From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 1 Feb 2007 23:45:11 -0000
Subject: NEW:  Shred of Doubt 0 of 9 by Jo-Ann Lassiter and Vickie Moseley
Source: direct

Reply To: Jolassi555@cs.com, and@diviy.pair.com, vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com


Title:  Shred of Doubt 
Authors:  Jo-Ann Lassiter and Vickie Moseley
Summary:  Post all things and Brand X.  Scully gets 
called out to San Diego to help on a case and 
Mulder, though still recovering, tags along.  
Detective John Kresge wasn't expecting the extra 
baggage.
Category:  MSR (really, we promise), UST (yeah, 
that too), MT, SA and hopefully H
Rating:  E for Everyone
Disclaimer:  Our apologies to Shakespeare, we 
created a romantic comedy of errors.  But we did 
not intend any copyright infringement to 1013 
Productions or 20th Century Fox.
Archives:  yes
Thanks to Chuck (Mandy64) for beta and advice!  
You're the greatest.  Watch out for those penguins 
on the beach!
Vickie's Authors Notes:  I want to thank Jo-Ann for 
agreeing to team up with me.  We started out 
thinking this was going to be just a little 'Mulder 
blind' fic and it grew and grew and grew!  But it 
was so much fun (until the editing and pasting part) 
and I would gladly do it again in a heartbeat!
Jo-Ann's Author's Notes: Hey, don't believe all 
you've heard about how grueling it is to write with 
Vickie. We never got into fistfights or anything! 
Well, there was that one time. . . Erm, never mind. 
(kidding!) Actually, for someone who's never 
teamed up on a story (me), this was a pretty good 
first experience. I might even go so far as to say, it 
was fun. Oh, all right, it was lots of fun! I, too, 
would do it again in a heartbeat, if I thought 
Vickie's nerves could take it. <g> Blame the length 
of the story on Mulder's propensity to hurt himself 
and look so darned cute (use your imagination) in 
the process! It wasn't my fault. Mostly.
FEEDBACK (we're both residents of the Old Fan 
Fic Veterans Home and sometimes they forget to 
feed us):
Jo-Ann Lassiter --  Jolassi555@cs.com
Vickie Moseley --  vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com 

We will be posting one part a night for nine nights.  
The complete story will be available soon at 
Vickie's website
www.vickiemoseley.freeservers.com
for everyone who can't wait a week and a half :)


Shred of Doubt (1/9)
Jo-Ann Lassiter and
Vickie Moseley

FBI Headquarters 
Washington, DC 
April 30, 2000 
8:05 am 

"Good to be back?" Scully leaned against the 
doorjamb, looking and sounding even more 
delectable to Mulder's tired eyes than she had when 
she'd called to tell him goodnight the night before -- 
and checked to make sure he'd taken all his meds. 

"Beats the alternative," he rasped. He hated how his 
voice sounded to his ears and could tell Scully 
didn't much care for it either; by the grimaces she 
kept throwing his way. He sat back in the computer 
chair and tried to convey how much better he felt 
with just a look. It must have worked because she 
smiled at him. 

"Well, you'll be interested to know that Morley 
Tobacco has subpoenaed all of our files on the case. 
They seem extremely interested in your recovery." 

"What about Darryl Weaver?" Mulder croaked out. 

"He's well enough to be moved to the hospital ward 
at Raleigh Correctional." 

"It was the nicotine itself that was keeping him 
alive?" His voice wasn't going to keep up its end of 
the conversation for very long. He really hated it 
when he had to resort to passing her notes to get his 
thoughts across. 

"Well, his fingertips were stained yellow with it. He 
was a four-pack-a-day smoker -- far heavier than 
any of the focus group members who died. You 
know, nicotine is extremely poisonous. It's one of 
the oldest known insecticides." 

"Good for killing tobacco beetles," he grinned. 

"Well, once we loaded your system up with enough 
of it, it acted as a sort of chemotherapy -- except it 
almost stopped your breathing at the same time." 
Her eyes still had that haunted edge to them when 
she spoke of his time in the hospital. 

He sat there for a moment. He'd been told that 
confession was good for the soul -- but whose soul? 
Still, looking into her concerned face, he couldn't 
hide his dirty little secret any longer. "That's not all 
it did." 

He felt her eyes on his back as he walked over to his 
desk and pulled open the top drawer. Reaching in, 
he pulled out his 'prize' -- the little time bomb he'd 
purchased just an hour before. He held the 
cigarettes up for her to see clearly. "I bought these 
on the way to work." 

Her reaction was immediate. "You're not going to 
start smoking." 

He almost corrected her -- take up smoking again -- 
but thought better of bringing up a part of his life 
best dead and buried. "They say the addiction is 
stronger than that of heroin." He sniffed the pack to 
make his point. 

"Mulder -- " He could see the anguish in her eyes. 
He could almost see the little devil on his left 
shoulder preparing to do battle with the little angel 
on his right. No contest. The little angel had red hair 
and carried a Bureau issued Smith and Wesson. He 
unceremoniously dropped the pack into the trashcan 
at his feet. 

Scully nodded, hiding well her triumphant smirk. 
"Good. Well, Skinner's waiting for us up in his 
office." 

"I'll be right up," he assured her. As he heard her 
heels tap their way to the elevator, he leaned over 
and stared at the red and white Pandora's box at the 
bottom of the trash. Giving his head a shake, he 
reached behind him to gather his jacket from the 
back of his desk chair and walked slowly to the 
elevator and his salvation. 

Alone in the elevator car, he thought back on all 
that had transpired in the last three weeks. When 
he'd left DC for England that Friday just three 
weeks before, he was certain they were headed for 
the 'big goodbye'. Scully had finally had enough of 
his bullshit; he was sure that she would use the three 
days to write up her transfer papers. He'd heard 
there was an opening in Forensics and the higher 
ups had all but begged her to apply. Yes, finally, 
Dana Scully had come to her senses and was going 
to leave him in the dust. 

So when he did find her at the hospital after his crop 
circles had turned to so much scattered wild oats, he 
was shocked at the change in her disposition. She 
came to his apartment, told him of her journey 
during his absence. At any moment he was 
expecting her to tell him how much she'd enjoyed 
working with him, how she wanted them to remain 
friends. How he could always call on her if he ever 
needed her. But that moment never came, those 
words never passed her lips. He was confused when 
he awoke in the middle of the night to find her at 
the foot of his bed. He was certain she was going to 
tell him good night, that she was leaving to go back 
to her apartment. When she pulled off her shirt and 
pants and climbed in beside him, he'd still been 
confused, but ecstatic. 

That night was still more a dream than anything else 
to him. He pictured it in flashes. Her nails on his 
chest. His fingers caressing her thigh. Her hands 
gripping his shoulders. His mouth connecting with 
hers. 

He got breathless just thinking about it. 

Had it been a dream? One case, a prolonged 
hospital stay and two weeks home confinement later 
he could almost convince himself it had been one of 
his late night fantasies brought on by watching too 
many of 'those' videos. But no, he still had concrete 
proof. When he awoke that precious morning only 
to find her gone, he'd jumped out of bed in a blind 
panic. On hitting the floor his foot had landed 
square on one of her tiny stud earrings -- sticking 
straight up in the nap of the carpet. Extracting the 
needle like object from the ball of his foot, he poked 
it through the lampshade next to his bed. It was 
there still, an unnoticed souvenir when she brought 
him home from Asheville to recuperate. He sure 
wasn't going to give it back any time soon. It was 
the only proof he had that they'd had one night 
together. 

He shook his head as the elevator doors opened and 
he found the car had stopped on Skinner's floor. He 
knew they were waiting so he put on a little speed. 
Halfway to Skinner's office, which was only a few 
yards down the hall, he found himself seeing spots 
and gasping for breath. A young agent looked at 
him with alarm and reached out a hand to him, but 
he batted it away, choosing to lean against the wall 
for a moment. Damn it! When was he going to feel 
right again? He patted down his pockets until he 
came up with one of the hated inhalers Scully had 
foisted on him. He took a quick puff and closed his 
eyes, waiting for the medicine to take effect. By the 
time he was pushing off the wall to start on his way 
again, a warm hand was on his arm. He looked 
down into his partner's eyes. 

"I was starting to get worried. Guess I was right," 
she said in a low whisper. 

He closed his eyes again -- god, how he didn't want 
to see that look on her face -- the terrified, worried-
she-was-going-to-lose-him look. Finally, he knew 
he had to face her so he blinked his eyes open. "I'm 
OK, Scully. Just tried to go too fast." 

"You have more than two speeds, Mulder. Try 
going a little slower than either 'too fast' and 'dead 
run'." Her scolding was softened by the wink she 
added. 

"Skinner ready to eat us for lunch?" he asked, trying 
to deflect her concerned look. 

"Nah, he's been on a call since I got here. I've been 
talking to Kim the whole time. I just noticed you 
hadn't arrived yet and thought I'd go hunt you 
down." 

"I wasn't that late," he groused, heading to Skinner's 
outer office door. Now that he wasn't puffing for 
air, he was alternately embarrassed and grumpy. 
He'd been good the whole two weeks he'd been a 
prisoner in his apartment; not once had he gone out 
for a run or a pick up basketball game or anything. 
He gave his body plenty of time to recover -- why 
was it betraying him this way? 

Just as they reached the door, Skinner stuck his 
head out and motioned them to follow him. They 
took their customary seats in front of his desk and 
waited for him to sit down. 

"Sorry to make you wait, Agents," he said 
regretfully. "That was the Director and it concerned 
the case I have for you." 

Immediately, Scully leaned forward in her chair. 
"Sir, Agent Mulder has not been cleared for work in 
the field yet," she said pointedly. 

Mulder cringed and had to hold his back ramrod 
straight to keep from slouching in his chair. He'd 
been in similar positions before in his life -- when 
he just wanted to disappear. He shouldn't have 
worried; neither Skinner nor Scully seemed to know 
he was even in the room. 

Skinner frowned and looked down at his desk for a 
second before meeting her gaze. "Technically, 
Agent Mulder is only in a consulting capacity on 
this case, Agent Scully. It's you they want." He 
picked up a folder and handed it over to Scully 
before leaning back in his chair. "Three murders, all 
occurring in locked rooms, no possible point of 
entry." 

"Suicides?" Scully offered before opening the file 
and glancing through the pages. 

"I don't think anyone could commit suicide in this 
manner," Skinner said, his face clearly showing his 
skepticism. 

Scully found the crime scene photos and winced, 
causing Mulder to lean over to look at the pictures. 

"Gives the word 'overkill' a new meaning," he 
quipped before taking the file from his partner's 
hand. 

"The victims were garroted to the point their heads 
were barely attached to the bodies. Rose petals were 
stuffed in their mouths -- one victim had almost 40 
petals crammed down his throat -- what was left of 
his throat." 

"Roses?" Scully asked. "In each case?" 

"A specific type of rose, actually," Mulder provided 
as he skimmed the report. "Silk roses, blood red 
with drops of glue to simulate dew drops. You 
know, Scully. The ones really cheap boyfriends 
give their girls on Valentines Day." His mind was 
working, taking in each facet of the crime scene 
pictures. No entry -- but he doubted it was anything 
like Eugene Victor Tooms. He longed to see one of 
the crime scenes up close -- 

Skinner's voice startled him out of his musings. 
"You're to meet with the San Diego Police 
Department and provide them with all necessary 
expertise." 

"Expertise?" Scully repeated. Mulder knew why she 
was asking that. It didn't take a superior pathologist 
to see the cause of death for each victim. 

"Because of the unusual nature of the crime -- the 
locked room, the fact that each victim died a 
horrendous death during hours when other people 
were nearby and could have heard any struggle -- 
the San Diego Police Department requested the X 
Files Division by name." 

Mulder cast Scully a concerned look. "By name, 
sir? Who asked for us, if I may?" 

"A Detective Kresge, Agent Mulder. Seems he's 
heard of your work. Do either of you recognize the 
name?" 

Scully licked her lip and exchanged another glance 
with Mulder. "Uh, yes sir. I met Det. Kresge when I 
was in San Diego a few years ago at Christmas, 
visiting my family." Mulder tried not to reveal too 
much in his expression. It was hard -- wanting 
nothing more than to comfort his partner, but at the 
same time, not wanting to give away too much in 
front of their boss. 

"He spoke quite highly of you, Agent Scully," 
Skinner said with a raised eyebrow. "I'm not 
familiar with any case you might have worked 
while on vacation." 

Scully chewed her lip and was about to speak when 
Mulder jumped into the conversation. "It wasn't 
really a case, sir. More of an entanglement of 
outside alliances, if you understand my meaning." 
He shot a look over to the couch along the far wall 
of the office. 

Skinner nodded in acknowledgement of the man 
who frequently graced that piece of furniture. 

"Sir, I still think Agent Mulder would be better off 
if he stayed here," Scully said, not looking over to 
her partner. 

He'd had enough. It was time to step into battle. 
"Scully, what's the big deal? I can't go out to the 
field, but I can stay in some office helping to 
compile the data. Do they have a profiler on this 
case, sir?" 

At that Scully turned in her seat to stare at her 
partner. "You're volunteering to profile? Are you 
nuts?" 

Why did she always assume that every profile was 
going to make him spontaneously self-destruct? 
Now that he'd seen the file, he was itching to get 
back to work -- real work. Not just writing up old 
expense reports. Why couldn't she see that he 
needed this? "It's an interesting case. And the San 
Diego PD is a big enough force that I doubt I'll be 
chasing down any perps while we're out there. The 
doctors in Asheville cleared me to travel -- " 

"To travel to Washington from Asheville, not all the 
way across the country," Scully shot back. "Mulder, 
I just don't think this is a good idea." 

"Well, I think this is just the kind of case we're good 
at. And I'm cleared for deskwork, Scully -- you 
know that. Unless you have some other reason you 
don't want me out there." He was tossing the 
gauntlet at her feet. 

She shook her head slowly and he knew he'd won. 
"OK, I guess we both go. But Mulder, if you don't 
obey every single one of your doctor's orders, so 
help me -- " 

"I can make that grounds for insubordination, if it 
would help," Skinner suggested and both agents 
cast their eyes in his direction, realizing they'd been 
having their argument with him in the room. 

"That won't be necessary, sir. I'll be good," Mulder 
assured him. 

Skinner gave Scully a few seconds to come up with 
a good counter argument, but she'd obviously run 
out of ideas. "Well, I suggest you make travel 
arrangements with Kim on your way out. Kresge 
requested your assistance as soon as possible." 

Scully's Apartment
11:46 a.m.

Scully sighed as she fastened the latches on her 
suitcase. Half an hour before she had to leave for 
the airport and San Diego. Case notwithstanding, 
San Diego meant family: Tara, Matthew . . .

Bill.

Tempted though she was to steer clear of any 
contact at all with him, she couldn't in good 
conscience pass through town without letting them 
know she was there. Besides, her mom was at Bill's 
for a couple of months, catching up on missed time 
with her grandson. Maggie would be very upset if 
she found out that Scully had been to San Diego, 
and hadn't had the courtesy to even call.

Of course, if she did call, a visit was unavoidable. 
She should be looking forward to seeing her brother 
and his family again, yet she wasn't. Though it'd be 
wonderful to see Tara and Matthew, seeing her 
oldest sibling was always such a strain.

Bill was no fan of Mulder's, and never passed up an 
opportunity to let her know it. Wouldn't he be Mr. 
Congeniality when she showed up at his home with 
her partner in tow?

Mulder didn't look to be any picnic, either. He still 
wasn't a hundred percent -- hell, he wasn't even fifty 
percent -- but he was too damned stubborn to admit 
it, to her or to himself. Skinner may have bought 
that 'I'll be good' line, but Scully knew her partner.

Oh, he'd try, just not hard enough. Something would 
crop up that only he and he alone could handle -- or 
so he'd believe. It was her job to make him see 
otherwise. Trouble was, she'd be in the field while 
he . . . wouldn't. It was hard enough to convince 
Mulder of anything he disagreed with in person; 
long distance, it would be near impossible.

Then there was Detective Kresge. Asking for them 
by name. For her.

She knew he'd been somewhat enamored of her 
during that Christmas two years ago. Hopefully, 
he'd moved on, and his interest in her was purely 
professional. The last thing she needed was some 
guy showing an interest in her at this stage of her 
relationship with her partner. Although, given that 
the detective ended up in the ICU because of her 
involvement in the case, that was probably the 
furthest thing from his mind. She sincerely hoped 
that it was.

She and Mulder were still testing the waters, so to 
speak, and while she was certain of her feelings 
toward him, he wasn't. Not that she'd had a chance 
to do any convincing. Since that one night together, 
it seemed like it had been one calamity after 
another, as if the fates themselves were conspiring 
to keep them apart. She seriously wondered if her 
brother had an 'in' with The Powers That Be.

At least Mulder wasn't making their room 
reservations this time; the San Diego PD was 
picking up the tab for that. She hoped that they 
would put them up in a better class of motel than 
the gems Mulder usually found. Which shouldn't be 
too hard. With any luck, she could score adjoining 
rooms for them. She wanted Mulder right under her 
watchful eye, especially since he'd be profiling.

God, she hoped they'd catch a break this time, for 
Mulder's health and her sanity.

She really should have known better.

**

Dulles International Airport Terminal
1:26 p.m.

Mulder sat slumped in his seat, waiting for their 
flight to begin boarding. Next to him, Scully 
pretended to be absorbed in her paperback. Mulder 
had caught more than one worried glance directed 
his way in the ten minutes they'd been seated at 
their gate, and the last time it had happened, he'd 
scowled at her. Her eyes had been glued to her book 
ever since.

While he realized she was only concerned for his 
welfare, it felt too much like he was being babysat, 
and he hadn't been happy with that scenario. He still 
wasn't, but after the scare he'd put her through -- put 
them both through if he was being honest with 
himself -- she had every right to be a little over-
protective. If he never saw another beetle for the 
rest of his life, it would be too many.

"Hey," he said, nudging her knee with his. When 
she looked over at him, he was startled at the hurt in 
her eyes. He swallowed the excuse he had made up, 
the joke he was going to follow it with, and said 
simply, "Sorry." Why, oh why, was he such an ass 
toward her? Why she even cared about a jerk like 
him was beyond his comprehension.

He'd been thinking about Kresge, about Kresge and 
Scully, in particular, and their relationship and 
whether he should be worried. If he carried on with 
this attitude, he wouldn't have to wonder. He'd be 
handing her over on a silver platter.

Suddenly aware that she'd made no response, 
Mulder focused his attention upon her. She was 
studying him, and when he finally met her gaze, she 
gave him a slight smile, just enough of one to show 
he was, if not forgiven, at least understood. A 
corner of his mouth quirked his thanks, and he made 
sure his eyes conveyed just how much he regretted 
his behavior.

She kept his gaze for another second before she 
turned back to her book, and Mulder was upset to 
see that the hurt still lingered in her eyes. He looked 
away, at a loss as to how to fix this. It had been so 
long since he'd been in a relationship -- if that was 
in fact what he and Scully were in -- and he couldn't 
recall ever causing so much damage with just a 
look.

He couldn't say he'd never hurt her before, because 
he knew damned well that he had. Many times. Yet 
it had never bothered him the way it did now. Was 
it because he hadn't cared before? he wondered, and 
then told himself that no, that wasn't it. He'd cared 
for Scully since the beginning of their partnership, 
and loved her almost as long.

When the reason hit him, he didn't know whether to 
jump for joy or crawl into a hole. It had never 
bothered him because he hadn't known. He hadn't 
known because she hadn't wanted him to know. 
What did it mean that she allowed him to see those 
feelings now?

Was she letting him in, or had she finally given up 
on him? Mulder couldn't get the idea of Scully and 
Kresge out of his mind. Had she decided to stop 
hiding her feelings so that when the time came to 
cut him loose he would know that he was the cause, 
not her?

He knew he had probably gone off in entirely the 
wrong direction, but he was always sort of a worst-
case-scenario kind of guy when it came to his love 
life. What if she really was looking forward to 
seeing the detective again? What if she planned to 
see him socially?

