.

Finally, as the tears dried on his skin and his face and chest were sore from
crying, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Punching in
the numbers he needed, he hit "send".

He knew what he had to do.

+++++

END (7/9)

Chapter Eight. 

+++++ 

He heard the phone ringing in a measured cadence.  Though it only sounded
through the receiver pressed to his ear, it seemed to echo through the small
tiled bathroom.  After nearly a half-dozen rings, the person at the other end
picked up. 

"Agent Mulder,"  the Cigarette-Smoking Man's voice nearly crooned over the
line.  Mulder wasn't surprised the man had call identification, but at least
he'd have a hard time triangulating a cell phone. 

His voice calm after his earlier tears, Mulder answered, "I have a deal." 

The man was silent for a few beats, then responded, "Oh?" 

"You've probably learned by now that Scully removed that tracking device you
call a chip from the back of her neck."  Mulder tried to keep his voice under
control, a difficult feat when conversing with this bastard. 

"Yes, I was surprised when I received word from some associates of mine that
she had." 

Mulder paused, reviewing the words he had rehearsed before making the call. 
"The past year has shown that the chip cured her  cancer."  The Smoking Man's
silence was his assent. "She is becoming sick again."  Though he didn't speak
the words, Mulder's desperate plea that she couldn't go back to that dark
illness carried over the telephone lines. 

"Here is my offer:  I will relinquish all active pursuit of your organization. 
In exchange, I must be given specific assurance that if the chip is reinserted
in Scully's neck, it will not be used to control her actions or thoughts in any
way." 

The Smoking Man seemed to hesitate for a moment, then asked, "Agent Scully is
worth so much to you?" 

"Yes."  Mulder wondered why this ridiculous man would doubt that for a moment,
then suspected he wanted explicit acknowledgement of it.  Bastard. 

"Interesting offer, Agent Mulder." 

Mulder continued, issuing his coup de grace.  "And I want you to listen very
closely."  He nearly barked the words, the control he'd held over his anger
rapidly deteriorating.  "If you don't keep your end of the bargain and Scully
dies, I will go public with everything I know about you and your organization."


The other man seemed stunned into silence.  Mulder knew better, though, than to
let himself feel too confident. 

"You have nothing."  His words were bitter ipecac syrup over the phone lines. 

Mulder growled in a low voice, "Scully and I have more than you think we do. 
And even if we don't have enough evidence to crucify your rotten souls in a
court of law, imagine how your organization," he sneered the word, "would look
plastered on every newspaper in the country, on CNN, on the network news?  You
must have learned by now how much people are willing to believe, based on vague
allegations." 

The older man was silent for a very long time.  Finally, a note of fear deep
down in his otherwise controlled voice, he said, "I will discuss this with my
colleagues." 

Mulder finally felt something resembling confidence.  "You have my cellular
number.  Contact me after you've spoken with them."  He stabbed the END button
on his phone and collapsed back against the toilet, shuddering and breathing
heavily.  A wave of nausea flooded through his stomach and he swallowed
furiously, trying to quell it. 

It might all go to hell, but at least he now had a bargaining point. Rising to
his feet, he grasped at the towel rack to regain his balance, then turned off
the lights and walked out of the bathroom. 

In the dim light of the curtains, he saw Scully asleep in the bed, a fine sheen
of sweat on her brow. 

Yes, he would give up everything for her. 

Going back into the bathroom, he rinsed a washcloth in cold water and rung it
out, then walked back over to where she lay.  She didn't move as he pressed the
damp cloth to her forehead, and after leaving it there for a few moments, he
set it on the nightstand and touched her brow.  She wasn't as feverish as he'd
suspected, but to be safe, he went over to the large air conditioning unit
under the window and turned down the temperature as far as it would go. 

Mulder wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms and hold her as she
slept.  More than just wanting it, he *needed* it.  Shedding his own clothes
down to his boxers, he crawled into the bed next to her, feeling the cool
sheets whisper over his skin.  She stirred slightly as he slipped one arm
underneath her and the other around her stomach, pulling her close until her
skin became his own. 

And in the darkness of night, he allowed himself to hope. 