That one night that he and Scully had spent together 
meant the world to him, but he couldn't say what it 
meant to Scully. At the time, he thought he knew, 
but it had happened so long ago, and they'd never 
mentioned it again. He thought she loved him, but 
was that enough? If he wasn't able to give her what 
she wanted, what she needed, would she look 
elsewhere? Would he, if the situation were 
reversed?

He already knew the answer to that before he asked 
it. She hadn't, and he didn't. For him, Scully was the 
only one, no matter how unrequited his love had 
been. He honestly didn't know if he could say the 
same for her.

Yet her love wasn't unrequited. She knew he loved 
her. Even if he didn't show it at times, he knew she 
knew. He looked over at her. Just as he knew that 
she loved him. God, he was such a twit. Of course, 
she loved him.

He reached over and covered her hand with his, 
startling her. When she looked at him, surprise and 
confusion in her expression, he gave her a small, 
sad smile. "I really am sorry, Scully," he said 
quietly. "I'm such an asshole sometimes."

She didn't laugh, though he'd hoped she would. 
"Yes, you are," she said.

He pulled her hand off her book so he could grasp it 
in his. "I love you," he said in his raspy voice. "All 
the time. No matter what. Even when I'm being an 
asshole to you. Even when you hate me." His throat 
was killing him after all that, but it was worth it to 
tell her how he felt. How much he loved her.

"It's not hate, Mulder. It's anger. For the way you 
treat me sometimes, the way you react to genuine 
concern for your well-being. I don't like it, and I 
don't deserve it."

Mulder was a little shocked. He'd been trying for 'I 
love you, too,' and he got 'why I don't like you.' "I . . 
." What could he say? She was right. He didn't 
always consider her feelings before he spoke 
against or reacted to something he didn't like. More 
often than not, he thought of no one but himself.

Yet he'd changed a little. Mellowed a lot. And he 
felt ashamed. For the first time in a long time, his 
self-righteousness failed to justify his behavior to 
himself. He was in the wrong, and he knew it.

"No, you don't," he said softly, releasing her hand. 
He had no right to be holding it, no right to expect 
she'd want him even touching her.

When her hand covered his where he'd laid it in his 
lap, he looked up in surprise. "I love you, too, 
Mulder."

He smiled weakly. He heard the unspoken, 'I just 
don't like you right now.' Still, she didn't have to tell 
him, and he appreciated hearing it. Every time he 
screwed up, the fear that she no longer loved him, 
that she was thinking of leaving him, reared its ugly 
head. He was totally bereft of confidence when it 
came to how Scully felt about him. No matter how 
many times she told him she loved him, he felt like 
it would never be enough.

He wondered if they would ever reach a point in 
their relationship where he wouldn't question her 
feelings toward him. God, he hoped so. This 
uncertainty was going to kill him.

"Mulder?"

He blinked. Had he been staring off into space? 
"Yeah?"

About to ask him something -- whether he was all 
right, he'd bet -- she changed her mind and shook 
her head. "Nothing."

He turned his hand over so he could interlace his 
fingers with hers. "I *am* sorry, Scully," he said as 
sincerely as he could in his scratchy voice. He 
winked at her. "And I'm fine. Just . . . reflective."

Her smile was one of amusement. "I was going to 
tell you that they were about to call our row to 
board, but then they announced a delay, so I 
changed my mind." She gave him a wink of her 
own. "But I'm glad you're fine. And reflective."

He felt his face growing warm, but he didn't mind. 
She was smiling at him. Joking with him. Forgiving 
him.

For the moment, all was right with his world.

** 

United Airlines Flight 209 
30,000 feet 
5:43 EDS Time 

"Excuse me. Ma'am?" 

It took Scully a moment to re-orient herself as she 
was jolted out of the streets of Istanbul and back 
into the belly of a 757. She looked over to find the 
meal cart in the aisle beside her, and a flight 
attendant smiling down at her. "Oh! Yes?" 

"Chicken or lasagna?" the woman asked. 

Scully thought for a second, then chose what she 
always chose. "Chicken, please." Closing her book 
and laying it to the side of her open tray table, 
Scully accepted the meal from the airline employee. 
"Thank you," she said, meeting the woman's eyes 
with a smile. 

Nodding her response, the woman's gaze moved 
past her to focus on Mulder, his head leaning 
against her shoulder, his hand on her thigh, and fast 
asleep. "Would your . . ." 

"Partner," Scully supplied automatically. 

"Would your partner like a meal?" she asked. 

Scully turned her attention to the man snoring softly 
beside her. He should eat, but she didn't have the 
heart to wake him. She supposed he could always 
eat it later, though. "Could he have lasagna, 
please?" she requested, thinking it'd be easier on his 
throat. Moving him off her shoulder carefully, she 
leaned across him to the empty seat by the window, 
and released the tray table. When she turned back, 
the flight attendant handed her a meal with the 
cover still on it. 

"That should keep it warm for a little while, 
anyway," the woman told her in a kind voice. 

"Thank you," Scully answered, a little surprised by 
the conscientious gesture. "I'm sure he'll appreciate 
it."

With a parting smile, the flight attendant focused 
her attention on the next row, and Scully took the 
opportunity to gaze at her partner and what had 
softened the woman's profession demeanor. 

Mulder's obscenely-long eyelashes resting against 
his too-pale face demanded her attention first. How 
many times had she railed against the unfairness of 
those lashes on the face of a man? Of course, being 
gazed upon by the beautiful hazel eyes beneath 
those lashes, she got to view them on said man quite 
often. Oh, yeah, they were on the right person, all 
right. 

Next, without a doubt, were those luscious lips. 
Slightly parted, they looked oh-so-kissable. How 
long had it been since she'd felt those lips on any 
part of her body? How long before she did again? A 
pang of longing hit her just then, and she knew it 
wouldn't go away for some time to come. 

Damned case. Damn Kresge for requesting them 
before Mulder was healthy. Damn Skinner for 
approving it. Damn Mulder for pushing himself 
before he was ready. And damn her for changing 
gears in the blink of an eye, no longer able to look 
at him through the eyes of a woman, but through the 
eyes of a physician. 

Where before she saw only lovely eyelashes, she 
now saw the bags under his eyes from too many 
nights with too little sleep. Through those parted 
lips came the wheeze of a man still walking around 
with a bronchial condition. 

Suddenly angry and fearful and frustrated, Scully 
turned her attention to her meal. She really hated 
being a doctor sometimes. 

** 

United Airlines Flight 209 
30,000 feet 
6:28 p.m. 

When his bladder could be ignored no longer, 
Mulder opened his eyes and tried to suppress the 
hideous tickle threatening to throw him into an 
embarrassing coughing fit. His eyes alit on the 
small bottle of water on the tray table beside him, 
and he frantically tore the cap off and took a swig. 
The sensation eased, but only for a moment. 
Quickly locating the nearest unoccupied lavatory, at 
the very back of the plane, Mulder slipped into the 
aisle, vaguely aware and very grateful that Scully 
was not in her seat. 

Another two sips, and he reached the bathroom 
door, entering the tiny room and sliding the lock 
home. He downed the rest of the water, then held 
his breath, trying to keep the tickle at bay until he 
had emptied his bladder. He had barely finished 
when the coughs erupted out of him. He threw his 
arm up in front of his mouth, trying to muffle his 
coughing with the crook of his elbow. With his 
other hand, he patted down his pockets in a frantic 
search for his inhaler. 

Feeling light-headed by the time he managed to 
grab hold of it, Mulder tried to bring his coughing 
under control so he could take in the needed 
medicine. Shaking the inhaler frantically, his lungs 
feeling like they were trying to climb up his throat, 
he breathed in as slowly as he could while pushing 
down on the canister.

When he could take a breath without (literally, he 
thought) coughing his lungs out, he became aware 
of the pounding on the door. As if he wasn't 
embarrassed enough, Scully was out there gathering 
the attention of those few passengers who weren't 
already aware of his condition. "All right," he 
barked. "I'm coming." 

He flipped the lock, yanked open the door, scathing 
remark poised and ready -- and froze. It wasn't 
Scully. Irrationally, all he could think was 'Why the 
hell wasn't it her? Where the hell was she while he 
was coughing up a lung and turning blue from lack 
of air?' 

"Are you all right, sir?" a flight attendant asked. 
Upon her pleasant face, she wore the worried look 
he should be seeing upon Scully. 

"I'm fine, thank you," he reassured her in the hated 
raspy voice, digging out the inhaler and holding it 
up as if that should explain everything. "Just a tickle 
. . ." He pointed to his throat. "Got the better of me, 
I'm afraid." 

She nodded, and he felt uncomfortable while she 
ascertained whether or not he was telling the truth. 
"Can I get you anything?" she finally asked, 
apparently satisfied. 

He held up the empty bottle. "Water? A couple of 
bottles?" 

"Certainly." She only had to take a couple of steps 
into the galley to retrieve the requested items. "Here 
you go. Is there anything else I can get you?" 

Mulder accepted the bottles with a smile he didn't 
feel. "No, thanks." He indicated the water. "This 
will be fine. Thank you very much." He thought he 
should apologize for making a scene, but just 
thinking about it made him cringe, so he nodded a 
farewell and made his way back to his seat.

His eyes zoomed in on his partner in their row 
halfway down the plane. The anxiety was plain on 
her face; when he caught her eye, she tried to hide 
it. Although it usually annoyed him, he felt a little 
better to know she was concerned for him. 

"Hey," he said, upon reaching her. 

"Hey," she said, getting up to let him in. "What 
happened back there? Anything I need to know 
about?" 

Starting to shake his head out of habit, he shrugged 
instead. "Uh . . . I had a tickle in my throat. Lost my 
breath a bit, but a shot from the inhaler, and I'm as 
good as new." Another shrug. "Well, as good as can 
be expected." 

She nodded, biting her lip. There was something she 
wanted to say, but seemed hesitant to voice. "What 
is it, Scully?" he asked, tapping her lightly on the 
arm.

Her eyes looked into his, as if gauging his state of 
mind before she said what she wanted to say. Once 
again, he felt shame that she should have to assess 
his mood so she wouldn't get her head bitten off. 
"When I saw it was you back there, I wanted to be 
the one helping you." She looked down at her hands 
in her lap. "But I knew you wouldn't appreciate that 
gesture."

He started to protest, then stopped, sighing. "You're 
probably right. Although I -- " He lowered his head, 
looking up at her through his lashes. Should he 
admit it? He took a breath. "Although I'd wanted it 
to be you instead of her." His face got warm when 
he thought about what he was going to tell her next. 
"But I was all set to let you have it when I did think 
it was you." He scrubbed his hands over his face. 
"How screwed up is that?"

"Well. . ."

When she didn't say any more, he looked up, his 
question in his eyes.

She smiled shyly. "It *is* screwed up, but I'd 
probably feel the same. I'd want it to be you, but if 
it was you, I'd be angry with you. If it wasn't, I'd be 
disappointed." 

"God, Scully, that's scary," he said with a laugh. 
"Are you turning into me, or am I turning into 
you?"

He was pleased to see a genuine smile in her eyes. 
"We'll have to discuss that -- at length -- when 
you're better."

His eyebrows shot up. Did she mean what he 
thought she meant?

The slow smile spreading across her face was his 
answer. Only one thought went through his head at 
that exact moment:

Eat your heart out, Kresge.

** 

San Diego International Airport 
United Airlines Baggage Claim 
5:35 p.m. (PDT)

John Kresge looked at his watch and rubbed his 
face one-handed. It had been a long day and it 
looked like it wasn't going to end anytime in the 
near future. At least he was looking forward to 
seeing her again. 

Special Agent Dana Scully. 'Scully, FBI.' He could 
still remember her standing in his office that 
Christmas Eve, telling him his 'simple suicide' was 
more than likely a murder. At first he'd thought she 
was a nutcase. By the time he was out of the 
hospital from his mysterious illness, he'd come to 
think of her as the only sane person in a world gone 
mad. 

He'd put her out of his head not long after that. His 
caseload got heavy, he started dating the new 
dispatcher, which turned out to be a bad idea on so 
many levels, and his life went on. Until another 
confounding series of deaths, more than just 
unusual, had brought her name to his mind. He 
didn't even remember thinking about it before he 
found his fingers hitting the numbers for the FBI 
regional office, damning himself for losing her 
business card. 

He was about to look at his watch again when he 
caught sight of her. That red hair, impossible to 
miss, was like a beacon on a stormy night. She 
looked exactly as he remembered her, much more 
commanding than her tiny stature would indicate. 
She was looking around the concourse and he held 
his hand up to wave to her but she seemed to be 
looking away before he caught her attention. 

She was walking quickly over to a man near the 
carousel. John drew in a breath. Oh, right. That guy. 
What was his name? Mullins? Mueller? Whatever. 
He remembered him, slightly. He'd run into the guy 
right before John had come down with the 
mysterious illness that put him in ICU. According 
to the doctors, the guy saved his life. Called the 
ambulance, told them what to do for him. John 
found out later the guy was Agent Scully's partner 
at the FBI. Probably just tagged along for a chance 
to hit the beach. 

Something wasn't right. The guy was standing right 
next to the carousel, but it was Agent Scully lifting 
all the luggage onto a cart. What the hell? OK, sure 
feminism had its place, but this was just taking 
things a little too far. John squared his shoulders 
and marched over to give the little woman a hand. 
At least _his_ mother had taught him some 
manners. 

"Agent Scully, good to see you again," he said, 
grabbing the scuffed leather two-suiter out of her 
hands and placing it on the cart for her. 

"Detective Kresge, hi," Scully said, slightly out of 
breath. "Thank you -- for meeting us." She looked 
over at the man next to her. When Kresge got a look 
at the guy, he was sure the man was chewing on 
glass. 

"John Kresge. I don't think we were ever properly 
introduced," John said, extending his hand. 

The male agent looked John in the eye for a 
moment before accepting the handshake. "Fox 
Mulder," he rasped out just above a whisper. His 
grip was firm, maybe just a little too firm to suit 
John. "Sorry 'bout the . . . " Mulder motioned to his 
throat and grimaced. 

"S'OK, I know how dry it is on planes. C'mon, we 
can stop for dinner on the way to the hotel. Unless 
you'd rather have a chance to freshen up?" 

Again, Agent Scully sought out her partner's eyes. 
A look was exchanged, he shrugged, she smiled and 
turned back to John. "Dinner sounds wonderful," 
she beamed. 

"Great. I know a place near your hotel. Best seafood 
in the county, Anthony's on the Harbor. Oh, I 
booked you into the Embassy Suites, if that's all 
right," he said, pushing the luggage cart toward the 
exit for short-term parking. 

"Embassy Suites, wow," Scully said with a grin. "I 
don't think we've ever stayed in one of those before. 
That's a little more 'upscale' than we're used to, right 
Mulder?" 

"Well, we have a deal over there. They give a great 
government rate," John replied, trying to hide his 
slight embarrassment. 

"We'll have to remember that, Scully," her partner 
croaked out with patently false smile. 

**

Anthony's on the Harbor 
7:35 p.m. 

"So, the Sergeant goes back behind the desk and 
pulls out this big shopping bag and says 'is dis what 
you're lookin' for, Detective?'" Kresge had a hard 
time finishing his tale because he was laughing at 
his own joke, but the worst part was Scully was 
laughing with him. 

Mulder wanted the earth to open up and swallow 
him whole. Did they have earthquakes as far south 
as San Diego? 

"So, who's up for a sightseeing tour of the harbor?" 
Kresge asked, as he signaled the waiter for the 
check. When the young man arrived at the table, 
Mulder was quicker and had his card out before 
Kresge's wallet had cleared his pocket. 

"This one's on our Uncle," Mulder whispered, the 
sound grating his vocal chords. He'd tried, probably 
too often, to keep up his end of the conversation. 
For one, he was tired of not speaking and for 
another, he wasn't going to let Scully forget he was 
sitting at the table, even though she seemed to have 
managed it a couple of times during the evening. He 
just hoped she wouldn't notice when he handed the 
waiter his own American Express card rather than 
the Diner's Club MasterCard the Bureau issued all 
agents who traveled. No reason for her to know he 
wanted to beat the Detective in the old 'who's gonna 
pay' game. 

He had to smile when Kresge slowly put the wallet 
away. "OK, this time. But remember, you're here as 
our guests. The SDPD is really grateful for your 
help on this one." All this was said while the 
Detective looked directly at Mulder's partner. 
Mulder saw appreciation, all right. He also saw 
anticipation. 

"Thank you, John, but we really should be getting to 
the hotel. It's been a long day and Mulder -- " 

It wasn't a hard kick to her shin, but it was enough 
to cause her to look at him. Mulder just hoped he 
hadn't left a bruise. They exchanged a silent look, 
Mulder hoping his eyes could convey what his 
broken voice could not, nor did he really want to 
speak his concerns. He just didn't want her pulling 
out the old 'my partner is sick' line as an excuse to 
avoid the tour. 

Truth be told, it wasn't that much of an excuse -- he 
was dragging. Mulder had managed to grab five 
hours of sleep on the plane and he still felt like he'd 
just run a marathon. His throat was killing him, but 
it was his chest and lungs that felt like they'd been 
used as punching bags. He really just wanted to get 
back to his room and pull out his nebulizer. 

Scully gave him a sympathetic smile, but thankfully 
didn't vocalize her concerns. "I'd just like to get an 
early start tomorrow," she told the detective. 
"Maybe we can take a rain check?" 

"Certainly," Kresge said with a smile, but Mulder 
could hear the disappointment in his voice. Yeah, 
buddy. You lost this one, too, he mused silently. 

With the bill paid, the three made their way to 
Kresge's car and with only a minimum of 
conversation (because of the short distance), they 
were dropped off at the entrance to the Embassy 
Suites. 

This time, even though he felt horrible, Mulder 
made a point to send Scully in to the desk to get 
their keys while he watched the bellboy load the 
luggage on a dolly. With a firm handshake to 
Kresge, he saw the Detective drive off. No way was 
he going to let the young officer find out their room 
numbers, not until it was absolutely necessary. 

When he caught up with Scully, she did not look 
happy. "No, that's just not acceptable. The man has 
been ill -- " She stopped when she felt his hand on 
her elbow. 

"Something wrong?" he rasped. 

She sighed, a sure sign she was a minute away from 
pulling her weapon. "They don't have any non-
smoking rooms left." 

"I promise, Agent Scully, we'll move you both into 
non-smoking rooms first thing in the morning," the 
near frantic desk clerk assured. "It's just we've had a 
meeting of the American Lung Association here this 
weekend and all of the non-smoking rooms -- " 

Mulder held up his hand and tried to put on his best 
placating smile. "These will be fine," he ground out. 
Looking down at the card key envelopes, his smile 
turned into a frown. "Separate floors?" he croaked. 

"That's the other thing. Apparently they don't have 
any adjoining suites available all week. Foster 
parents group or something," Scully groused. "So 
even when we get new rooms, they won't be 
adjoining." 

"We do have a suite with two double beds -- " the 
clerk broke in. 

"No, thank you, that's totally unacceptable," Scully 
said sternly. 

"Hey, no big deal," Mulder whispered. "Let's just 
get up to our rooms." 

He was beginning to think he should have stayed at 
home after all. 

**

Embassy Suites Hotel
Scully's Room
8:30 p.m. PDST

Scully was pooped. She knew that the best way to 
acclimate herself to west coast time was, the first 
night, to tough it out until her usual bedtime, and 
then sleep her normal eight hours. She'd wake up at 
the right time in the right time zone.

Yet she was bone tired. Had she known that by 
nightfall she'd be 3,000 miles away from home, she 
wouldn't have gotten up at the crack of dawn. That, 
plus traveling all day, hauling suitcases around 
(she'd have to remember to thank Mulder more for 
that chore when he was healthy again), and 
worrying about her partner contributed to her 
wanting nothing more than to crawl under the 
covers and close her eyes.