+++++ 

The first thing I feel as I slowly awake is fingertips gently pressing into my
stomach.  I pull away from the touch, but the arms pull me tighter. Then a warm
cheek presses against my face and I inhale deeply.  I recognize the scent
immediately.  It is Mulder. 

Something deep inside of me tells me to get away, but it is quelled by the
warmth flooding my veins.  The remnants of my fading headache are forgotten as
one hot hand closes over my breast and slowly squeezes.  I shiver, and the
warmth sings in my blood. 

"Mmm... Scully."  His voice is a drowsy whisper.  I catch my breath and close
my eyes, feeling his voice wash over me.  The need to see his face is just as
strong, so I turn in his arms so that I can see him. 

I immediately notice that he is asleep. 

Is this all in his dreams?  Somehow, the idea of it thrills me.  I shift
against him and feel the hardness of his cock against me as he thrusts into the
flesh of my stomach.  He is seeking me out, making love to me in his sleep. 
Oh, God.  I realize that more than anything, I want him make love to me awake. 

Desire for him controls me, makes me press my lips up to his.  I trace their
lines with my tongue, tasting his salty sweat.  Though I've fantasized about
his lips many times, their slack softness is a new, incredible experience. 

He awakens, and looks at me with drowsy, disoriented eyes.  Confusion is soon
replaced by knowledge, and like a light being switched on, his mouth latches
onto mine.  As his lips press into my own and his tongue seeks entrance to my
mouth, a wave of love surges through me. 

I love him. 

In this dark hotel room, all my problems vanish and my life boils down to those
three words. 

Touches melt into bruising grasps.  Kisses melt into bites and swipes of
tongues.  Our skin is adhesive, gluing us together.  Though I've dreamed of a
hundred nights of long, languid lovemaking, now that the dreams are becoming
reality, I need more than soft caresses.  I need *him*. 

Reaching down between us, I curl my fingers around his length, squeezing it and
shivering at the electricity which flows through him at my actions.  I roll his
body over mine, wanting him to possess me just this once, to bring me back to
who I once was with him.  I know that I won't come simply with him inside of
me, but finding release is suddenly less important than taking him within my
body. My hands snake under the waistband of his boxers, and pull them down,
where he kicks them aside.  As I tug him closer to where I want him, he looks
startled, but I beg him with my eyes. 

Please. 

Please.  Now. 

He enters me swiftly and I contract around him as he fills all the places
within me which have been hollowed out over the past six years.  At that
moment, I know that everything in my life will be okay so long as he is here
with me, inside of me.  More than knowing it, I believe it. 

And then he speaks, his words in reckless gasps. 

"This never has to end." 

His statement brings me crashing back down to reality.  Had I been so foolish
as to think that making love to him would make our world dissolve? 

He thrusts again, the head of his penis pushing against the barrier of my womb,
and I curse my smallness, that I can't take him even further inside of me.  "I
offered them a deal, Scully." 

My name on his lips is more sexual than what our bodies are doing.  I open my
mouth to ask what he means, but he continues to speak. 

"I told them that they could have it all -- that if they'd just leave us alone,
we'd walk away." 

I freeze, even as his lips and body continue to make love to me.  He seems to
sense the change, and stops, staring deep into my eyes.  "Scully, you're so
much more important than all that." 

I'm not sure whether to be furious that he'd do this without talking to me
first, or moved to tears that he'd give everything up for me.  Then, as his
mouth moves from my face and trails down my neck and shoulders, I realize that
I would have done the same for him. 

The depth of his love is the most beautiful thing I have ever experienced. 

Mulder's mouth moves to my breasts and he draws one nipple between his lips, as
the thrills of climax I hadn't expected to reach begin to rise within my body. 
As if he's inside my mind, his lips continue to suckle as one hand moves
between our bodies.    His palm presses into my mons with each of his thrusts,
and his fingers seek out my clit.  I'm completely unprepared for the orgasm
which rocks my body, tearing apart my cells and sending me reeling. 

He continues to thrust within me, his arms clutching me closer, closer. Eyes
meet my own, watching me as I shudder and pant.  "I -- need -- you," he gasps. 
As he presses into me, the air in the room charges and sparks on our bodies,
the chilled air conditioning reacting violently to the searing heat of our
skin. 