She wanted to check on Mulder, though. She really 
ought to, she knew. Throat aside, he'd been very 
quiet all though their dinner with the detective. The 
only time he'd come to life was when he'd been 
asserting his place as alpha male by grabbing the 
check and paying with his own card.

Oh, yes, she'd caught his subterfuge, although she 
didn't let on since it had seemed important to him. 
She never would understand why men considered it 
a sign of masculinity to beat out another man for the 
privilege of paying the bill. Hell, she ought to invite 
other men to dine with them every time they ate out. 
She'd never have to pay for another meal.

She had to smile at that thought as she tested the 
softness of the mattress by sitting and then leaning 
back until she was lying flat. It was quite 
comfortable. And tempting. And she *was* in her 
pajamas already . . .

Glancing at the door guiltily, she shook herself out 
of her stupor and plucked her phone from the 
charger, pressing speed dial one.

"Mulder," her partner answered on the fifth ring, out 
of breath. 

Scully sat up straighter. "Are you all right?" she 
asked, one horrifying scenario after another running 
through her mind.

"I had one foot in the shower." She heard a husky 
cough. "I had to run for the phone."

"Sorry," she said, feeling guilty for causing him 
distress.

"Well, I didn't want you pounding on my door when 
I didn't answer." She couldn't tell if he was amused 
or annoyed, and he never did answer her question.

"I just wanted to say good night," she said, biting 
her lip as she listened to him gasping and wheezing. 
Finally, she couldn't take it any more. "Mulder, are 
you okay? Do you need me to come up there?"

"No! I'm -- " He broke off, coughing, and she ran to 
grab her sneakers, thrusting her feet into them 
without taking the time to tie them. "Gimme a 
minute," he choked out. She snatched up her coat 
and slid one arm in while holding onto the phone 
with the other. Though he'd apparently moved away 
from the phone, she could still hear him hacking 
away.

Rushing down the hallway, coat hanging off one 
shoulder, PJ's on display for anyone who cared to 
look, and tripping over dangling shoelaces, she 
heard Mulder's voice, calm as you please, say to 
her, "Sorry about that. I probably shouldn't have 
run."

"Are you okay?" She was almost to the elevators 
now.

"I'm fine," he said, sounding like he was, too. 
"Look, I'm gonna take a shower. You get some 
sleep, okay?"

Her hand outstretched and ready to stab the button, 
she slowly brought it back to her side. "Yeah." She 
felt like she'd run ten miles. Her knees were 
shaking, and she thought she might crumple to the 
floor if she didn't sit down.

"Okay. 'Night, Scully."

"Good night," she said, a little stunned and hurt by 
his brush-off.

He disconnected, and she looked up at the elevator 
doors, then turned and walked back to her room.

**

Embassy Suites Hotel 
Mulder's Room
8:37 p.m.

Mulder jabbed the "end" button, and the phone fell 
from his trembling fingers. God, that had been 
close. After his insistence that the 'smoking' room 
would be fine, he didn't want her to find out that 
he'd been coughing almost since the second he'd set 
foot in the room. 

The last thing he wanted was Scully rushing to the 
aid of her sickly partner. He was so tired of needing 
her as his caretaker. How long until she grew tired 
as well?

Never, if he could help it. After watching Scully 
enjoying the attentions of another man -- a healthy 
one -- he couldn't afford to appear weak in her eyes. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew she 
wasn't that shallow, yet insecurity had overruled 
reason, and fear had triumphed over logic. So he'd 
resolved to address his health issues by himself 
from that point on, and if that meant a little 
deception was in order, so be it. He had taken an 
extra hit of the Proventil, and now he was about to 
pay for it.

It had been worth it, though. Instead of having to 
wait a minute or longer for the medicine to take 
effect, the results had been instantaneous. For one 
brief minute, he had been in complete control, long 
enough to convince Scully that he was just hunky-
dory. True, he'd been brusque with her, but it had 
been necessary in order to ward off a visit. He 
congratulated himself as he collapsed onto the bed, 
chest pounding to beat the band, and not just 
aching, but *hurting*. A lot.

He could feel himself panicking, and knew he had 
to calm down, breathe slowly and evenly, and relax 
his tense muscles. Get it together, get it together, he 
told himself, over and over. Gradually, he felt the 
tightness dissipate enough that he could sit up. 
Glancing at the clock, he was shocked to discover 
that nearly an hour had passed since he'd spoken 
with his partner. Right then and there, he vowed 
NEVER to do that again. 

Christ, was he the sorriest son of a bitch on the 
planet, or what? Grimacing when he recalled that a 
visit to the man who'd bestowed that title upon him 
was in his future, he rubbed a hand over his sore 
chest. Maybe being sick did have some advantages 
after all, if it would get him out of having to see 
Billy Boy.

He took in as much of a breath as he could -- man, 
being unable to breathe deeply really sucked -- and 
frowned. No matter how he looked at it, he couldn't 
win. Strong-man Mulder had to put up with Bill; 
sick Mulder was a namby-pamby wussy weakling. 
There was no question as to which he'd choose to 
be. 

Grunting with the effort it took him to gain his feet, 
Mulder shuffled over to the file he'd tossed onto the 
desk earlier. He really ought to get some shut-eye, 
but he wanted to do a little work before he showed 
up at the police station tomorrow. He wasn't too 
thrilled at being considered extra baggage on this 
trip, and he was determined to prove his worth, both 
to the agency and to his partner.

 Besides, he was a little afraid to go to sleep with 
his heart racing the way it was. Falling into the 
chair (there was no other way to describe it), he 
flipped the folder cover open and stared at the 
contents. Try as he might, he couldn't concentrate, 
though. Throwing a glance at his phone, he was 
very tempted to call Scully, machismo and 'I told 
you so's' be damned. 

Propping an elbow on the desk, he lowered his 
head, which was beating in time with his heart, to 
his hand. He'd give himself fifteen minutes, then 
he'd call. 

After his allotted time had elapsed and he still felt 
like crap, he was still reluctant to call her, especially 
after he'd gone to all that trouble to alienate her with 
his curt behavior. Sighing, he forced himself to 
focus on the case in front of him; maybe all he 
needed was something to take his mind off his 
health (or lack thereof).

Half an hour later, he resigned himself to the fact 
that the pitiful amount of work he'd put into the 
profile was all he was going to accomplish this 
evening. Opening the sliding door to the 'patio' had 
freshened the room somewhat, but enough of the 
smell remained to make him miserable. At least his 
heart had slowed down enough that he didn't feel 
like he was going to have a stroke at any second.

He wondered if Scully had left a wake-up call for 
him. As he settled into the bed, fresh air wafting 
over him, he decided that he didn't really care.

He wanted it to be morning, and he wanted to be out 
of this room, but right now all he really wanted to 
do was sleep.

**end of part 1**


Shred of Doubt (2/9)
Jo-Ann Lassiter and
Vickie Moseley

San Diego Police Department
May 1, 2000
10:15 am

They'd met briefly for breakfast, a lavish affair 
compared to what they were used to in their usual 
accommodations. Mulder knew Scully was 
watching him like a hawk as he picked at his omelet 
(plain cheese, nothing that would bother his throat 
going down). He would have killed everyone in the 
lobby for a piece of bacon, but he knew that 
between the crisp texture and the salt it would kill 
him before he got a chance to enjoy it.

Kresge was at the front doors, waiting for them at 
eight o'clock sharp. Mulder sighed as he saw the 
detective jump out of the driver's seat so he could 
open the door for Scully. Did this guy have springs 
in his ass? Was he a hurdles star in college? It was 
depressing to see anyone that 'perky' so early in the 
morning when Mulder just wanted to crawl back 
into the nice comfy bed. Maybe a different room, 
but the bed was definitely worth taking along with 
him. The fact that he was pining for the comforts of 
bed -- alone -- depressed him even more than 
Kresge's 'at your service' attitude. It was going to be 
a long day.

Two hours later, Mulder was convinced the day was 
actually much longer than any he'd lived through on 
the East Coast. It was only the middle of the 
morning. Scully was off somewhere, slicing and 
dicing on the latest victim. At least Mulder was 
pretty sure Kresge wouldn't be following her into 
the autopsy. At the mention of the morgue Mulder 
had noticed the detective turn a particular shade of 
pale green, and had smiled with that knowledge. 
But that just meant Scully was relatively safe. Now 
he knew that he was the one in danger -- they had 
put him in a gas chamber. Not really gas -- mold. It 
was a mold chamber. 

Kresge had seemed mildly apologetic as he showed 
Mulder to the spare office next to the restrooms. 
"It's the only one vacant at the moment, but it does 
have a phone line and a computer for you to use," 
the detective had explained. What he hadn't 
mentioned, not one word was that the wall to the 
room was covered in mold. From the ceiling to the 
carpet, in a swath about a foot and a half across, 
some sort of mold was causing the plaster of the old 
building to bubble and ooze. In some places it 
seemed to undulate, but Mulder was pretty sure that 
was just a trick of the light coming through the dirty 
panes of the window behind his back. Up near the 
ceiling tiles, the mold had a feather-like crust that 
was more pink than green, in contrast to the beige 
paint on the rest of the wall. Mulder's eyes couldn't 
help being drawn to it. It looked like something he 
and Scully would find on a case. It was everything 
he could do not to run his finger across it, he 
realized much to his horror.

He tried to concentrate on the photos of the crime 
scenes. It seemed pretty open and shut, when you 
didn't figure in the lack of point of entry. The 
victims' throats were cut and their mouths were 
stuffed with rose petals. Scorned lover? Stalker with 
murderous impulses? Red rose petals, fake silk 
flowers found in any dollar store or thrift shop. 
Some message was being sent.

Mulder looked again in the files to find the 
information on the victims. All the victims were 
young women, ages 22 to 25. Two of the three were 
college students; the third was a full-time barista at 
a coffee shop at Horton Plaza. None of them 
seemed to know each other, at least according to 
family members. One of the girls had just broken up 
with a long-time live-in boyfriend, but the guy had 
moved to Florida and had an airtight alibi the night 
of the murder. Aside from being young and pretty, 
the victims didn't have a lot in common.

He pulled out his yellow tablet and looked over his 
notes. He'd started his profile, but it was generic and 
uninspiring. Young male, aged 25 to 35, above 
average intelligence, strong, body builder or day 
laborer. Likes red roses.

He flipped the pencil and forcefully erased the last 
sentence. He wanted to concentrate but his head 
was splitting, his throat was killing him even though 
he hadn't spoken a word to anyone in nearly two 
hours and his chest was burning every time he took 
a breath. He glared accusingly at the mold on the 
wall. He had to get out of there. He needed to find 
out if Scully had picked up anything in the autopsy 
that the previous M.E.s might have missed.

Getting up, slowly, because he refused to use the 
inhaler in the Police Station, he pulled on his jacket 
and went to look for Kresge. The agents hadn't 
managed to rent a car yet, and technically he wasn't 
allowed to drive while taking his meds. His only 
mode of transportation was the detective. It annoyed 
Mulder to no end that he knew if he mentioned he 
needed to go see Scully, Kresge would drop 
everything to give him a lift, but he didn't think he 
had any other choice.

**

San Diego Police Department
10:26 a.m.

"Excuse me. Detective?"

John Kresge looked up to find Agent Scully's 
partner standing in front of his desk.

Without even waiting for his reply, the man said, "I 
need a ride to the morgue. Can you give me a lift?"

What was he . . . a taxi? And what was with the 
voice? Shouldn't it have cleared up by now? John 
was right in the middle of writing up another case 
report; just because the FBI could only work one 
case at a time didn't mean your average police 
detective was afforded that luxury. This serial thing 
was just one of many cases he had on his plate. 
"Can it wait, Agent? I have to get this report 
finished."

The agent bit his lip and scanned the room. "Can 
anyone else give me a ride? We don't have a rental 
yet, and I need to see Agent Scully."

Wait a minute! Where was his mind, that it hadn't 
made the connection between Agent Scully and the 
morgue? If Mulder had mentioned the lovely Agent 
Scully earlier in the conversation, John wouldn't 
have to backtrack and find some plausible reason to 
take the agent himself. "Ah . . . Well . . . I guess I 
could drive you, if it has to do with the case?" John 
looked at the agent hopefully.

"It does," Mulder confirmed.

"Well then, I can finish this up later." Tossing aside 
the now-uninteresting murder-suicide, Kresge got 
up. "Give me a minute," he told the agent, walking 
past the man to the captain's office. He rapped on 
the door before opening it and leaning in. "Hey, 
Cap. I'm gonna run the fed over to the morgue. Be 
back in a few."

"Okay, John. But don't forget you have other cases, 
too. Get back here as soon as you can."

He nodded. "Right." He closed the door and headed 
back to his desk. When he reached the agent, he 
clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Okay. Let's 
go."

The agent nodded, and John heard him fall in step 
behind him. This Mulder was a funny guy, John 
thought. When John had graciously given the agent 
a whole office to do God only knew what, the guy 
had not looked very grateful. Granted, there was a 
slight leak in the ceiling, but what did the guy 
expect? John had requested Agent Scully's 
assistance on this case; how was he to know she and 
her partner came as a set? That Mulder was darned 
lucky they had the spare office, or John didn't know 
what he would have done with the guy.

And what was up with that "Scully/Mulder" name 
thing? These two had been working together at least 
two years. Were all feds so formal with their 
partners? John perked up as a thought occurred to 
him. Maybe they just didn't get along, personality-
wise. He could certainly see it. Agent Scully was 
friendly, outgoing, fun and mega intelligent. Her 
partner was kind of a wet blanket, if last night's 
dinner had been any indication. And he hadn't 
exactly been a ray of sunshine this morning, either. 

From the moment John had picked them up, Mulder 
had been sullen and surly. At times, it appeared that 
he didn't even like Agent Scully (or John). Go 
figure. Hey, all the better for him. If this Mulder 
guy wanted to keep to himself, John had no problem 
with it. John didn't have any great desire to become 
the man's friend, even if the guy did save his life.

Suddenly feeling like an ungrateful lout, John 
vowed to make more of an effort toward the man. 
He waited for the agent to fall in step alongside 
him. "So . . . is the office working out okay?" John 
asked, more for something to say than out of any 
yearning to know.

Mulder opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed 
it, nodding. "It's fine, Detective. Thank you," came 
the hoarse response.

Kresge smiled. "Hey, no problem. We're lucky we 
had the extra space." 

The agent smiled, but John knew enough of human 
behavior to see that it was forced. He wondered 
what the guy had expected. Agent Scully had said 
her partner was a profiler. Kresge had to wonder 
how an FBI profiler and a doctor of pathology 
wound up working in a division that investigated . . 
. well, weird things. John could hardly believe the 
FBI had a department for that kind of stuff. He 
couldn't imagine how Agent Scully had come to 
work there -- and why she still was.

John pointed out his car to the agent as he unlocked 
the door with the remote. "So . . . you said you 
needed to see Agent Scully. Do you have something 
new on the case?"

"Not yet," Mulder said, getting into the car and 
buckling his seat belt. "I need to see if she found 
anything the coroners didn't."

John nodded. "Oh." Huh. Couldn't he have asked 
her this over the phone? Oh, well. It didn't matter. 
John wouldn't get to see Agent Scully if he had. He 
was willing to humor the guy on this aspect alone.

As soon as John had started the car and fastened his 
own seat belt, he rummaged in his jacket pocket for 
his breath mints. Out the corner of his eye, he saw 
the fed tense up. When John grasped the container 
and pulled it out, the agent relaxed. John's eyebrows 
rose. What was that all about? Couldn't a man 
freshen his breath before greeting a lady? "Mint?" 
John offered, holding out the tin. That guy could 
probably do with a shot as well.

Mulder shook his head, smiling slightly. "No, 
thanks."

John shrugged, and repocketed the container. He 
checked for traffic, then pulled out of his space and 
the police parking lot. After a few minutes in the 
quiet car, he threw a glance at the fed. "Hey, you all 
right?" The guy was wheezing like he had a pack-a-
day habit, but John could tell from the lack of 
cigarette odor on the guy's clothes that he wasn't a 
smoker. 

Mulder nodded, not saying anything. 

John had been around the block a few times, and he 
knew an avoidance tactic when he saw one. He 
chanced another peek at the man beside him. Christ. 
The guy was holding himself as stiff as a board, and 
had turned about three shades paler than the last 
time he looked. "Hey, you don't look so good. Want 
me to drop you by the emergency room? The 
hospital's not that far from the morgue."

Mulder shook his head. 

John shrugged. Well, the guy ought to know if he 
needs to see a doctor or not. John couldn't force 
him. 

Leaning forward, he clicked the radio on and 
cranked it up. If Mulder said he was okay, then he 
was okay. But John didn't care to listen to the guy's 
misery any more than he had to.

**

Detective Kresge's Car
10:38 a.m.

Mulder was inordinately grateful when the strains 
of Queen's "We Are the Champions" blasted 
through the car speakers. He didn't enjoy listening 
to his noisy breathing any more than the detective 
did. He couldn't wait to ditch the guy so he could 
take a hit from the inhaler. Detective Kresge was 
going to be mighty disappointed when Mulder took 
his leave of Kresge at the morgue entrance.

It couldn't be helped, though. Mulder was 
dangerously close to a full-blown attack the likes of 
which he hadn't had since he'd first gotten out of the 
hospital, and he refused to have it in front of 
Detective Kresge. In front of *anyone*, if he was 
honest with himself.

They were about two blocks away from the medical 
examiners' building, so Mulder concentrated on 
calming his breathing enough so he could talk, 
albeit briefly. When Kresge put on the brakes and 
came to a stop behind a line of cars at a red light, 
Mulder unlocked the door and flipped the handle. 
"I'll get out here. Thanks, Detective," he said, 
getting out and swiftly walking away.

Kresge's indignant, "Hey!" reached his ears half a 
block later. Although Mulder felt bad for ignoring 
the detective, there was no way he was stopping. 
There'd probably be hell to pay later, especially if 
he ever needed another ride, but for now it was his 
only recourse. He only hoped word of his rude 
behavior never made it back to Scully.

When he reached the County Operations Center, 
San Diego's morgue, he headed straight to the 
security desk and presented his credentials.

"What's your business here, Agent Mulder?" the 
bored-looking guard asked.

Barely able to breathe now, and unwilling to make a 
scene -- which he was certain he would if he 
attempted to speak -- Mulder pointed to his throat 
while he took his notebook and pen out of his jacket 
pocket. "I'm here to see my partner, Agent Scully," 
he wrote, dismayed to see how shaky his 
handwriting was.

The guard took the notebook, heading toward the 
phone, and Mulder had a moment of panic until the 
man reached for a clipboard, checking for his 
partner's name. "Okay, Agent Mulder. She's in bay 
4G." He handed the pad back to Mulder. "Take the 
elevator to the fourth floor and go left. It's all the 
way at the end of the corridor, on the right."

Mulder nodded his thanks and hurried away. He 
saw a men's room near the elevators, but it was too 
close to the guard's location so he reluctantly passed 
it by. He got on the elevator and took it to the 
second floor, then went in search of a secluded 
men's room.

God, he felt awful. He was sure that he wasn't doing 
himself any favors by denying himself the inhaler's 
benefits, but he'd be damned if he was going to look 
like some asthmatic, puffing on his inhaler every 
ten minutes. It was totally un-PC of him, and he 
knew he didn't think that anyone who used an 
inhaler was frail or sickly . . .

Oh, fuck it. Even though he was 'enlightened' and 
shouldn't think like that, deep down inside, he did. 
And he couldn't bear to be thought of in that light, 
especially by his peers in law enforcement. He was 
sure Detective Kresge was a little baffled by his 
presence, even though Mulder was certain that 
Scully had informed him that Mulder was a profiler. 
But Kresge and the rest of the police department 
didn't seem to be particularly impressed by that fact. 
They had a low enough opinion of him already; he 
didn't want to give them more ammunition by 
looking weak and unhealthy.

He almost cried when he found a men's room 
located smack in the middle of four unoccupied 
autopsy bays. Pushing the door, he fumbled with the 
deadbolt until he heard it click home, then took out 
his inhaler and shook it the way he had been shown 
by his partner. The canister broke loose from his 
trembling fingers and clattered to the floor. Mulder 
followed it down, losing his balance and landing 
hard on his rear, hitting his head against the wall. 
"Fuck," he swore automatically, then mightily 
regretted when he started coughing and couldn't 
stop.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought, his chest burning more 
and more the longer he couldn't get his breath. In 
desperation, he grabbed the inhaler with both hands 
and depressed the plunger, letting the medicine into 
his clogged airway. He held his breath the way he'd 
been instructed, but all he could manage was two 
seconds before it exploded out of him. So much for 
exhaling slowly. His breathing improved the tiniest 
bit, but not near enough to make him feel better.

Not wanting a repeat of his experience in the hotel 
room, Mulder forced himself to wait a full minute 
before taking another dose. He leaned back against 
the wall, wincing when the back of his head came 
into contact with the tile. Vaguely, he wondered if 
he'd have a bump, but that was the least of his 
worries at the moment. He was gasping for air and 
afraid he was going to pass out before he could take 
another hit.

The instant 'Mississippi sixty' passed, he shoved the 
inhaler in his mouth and let her rip. This time he felt 
the effects almost immediately, and he savored the 
feeling of just being able to breathe. He leaned 
forward and folded his arms over his knees, then 
rested his aching head on his arms. When he felt 
well enough to stand, he climbed slowly to his feet, 
holding onto the wall for support. 

He made his way to one of the sinks, horrified by 
his reflection in the mirror. A hundred-year-old man 
probably looked better than he did at that moment. 
His eyes were red-rimmed and wet -- he didn't 
remember any crying, for chrissakes -- his nose was 
running, and he was so white he was almost 
transparent. He couldn't prevent a hysterical giggle 
at the thought that he resembled one of his x-files.

Christ, he couldn't face Scully looking like that. 
She'd pack him off to the hotel so fast, he'd be even 
dizzier than he was now. After another giggle 
escaped, he told himself to buckle down and knock 
it off; he had to make himself presentable. A trip to 
a stall procured toilet paper with which to clean his 
nose, and then he splashed warm water onto his 
face, washing away any trace of those inexplicable 
tears.

Still kind of shaky and feeling not so hot, he slid 
down the wall and back onto the floor, grateful that 
the morgue's bathroom floor was as clean and 
sparkling as any hospital john he'd ever been in. Of 
course, in the shape he was in, he'd have sat down 
regardless of how clean it was -- or wasn't.

Imitating his posture of a few minutes ago, arms on 
knees, head on arms, Mulder rested until he started 
to feel like a human being and not just like he was 
impersonating one. When he looked at his watch 
and realized how much time had gone by, he was 
glad he hadn't called to let Scully know he was on 
his way; she'd grill him no end as to why it had 
taken him so long to get there.

Hauling himself upright once again, he took a 
breath, then checked himself out in the mirror. He 
was a little pale, but nowhere near as bad as the last 
time he looked. He made a half-hearted effort to 
neaten his hair, then he squared his shoulders and 
went to find his partner.

**

San Diego Morgue
10:55 am

The latest victim, July Renee Carter, was laid out on 
the table between Scully and a disgruntled looking 
older man. The stare-down they were holding would 
have put most reasonable people in a cold sweat. 
Scully was taking another calming breath before 
picking up where she had left off.

"Dr. Hawkins, I understand that you have been a 
medical examiner more years than I've been 
driving, but the point is sometimes there are clues 
left that might not make sense, that might be 
ignored -- " She held up her hand to ward off a 
further enraged attack on her parentage. " -- not that 
you missed something intentionally, just that you 
might have felt the evidence had nothing to do with 
the crime. That's where I come in. I'm used to 
dealing with unusual cases -- "

"Little lady, I've seen more crap and shenanigans in 
my 30 years on the county's payroll than you've 
seen in every horror or sci fi movie you've ever sat 
through at the Bijou! And I'm telling you, I didn't 
miss a damned thing! Now, I understand that you're 
with the Bureau and that means I have to extend 
you every courtesy -- "

Scully tuned out the rest of the tirade as she leaned 
over the body. On the right hand, something caught 
her eye. Spinning on her heel, she reached the 
nearby desk and a folder with copies of the photos 
from the previous two victims. Squinting at the 
pictures, she licked her lips.

"Dr. Hawkins, here, can you identify this mark?" 
she asked, handing the older man a magnifying 
glass and one of the photos. "It's on the victim's 
right arm, near the back of the hand."

Hawkins frowned, but took the glass and photo. He 
looked, then looked again before handing both back 
to Scully. "It's a stamp from a nightclub," he said 
dismissively. "You'll find that a lot around town."

"I can't find it on the first victim," Scully remarked, 
searching through the photos.

"Well, those things wash off pretty easily. Look, I 
see where you're going with this, Dr. Scully, but it's 
a long shot. These women were young, pretty, they 
probably went out a lot. And finding the bar that 
used that stamp is going to take some work. They 
change stamps every night so someone can't get in 
on last night's stamp and avoid paying the cover, as 
you would know if you partied on the weekend," he 
added with a smirk.

She glared back at him, but decided against taking 
up battle over his thinly veiled insult. "I know just 
the person to look into that, actually," she said with 
a sweet, but definitely fake, smile.

The door behind them opened and Scully turned 
quickly, half expecting Mulder to appear, ready to 
hunt down the bar stamp. She was more than a little 
disappointed when it was Detective Kresge in the 
doorway. 

"Well, you have fun with that," Hawkins snapped, 
pulling off his latex gloves and walking past 
Kresge. "Real sweetheart you found there, John. 
Thanks a lot!" he said, his tone dripping with 
sarcasm.

"Milt?" Kresge returned, half greeting, half inquiry, 
but the man was already most of the way down the 
hall. Kresge turned back to Scully. "Is everything 
all right?"

Blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes, Scully 
forced a smile. "Just great, Detective. Thank you. I 
think I might have found something for us," she 
said nodding toward the body. "I should probably 
call Mulder and have him take a look."

"Oh, he's here, somewhere. I thought he'd beat me, 
but apparently he got lost," Kresge said with a 
perplexed expression. "And what did we say last 
night? The name is John. C'mon, say it with me -- 
Joohhnn," he drawled out as if teaching her a new 
language.

She bit her lip to hold back her smile. "Sorry, John," 
she corrected. "But you said Mulder is here? Where 
would he go? The hallway is well marked and the 
information desk knew what exam room I've been 
using."

"Don't know. Isn't it the Bureau that does 'missing 
persons'?" Kresge shrugged.

Once again the door to the exam room opened and 
this time, Mulder walked in. "Hey, Scully," he 
rasped, smiling. 

"Mulder, where have you been?" she asked, fists on 
her hips.

"Answering the call of a higher power," he said 
with his patented 'aren't I adorable' look.

She gave him the once over. His clothes were 
hanging off him; she knew he'd lost weight, but it 
was getting noticeable. She vowed to make sure he 
actually ate lunch and dinner, even if it meant 
something healthy disguised with a far amount of 
grease. Next to her, Kresge cleared his throat and 
she realized she'd been staring at her partner. 

"Oh, well, you're here now. I want to show you 
something," she said, trying hard not to blush at 
being found 'gazing' at Mulder. "Look at this." She 
leaned over and pointed to the mark on the victim's 
hand. Mulder stood next to her, very close to her, as 
she pointed out the mark. 

"There?" he asked, motioning to the ink stamp. 
That's when she smelled it. On his breath, that faint 
floral smell that came from the medication he was 
supposed to use twice a day, morning and night -- 
more often only if necessary. 

"Mulder, did you just use your inhaler?" she asked 
pointedly. 

"It looks like a stamp, like for entrance to a 
nightclub or bar," he said, either not hearing or 
choosing to ignore her question. She wasn't about to 
let him slide this time.

"Mulder, I just asked you a question. Did you just 
have to use your inhaler?" she repeated, this time 
placing her hand on his upper arm.

He stood up straight, shooting her an annoyed look. 
"Yeah, I did. Now, can we get back to this?" He 
turned to Kresge. "Does the Department keep a list 
of all the bars and nightclubs around or do I have to 
resort to the yellow pages?" he asked abruptly.

"Yeah, we have a list," Kresge huffed indignantly. 
"You gonna call all of them?"

"No, I'm going to 'fax' all of them," Mulder said in a 
rough whisper, before turning to his partner. "Can 
we get a good picture of this stamp, one we can 
blow up?"

"It's on the disk," she said, pointing to the camera 
on the desk. "I can have all the photos sent to your 
email as soon as I find someone to download them."

"That chore, I can handle," Kresge said, picking up 
the camera. "Agent Mulder, should I meet you back 
here or at the car? Oh, wait. You don't know where 
the car is, since you didn't wait for me to park it. I'll 
just come back here to meet you, is that all right?" 
he sneered. "Let me know if you need any help, 
Dana," he said, putting emphasis on her name.

Both agents regarded the detective with matched 
curious looks. After he was gone, Scully turned on 
her partner.

"Mulder, if you're having trouble breathing, I want 
to know right now," she hissed as she led him over 
to the middle of the room where the exam light over 
the gurney gave the best illumination.

He pulled out of her grasp and backed up, away 
from the body. "Not here, Scully! And it's nothing, 
really. I just had a little trouble. They stuck me in 
Mold Central. There's a leak in the roof or 
something, mold all over the wall and the carpet -- I 
had to get out of there. But I'm glad I came over, 
this stamp thing might be the break we're hoping 
for," he rasped cheerfully.

She wasn't about to change the subject. "Mold! The 
last place you need to be is anywhere near mold, 
Mulder. Tell them you have to have a different 
office. My God, your lungs are still recovering; if 
you introduce mold into that environment -- you 
could end up in the hospital with bacterial 
pneumonia before we could do a darned thing about 
it!"

"Scully," Mulder tried to interrupt.

"What the hell is wrong with this town? First the 
hotel has only smoking rooms -- great idea for a 
man recuperating not only from seriously injured 
lungs but also from nicotine overdose -- then this 
moldy room -- "

"Scully," he attempted again.

"Which reminds me, I was going to call the hotel 
and make sure they got our rooms changed. I will 
not tolerate -- "

This time he grabbed both her arms and leaned 
down so that their foreheads touched. "Scully," he 
whispered imploringly.

"What?" she asked, looking up into his hazel eyes. 
She had to blink twice just to keep from grabbing 
his tie and kissing him right there in the morgue. 
"What?" she repeated softly.

"I can't ask them to change the office. It's the only 
one available. They already told me that," he 
murmured low in her ear. 

She bit her lip. God, that raspy, hoarse voice was 
doing things to her that hadn't been done since . . . 
well, since the last time they'd -- no, she couldn't 
allow her thoughts to drift back there. He wasn't 
ready for that yet and she knew it would be a long 
time until he was ready. "Can you work at the 
hotel?" she asked in the same soft voice she'd used 
before. Anyone overhearing them would think they 
were making arrangements for a 'nooner' at the 
nearest motel with hourly rates.

"I need a fax machine. With the number of faxes I'm 
likely to have, it would put the SDPD back a couple 
of union raises to pay for them all at the hotel's 
business center. I'll be fine at the station," he 
assured her. "Look, I'll only breathe through my 
handkerchief." He pulled out the scrap of cotton and 
waved it near her cheek.

She reached up and cupped his cheek. "I really want 
you to get some rest this afternoon," she said 
tenderly. At his rolled eyes, she let her thumb brush 
his lips. "I know you think I'm being a nag, but 
Mulder, I just can't stand to see you sick again. I 
don't think you understand how scared I was in 
Asheville."

He pressed a quick kiss onto her thumb. "I'll see if 
Kresge can get some support staff to help with the 
faxes. And I promise, I'll go back to the hotel, make 
sure they changed our rooms, and lay down for an 
hour or so. Deal?"

She was about to object to the 'hour or so', but one 
more look in those hazel eyes and all protests flew 
out the window. 

"Deal."

**

San Diego Morgue
11:31 a.m.

John was pleasantly surprised when he looked up 
and saw Agent Scully -- Dana, he corrected himself 
-- coming toward him; he was not so pleasantly 
surprised to find her partner right beside her. God, 
she was a looker, he thought, all leg in those four-
inch heels. How she managed to keep pace with that 
partner of hers --

"Earth to John. Hellooooo, John." The tech's 
amused hail snapped him back to her presence.

He tried furiously not to blush, but he could feel the 
heat spreading over his face like sunrise over the 
desert. "Oh. Sorry, Frannie. You about done?" he 
asked the pretty young lab technician as if he hadn't 
just been ogling a colleague.

"Yup," she answered. "I just need the address."

"Huh? What address?" He thought she was going to 
email the pictures. Why did she need an address?

"The email address?" 

Oh. How stupid could he be? 

"To email the photos?" she continued when he 
didn't answer her.

"Right, right," he answered quickly. "Just send them 
to me at the station. You have that address, right?"

"Yup." A few clicks of the mouse later, she 
pronounced, "Done." She nudged him with her 
elbow, looking pointedly at Dana Scully on the 
outside of the glass-enclosed lab. "Go get her, 
Tiger."

Again, he felt heat on his face. "Geesh, Frannie. Do 
you have to?" he grumbled, only partly in jest. 
Getting to his feet, he threw a quick, "Thanks," over 
his shoulder before he opened the door and smiled 
at Dana. He was delighted that she'd come to find 
him rather than the other way around, studiously 
ignoring the fact that her partner was there, too.

"Were you able to email the pictures?" she asked 
him.

John nodded. "I sent them to my email address. I 
figured they'd be easier to print if they were on my 
computer." He looked up at Dana's partner. "Is that 
okay, Agent Mulder?" The challenge carried over 
into his tone, and Mulder looked a little taken 
aback. God, that felt good, and Mulder's anticipated 
reaction didn't disappoint. 

What he didn't anticipate was the abashed 
expression that caused the male agent to look down 
at his shoes. "Uh, yeah. Good thinking, Detective. 
Thanks." 

A little confused by the about-face of Mulder's 
attitude, John decided to give the guy a break. 
Although the agent looked better than he had in the 
car, there was a weariness about the man that spoke 
to his not being quite up to par. "No problem, Agent 
Mulder. Glad I could help." He chanced a smile and 
was rewarded when Dana returned it. He saw 
Mulder's eyes slide over to his partner before the 
agent looked back at John and gave him a much 
weaker version. John cleared his throat. "Uh, should 
we head back?"

Dana shook her head. "I only came up to get July 
Carter's tox results from the lab. Dr. Hawkins 
'forgot' to give them to me." She glanced at the two 
men, her eyes holding on her partner. Suddenly, she 
turned to John. "It's going to take them a few 
minutes to pull up the report. I'll walk you out while 
they get them together."

Happy with this turn of events, John nodded, and 
the three of them started walking, John beside Dana 
with Mulder trailing behind slightly. When they 
reached the elevator bank, Dana scanned her partner 
up and down so intently that John wanted to squirm 
for the guy. But the agent took it all in stride, only a 
sigh betraying the fact that he was even aware of 
her scrutiny.

The elevator door opened, and John felt a pang of 
jealousy when Mulder ushered Dana into the car 
with a hand to her back. Huh. Maybe they got along 
all right, after all. John might do well to remember 
that and not bad-mouth the guy to his partner. She 
obviously liked him, despite the numerous faults 
John had picked up on.

"Detective, once we get that list of clubs and bars, 
I'll need a couple of people to help with the faxing 
and follow-up calls to any that don't respond," 
Mulder said. "Oh, and how many fax machines do 
you have available for our use?"

John bristled at Mulder's presumption that John 
could just pull officers off cases to do Mulder's 
bidding, then forced himself to relax. It wouldn't do 
to irritate the guy in front of Dana. "I'll ask the 
captain if we can spare anyone, and I'll find out how 
many fax machines we can tie up for this." He 
looked Mulder in the eye. "That good enough?"

The agent shrugged. "It'll have to be."

No matter how hard John tried, Mulder just rubbed 
him the wrong way. "Look, Agent Mulder, I'll do 
what I can, but we do have other cases, you know."

Mulder's calm nod annoyed John no end. "I realize 
that, Detective." The guy's voice was getting 
harsher and grating on John's nerves. "But it was 
you who requested us. If you can't provide what we 
need to work this case, then we might as well go 
home."

'I didn't request *you*,' John wanted to say to 
Mulder, but held his tongue.

"Mulder, Detective Kresge said he'd try. He's doing 
all he can," Dana said, and the euphoric feeling that 
bubbled up from her faith in him crashed and 
burned when he took in the intimate pat she gave 
her partner's arm.

Mulder met her eyes briefly, then nodded. "Yeah, 
okay." He glanced at John, but didn't say anything, 
and John found himself balling his fists at his side, 
trying to keep his temper in check. The jerk didn't 
even consider apologizing, he thought. How the hell 
Dana put up with such an arrogant prick was 
beyond him. The woman was a saint.

Or an angel, he sighed to himself, letting his gaze 
settle on her. Well, at least Mulder wouldn't be 
joining them on any interviews, Dana had told him 
earlier. She didn't say why, and he didn't care; this 
was John's chance to shine. Show her that he wasn't 
afraid to put himself in the line of fire with her 
while her partner twiddled his thumbs 'profiling.' 

Again John wondered just what possible use Mulder 
could be on this case besides tying up half the 
precinct with his faxing hobby. Oh, well. If it kept 
him busy and out of John's -- and Dana's -- way, 
then he was all for it.

**

San Diego Police Station
4:40 p.m.

The replies had stared flowing in around half an 
hour ago, before they had even finished faxing out. 
Captain Milward had graciously allotted two whole 
fax machines to Mulder, and they were now down 
to using one machine to fax out, leaving the other 
free for returning faxes.

Instead of assigning an officer to assist him, 
Milward had let Mulder borrow his administrative 
assistant, and Mulder wanted to kiss him for that. 
Wendy Rogers was an older woman who'd been 
with the department for 34 years and, boy, did she 
know her stuff. He was sure they wouldn't be nearly 
as far as they were had he been assigned a cop as 
his 'helper.'

He also appreciated the fact that, although she'd 
been 'briefed' by Milward and Kresge, once Mulder 
had explained what they were doing and why, she'd 
looked quizzically at Milward's office and shaken 
her head. Then she'd looked back at Mulder, smiled 
and said, "Good idea."

She'd taken the copies of the stamp and cleaned 
them up into faxable images, then printed several 
copies for them to fax. She took Mulder's idea for a 
cover/reply sheet and produced exactly what he'd 
envisioned. Then she'd mail-merged the names and 
fax numbers of all the clubs onto the cover sheets; 
those hours of hand writing 63 cover sheets that 
he'd been dreading was merely a distant memory, 
thanks to Wendy. God, she was great. He wondered 
if he could keep her.

Wendy had 'suggested' that he take a break from fax 
hell -- his back was killing him, he had about a 
million paper cuts, and he was dead tired -- and 
when he returned she called to him excitedly. 
"Mulder!" (He'd asked her to drop the 'Agent' 
almost the second he'd met her, and she'd happily 
complied.)

He hurried to where she was waving a piece of 
paper. "Did we get a hit?" he asked, tiredness 
dropping away.

In response, she smiled and presented him with the 
sheet of paper. "Looks like it."

Quickly scanning it, he looked up at her. "The 
Palace? You know it?"

She nodded. "It's more a dinner theater than a club, 
but they market it that way so they'll draw in the 
younger crowd. It's named for the old 'Palace' 
theater in New York City back in the vaudeville 
days." She stole a look at the reply. "They have a 
few contemporary acts, but mainly they keep to the 
vaudeville theme."

He looked blankly at her. Vaudeville? In Southern 
California? Was she serious?

Apparently taking his astonishment as confusion, 
she clarified, "You know . . . song and dance, 
jugglers, magicians, acrobats . . . that type of act."

He still found it hard to believe. "People go to this 
club? Young people like our victims?"