I look up at him and realize that, despite the complete newness of the
situation, our making love like this is more normal than anything else in our
lives.  We could build a home in this bed, living here forever without guns,
enemies... or nosebleeds. 

My eyes tear up at the sight of him, his face straining in rapture, and I
discover that I am his world.  Safe and warm and -- oh, God -- in love with
him. 

His climax finally begins, its energy traveling from him into me.  He struggles
to keep his eyes open, and I place my hands on his back, tracing his muscles
and whispering in his ear. 

"Come," I urge, with the sated tenderness of a woman who has already reached
her peak.  "I love you.  Come." 

And he does, his eyes closing and his lips moving in silent, ecstatic
platitudes.  I pull him close, so close, carrying him over the threshold. As
his tremors subside, he melts into my body. 

I've never felt closer to him than I do at this moment. 

Our past is now behind us -- all the posturing and dancing around the truth --
and the rest of our new lives lies before us.  But, as he looks at me with an
expression of awe painted on his face, I'm brought back to reality. 

How much longer will those lives last? 

He seems to read my mind, as tears slowly begin spilling over his eyelids. In
an exhausted whisper, he begins to speak. 

"They're going to give you your life back, Scully. I asked them, and they're
going to give it back." 

Mulder interrupts my question of "how?" by continuing, "I told him that they
had to let you live, and that if they would promise that to me, I would walk
away from everything.  They can have it all, as long as I can have you."  His
lips brush over my face, giving me the tender kisses our passion had forgotten
earlier. 

I want to sit up, to look down at him and discuss just what he means, but God,
lying here with him feels so good, so perfect.  Still, reality beckons me with
a cruel laugh. 

"We can't, Mulder." 

He flinches above me, his lips pulling away from my neck and his eyes lifting
to meet my own. 

I continue to speak the truth to him, hating myself for it but knowing that we
can't rest forever in this idyll.  "You're forgetting that I'm still a
fugitive, and we can't hide from that forever." 

He rolls off of me, his arms still holding me close so that I'm nestled against
him, my body limp but my emotions tense.  In a petulant voice, he murmurs, "Why
not?" 

I know that he knows why. 

"Even if we survive this -- and I know we will -- I still have to face up to
what I've done.  We have to go home and face the authorities, and let justice
take its course.  You know that, Mulder."  He doesn't answer.  "You have to
understand.  As much as I love you, I can no more live with running away from
this than I can live with that chip in my neck." 

"I know," he whispers. 

I begin to kiss him, my tears sliding over the smooth skin of his cheek.
"Tomorrow morning, we're going to get back on the road and drive back to
Maryland, and I'm going to turn myself in to the police."  I can hear his
strangled sob.  "And Mulder?"  I raise up on one elbow so that I can look at
him.  "We're going to make the most of these next few days, because it might be
all we have, for a very long time." 

And we are bathed in an ocean of tears. 

+++++ 

END (8/9)

Chapter Nine. 

+++++ 

He awoke to darkness. 

A languid, satisfied pulse coursed through his body.  Mulder immediately
thought of the cliche, of someone looking for all the world like they'd gotten
laid the night before.  He imagined that anyone who saw him would notice the
contentment rolling off his skin. 

One arm stretched across the bed for her, seeking out her warmth and beauty. 
Instead, his arm moved over cool, empty sheets.  Immediately he panicked,
thinking she had left him.  Rising up on one elbow, he searched the room and
couldn't suppress a sigh of relief when he saw her sitting in front of the
window, where dawn slowly broke. 

Stepping out of bed, he murmured, "Scully?" 

She didn't answer.  He walked over to the window and found her staring off into
the middle distance, her knees pulled up to her chest.  She had put on her
clothes from the day before, and her mussed hair shone like a halo in the
waxing sunrise. 

Mulder placed a hand on her shoulder, but her body barely reacted.  Then, after
a moment, she wordlessly raised one hand and pressed something into his palm.  
He opened his hand.   A clump of bloody tissues. 

He nearly fell to the floor. 

She spoke, her voice equal parts bemusement and melancholy. 

"I never expected anything like this, growing up.  Never expected to be a
fugitive wanted for first-degree murder, or to be dying because I deliberately
removed a microchip designed to keep me alive.  A *microchip* -- God, how
ridiculous is that?  Certainly wasn't mentioned in my copy of Gray's Anatomy." 
She paused.  "But do you know what's really strange, Mulder?" 

He didn't respond, and as the silence stretched, he wondered if perhaps she did
want an answer.  "Instead, the past six years have made it plausible.  Hell,
they make me believe it.  When did I lose that innocence, that surety of self? 
I think it was probably the day I walked into your office." 

Mulder couldn't tell if the thoughtful tone in her voice was regret, but he
felt pangs of guilt all the same. 

She still had not turned to face him, but instead kept talking.  "I don't blame
you -- you have to understand that.  But God, Mulder, I feel like I've lost all
sense of control in my life." 

Her body seemed to freeze, and a chill coursed through his own.  He wanted so
much, so goddamned much, to take her back into his arms and hold her close.  To
make her feel anything but this.  Instead, he let her speak. 

Then she said the words that had the power to kill him. 

"I don't think we should have.... done that, last night." 

And she still wouldn't look at him. 

Despair hit him first, then quickly was replaced by a rush of something dark,
almost close to rage.  He stepped around her chair and wedged himself between
it and the window, fully intending to lash out at her. 

And then he looked at her. 

Her knees were pulled tightly to her chest, and she looked unbearably small. 
In the morning light, fresh, still-damp tracks of tears shone, and carmine
stains of blood on her upper lip made them seem fuller, more dangerous. 

Instead of the fury he'd expected them to carry, his words sounded plaintive,
bereft. 

"You regret it?" 

She finally met his gaze, and he saw something there he had not expected. 

Fear. 

"I..." her voice trailed off, unable to sustain the words. 

Voice stronger this time, "Do you regret it, Scully?" 

Still, silence. 

Tears threatening to spill over his eyelids, he pled once again, "Do you regret
--" he almost said 'sex', "-- making love with me?" 

Her voice was small, so small.  "No." 

"Why did you come to me, then?"  He had to know. 

"Because I wanted you.  Because I needed to make love with you before...." 

He knew what she was trying to say, as his palm opened and the bloody tissues
fluttered soundlessly to the floor. 

Before she died. 

All her earlier bitterness seemed to have melted into a deep sadness. 

"Before I die, Mulder." 

Her words suddenly infuriated him.  "Damn you, Scully!" 

"What?"  Her eyes widened, startled. 

"Damn you for being so selfish.  Did you think you could just fuck me to see
what it felt like, then walk away and die?"  He clenched his fists to suppress
the urge to lash out at her.  "Dammit, Scully.  I thought it meant something to
you.  I guess I was wrong." 

Mulder angrily moved from the window and walked toward the back of the room,
pacing back and forth. As the wind his movement created hit his skin, he
noticed that he was still naked.  Despair had made him see only her, but now he
had to cover himself, to press the anger further within him.  He grabbed his
jeans from the floor and hurriedly pulled them on, yanking on the zipper so
hard that it nearly tore, and almost crying out in pain as some of his pubic
hair caught in the teeth. 

"Mulder, listen to me," she called in a small voice.  He heard her rise from
the chair but he didn't turn around to face her.  "Listen to me!"  she
repeated. 

He froze, chest heaving with furious breath. 

"Do you know what I realized last night?"  He didn't answer.  "When we made
love -- as you came inside me -- I realized that I love you." 

The words flowed over him, their heat sizzling over his cool skin. 

"I love you, Mulder.  And I just wanted you to feel that before.... before I'm
gone." 

He found his knees refusing to hold him, and he crumpled to the floor.  As the
shockwaves of contact bit at his bones, suddenly she was there, her arms
pulling him close. 

"You're not going to die," he chanted through his tears.  "You're not going to
die, Scully." 

She didn't respond, and he felt wetness on his shoulder and her sobbing chest
pressing into his side. 

He felt a desperate need to tell her everything, to tell her the details of the
deal he'd only mentioned in vague terms the night before.  "I called the
Cigarette Man last night.  I told him that we would leave them alone, if he'd
save you." 

"How..."  Her voice trailed off in a question. 