"Oh, yeah. Some of those acts have quite a 
following."

That was it. She was pulling his leg. "Ha. Good one. 
You got me."

Her delighted laugh made him smile uncertainly. 
"It's hard to swallow, I know. But it's true." She 
glanced around the squad room. "It's in our district. 
Ask anyone. They've been there several times when 
a fan got a little too . . . er . . . enamored and had to 
be taken in for indecent exposure."

Mulder's mouth fell open. "For a juggler?"

She chuckled. "Well, for the singers and dancers, 
mostly, but every once in a while . . ." She 
shrugged. "A juggler. Or an acrobat or magician." 
She shook her head. "You never can tell what's 
going to float someone's boat."

Mulder raised his brows. Man, she wasn't kidding. 
This was so absurd it had to be true. "But a 
juggler?"

She winked at him. "Well . . . I've heard juggling is 
only a part of the act."

He had a feeling where this was leading. "I'm afraid 
to ask."

She chuckled. "Let's just say that all the performers 
are physically fit, which is pretty obvious by the end 
of their performances."

Now Mulder was sure she was putting him on. 
"Strip juggling?"

"And strip magicians, acrobats, animal acts -- "

"Okay, stop. That's going a little too far, even for 
me." His mind was going places he'd rather it didn't.

She laughed. "Well, now you can see why it's so 
popular. Even with young woman." She grinned 
slyly. "Especially with young women."

"Er . . . yeah." Something about what she told him 
just clicked it all into place. That club was the 
connection. He knew it. If he could only think more 
clearly --

"Mulder? You okay?"

Looking up at the familiar words to find someone 
other than his partner was . . . something of a relief, 
actually. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry. I was just thinking." He 
blinked. "I need to get over there. Where's it 
located?"

"Where's what located?"

Scully's voice directly behind him made him jump, 
partly from surprise, but mostly out of guilt. Trying 
to remove the culpable expression from his face, he 
turned around, only to find his partner with her arms 
crossed, foot tapping, and a pissed look in her eyes. 
There was no need to wonder how much she'd heard 
-- the murderous look on her face gave him all the 
answer he needed.

"We found it," he said, partially as an effort to 
distract her, partially because he wanted her to 
know.

She blinked. "The club?"

He nodded, taking her arm and leading her a few 
feet away, only just taking note of Kresge who'd 
been standing next to her. "What's he doing here?"

"He works here."

Mulder pursed his lips into a scowl. "Why is he 
*here?* With you?" Was the guy going to be up her 
ass the entire case? Even as he thought it, Mulder 
gritted his teeth at his choice of phrase. That loser 
had better not be. Ever.

"He gave me a ride from the morgue. Why?"

Deciding it was not in his best interests to act the 
jealous boyfriend at this phase in their relationship, 
Mulder shook his head. "Just wondering why he's 
always Johnny-on-the-spot with you." Damn it. 
Hadn't he just told himself not to do that?

Scully frowned. "Is this why you pulled me aside?"

Properly chastised, Mulder put Kresge and his 
intentions toward Scully out of his head. "We found 
it."

"Yes. You said that," she said dryly.

"No, Scully. That's it. That's where he takes them 
from."

He could see the second that all thoughts of Kresge 
and Mulder's jealousy left her mind. "How can you 
be sure?"

"I don't know yet."

"Mulder, we can't just focus all our attention on this 
club without a good reason."

"Why not?" he argued. "It's not like they've gotten 
anywhere on this case." He took hold of her 
shoulders. "You know me, Scully. You know how 
these 'feelings' usually turn out to be right."

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. "All 
right. We'll check it out."

He smiled. "Great. Let me get my jacket."

"Not you, Mulder. Kresge and I will check it out. 
You're going back to the hotel to get some rest."

Her words brought all the resentment he'd been 
feeling about the detective to the fore. "I'm fine."

"You're not, and you know it." Her harsh whisper 
hit him like a slap in the face.

"Everything all right, Dana?"

Kresge's interruption didn't irritate only him; he was 
pleased to see Scully roll her eyes in annoyance 
before she turned to face the detective. "Fine, John." 
Looking back at Mulder with her 'you-know-I'm-
right-so-just-suck-it-up-and-do-what-I-say" face, 
she said, "Mulder's come up with something. I was 
wondering if you'd accompany me to the location?"

Mulder thought if Kresge had a tail it would be 
wagging at light speed. The agent turned away in 
disgust; he was embarrassed to find Wendy Rogers 
gazing at him sympathetically. He gave her a half-
hearted smile. "Thanks for all your help, Wendy. I 
think I'd still be writing out cover sheets if it weren't 
for you."

Her smile was a little more sincere. "I have a feeling 
you would have done all right." She threw a glance 
at Scully and Kresge, who were going over how 
they'd handle the interviewing, and who Mulder 
was trying his best to ignore. "I wouldn't worry. She 
does like him, but she loves you."

Mulder was too discouraged to be surprised that she 
had picked up on their relationship. He sighed. "I 
wish I could be so sure."

The woman laid a hand on his arm. "I think you are, 
but every now and then you doubt her and you 
doubt yourself." She looked at Scully and Kresge 
once again before giving her attention back to 
Mulder. "John's a great guy. One of the nicest cops 
I've ever met. But your partner's not interested. Not 
like you think."

Mulder's gaze was drawn to the two of them, Scully 
laughing at something Kresge said, and Kresge 
beaming at her adoringly. The agent looked back at 
Wendy, wondering if he looked as lost as he felt. "I 
hope you're right."

Although she smiled encouragingly at him, he 
couldn't muster up the energy or the will to return it. 
Oh, God, did he hope she was right.

**

Embassy Suites
10:45 pm

Kresge pulled the car under the awning and was 
about to park when Scully put her hand on his arm. 
"Thanks for the ride, John. Hopefully by tomorrow 
we can come up with our own transportation. I hate 
making you play chauffer all the time."

"Nonsense, Dana. I don't mind at all," Kresge was 
quick to reply. "If you're not too tired, maybe we 
could go over our notes -- "

No sooner had he started talking than a giant yawn 
overpowered her. It felt like it had started 
somewhere in her toes. "Gee, John, that would be 
great but I'm a little bushed tonight. Jet lag, you 
know," she smiled back at him. "If you don't mind 
taking a rain check, maybe we could go over those 
notes early tomorrow, before the briefing at 9?"

Kresge's face fell slightly, but he forced a smile. 
"Sure. How about I come get you about 7:30. I'll 
bring bagels and coffee, we can have a bite to eat 
while we work."

Scully smiled brightly. "That sounds wonderful. Oh, 
and Mulder takes decaf, if it's not too much trouble. 
Good night, John." She completely missed the look 
of total despair at the mention of her partner 
because she was busy getting out of the car. She 
turned and waved to the detective before entering 
the hotel.

The Palace had been quite the place, she mused as 
she walked through the double glass doors to the 
hotel. Sniffing at her sleeve, she grimaced at her 
reflection in the mirror as she made her way over to 
the desk. She needed a shower desperately. She 
smelled like the bottom of an ashtray. But she had 
to find out what rooms they'd been moved to and 
she wanted to check in on him before bed. She 
could call him, but Mulder would probably tell her 
he was fine even if he was on death's door. Why 
were men so stubborn about their health?

The desk clerk looked up at her with a brilliant 
smile. "May I help you?"

"Yes, I'm Dana Scully. Fox Mulder and I are here 
on business and we had smoking rooms. We 
requested non-smoking rooms. There was supposed 
to be a room change sometime earlier today."

"Oh, yes, Ms. Scully. You're now in 1011 and Mr. 
Mulder is in room 713." She handed Scully her new 
room key and a smile. "Your room is a king bed, no 
smoking. Per your request we moved your bags. 
Just go on up."

"Thank you," Scully said with a tired smile. She 
headed directly to the elevators and rolled her 
shoulders on the ride to the seventh floor.

As she walked down the hallway to his room, she 
planned her visit. If she knocked on the door and 
immediately asked about his health, Mulder would 
close down completely and be surly and obstinate. 
If she couched her visit in terms of bringing him up 
to speed on the case, he would be more open to her 
asking about his health. No, more than likely, he'd 
be more distracted thinking about the case to notice 
that she was asking about his health. Yeah, that 
always worked, she reminded herself stoically. 
Always like never. Still she had to try.

She found his door and gave it a few rapid taps, in 
deference to others who might be trying to sleep. He 
opened the door and smiled at her, before erupting 
into a coughing fit.

"Hi, Scully. You found me," he rasped around a few 
more choked coughs. "What did you find at the 
Palace?" He waved her in and closed the door.

"Mulder . . . " She stopped before she started 
questioning his health. Get him on the case, she 
reminded her 'overactive mother instinct' -- as 
Mulder referred to her normal concern. "It was 
interesting, to say the least. We talked to the 
manager, showed him pictures of the victims. He 
remembered two of them. Said they were regulars."

"I knew we'd hit pay dirt," Mulder replied with an 
enthusiastic nod of his head. He reached out and 
grabbed a chair suddenly, as if to steady himself.

"Mulder, are you dizzy?" she asked. In a move that 
would have made a stunt man proud, he flipped the 
chair around and was sitting on it before she'd 
finished her question.

"Me?" he asked innocently. When she folded her 
arms across her chest he gave her a half-shrug. "A 
little, yeah. I was lying down, I probably just got up 
too quickly when you knocked."

"You were coughing, too, just now. Do you need 
your inhaler?"

He ran his hand through his hair. "So we have a 
commonality, finally. We need to check out the 
employees, maybe even the acts, especially on the 
nights the women went missing -- "

He was ignoring her. He knew she hated that. He 
watched her out of the corner of his eye as she 
considered calling him on it, but suddenly she 
stopped and visibly sniffed the air. "Mulder, they 
didn't give you a non-smoking room?"

"If they had, I wouldn't be in this one," he reasoned.

"No wonder you're dizzy and coughing," she said 
with a sigh. "This is ridiculous!" She reached for the 
phone on the desk, but his hand shot out and 
grabbed her wrist.

"No use, Scully. I already complained. They are 
completely out of no-smoking rooms. But they did 
offer me an additional night's stay -- no smoking, if 
available."

She shook her head, trying to calm her anger. She 
didn't want to direct it at Mulder because he was the 
victim. "Look, this is completely unacceptable. 
Mulder -- "

"I know, Scully, I know. I even thought about 
sleeping in the bathroom with the fan on all night," 
he suggested. "But the tub isn't that comfortable."

"No, I bet it isn't," she said, giving him a smile and 
rubbing his arm. "Look, I'm going to get you 
packed -- "

"I really don't want to change hotels in the middle 
of the -- "

"You're coming to my room." 

**end of part 2**

Shred of Doubt (3/9)
Jo-Ann Lassiter and
Vickie Moseley

They both stopped talking and looked at each other. 
Scully recovered from the shock first. "Mulder, it's 
the only reasonable solution. The clerk said my 
room is no-smoking, all the rooms have sleeper 
sofas -- "

"A sleeper sofa," he said dully, and the light that 
had been in his eyes extinguished.

"Well, actually, she did say the bed is a king, so I 
don't see why we'd even need to pull out the sleeper 
sofa," she corrected. His enthusiasm for sharing a 
room shot up several levels. "But Mulder, we're on 
a case, and you really aren't up to -- "

"Your honor is perfectly safe, Scully," he said with 
a sad smile. "But that does sound like a better 
solution than sleeping in the tub."

It didn't take long to gather up his clothes and 
toiletries because he'd never unpacked from the 
move earlier. They made it up to the tenth floor and 
Mulder felt totally done in for the night. 

"I want to type up some notes," Scully said. "Why 
don't you go ahead and hit the sack. I won't be long 
and I can close the door to the bedroom so the light 
doesn't disturb you."

"Do you want me to go over the notes with you?" 
he asked. He wanted so much to help her on the 
case. He hated being sick or injured, but it felt like 
more than that to him. He couldn't stop comparing 
himself to Kresge and finding out that he came up 
short. He wanted to show her that she wasn't 
making a mistake staying with him. He had to look 
better in her eyes. This time, though, he just wasn't 
able to get around the limitations his body was 
placing on him. 

"As much as I would like that, Mulder, you really 
need to get some sleep." She walked over to him 
and reached her hand up to cup his cheek. "I'll tuck 
you in," she offered with a coy smile. He couldn't 
believe his body failed him again when he felt 
himself blush.

"With an offer like that -- how can I refuse?" he 
replied and allowed her to take his hand and lead 
him into the bedroom. She gave him a light push in 
the direction of the bathroom, where he closed the 
door and came out in just his boxers and tee shirt. 
"You know, this could be habit forming," he told 
her and she held back the covers so that he could 
slide under them.

"You mean you actually doing something when I 
tell you to do it?" she asked with a tilt of her chin.

"No, us getting ready for bed together," he shot 
back and caught her hand to pull her down for a 
kiss. "I like this."

After a second kiss, she touched his cheek. "I like 
this too. But right now -- "

"I know, I know. You have work to do." He sighed 
heavily and rolled on his side, trying to find a 
comfortable position. "Scully -- "

Without him saying a word, she walked over to the 
closet and pulled out the extra pillow. He accepted 
it gratefully and propped himself up so that he 
wasn't lying flat on the bed. "Thanks."

"I won't be long," she promised.

The next thing Mulder knew, light was creeping 
around the edges of the drapes and Scully was 
draped over his chest, tickling him with her hair. It 
felt wonderful. Unfortunately, it was also hard to 
breathe. He took a moment to brush the hair from 
her face and just look at the woman in his arms. She 
was beautiful. She was his best friend, his most 
loyal confidante and he was willing to admit she 
was the best thing that had ever happened to him. If 
he died of asphyxiation right then, at least he would 
be a happy man. However, he was pretty sure 
Scully would not be so pleased.

"Scully," he croaked and shifted, trying to lower her 
weight to the mattress and not just dump her on the 
floor in his haste to get a breath. "Scully," he tried 
again. He was getting desperate; he needed air, and 
fast. 

Slowly she raised her head and looked into his face. 
A split second of drowsy smile was quickly 
followed by full-blown look of anxiety when she 
saw the panicked look in his eyes. "Mulder, what -- 
"

"Move?" he pleaded and she jumped back, landing 
completely off the bed but on her feet. He lunged 
forward in an attempt to escape the inevitable, but 
wasn't fast enough. A coughing fit overtook him 
and he struggled to pull air into his lungs while his 
body was expelling that same air forcefully. When 
he thought he was going to pass out, the inhaler 
magically appeared at his lips and he sucked on it 
like a lamprey eel. In a few moments the crisis had 
passed and he slumped down to the pillows. "G' 
mornin'," he gasped.

He was afraid she was going to reach for the phone 
and call for an ambulance, but she surprised him 
when she reached instead for his wayward hair and 
brushed her fingers lightly across his forehead. 
"Good morning," she said with a gentle smile. "Are 
you OK now?"

"Was OK. Just needed air," he rasped, hesitantly 
drawing more of the life-giving substance into his 
lungs. It burned as it always did after a shot of the 
inhaler, but at least he wasn't seeing little black 
spots before his eyes. 

"Well, aside from the coughing, that was a nice way 
to wake up," she assured him. "What time is it?" He 
knew she didn't expect him to answer; she was 
already squinting at the clock on the nightstand. 
"Good grief, it's 5 till 7! John will be downstairs in 
a few minutes." 

He tried not to let his disappointment show. Now 
she was calling the little prick 'John'? When the hell 
had that happened? But if he was going to pick 
them up Mulder was going to be ready. He started 
to toss the covers off and get out of bed, but Scully 
stopped him with a hand on his chest.

"Where do you think you're going?" she asked 
loudly. He wanted to reply in kind, but another 
cough was lurking around his ribcage and he wasn't 
going to let it out. He gave her his best 'where do 
you think' look and moved her hand. "Mulder, look, 
I think you really need to rest up this morning. I'll 
shower now, you rest." 

It was hard not talking, but they'd been doing it for 
two weeks and he felt they were getting good at it. 
He let his eyes flick over to the bathroom and tilted 
his head in his most impatient expression. She 
backed off immediately. He shot her a wink as he 
made his way into the bathroom.

"I mean it, Mulder. I really want you to get some 
more rest. Just this morning. I'll make sure someone 
picks you up by about 10, how does that sound?"

He made a point to ignore her as much as he could. 
He had finished up in the bathroom, washed his 
hands, double-checked the position of the toilet lid 
to ensure it was properly lowered and returned to 
the bedroom. She was standing there in the middle 
of the room, biting her lip with a hopeful 
expression. 

He just wanted to scoop her up and carry her to the 
bed. They could both stay there until 10, maybe 10 
that evening. But that rancid little cough was 
tickling his rib again and he carefully drew in a 
sigh. With a resigned look at his partner, he climbed 
back into bed, plumped the pillows to a comfortable 
height, and lay back on them. For good measure, he 
smoothed the covers over his chest and smiled.

What she did next surprised the crap out of him. 
Coming forward with a sultry look in her eyes, she 
placed one knee on the bed and kissed him fully and 
hard. He felt her tongue caress his bottom lip and 
just when he was going to open his mouth to allow 
her in -- she stood up and sauntered into the 
bathroom, closing the door. He slumped down on 
the pillows, totally spent. How had she done that?

He didn't think he was sleepy, but he closed his eyes 
and basked in a fantasy where they were both in the 
shower, water sluicing off her naked body and 
splashing onto his. He was warm, he could breathe, 
oh man could he breathe, and Scully was doing 
things with her hands --

The ringing phone startled him and he rolled over to 
grab for the receiver. "Mulder," he wheezed.

There was silence on the other end. He thought he 
heard someone breathing and became annoyed. 
"Who is this?" he huffed.

More silence, followed by a sigh. "This is John 
Kresge. I was looking for Agent Scully."

"Oh. She's in the shower," Mulder said, clearing his 
throat. Bad idea, but it resulted in only a little 
cough. The medication from the inhaler was still 
working. "Can I give her a message when she gets 
out?"

More silence. Finally, in a voice that could only be 
described as sullen, Kresge responded. "Would you 
mind telling her that I'll be a little late? There's an 
accident on the interstate and I'll be there closer to 
7:45."

"Sure," Mulder replied. He was going to say 
something else, but the detective had already hung 
up.

He stared at the receiver in his hand for a full 
minute. That was weird. Then it dawned on Mulder 
that Kresge saw the conversation much differently 
than a simple call to tell someone their ride was 
late. He thought of Kresge, with his smarmy smiles 
and drooling all over Scully. That same little prick 
was currently caught in traffic, imagining all kinds 
of things about the two FBI agents from 
Washington -- who had apparently spent the night 
together. If it wouldn't have resulted in another 
coughing fit, Mulder would have jumped up on the 
bed and done a happy dance right then and there.

But as he heard the shower turn off and the hair 
dryer start up in the bathroom, Mulder was hit with 
another scenario. Scully had to work with this guy. 
This guy was a member of a large city police 
department. Water cooler gossip was almost as 
intrinsic in police work as handcuffs and Kevlar. 
And it would all come down on Scully's head 
because that was how it always worked. Mulder 
would look like the lucky stud and Scully would be 
labeled -- He let out a heavy sigh and knew that he 
had to at least warn her.

She entered the bedroom in the hotel-supplied 
bathrobe and he couldn't help but smile.

"What are you so happy about this morning?" she 
asked as she dug through the closet to pull out yet 
another black pantsuit.

"Oh, um, nothing, just feeling a little better," he 
rasped. "Kresge called. He said he was stuck in 
traffic and would be late -- about 15 minutes."

"That was considerate of him," she said absently. 
"Hey, that gives us enough time for me to run 
downstairs and get you some breakfast. You 
shouldn't take your medicine on an empty stomach."

He started to object and then he realized what was 
happening. Scully was bringing him breakfast in 
bed. Sure, it didn't have all the promise it normally 
would have had to his libido -- they had only held 
each other during the night and his body wasn't 
ready for much more -- but it was the thought that 
counted. "Sure, yeah, that would be nice," he 
stumbled.