"I told him that if the chip were put back in your neck -- I still have it,
Scully!  I took it from your cabin and it's in my wallet."  He interjected
excitedly, "I told him that they had to promise it wouldn't be used to control
you in any way.  That they'd leave you alone." 

She didn't speak, and he turned in her arms to see her face.  She still had a
look on her face of interest mixed with something close to horror.  "How do you
know they'll live up to that promise?" 

Mulder finally felt triumphant for the first time in ages.  "I told him that if
we found out it was being used to control you, or that if you--" he couldn't
bring himself to say 'died', "--I'd expose them.  I'd tell every reporter in
America what they'd done to you, and to everyone." 

And then she did the thing which he least expected -- she laughed. 

The room chimed with the sound of her amusement.  "Wonderful, Mulder.  I'm not
sure that would necessarily bring them to their knees, but it's a wonderful
plan." 

He couldn't resist chuckling a bit too.  "We're going to win.  I know it." 

Then he kissed her. 

She stiffened for a split second, then returned the kiss with fervor.  Her lips
tasted of the peculiar iron taste of blood.  He bathed her face with kisses,
then moved his mouth to her hair, short and black and so different from before.
 Between kisses, he whispered, "I don't care what happens when we get back to
D.C.  As long as you're alive, Scully, we've won." 

They lay together on the floor, bodies meshing into one another, until time
ceased to exist. 

+++++ 

Tonight we are at a Howard Johnson's just outside of Indianapolis.  From our
room I can see the lights of the interstate, mocking me with the knowledge of
only one more day on the road before we are back in Maryland. 

We have just found each other, but have only one more day to be together before
we are torn apart. 

We're still unwilling to risk a dinner out in public, so Scully remains in the
room while I drive around the neighborhood, looking for some promising
take-out.  We probably could have managed another couple of hours on the road,
but we journey under the unspoken agreement that this trip must last as long as
possible.  Besides, I want one long night with her before.... 

I refuse to say the words. 

At the next off-ramp, I spot a Fridays and head inside to the bar, where I
place a to-go order full of all sorts of foods:  teriyaki chicken for two,
caesar salad, potato skins, and some dessert called a "chocolate sack". 

Next door is a bank with a drive-thru ATM.  I hesitate a bit before withdrawing
as much as my daily limit will allow.  Since we're going back to D.C., our
enemies' tracking us down through my transactions doesn't alarm me as much as
it might have before. 

Just as I'm turning to head back to the freeway, I find a women's clothing
store in a shopping strip.  Remembering that Scully has not had a change of
clothes since yesterday morning at the ranch, I select several plain pairs of
underwear and bras -- not quite as plush as Scully deserves, but certainly more
practical in the long-run. 

I suppress the thought that long-run could easily mean incarceration. 

Arms laden with bags, I return to the motel. 

When I let myself through the door, I find Scully stepping out of the shower. 
She doesn't bother to tuck the towel around her body as she finishes drying
off, and I'm a bit surprised at how comfortable with me she seems to have
become since we made love last night. 

As she settles down on the bed, something close to delight on her face upon
seeing the shopping bags and selection of food, she speaks.  "I realized
something while you were gone." 

"Yeah?" 

"I haven't had a nosebleed since this morning." 

I'm speechless. 

She must have caught the look on my face, because she hastily adds, "It doesn't
necessarily mean anything, Mulder.  When I was first getting sick last year,
sometimes I'd go for days without a nosebleed." 

I raise my hand and brush some wet hair away from her brow, still a bit taken
aback at how different it is, short and dyed black.  "Still, Scully, it's a
start.  That's good."  She looks at me for a long moment, and I continue, "Why
is it that you can never be truly optimistic?" 

She does a slow double-take. 

Before allowing her a word in edgewise, I continue.  "You just told me
wonderful news -- that you haven't had a nosebleed all day.  But instead of
being happy about it, you take the negative angle, immediately qualifying the
statement with a disclaimer that it ultimately means nothing." 

She's gaping at me now. 

"Why can't you just be hopeful for a change?"  I can feel something like
frustration pooling in my stomach. 

And then it turns to nausea as she murmurs, "I can't afford the luxury of
hope." 

I clench my jaw, and turn to face her full-on. 