She flashed him another smile. "Promise you won't 
jump out of bed on me," she warned him playfully.

Parts of him were almost willing to do just that, but 
when he was just about ready to return the entendre 
his chest tightened painfully, reminding him of his 
condition. "I promise," he said, hoping his 
disappointment wasn't too apparent.

"Poor Mulder," she cooed, coming back and giving 
him a sweet, chaste kiss. "I'll just throw on my 
clothes and get you something. Omelet? Cereal? I 
know better than to ask if you want some fruit, that 
would ruin your day," she teased.

"Omelet. With cheese, if it's not too much bother?" 
he replied. "And coffee?" She was already in the 
bathroom again and he hoped she'd be distracted 
enough not to take too much notice of his last 
request.

"Decaf. No caffeine while you're on the meds," she 
reminded him. She stepped back out of the bath 
looking like a million dollars. "But I'll bring you 
back fresh squeezed orange juice, how's that?"

She was being so nice to him he almost wanted to 
cry. A sudden thought froze his heart. He couldn't 
let her go out without one last warning. "Scully, 
when Kresge called -- ummm, I answered the 
phone."

"Yeah, what about it?" she asked as she gathered up 
her purse and checked to make sure she had her 
room key. 

"It was early in the morning," Mulder prodded.

She gave him a funny look until he raised an 
eyebrow and nodded down to the bed. "Oh," she 
said, finally catching on to what he was trying to 
say. "Oh, Mulder, I don't think -- "

"Scully, you know what kind of rumors have been 
going around the Hoover for seven years," he 
reminded her in a hoarse whisper.

"You're right. I better set him straight. Darn it all, I 
wish people would just -- oh well," she huffed. 
"Hey, I better run downstairs or there'll be a line for 
omelets. Can your throat handle a blueberry 
muffin?"

His heart melted. He loved her so much! She was 
always thinking of him. He wanted more than the 
muffin. But when he swallowed and felt the acid in 
his throat he knew it wasn't meant to be. "Maybe 
tomorrow," he said and sighed forlornly.

"It will get better, Mulder. But you can't push 
yourself," she cautioned. She tempered her 
statement with another quick kiss. "I have my key, 
so you don't have to let me in. Be right back."

He flopped back on the pillows and let his body fall 
into a doze, dreaming of another day in the near 
future when they'd share breakfast in bed. 

**

Embassy Suites
Scully's Room
May 2, 2000
7:44 a.m.

Scully balanced the coffee cup and the orange juice 
carton on top of the take-out container held in her 
left hand as she slid the key card into the door lock 
with her right. As soon as she gained entry, her eyes 
sought out the display on the digital clock beside 
the bed.

Damn. She'd been right about the long line, wrong 
about her timing. There'd been four people ahead of 
her by the time she'd arrived at the omelet station, 
and when she'd heard the elaborate order the man in 
front of her placed, she'd nearly groaned out loud in 
frustration. Luckily, once he'd *finally* completed 
his request and Scully had moved up, she was 
relieved to find more than one chef handling the 
'special orders' section of the breakfast buffet.

Having made previous arrangements with the 
hostess to charge the breakfast to her room, once 
Scully had received her order -- ahead of the fifty-
ingredient man, she was pleased to note -- she'd 
been able to head right back to her room.

After she placed Mulder's breakfast on the table in 
the dining area of the suite, she turned to him, 
mouth open to shout out a quick 'Breakfast!' before 
high-tailing it out the door to meet the detective. 
When she got a look at her partner, however, she 
stopped dead in her tracks, mouth still open but for 
another reason entirely. Oh. My. God, she thought. 
How adorable is he?

Her face melted into a smile as she took in her 
sleeping partner. He was lying on his side, knees 
bent, pillow lovingly cradled to his chest with one 
hand while the other was tucked inward, curled 
beneath his chin. He looked like a kitten, all cuddly 
and innocent, and she decided that it wouldn't kill 
Kresge to wait a few minutes while she drank in the 
sight of Mulder in repose.

The quiet 'snick' of the digital clock advancing 
another numeral caught her attention, and she 
cursed when she noted the time. How could she 
have spent five whole minutes staring at her 
sleeping partner, totally unaware of the passage of 
time? Right, Dana, she told herself. Like you've 
never done *that* before.

Almost getting sucked in *again*, Scully shook her 
head and grabbed her briefcase. On impulse, she 
took out her digital camera and snapped off two 
quick shots of him. That picture was much too 
precious to entrust to just her memory.

Tucking her camera back in her bag, she touched 
Mulder's shoulder, shaking it gently. "Mulder . . ." 
He moaned sleepily, and she smiled. "Your 
breakfast is on the table. I've got to go."

"Mmmokay . . ." he mumbled, and she leaned over 
and gave him a *slightly* lingering kiss on his 
cheek.

"That the best you can do?" he asked in that sexy 
rasp of a voice.

"For now." 

His eyes still weren't open, but his lips thinned in a 
smile. 

"I'm late to meet Detective Kresge."

"What a shame." He didn't sound at all sincere.

"Do you want me to send someone for you at ten, or 
do you want to make your own way in when you're 
ready?"

He looked like he'd fallen asleep again, but she 
knew he was just thinking it over. "I'll grab a cab 
later," he finally said. "Where will you be?"

"Probably going over notes with John."

"John," he said so quietly she just barely heard it. A 
frown creased her brow. She wondered just what it 
was that Mulder had against Detective Kresge. He'd 
been nothing but friendly and cooperative since he'd 
picked them up, and Mulder had been barely civil to 
the man.

Well, she didn't have time to figure it out now. 
She'd kept the poor man waiting long enough. 
"Mulder, I have to go," she said, heading for the 
door. "I'll see you later this morning, okay?"

"Sure, Scully," he croaked. "Later."

He sounded so down in the dumps that she was 
sorely tempted to call Kresge and tell him she'd be 
along later, but she couldn't do that to him. After all, 
he was kind enough to pick her up, and he'd 
probably been waiting patiently for about fifteen 
minutes. "Don't forget to eat your breakfast," she 
offered as consolation.

"I won't," he said. "See you later?" he said, 
uncertainty clear in his voice.

"Later, Mulder," she said firmly, and with all the 
conviction she could muster. She gave him one last 
look before she dashed out the door. 

God, now she knew why it was a bad idea for her to 
share a room with her partner while on a case. 
Leaving him in bed, rumpled, drowsy and unshaven 
(just the way she liked him) while she went to work 
was just too damned hard.

**

Embassy Suites Parking Garage
7:58 a.m.

John looked at his watch -- again, he noted -- and 
sighed. He'd gotten there a few minutes ahead of his 
promised time, so he'd settled in to wait, expecting 
to see Dana appear promptly at 7:45. Now it was 
thirteen minutes past that time, and she still hadn't 
made an appearance.

John was torn. If she didn't show in, say, fifteen 
minutes, should he call her or assume she was 
'occupied' and leave? He was shocked when he'd 
called her room about an hour earlier, and her 
partner answered. He didn't want to think about 
what could be making her late.

When he saw her emerge from the garage elevator, 
he breathed a sigh of relief. No way did he want to 
call that room again. He opened the car door and 
stepped out, waving to her. "Dana!"

Her eyes immediately found his, and she waved 
back, smiling. "Hi," she said, approaching the 
passenger side. "Sorry I'm late."

He held the door for her, then ran back to the 
driver's seat. As they both buckled up, John said, 
"That's okay." Hell, what the heck else could he 
say? 'Sorry to have interrupted . . .' What? Damn, 
just what did he interrupt?

"I was getting Mulder's breakfast, and got hung up 
in the restaurant."

He couldn't prevent the astonishment that had to be 
showing on his face.

Her laughter surprised him. "Don't worry. I don't 
make a habit of it. Mulder's recovering from a lung 
infection, and his medication requires that it be 
taken with food. If I didn't bring him something, I 
know he'd just do without."

The guy had been sick? Well, after yesterday's 
experience in the car, John could believe it. "Uh . . . 
what happened?"

Dana looked out the window. "On our last case, 
Mulder came into contact with something that 
seriously compromised his lungs. It was pretty 
touch and go for awhile."

Her partner almost died? No wonder she was so 
protective of him. John could certainly understand 
that. "He's all right now, though?"

She met his eyes, then looked away again. "He's 
better. Still not much of a voice, and his throat's still 
tender, but he's better."

John nodded. "That's good." He didn't know what 
else to say. That still didn't explain why he'd spent 
the night in her room, but John wouldn't ask.

Feeling a warm hand on his arm, he looked up to 
find Dana gazing at him uncertainly. "John, when 
you called this morning and Mulder answered . . . 
the hotel put him in a smoking room, and he was 
having trouble breathing." She took a breath. "My 
room is non-smoking, so he stayed in there."

So . . . did that mean she didn't stay there? She 
hadn't actually come out and said she did. Or that 
she didn't. John just nodded.

"Well," she said brightly. "Shall we head on in?"

John blinked. End of discussion, he guessed. At 
least as far as she was concerned. Yet, he found 
himself returning her smile, accepting her 
explanation -- sort of. He figured if she was 
screwing the guy, she'd look a hell of a lot more 
guilty than she did. John prided himself on being 
able to 'read' people, and Dana did not have the 
appearance of a woman who had spent the night 
having her brains fucked out. "You bet," he said, 
pulling out of the space.

Dana was quiet on the drive to the station, and when 
John had sneaked a peek -- or three or four -- at her, 
she'd looked calm, composed, and utterly guileless. 
Either there was nothing going on between her and 
her partner, or she was the world's greatest actress. 
John was more than happy to opt for the former.

A deciding factor in her favor were the two times 
she'd caught him peeking; the smiles she'd given 
him were not the smiles of a woman who was trying 
to hide something from him. 

Once more secure in his freedom to pursue Dana 
Scully's affections, John was a much happier man as 
he parked in his designated spot at headquarters. 
Mulder may have spent the night in Dana's room -- 
whether she was there or not -- but her motives had 
been purely maternal. Her partner was ill, and she 
just did what any good partner would do. Man, John 
wished that *he* was her partner. There'd be more 
than sleeping and breakfast going on, that's for sure.

Turning off the ignition, John quickly exited the car 
and hustled around to open the door for Dana. She 
looked surprised, and John couldn't help but think 
that was yet another reason he should be her partner 
instead of the ungentlemanly one she was currently 
saddled with. Not only did Mulder make her carry 
heavy luggage, he must never open car doors (or 
any other doors, for that matter!) for her -- and 
Dana deserved that courteousness. Well, as long as 
she was in his company, John would see to that.

At the station door, Dana reached for it, but John 
reached around her to grab the handle first. When 
Dana started at the unexpected courtesy, John was 
convinced that her partner was an uncouth lout. The 
strained smile she gave him was his proof: she was 
embarrassed. Whether for herself or for her partner, 
though, he wasn't certain.

John couldn't help feeling anger at the way she was 
being treated, and by the fact that she'd apparently 
accepted this behavior as normal. "Is Mulder your 
first partner?" he asked, sure he knew the answer.

Her look of bewilderment gave him cause to 
chuckle. God, she was cute. "Why?" she asked.

"Oh, just wondering."

She eyed him a few seconds before answering. 
"Yes, he is"

Ha! He knew she hadn't had anything to compare 
him to. That must be the reason she put up with him 
-- she'd never known it could be any different. Any 
better. He'd just have to show her that all men 
weren't swine, that some were actually very 
considerate. Then maybe she wouldn't gravitate to 
that partner of hers so readily. Maybe she'd look at 
Mulder with new eyes, and she wouldn't like what 
she'd see.

Oh, yeah. She was *so* going to be John's.

**

3450 Delavan Drive
Apt 503
11:17 am

Mulder swept aside the crime scene tape on the 
doorway and entered the room. He was immediately 
accosted by a uniformed officer, who just as quickly 
let him stay after seeing his Bureau identification. 
"Where's the body?" Mulder rasped, punctuating his 
inquiry with a strangled cough.

"Bedroom. First door on the left," the uniform said, 
pointing to a hallway leading back into the 
apartment.

Mulder nodded his thanks, not trusting his vocal 
chords to answer. He'd felt 100 percent better upon 
waking for the second time that morning. That, 
however, was before he'd gotten out of bed, taken a 
shower, dressed, caught a taxi to the Police 
Department, and subsequently spent an hour in the 
'squad room from the Black Lagoon' as he had 
affectionately nicknamed his temporary office. 
Then came the call from Scully and the ride out to 
the scene with a chain smoking junior detective. 
Now, he was seriously dragging, but he fought the 
urge to lie down on the floor and whimper. Scully 
had called him to the crime scene. He had to look 
like he was well enough to stay.

He heard Kresge say something as he was walking 
down the hall and heard Scully's soft alto in 
response. Something the jerk had said had amused 
her. That was enough to raise his hackles. Mulder 
had a hard enough time playing nice with the locals 
when the locals weren't busy trying to steal his 
woman. He stopped short, shaking his head. That 
was a statement best left to his private thoughts. If 
Scully ever heard him talking like that, speaking in 
a higher register would become a permanent 
condition. 

When he entered the room, they were standing by 
the window, examining something in the light 
shining in. Her head was bent down, studying the 
object the detective held up to the glass. Her hair 
was shining in the sunlight; it looked copper and 
burnished and Mulder thought of all the poems he'd 
been forced to memorize during literature classes in 
college. Maybe it was so that someday he could 
look at a woman and compare her to those poems . . 
. He shook his head to clear his thoughts again. 
How sick was it to be comparing his partner to 
poetry in the middle of a murder scene? Sick 
enough, he assured himself. He ordered his libido to 
get a grip.

"Mulder, you found the place," Scully said 
suddenly, noticing him in the doorway. "Here, we 
need your opinion on this." She stepped forward 
and waved her hand toward the floor next to the 
blood soaked bed. He stepped around the foot of the 
bed and was assaulted by the sight of the deceased.

The body was a male this time, and just to make 
sure the difference was noted, the mouth was 
stuffed with something white. Mulder snapped on a 
pair of gloves Scully offered him and crouched 
closer to the body. He looked up at his partner with 
a question in his eyes.

"It's all been documented, Mulder. Knock yourself 
out," she said with a wink. 

Without further hesitation, he grasped the jaws of 
the corpse and opened the mouth. White flower 
petals tumbled to the floor, some catching on the 
blood that covered the body and tainting the edges 
with crimson.

"White? White roses this time?" Mulder croaked. 
"White," he repeated, softer this time, to himself.

"Still seem to be the cheap discount store type silk 
flowers," Kresge offered. "We bagged several for 
analysis, but that got us nowhere last time."

Mulder frowned and reached for the victim's hands. 
He checked the backs of both hands before pointing 
to the left one. "Stamp," he said in an explosive 
breath and coughed once. 

"Yeah. We'll have to check but I would suspect the 
Palace again. So we know where, but we still don't 
know whom," Scully said, crossing her arms. Just at 
that moment, her cell phone chirped in her pocket. 
"Excuse me."

While Scully walked away to answer her phone, 
Mulder stood and started taking in the crime scene. 
"His apartment?" he squawked, then made the 
mistake of trying to clear his throat. It only caused 
him to cough.

"Yeah," Kresge said, visibly ill at ease around 
Mulder's condition. "Victim's name is George 
Townsend, 29. He's an auto mechanic, or he was. 
Didn't show up at the Lexus Dealership and the boss 
got worried, sent someone over. They found him 
about 8:15 this morning."

"Tough boss," Mulder jeered. 

"He'd been dead about 6 hours, according to the 
ME. Who would really like to get the body over to 
the morgue soon," Kresge said, closing his 
notebook. 

Mulder waved his hand, indicating he had no 
objections. Scully closed her phone and walked 
over beside him. He gave her a look and she nodded 
to a corner of the room.

"That was Mom. She's invited us to dinner." At his 
sigh, she held up her hand. "I tried to beg off, but 
we're in San Diego -- Mulder, I didn't have the heart 
to say no. Besides, she pointed out we both need to 
eat. You, especially." At that comment he screwed 
up his face in a sour expression. "Two hours, tops. 
We'll tell them we have to leave to go over notes for 
tomorrow. OK?"

He shrugged a non-comment with one shoulder. 

"Great," she said with a nod of her head. "Bill said 
he'd come by the hotel to pick us up at 6." And with 
that she whisked off to oversee the removal of the 
body and arrange for her place at the autopsy. 
Mulder was left to stand in the corner, 
contemplating his luck in life, or lack thereof.

Bill Scully hated him, of that he was absolutely 
certain. Honestly, Mulder suspected that Billy boy 
had been overjoyed at Mulder's recent illness, 
hoping for a final resolution to the 'Mulder Problem' 
in his sister's life. Sitting across the table from Bill 
Scully was not something he relished even when he 
was in top form; how much less enjoyable would it 
be when Mulder couldn't adequately defend 
himself?

Kresge broke into his thoughts, coming up beside 
him. "I just called the station. We have the list of 
employees, and one seems a likely candidate. 
Bartender, former Army Ranger, drummed out after 
getting into one too many brawls. Killed a guy at 
Fort Leonard Wood, did 6 years in Leavenworth. 
He worked every night the murders took place, 
including last night."

"Are you bringing him in?" Mulder rasped. 

"We have an APB on him but he wasn't at his trailer 
home just now. Don't worry, we'll have check 
points down on the border in fifteen minutes. The 
airport and train and bus station are covered. We'll 
find him."

Mulder nodded, but frowned. That was so simple. 
Could it be the bartender? Almost as bad as having 
the butler do it in the old movies. But at least it 
would make Kresge happy. Or would it? Mulder 
looked over at the detective. For all the world, he 
didn't look like a guy who was hot on the heels of 
probably one of the biggest collars of his life. 

"So, we get this sewn up, you'll be heading back to 
Washington," Kresge said irritably.

It's where we live, asshole, Mulder wanted to say. 
But it wouldn't sound nearly as well spoken in a 
broken voice as it sounded in his head. So he 
merely nodded in agreement.

"Of course we'll have a couple of days, clearing up 
the paperwork," Kresge continued, his dark 
expression lightening. Mulder could almost hear the 
little hamster run in his wheel inside the detective's 
beady little brain.

Mulder gave a half shoulder shrug. Wasn't there 
always paperwork?

"But it really wouldn't be necessary for you to stick 
around, Agent Mulder. I mean, if you're still under 
the weather after your -- ah, illness."

The light shone brightly over Mulder's head. Aha! 
The guy was just trying to figure out a way to get 
him back to DC so that the path to Scully was free 
and clear! Not so fast, hotshot, Mulder thought 
angrily. 

"Help with report," he ground out, and patted 
Kresge amiably on the shoulder. "Glad to," he 
added with a wink and a plastic grin. 

San Diego Police Department
5:35 pm

Mulder sat on the wobbly chair, chewing on the end 
of a pencil already pocked with impressions of his 
back molars and stared at the mass of fungi growing 
on the wall. He wasn't really looking at the mold, 
just using it as a focal point for his internal 
processing.

The Department had issued an All Points Bulletin 
on Darren Edward Dodds, DOB 04/15/74, last 
known address 1453 Waller Court, Lot 6, San 
Diego early that morning and had yet to get a 
handle on the man's whereabouts. That seemed to 
bother the hell out of Detective John Kresge, who 
made a point of storming up and down the hallway 
whenever one more report of a false lead came 
through. It even seemed to disturb Scully, but she 
had her hands full with the lunch hour autopsy of 
George Townsend. 

He had seen her briefly after the slice and dice 
session. She'd cajoled him into joining her 'and 
John' in grabbing a bite to eat at the burrito stand on 
the corner. Mulder hoped Kresge was regretting that 
action as much as he was. But after eating and 
ensuring that Mulder was encamped in the office 
with its own ecosystem, she'd vanished for the rest 
of the afternoon.

"Mulder, you ready to head back to the hotel?" Her 
voice came to him out of the blue and he almost bit 
the pencil in half. 

"Ready as I'll ever be," he rasped out and gave her a 
timid smile.