"Hope is the only luxury we have, Scully." 

She holds my gaze for a moment, then brings one finger up to my jaw, tracing
the still-tense muscles.  Her voice is a whisper.  "I'm trying.  God, I'm
trying." 

"I know."  Our whispering voices twine around one another, like strands of DNA
-- the double-helix of hope and fear and pain and love.  "But sometimes you
just have to stop trying so hard and let it happen." 

Her fingers continue to trace the contours of my face, touching me as if I am
being baptized, when in reality she's the one finally allowing the idea of hope
to wash over her with its cleansing holy water. 

And we finally begin to make love, letting the emotions surround us, floating
within them.  It is beautiful and bittersweet, all the more so because of the
knowledge that, as the world closes in around us, hope is all we have. 

+++++ 

As they drove through state after state, the world seemed to become surreal, as
if they had moved out of it and into another plane of being, where only the two
of them existed. 

They never spoke of what awaited them in Maryland. 

The time was spent in laughs and discussions and lovers' murmurings.  What did
you want to be, growing up?  Do you remember such-and-such case?  What are your
fantasies, and how can I help fulfill them?  Scully and Mulder learned more
about each other's inner souls than they had in the past six years.  And for
the first time they truly felt comfortable with one another, both as lovers and
as dear friends.  Honesty and good humor can be a panacea, but also a mask,
hiding the demons they would soon have to confront. 

She laughed for the first time in ages -- a gentle, true laugh of
effervescence.  Laughter is contagious, and he shared in the smiles. 

And then, they passed a sign announcing the Maryland state line, and reality
cruelly beckoned them, pulling them kicking and screaming out of the idyll they
had created.  Only a couple of hours to D.C. 

Scully could physically feel the electricity in the Explorer change from a
positive to a negative charge.  She had to remind herself to breathe, to inhale
the free air and appreciate it before it was gone. 

Her lover approached the shift indirectly, as he was wont to do.  "Do you know
what's strange, Scully?" 

"Mmm?" she murmured her response. 

"I don't feel anything." 

She turned to look at him.  "How do you mean?" 

He continued to drive, always staying less than five miles an hour over the
speed limit.  They passed the Maryland welcome center, which trumpeted, "So
Many Things To Do,  So Close Together",  but she couldn't smile at the slogan. 

"I spend nearly my entire life searching for my sister.  And now I've found
her, so to speak.... but I can't feel anything about her being dead." 

Scully bit her lip, trying to stave off the crushing guilt for just a while
longer. 

"The night before I saw you in that interrogation room, the Cigarette Man came
to see me, and told me that the woman you shot was the real Samantha." 

"And you believe him?" 

"I don't know."  Scully heard him sigh deeply.  "I do.  I'm not sure why, but I
believe him.  I had the pathologist who did the autopsy run some blood tests,
and her type matched mine.  My mother--" he paused, "My mother was going to run
DNA tests, but I don't know if she ever did." 

"You know they can manipulate DNA, Mulder." 

"Yeah, I know," a note of frustration crept into his voice, "but if this woman
was a clone, do you think they would allow her to even be autopsied?  If they
wanted to hide something, or if she wasn't biologically human, the body would
have been long gone." 

Scully wasn't sure whether she shared his confidence, but she listened to him
continue to speak. 

"The weird thing is that everything tells me I should be mourning -- hell, I'm
a psychologist.  Man discovers the sister he has been searching for his entire
life has been murdered -- by his best friend, no less.  My textbooks would then
say that man goes apeshit and has a nervous breakdown." 

His voice had a note of rising panic, and she began to feel the same in her
veins.  Then his voice quieted, and she listened to him breathe. 

"But I don't even really feel upset.  I mean, I'm upset, I'm disturbed -- but
not heartbroken.  God, maybe all my years of investigation have erased my soul.
 Maybe I'm too damaged to care anymore, and I've made her into a construct
rather than a true person, and that's why her death doesn't really make much of
an impact on me." 

Under other circumstances, Scully would have kept silent, slowly inching away
from him, trying to distance herself from his emotions.  But they were involved
too deeply for that. 