She gave him her patented 'Mulder-it-won't-be-that-
bad' roll of the eyes, guaranteed to ensure his 
continued reluctance. Usually when she wore that 
look, the ass-chewing they got from Skinner went a 
few feet up Mulder's spine.

She ignored his sigh and gathered the papers he'd 
carelessly strewn on the desktop. "Do you want to 
take these back to the hotel?" she asked, holding the 
now-straightened pile in her hand. At his 
affirmative nod she tucked them in his briefcase and 
clipped it shut. "What were you looking at, Mulder? 
It sounds like we know who this guy is now."

Mulder screwed up his face and swallowed around a 
particularly sore spot in his throat. "Too easy," he 
replied in a hoarse whisper.

"Easy? He's running. We can't find him. How is that 
easy?"

Mulder shrugged. "Doesn't feel right, Scully," he 
ground out painfully. The combination s and hard c 
seemed to cause him a lot of trouble. It didn't stop 
him from saying her name, however.

"You don't think it's someone from the Palace 
now?" she asked, holding the door to the hallway 
for him.

"Don't think it's the bartender," he tried to explain.

"Well, I think you're missing a few facts, then," 
Kresge's voice came from behind them in the hall. 
"Like this." He handed Scully some faxed papers. 
She held them out so that Mulder could read over 
her shoulder.

"He's a suspect in murders in Los Angeles, too," 
Scully noted, skimming the report. "And Denver?"

"We have stumbled on a serial after all," Kresge 
said with a proud voice. 

"MO?" Mulder asked, taking the papers from Scully 
and reading quickly. He started shaking his head 
before he even finished the second page. "He shot 
them." He handed the papers back to Kresge. "Not 
our guy," he added.

"Look, Agent Mulder, we have a known murderer 
in contact with each of the victims immediately 
preceding their murders," Kresge argued loudly. 

Mulder rolled his eyes and shook his head again. He 
started to walk down the hall, but Kresge grabbed 
his shoulder and spun him around. "What the hell 
more do you need to convince you this is our guy?"

Mulder snorted out a breath and looked the 
detective in the eye. "Motive. Evidence. Rose 
petals," he ticked off his fingers. "Not the guy," he 
repeated and this time when he walked away, 
Kresge didn't try to stop him.

"Your partner is crazy," Mulder heard him say to 
Scully. He didn't wait around to hear what response 
she had to that statement.

**

En Route to Embassy Suites Hotel
5:46 p.m.

As much as it pained her, Scully asked John Kresge 
to ferry her and Mulder back to their hotel. She'd 
just let Kresge have it for that crack about her 
partner's sanity when the realization hit her that 
with less than twenty minutes to get back to the 
hotel and be ready by 6, they were at the detective's 
mercy. There were no cabs to be found in this area, 
and they didn't have the time to call and wait for 
one. So she swallowed her pride and watched 
Mulder close his eyes and sigh in defeat as they 
both accepted the inevitable. 

Apparently, the detective had an affinity for 
redheads with tempers because her tirade hadn't had 
the least effect on him. He was his genial, polite self 
as he agreed to be their chauffer, and he graciously 
offered her the front seat. For some reason she 
couldn't fathom, this pissed her off.

Mulder seemed content to crawl into the cramped 
back seat, and when Kresge held the door for her 
yet again, she resisted the urge to emulate her 
partner's action of less than a minute ago. Instead 
she glared at Mulder -- simply because he'd felt free 
to display his emotions, and she couldn't -- and 
smiled at Kresge, insincere though it was. While the 
detective was scampering back to his own side of 
the car, she took the opportunity to finally give in 
and heave a 'give me strength' sigh.

Mulder's attempt at a chuckle turned into a gurgling 
cough, and she turned around to, first, make sure he 
was okay, and, second, chide him for laughing at 
her. But when she saw him, all she could do was 
stare at him in awe, reflecting that until that point in 
time she'd never seen his body in quite that position. 
"Oh, Mulder . . ."

She searched under the seat until she found the 
lever, then moved her seat forward as much as she 
could. "Better?" she asked, as her partner removed 
his knees from his armpits.

He nodded. "Thanks," he said, more as an 
exhalation of breath than as a spoken word.

She smiled at him, then her attention was stolen by 
Kresge as he got in. 

"Sorry about the lack of leg room, Agent Mulder," 
the detective said. "The back seat's not exactly 
designed for someone of your height."

Scully gave the man a hard look. Then why the hell 
did he have Mulder sit in back while she should 
have been the obvious choice to sit there? She 
shook her head. When would men ever start 
thinking with their brains?

"It's fine," Mulder grated out. "Now."

Kresge swiveled his head to take in her more 
comfortable-looking partner, then to the position of 
Scully's seat, then back to Mulder, and finally back 
to her. "Oh. Right. Good."

Scully looked at Mulder and exchanged a glance 
with him, seeing her amusement mirrored in his 
eyes. She carried that image with her as she settled 
into her seat once again.

The two of them spent the rest of the short ride in 
silence as John recounted all the efforts the SDPD 
was expending to locate their perp. When Kresge 
reinforced his view that Darren Edward Dodds was 
their man, and Mulder didn't utter a peep, she knew 
he'd tuned the detective out. God, she wished she 
could do the same, but one of them had to be polite, 
and it sure as hell wasn't going to be her partner.

At last the hotel was in sight, and Scully sat up 
straighter in her seat. Out the corner of her eye, she 
saw Mulder doing the same. He looked ready to 
leap out at the first opportunity.

She knew how he felt. Sure, John Kresge was nice, 
and sure it was sweet of him to be so attentive to 
her, but he was starting to get on her nerves. She 
could take only so much chivalry from one man, 
and she'd just about reached her limit.

"Well, here we are," John announced unnecessarily.

She waited for some remark from Mulder, but he 
merely said, "Thanks, Detective. We appreciate the 
lift."

Relieved that he hadn't seen fit to belittle the 
detective, Scully smiled. "Yes, thanks, John. We 
should have a car tomorrow, so we won't have to 
bother you anymore."

John's smile almost hurt her eyes. "It's no trouble, 
Dana. I don't mind at all. In fact, if your partner 
needs to use the car, I'll be glad to give you a ride. 
Any time."

Seeing no need to mention that that wasn't likely to 
happen (thank God) since Mulder wasn't allowed to 
drive yet, she said, "Thanks, John. I'll keep that in 
mind." She gave him one last parting smile as she 
got out of the car and stood next to Mulder. "Good 
night."

"Good night," Kresge returned. "Have a good 
evening."

As the detective drove away, she gazed up at her 
partner. He gave her a weak smile as they made 
their way into the hotel. "You don't suppose they 
got you a non-smoking room, do you?" she asked 
him.

Mulder shrugged. "Probably not, but we may as 
well ask."

Too tired to be frustrated by the negative answer, 
they trudged to the elevators. They boarded the car, 
and Scully pressed the button for Mulder's floor. At 
his questioning look, she said, "Let's get you packed 
and moved into my room. Bill can wait a few 
minutes."

Mulder hesitated a moment, then said quietly, "Will 
you be staying there, too?"

She nodded. "I don't want to sleep in an ashtray, 
either."

He looked down at the floor. "I'm sorry -- "

"Don't, Mulder. None of this is your fault."

He nodded. "I don't like being needy, Scully," he 
said softly.

All set to let loose a barrage of encouraging words, 
she took one look at the defeat on his face and said, 
"I know."

They rode the rest of the way in silence, but Mulder 
took hold of her hand and didn't let it go.

**end of part 3**

Shred of Doubt (4/9)
Jo-Ann Lassiter
Vickie Moseley

Bill & Tara Scully's Residence
7:12 p.m.

Mulder closed the door to the bathroom and sank 
down onto the closed toilet lid. As expected, after 
an hour in the presence of Scully's older brother, he 
had a splitting headache. Too bad it didn't take his 
mind off the roiling in his stomach and the fire in 
his throat.

Tonight had been 'taco night' at the Scully 
household -- apparently a tradition begun by 
Maggie Scully twenty or so years ago -- and though 
Mulder had been just as alarmed and dismayed as 
his partner at the thought of what that spicy, 
crunchy food would do to his tender constitution, 
he'd flat-out refused to allow Scully to utter one 
word in his defense. He absolutely would not show 
any weakness in front of Scully's evil sibling.

The look of disappointment on Billy Boy's face as 
Mulder attacked the filled tortilla with gusto was 
worth the torture of swallowing the damned thing. 
The hard corn shell had done a number on his throat 
while the hot sauce and tomatoes wreaked havoc 
with his digestive system. That burrito he'd eaten 
earlier came back to haunt him as well.

Glad that all the water he'd downed gave him an 
excuse to leave the table, Mulder resolved to spend 
the rest of the evening right where he was. After a 
few minutes of trying to calm his somersaulting 
stomach (with not much luck), Mulder made full 
use of the facilities, washed his hands, then plonked 
back down on the lid. He was beyond caring what 
the family thought. He felt crappy, and he just 
wanted to be left alone.

"Mulder?" Scully's soft rap forced him to gather his 
reserve strength, what little he had left.

"I'll be right out," he called as loudly as he could, 
igniting the fire in his throat once more.

"Are you all right?" Her concern made him 
embarrassed. Here he was, a grown man, hiding in a 
bathroom. How wimpy was that?

"I'm fine," he answered. Pushing to his feet, he 
checked his appearance in the mirror. Christ, what 
did he do to his hair? He looked like Alfalfa on a 
bad hair day. Opening the door, he smiled tiredly. 
"Hey, Scully."

She returned his smile, but hers was tinged with 
sympathy. "Are you sure you're okay? Everyone's 
been worried about you." 

He cringed at the thought that his absence had been 
a matter of discussion amongst Scully's family. 

Her eyes softened in concern. "Sorry. But you've 
been up here for twenty minutes." She shrugged. 
"They noticed."

Twenty minutes? Was that all? He'd hoped it had 
been more like an hour, and they could leave. "I, uh 
. . ." He laid a hand over his mid-section. " . . . had a 
little stomach trouble." Oh, God, he couldn't believe 
he'd admitted that to her.

"Is that all?" She laid a comforting hand on his arm, 
and he wanted to curl up in a ball at her feet and tell 
her how rotten he felt. 

That, of course, was out of the question. He was 
Man. He was strong. He did not whine. Usually. 

"Yeah," he finally croaked out, unable to prevent a 
wince when he swallowed.

"Throat hurting?"

What, could she see right through him? (Well, duh, 
Mulder; he knew right well that she could.) "Nah," 
he bluffed. "I can still taste that burrito from lunch." 
He made an appropriately disgusted face.

She laughed. "You sure? Because if you're not 
feeling well, we can leave."

Whoa. Really? That changed everything. "I . . . uh . 
. . Yeah, that'd be good. But not right away! I mean 
. . . I don't want them to think . . ." Oh, crap. Like 
they didn't already guess.

She nodded. Thank God she understood without his 
having to actually voice it. "We'll give it about 
fifteen minutes, then I'll make up some excuse 
about the case," she said, and God, did he love her 
for it.

Recalling the bird's nest that was his hair, he 
motioned to the mirror. "I just need a minute to . . ." 
He tilted his head to indicate his unruly locks.

She blushed and looked down at the floor. "Oh. 
Okay," she said, pulling the door closed.

Certain that she'd misunderstood that he only 
needed to neaten his hair, he stared at the door a 
moment, then took out his comb and smoothed the 
recalcitrant strands into place. Much better. Quickly 
pulling the door open, hoping to catch her on the 
stairs, he took a step -- and froze.

His Scully had been replaced by the least desirable 
one.

"Are you *finally* through?" Bill demanded.

"Sorry," Mulder mumbled. "We got a little caught 
up in the case." That was all the information he was 
about to volunteer to this ignoramus.

Bill gazed at him with disdain. "And what 'case' did 
you dream up this time, Mr. Mulder?"

Huh. Like he'd tell this prick. "I'm sorry. I can't 
discuss it." He attempted to walk past Bill, but the 
man's hand on the doorframe blocked his path. 
Mulder let out a sigh; he so did not need this right 
now.

"Can't, or won't?" Bill sneered. "So what is it? Are 
you chasing after aliens? Are aliens on the loose in 
San Diego?" He chuffed a laugh at his own 'joke.'

Mulder sighed. "No."

"Well, come on. What is it then? Some kind of 
monster?"

Mulder thought about it. "Yes. It's a monster."

Bill shook his head. "You're a piece of work, 
Mister. You know that? Chasing your monsters and 
little green aliens all over the world, and dragging 
my sister along with you. Does it give you some 
sort of feeling of power over her that my very 
scientific sister would follow you all the way across 
the country to chase after a monster?" 

Mulder studied Scully's brother for a moment 
before he said, "You know, Bill, some monsters are 
men."

Bill snorted. "Yeah, right. Is that what you tell her 
to get her to follow you?"

Mulder sighed. Right over his head. He supposed 
that innuendo wasn't Scully's pig-headed brother's 
strong suit. "Actually, no. I followed her."

Bill looked taken aback, but only for a second. "She 
came here on a legitimate case, and you tagged 
along?"

Mulder felt his hackles rise. "All our cases are 
legitimate."

Another snort. "Right. Our government authorizes 
you to chase after monsters and your little aliens."

Mulder gritted his teeth. "Yes."

Bill's gaze was pure malice. "Then they're just as 
nuts as you."

Mulder stared at Bill for a second. "Apparently so," 
he said, pushing Bill's arm out of his way, noting 
with satisfaction that it caused the other man to 
scramble for his footing.

Not bothering to wait for Scully's dim-witted bully 
of a brother, Mulder made his way back to the 
dining room.

"Oh, Fox, there you are." Maggie Scully gave him a 
worried look.

He met her eyes very briefly, then sank down into 
his seat, too embarrassed to look at anyone.

"Dessert!"

His head snapped up at the joyful announcement. 
Tara Scully entered bearing a tray upon which were 
six individual silver-plated bowls. She handed one 
to her son, and with a tilt of her head, granted him 
permission to eat it in the living room in front of the 
TV. Matthew took off like a shot.

Mulder wondered what culinary torment awaited 
him now. At his anxious look, Scully whispered, 
"Ice cream. We always had ice cream on taco 
night."

He was feeling somewhat relieved until he got a 
look at what was actually in the bowls. It was ice 
cream, all right but there were chunks of chocolate 
and other unidentifiable but equally deadly-looking 
confections. God help him.

His throat was crying out for the soothing cool that 
ice cream would afford him, but it balked at the 
obstacles he'd have to overcome. He forced a smile 
when Tara placed his bowl in front of him, 
mumbling a soft, "Thank you."

Tara smiled back. "I hope everyone likes Heath Bar 
Crunch." She glanced at her husband, who'd just 
taken his seat. "Bill insisted on it."

"What a surprise," Scully muttered, shooting a dark 
look at her brother.

"What do you mean, Dana?" Maggie Scully asked 
her daughter. "Is this a flavor you don't like?"

Scully shook her head. "Nothing. Forget it, Mom."

That would have been the end of it if Bill hadn't 
snickered, then looked at his sister with a smarmy 
smile on his face.

She stared hard at her brother, then turned to her 
mother. "All right, Mom. Do you want to know 
what's going on?"

Mulder was horrified. She was going to tell them 
everything. While he was sitting right there. 
"Scully, don't," he rasped harshly.

"I'm sorry, Mulder, but enough is enough." She 
gave him a sympathetic smile, then looked at her 
sister-in-law. "Tara, is tonight your normal taco 
night?"

Tara seemed puzzled by the question. "Um . . . yes. 
It is. Why?"

Scully looked as surprised as Mulder felt. After 
Bill's self-satisfied smirk on his choice of ice cream, 
Mulder would have made book that Bill Scully had 
moved 'taco night' so Mulder could 'enjoy' having 
his throat torn out by both dinner *and* dessert.

"Oh, I just . . . It's just . . ." His partner glanced at 
him then, and he could see her switching gears, 
changing her mind on the fly. 

When she sent him a silent apology, he knew that 
whatever she'd thought up was going to be at his 
expense; he prayed an alien ship would pass by and 
beam him aboard. "Scully, please . . ." he pleaded.

To no avail. She ploughed on ahead. "It's just that 
Mulder is still recovering from that lung infection, 
and his throat and stomach are still a little delicate -- 
"

"Oh, God, Dana," Tara cried. "I didn't even think -- 
"

Delicate. She called him 'delicate.' Told them about 
his stomach trouble. Mulder felt hot enough to melt 
the ice cream in his bowl by mere proximity. He 
glued his eyes to the table, unable to look at any of 
the faces he was sure were staring at him.

"Dana, I'm so sorry," Tara apologized. "I forgot all 
about Mulder's condition. Mulder, I'm so sorry."

His condition? Christ, now he knew what Uncle 
Bertram felt like while the family discussed his 
'condition' right in front of him. At least Uncle Bert 
had been deaf; Mulder wasn't that lucky.

"Did anything happen? Is that why . . ." Tara trailed 
off, thankfully tactful enough not to actually voice 
her suspicions.

Maggie Scully had no such inhibitions. "Fox, 
honey, is your stomach bothering you? Were you 
sick earlier?"

Mulder could feel the sweat running down his back, 
and he seriously felt like he was going to pass out 
from the heat if he didn't get out of there, and right 
now. There was nothing he enjoyed more than 
Scully's mom making inquiries into his digestive 
problems. Oh, God, please. Just one bolt of 
lightening, that's all he was asking for.

"Fox?" Maggie pressed when he didn't answer.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Scully," he mumbled to the table. 

"You look a little pale, dear. Dana, doesn't he look 
pale to you?"

Scully didn't answer, and Mulder prayed that she 
wouldn't. He wasn't pale, dammit, and he wasn't 
delicate. 

"A little," his partner finally said. "You do look a 
little flushed, Mulder."

Although she was addressing him, he couldn't look 
up. Was it possible to die of mortification? He felt 
sure that it was, and that he would if this continued 
any longer. 

"Maybe we ought to go," Scully said. "After all, you 
were -- "

His hand whipped out to grasp her wrist. "Don't . . 
." he grated out. 
The silence in the room was almost as unbearable as 
the conversation had been. He wished someone 
would say something, anything -- except about his 
health. 

His redemption, when it came, was from the last 
person on earth Mulder would have expected to 
come to his rescue. That it was unintentional made 
no difference whatsoever. At that moment, he loved 
Bill Scully.

"Godammit!"

All eyes (even Mulder's) focused on Scully's 
brother.

"Bill!" Maggie and Tara both admonished.

"What?" Looking up from his ice-cream-stained 
shirt, Bill's expression of anger and confusion 
almost made Mulder smile. It did make him sigh in 
relief now that the attention was away from him and 
on Scully's brother. 

Still holding onto his partner's wrist, Mulder tugged 
her closer to him. "Let's go."

He waited not so patiently while she appraised him, 
then she nodded. "Okay."

By this time, both mother and wife were discussing 
how to best remove ice cream stains while Bill 
grumbled to himself, dabbing at his shirt over the 
sink.

"Um . . . We're going to get going," Scully said in 
the direction of Maggie and Tara. 

As if struggling to remember what was being 
discussed before Bill's 'incident,' the two women 
stared at Scully, then Maggie's eyes shot to Mulder. 
"Fox, are you -- "

"Fine," Mulder rasped out before she could say any 
more. 

"He's okay, Mom," Scully said, and Mulder sighed 
when she didn't offer any more information. 

"Well . . . if you say so," Maggie said.

She opened her mouth to say more, but Mulder beat 
her to it. "It was great seeing you, Mrs. Scully, Bill, 
Tara." He nodded to each in turn. 

"We'll say good night to Matty on our way out," 
Scully said, standing. 

Mulder followed suit; he couldn't get out of that 
kitchen fast enough.

Once they were safely in the car, Mulder turned to 
his partner, still angry and upset at what she'd put 
him through.

"I'm sorry," she said, and she said it so heart-
wrenchingly remorseful, that he just couldn't find it 
within himself to give her the tongue-lashing he'd 
wanted to not a second earlier.