"Or maybe, Mulder, you've become so involved in helping me through this that
you've lost sight of that other side of yourself."  She wanted to reach out and
lace her fingers through his, but she kept her hand at her side.  "Maybe you
just haven't started to feel the true impact of it yet." 

"Maybe," he murmured, and was silent once again. 

She turned her head and looked at him.  His eyes began to glaze over as he
watched the road. 

"Maybe," he repeated, his voice barely a whisper. 

Rockville came closer and closer.  They would be home by that evening.  A
question which had remained in her mind begged to be asked. 

"I have to ask you something." 

His voice dropped, as if he heard the gravity of her voice.  "What?" 

Scully wasn't quite sure how to approach the issue, so did so outright:  "I
heard that your family was going to file a lawsuit against me." 

The car jerked slightly, but his face didn't show the shock his reflexes seemed
to be feeling.  She continued to watch him, awaiting his answer, as he seemed
to measure his words. 

"It was my mother's idea.  I didn't have anything to do with it." 

She weighed the thought for a moment, then murmured, "I believe you." 

And she did. 

+++++ 

"ROCKVILLE, NEXT 5 EXITS", a kelly green road sign trumpeted. 

Mulder could barely breathe.  They were there.  Panic took hold of his heart
and began to flow through his veins, crushing the oxygen in his blood. 

She couldn't turn herself in.  Not yet.  //not ever// a voice inside him
trumpeted.  But they couldn't run any further.  Vanishing off the face of the
earth was a heavenly prospect, but he knew that they would be found in whatever
Valhalla they created for themselves. 

Instead of taking the exit which would lead them to the police headquarters, he
continued to drive, steering the car toward his apartment.  She only glanced at
him in confusion once,  then seemed to know exactly what he wanted to do. 

As he parked the car, Mulder prayed that his apartment wasn't under police
surveillance.  If it were, it would merely speed up the inevitable, but he
needed just one more -- one more -- night with her.  Free. 

A small part of him knew the defeatism of that thought.  One night could easily
turn into two, then three, and they'd wake up one morning to find the police
had come for her, and the pain would be too much to bear.  He smothered the
thought.  It was already too much to bear. 

Mulder pulled the rental Explorer into a parking space not his own and she
exited the car behind him.  He took her hand and led her to a dark side of the
building, within sight of his window.  He whispered, "When you see my light
come on, go in.  If it's not on in 10 minutes, just go.  Leave." 

She nodded.  Come inside if it was safe;  go to the police station if it was
not. 

He tore himself away from her side and entered his building, fumbling in his
pocket for the key.  The elevator ride up seemed to take ages, lifting him up
to some brief safety, some brief refuge.  Then it finally stopped on the fourth
floor.  Slowly, he walked the hallway to his door, measuring his steps,
watchful for anything out of the ordinary. 

It all felt so ordinary, so untouched by the hell which had become his life. 

The key turned easily in the lock, beckoning him inside.  Immediately he sensed
that someone had been there.  The place was empty, but the air seemed to shift
with an unfamiliar presence.  He knew that someone -- the police, perhaps --
had been there while he was gone, though they'd not disturbed his things. 

Mulder flipped on the light, calling Scully up, then set about reclaiming his
place as his own. 

As he looked around the collection of rooms, he wondered if, perhaps, the
apartment was cleaner than he'd left it.  Then again, he barely remembered the
time when he left; it blended into a collection of images -- fear, fury, and
confusion.  The clock in the kitchen read 7:53 -- they had so little time left,
so little time to postpone the inevitable.  As he checked for dirty dishes in
the sink and picked up a can of air freshener, he heard a knock at the door. 
Mulder was startled for a moment until he remembered Scully didn't have her
key;  indeed, she had nothing of her own in her possession. 

He walked over to the door and let her inside, then, unable to resist, pulled
her into a strong embrace.  She stiffened for a moment then leaned into him,
and the room echoed with the sounds of their labored breathing. 

Neither of them spoke.  The knowledge that tonight was all they had left hung
in the air between them. 

In his teenaged years, back before he knew the vagaries and potential cruelties
relationships could bring, he had been an incurable romantic.  Fox would spend
his time in sophomore chemistry writing love notes which would never be
delivered to crushes, or sneaking into Love Story while his friends --
acquaintances, really --  from the basketball team were busy crunching popcorn
at a spaghetti western.  It had all been furtive, until his secret was
discovered when he'd left a notebook full of scribblings in a classroom.  The
teasing he'd endured nearly soured the whole idea of romance.  Love was
elusive, love was adult.  Love was something he fell into on a daily basis, but
only when he was older did he realize that while he loved the idea of romance,
he couldn't quite handle the reality of *love*. 

Sometime in the past six years he had discovered that reality with Scully. 

Clasping her hand, he led her into his bedroom -- the bedroom he'd been saving
for her for so long.  In all his fervored, aroused fantasies, he'd never
expected that that time would come on what could be their last night together. 
But he determined to savor it, to make it last.  His stamina wasn't what it
once was, but it would be tonight, he vowed. 

They stood in darkness. 

In the sliver of light peeking through the blinds, he saw her face.  Fine lines
had appeared where there had been none.  But though she seemed to have aged a
decade in the past two weeks, she had never looked as young, vulnerable, and
trusting as she did at that moment -- eyes wide, face somber. 

He unwrapped her like a treasured birthday gift, an orchid which would last
only one day before the bloom faded away.  She watched him, eyes still trusting
and cherishing, as he slipped the clothes from her body.  Bare before him, she
raised her hands and did the same with him, and he grew still as her hands
moved over his body.  Touching him in ways he'd never experienced before. 

Together, they stepped over to the bed and he lay her down upon it, captivated
by the sight of her pale skin against the dark spread.  Mulder knelt at the end
of the bed then pulled her toward him, spreading her legs and resting them on
either side of his shoulders.  He leaned forward to taste her.  His tongue
skimmed over the soft skin of her thighs, then moved forward to the reddish
skin at her apex, teasing and caressing the folds, reveling in the amazed and
heightened sounds his mouth created in her.  As she stiffened then softened
under him, the sensation was incredible.... 

And unbearable, as she slowly came down from her peak and he realized that this
glory would soon be gone. 

He looked up at her, tears smarting in his eyes, and he knew she understood. 
Climbing onto the bed next to her, she pulled him into her arms, her touch
gentle and sad, and his tears began to flow. 

God, why did love have to hurt so much? 

They spent the rest of the night together, making love again and again as if
they could squeeze a lifetime's worth of tenderness into a few short hours. 
Every time he thought he might collapse from exhaustion, the light through the
blinds -- so dark, then slowly suffusing the room with dawn -- reminded him of
what awaited them far too soon.  He tried to smother the panic, the fear, but
didn't always succeed. 

For not the first time, he wanted to run away with her, to a place where pain
and danger and murder didn't exist.  For not the first time, he realized the
impossibility of the dream. 

Sometime after eight that morning, she finally withdrew from his embrace and
stood, her body bearing the redness of their love.  He had marked her and she
him, scars which would carry them through their forced separation.  In a hoarse
whisper, she murmured, "We have to go now." 

He nodded, fighting back more tears. 

They showered together then he dressed, choosing a black suit from his closet,
needing the colors of mourning that day.  He watched her slip into a pair of
his khaki pants and a white dress shirt.  She rolled up the sleeves and cuffs,
but the fabric seemed to swallow her, as if the old Scully was slipping away
into a void of bland colors and smothered desires. 

Thawed bagels from the freezer provided their breakfast, then Mulder watched
her gaze around one last time as they reluctantly left the apartment.  He
forced himself to lock the door and lead her down to his car, leaving the
rented Explorer to be returned later.  Even with the rush hour traffic, the
drive to Rockville passed far too quickly, as if the inevitable refused to be
delayed any longer. 

With a heavy heart, he pulled into a parking space at the police headquarters. 
As the car shuddered to a stop, she reached over and took his hand.  Mulder
didn't want to face her, to see the sadness and fear in her eyes, but he turned
and found in her face what he'd expected. 

He refused to whisper a farewell.  Not now, not ever. 

Never "farewell". 

And together, they got out of the car and walked, hand in hand, to the
forbidding doors of the police station. 

+++++ 

END, Book One. 
 
 
 




+++++alannabaker+++++
http://alanna.net
"i'm a fountain of blood
in the shape of a girl" -- bjork.