He swallowed hard and nodded. Yelling at her 
would only have made his throat hurt anyway.

**

May 3, 2000
6:30 a.m.

Awareness came slowly partly because she was so 
darned comfortable. She was warm, in a soft bed, a 
strong arm encircled her waist and a gentle snore 
whiffed breath right near her ear. Was that a wheeze 
she heard underneath that snore?

Scully shifted her hips so that she was lying on her 
back. In that position, she could see her partner's 
face more clearly. Two nights in a row, waking up 
in his arms, it was definitely becoming a habit. Just 
the kind of habit she wouldn't mind -- provided they 
weren't on a case and staying in a room that was 
being paid for by a local police department.

'Same old same old' had greeted them when Tara 
had dropped them off at the hotel the night before. 
No, there wasn't another room available for Agent 
Mulder, the desk clerk had politely informed them. 
Mulder, a bit peevishly, had told the clerk to cancel 
his room. Scully hadn't thought much about it, other 
than the fact that they would save the SDPD a few 
bucks. But as she got out of bed, letting her partner 
continue to sleep, she had second thoughts. 

Mulder just didn't get it. He'd made that abundantly 
clear when she'd tried to broach the subject last 
night. Scully thought maybe they should try to find 
another motel -- maybe a nice Micro-Tel, which 
was supposedly ALL no smoking. But Mulder had 
waved off her concerns, telling her that finding a 
new motel, without the use of a car, was going to be 
more hassle than it was worth. And, as usual, she'd 
acquiesced. Well, maybe not that meekly, but 
finally, she'd agreed with him, especially when she 
noted the time as nearing 11 o'clock and both of 
them were dead on their feet.

When they got to the room, he'd taken a quick 
shower and dressed in his yellow pajama bottoms 
and the grey tee shirt that never failed to turn her 
insides to jell-o. She'd spent more time than she 
normally did on her turn in the bathroom, hoping he 
would be asleep when she came out. He was, so she 
was spared the embarrassment of him seeing (and 
commenting on) the flush of red cheeks as she made 
sure the A/C was set at a decent temperature. (No, 
60 degrees was not going to make her feel any less 
'warm' under the circumstances, she'd finally 
convinced herself.) When she couldn't hold off any 
longer, she crawled into bed -- her side of the bed. 
She drifted off to sleep wondering if there was a 
store nearby that sold bundling boards and if they 
would fit a king size bed. 

So here they were, sharing a room, no, sharing a 
BED, on a case, and not even the pretense of having 
two rooms to cover their tracks. She groaned as the 
images hit her -- some accounting clerk here in San 
Diego contacting the Bureau's accounting 
department, then that clerk alerting the OPR. Next 
thing would be Skinner, reaming them both new 
orifices and an OPR hearing where they would try 
and explain, but no one would believe them because 
somewhere along the line a hotel maid would testify 
that even though there were two beds in Scully's 
room, only one ever had to be made in the morning. 
And as a direct result of all this, if they weren't fired 
outright, she would be transferred to Minot, North 
Dakota while Mulder would inevitably be promoted 
to Bureau Chief. All that and they hadn't even had 
sex while in San Diego!

She fumed about it all through her shower. Minot 
would be too easy, she'd probably find herself 
packed off to Nome, Alaska. If they didn't already 
have a Regional Office in Nome, she was certain 
they would start one -- just for her. And Mulder 
wouldn't just get to be a Bureau Chief, he would get 
an office, with a view of the Capitol Mall. He would 
call her, once, just to see if she got settled in, and 
then he would promptly forget she ever existed. By 
the time she'd worked her fingers to the bone to get 
the higher ups to forget her indiscretion, Mulder 
would be Assistant Director, taking Skinner's office, 
and have an administrative assistant named, yes, 
Bambi White! 

By this time, Scully was scrubbing her teeth so 
hard, her top gum started to bleed. She spit, rinsed 
and went out to give her partner what for.

Only to find him coughing up a lung. Mulder was 
sitting on the bed, leaning over his knees, coughing 
and hacking painfully. Scully ran to his side and 
started thumping his back, something she hadn't 
done in at least a week. It helped break up some of 
the phlegm that accumulated in his lungs when he 
was first released from the hospital.

"Mulder, are you all right?" she asked, more as a 
defense mechanism than because she didn't already 
know the answer. 

He glared at her as the coughing bout slowed to a 
few chuffs. "Just peachy," he rasped, swallowed and 
coughed once again. "Excuse me," he added and got 
up to enter the bathroom.

"Stand in the shower with the water running hot for 
a while, it should help," she yelled through the 
closed door. He didn't reply, but she hadn't expected 
him to anyway. 

So much for being mad at him. Another scenario 
tripped through her mind as she pulled on her suit 
for the day. Mulder would continue getting weaker 
until finally a strain of antibiotic resistant 
pneumonia took hold in his lungs, incapacitating 
him for months, leaving him with asthma so severe 
that he would not be allowed out in the field, 
forcing him into early retirement. She would go 
through a string of partners, culminating with a 
former NYPD detective who would prove to be so 
utterly obnoxious she would be forced to resign 
from the FBI. She and Mulder would move to 
Arizona (the only place he could breathe) and there 
she would end up becoming the county coroner in a 
town so small the local funeral parlor would serve 
as the morgue. Mulder, in between hospital stays for 
breathing treatments, would write articles for the 
Fortean Times to pay the medical co-payments and 
deductibles.

She startled when a hand landed on her shoulder. 
"Could you hand me my suit, please," he asked, 
standing in his tee shirt, boxers and socks.

"Sure, which one?" she replied, burying her flights 
of fancy -- or more likely bad dreams, and looking 
into the closet to avoid looking too closely at her 
partner.

"The charcoal one," he said. She plucked the 
appropriate hanger from the rod and handed it to 
him.

"How are you feeling, Mulder? And please, I'm just 
concerned after the way you woke up."

He turned halfway to the bathroom and smiled sadly 
at her. "Yeah, I knew you would be," he said in a 
whisper. "The shower helped a lot. Thanks for 
reminding me. I'd used the inhaler and must have 
done something wrong -- I started coughing and 
couldn't stop. Better now," he rasped out before he 
ran out of voice -- and air.

She looked at him critically as he left to put on his 
dress shirt and tie and then pulled on his pants. He 
did look a little better than when she found him red-
faced and choking. But 'better' was a relative term 
with Mulder especially in the last few weeks. When 
he reappeared, dressed to the nines, she bit her lip 
and chose her words carefully.

"You know, maybe you could consider staying here 
a while this morning. We're still interviewing 
witnesses, you'd be stuck in that room -- "

He turned and she saw a flash of heat in his eyes 
before he walked over and put his hands on her 
shoulders. "Scully, I'm fine. I'll sit in the chair and 
I'll only breathe when I go into the hallway. I'm still 
not convinced this Dodds guy is the killer." 

God, if he didn't get better soon, she would be 
forced to just lock him in a cheap hotel for a long 
weekend and screw him senseless! That voice, 
every time he spoke to her, it sounded like he was 
inviting her to bed -- not to sleep, either. She 
swallowed, reminding herself of her earlier 
musings. Minot, North Dakota, Minot, North 
Dakota she repeated in a mental mantra. 

"Mulder, I really don't think there is another 
possible suspect. The man has a history of violence, 
he had opportunity -- it would be irresponsible of us 
to ignore him completely and continue to look for 
an UNSUB at this point."

"I know. You look for Dodds -- while I look for the 
UNSUB," he offered, smiling at her with a pleased 
as punch expression before moving off to find his 
shoes.

"OK, you continue to look, but in the office," she 
countered. Not a second after the words left her 
mouth did she realize what he'd done. She had 
wanted him to stay in the room. He had efficiently 
changed the subject of the conversation and then 
managed to get HER to tell HIM that he had to 
pursue his investigation AT the station. She 
groaned. He did it all the time, why did she expect 
him to act any differently now?

"Scully, you ready? We can grab breakfast before 
Kresge gets here if you hurry."

**

The Streets of San Diego 
8:10 am

This time, Kresge didn't go into the hotel, he waited 
patiently under the valet awning. At precisely 8:00, 
both agents came out of the double sliding glass 
doors. Agent Scully, Dana, looked absolutely 
beautiful in a dark blue pantsuit that seemed to set 
her hair on fire. Agent Mulder, Kresge noted with a 
hint of glee, looked a little under the weather. 
Maybe they could finally ditch the loser and get this 
investigation under way.

Kresge had already put in a call to the station, 
finding out that there was finally a solid lead on the 
whereabouts of Darren Dodds. John had breathed a 
sigh of relief; at least the guy hadn't slipped over the 
border. Although the Mexican Police were usually 
cooperative when it came to murder investigations, 
the red tape involved in actually going over to 
Tijuana to interview anyone, much less apprehend 
him, was mind-boggling. If the guy was still in the 
US, and better yet, last seen in the San Diego area, 
all the better.

He glanced into the rearview mirror to see Dana 
Scully, looking like an angel in the back seat of his 
car. It still irked him that her partner had grabbed 
the front seat, after opening the back door for her. 
John kicked himself mentally; he should have 
gotten out of the car to open the car door for her. 
Then she would be seated next to him, instead of 
behind him. The detective had also noted the smug 
look on Mulder's face as the agent settled in and 
buckled his seatbelt. Bastard knew what he was 
doing. John would have to wake up and start paying 
attention if he was going to sway Dana to his side.

"So, do we have any places to start looking this 
morning, Detective Kresge?" Her melodious voice 
came to him from right behind his ear and he had to 
stifle a shudder. 

"Ah, yeah, actually. A data search came up with a 
girlfriend. She works at a store in Horton Plaza. I 
thought you and I could go over there and question 
her, see if she can come up with any other places he 
might go to ground."

"Mulder, what are you planning to do this 
morning?" Dana asked, but for some reason, John 
thought it sounded more like a command than a 
request. Good, the old boy was in the doghouse 
already and it wasn't yet 8:30 in the morning.

"Oh, you know. Drink coffee, eat donuts. Make 
myself at home," Mulder said in that smoky-husky-
sounded-like-he-spent-his-off-time-in-a-bar voice.

"Mulder, I don't need to remind you that you really 
need to stay at the office while you look into your 
theory."

"Yes, mother," came the smart-assed response. 

Kresge's hands tightened on the steering wheel. 
Didn't this asshole know the meaning of the word 
'respect'?

That was all right, though. That was just fine. Let 
him disrespect her, let him belittle her concern for 
him, however misplaced it was. It was going to be 
very different when he, Detective First Class John 
Kresge, solved this little serial murder case, with 
Special Agent Dana Scully there in a ring side seat 
to watch it all go down. Oh, yeah, the old boy 
would have a very different look on his face when 
Kresge and Dana brought Dodds in for 
interrogation. It wouldn't be smug, that was for 
certain! It would be crestfallen. And the look on 
Dana Scully's face would be pure adoration. Oh, 
yeah!

". . . store open, where the girlfriend works?" 
Kresge almost ran a light when he realized Dana 
had been speaking to him while he was fantasizing. 

"Um, ah, 10, I think. Yeah, 10 o'clock," he 
answered, forcing more confidence into his voice 
with each word. "Yeah, 10 am. The store is the Iron 
Butterfly, they sell, uh, women's clothing and stuff."

"Your kind of place, Scully," Mulder rasped with a 
smirk. "Maybe you'll find the shoe department."

"Keep it up, Mulder. You're gonna be wearing my 
shoes -- sticking out of your eardrum," Scully 
replied.

Good for her, Kresge thought, but when he looked 
over at the man seated next to him, all he saw was 
the guy's shit-eating grin. What a moron! Kresge 
couldn't wait till it was time to go to the interview 
with Dana, leaving Fox Mulder all alone.

**

San Diego Police Station
1:27 p.m.

The slamming of the door against the wall of his 
'office' startled Mulder, and his sharp intake of 
breath set him to coughing once again. Kresge's 
shouted, "What the hell do you think you're doing?" 
barely registered as he fought to get air into his 
lungs. It had been so bad earlier that he'd taken a hit 
from the dreaded inhaler, but because of the less-
than-ideal atmosphere in the room, the beneficial 
effects had started wearing off after about only 
forty-five minutes; he'd been trying desperately to 
refrain from taking another hit so soon.

But as the day wore on he was feeling worse, not 
better as he'd hoped. If he took a shot every time he 
needed it, he'd have to request a refill, and then 
Scully was sure to know about it. He'd never get to 
work on his profile if she knew how truly awful he 
really felt.

And now that damned Kresge caused him to lose 
control. There was no way Scully wouldn't find out 
now.

As if his thinking it had been her cue, his partner 
appeared at the door, pushing her way past Kresge. 
"Dammit, Mulder. Where's your inhaler?"

His vision graying from lack of air, Mulder no 
longer cared that he had an audience. He slipped his 
hand into his jacket pocket and grasped the canister, 
presenting it to his partner. He heard her say 
something to the detective, and figured she'd asked 
him to leave when he heard the door slam once 
again.

When he felt her thumping on his back, he grabbed 
his handkerchief from his other pocket, holding it 
over his mouth. He didn't know how much longer it 
was before he felt something loosen and he coughed 
it out. As disgusting as this always was, at least he 
could breathe now.

His senses returning to normal, it was still several 
minutes before he no longer felt the panic not being 
able to breathe always instilled in him. Scully 
handed him the inhaler, and he gratefully held it to 
his mouth, depressing the plunger. A few seconds 
later, his airways opened, and he took in a much-
needed drought of air.

"Okay now?" Scully asked, a lot more gently than 
he'd anticipated.

He nodded. "Kresge just caught me off-guard." 
What the detective had said to him finally 
penetrated. "What was he yelling about?"

Scully huffed out a sigh. "You had Wendy contact 
the victims' friends and family again?"

"Yeah. They were questioned before we knew about 
the connection to the club. We need to talk to them 
to see what they had in common with our UNSUB."

Scully pressed her lips together in what Mulder 
knew was a precursor to unpleasant news. "Mulder, 
as far as Kresge is concerned, Dodds is our 
UNSUB. He's what the victims had in common."

"And you? What do you think?" She'd spent the 
entire day with a not-bad-looking detective who 
was obviously smitten with her. Mulder was afraid 
he knew what she thought.

"I'm not as convinced as Detective Kresge thinks I 
am," she said, surprising him. "But Dodds is a 
killer, and I can't discount the fact that he may have 
had something to do with these murders."

Mulder nodded slowly. "So you're going to continue 
working with Kresge to find this guy?" The very 
thought turned his stomach, and he couldn't look at 
her any longer.

Out the corner of his eyes, he saw her shake her 
head. "I'm going to help you with the interviews."

He looked up at her unexpected response, but didn't 
get to express his pleasure as the door opened, and 
Kresge's head poked through before the rest of him 
followed. The detective eyed Mulder warily before 
apparently deciding that it was safe to resume the 
rant he'd begun earlier. "Agent Mulder, I understand 
you've scheduled several interviews with people 
we've already talked to."

"Yes, I did," Mulder confirmed.

"We already have a suspect. Why the hell do you 
have to bother these people again?"

Mulder opened his mouth to reply, but Scully 
placed a hand on his chest to stop him. "I know you 
believe Dodds is our killer -- and I'm not 
discounting that he very well may be," she added 
quickly when it looked like the detective was about 
to interject his rebuttal. "But Agent Mulder is a 
trained profiler with the F.B.I., and if he believes 
someone else is responsible for these murders, then 
it's our duty as law officers to investigate that 
possibility."

Kresge scowled, and Mulder was very tempted to 
smack the sour look off the detective's face. "I still 
think it's a waste of time."

"I think you'll find it's not." Scully's quietly-
delivered pronouncement filled Mulder with a 
warmth he hadn't felt in a long time. 

He allowed that warmth to show in the gaze he 
directed her way and the smile he couldn't have 
stopped even if he'd wanted to.

"Yeah, well, that remains to be seen." Although in 
response to Scully's statement, Kresge's growl was 
directed at Mulder.

Mulder had just about had it with Kresge's attitude 
toward him. "Look, Detective," he rasped out, "why 
did you ask us on this case if you had no intention 
of listening to us?"

When Kresge laughed, Mulder looked at Scully 
with a 'what gives?' question in his eyes. Had 
Mulder driven the man over the edge? Scully's 
answering look told him that she had no clue as to 
the detective's strange behavior, either. 

"I don't know if you're aware of this, Agent Mulder, 
but I didn't ask for you."

Mulder became very still; he knew where this was 
going.

"Well, who the hell did then?" Scully said hotly.

"I requested *you,* Agent Scully," Kresge said with 
a sideways glance at Mulder. 

"The San Diego Police Department requested the X-
Files *team.* Agent Mulder and I are the X-Files 
team."

Kresge coughed nervously. "I, uh, didn't realize 
that. I only requested your assistance."

"Well, you got both of us, and you're damned lucky 
that Mulder's here. You won't find a better profiler 
in the F.B.I."

Kresge looked Mulder with an appraising eye. "I 
didn't realize that," he said, mockery evident in his 
voice.

Scully's gaze shot over to Kresge. "Look, John, if 
you feel you've got this case in hand, we'll be happy 
to leave on the next available flight. You've 
identified your killer, you're satisfied with that . . . 
fine. We won't waste your time any longer."

Mulder would have protested this plan of action if 
he'd thought it was necessary. As it was, he just 
settled back to watch.

"Now wait a minute, Dana. I never said I didn't 
need your help -- "

"You sure as hell did," Scully cut him off. In his 
mind, Mulder applauded the look of fear she'd 
brought to his adversary's face.

"Okay. Wait a minute. I may have been a little 
hasty. I didn't mean to imply that Agent Mulder's 
contributions weren't welcome . . ."

Scully gave him the eyebrow at that statement.

"Well, I guess I did," he back-pedaled, "but . . ." 
Mulder was so enjoying the detective's introduction 
to the firebrand that was his partner. Kresge gazed 
balefully at Scully, then forced himself to look at 
Mulder. "Agent Mulder, please continue with your 
line of investigation. Even though your interviews 
will only confirm Dodds as our killer, further 
evidence could only help our case."

What. A. Jerk. "Well, gee. Thanks for allowing me 
to further your case, Detective. You'll forgive me if 
I don't buy that particular crock of shit." His eyes 
met Kresge's squarely. "We both know the real 
reason for the about-face."

Kresge looked like he wanted to throttle Mulder to 
within an inch of his life, and Mulder reveled in it. 
Yeah, that's right, Kresge, he thought. She chose her 
crazy, voiceless partner over some over-eager boy 
scout.

When Mulder removed his gaze from the red-faced 
detective and looked at Scully, he had to fight the 
urge to hug her when he saw the confusion in her 
eyes. She really had no idea that Kresge had 
swallowed his words just to keep her in his clutches. 
"Mulder?"

Mulder shook his head; no way was he about to clue 
her in on the detective's amorous intentions. "It's 
nothing, Scully."

Although he could tell she was less than thrilled by 
his brush-off, she didn't pursue the matter, instead 
addressing herself to Kresge. "I'm going to further 
your case as well, John, since I'll be working with 
Agent Mulder on the interviews."

Kresge shot a death glare at Mulder before the 
detective schooled his face into an expression more 
befitting the pleading Mulder knew he was about to 
engage in with Scully. "We still have those leads to 
follow up on, Dana. Don't you think -- "

"We had the girlfriend, and that went nowhere," 
Scully cut him off. "Besides, you don't really need 
me right now, and Mulder does. He can't very well 
conduct an interview with no voice."

The black look was once again focused on Mulder, 
and the agent tried, admittedly not very hard, to 
keep the victory he was feeling from showing on his 
face.

Finally, Kresge sighed. "I guess," he said without 
conviction. "If I get another lead, will you go with 
me, or should I go alone?"

Oh, please. If Kresge thought he could sway her 
with the 'poor me' routine, he was barking up the 
wrong tree -- which was confirmed a second later 
when Scully gave the detective her fake smile. 
"Why don't we wait and see what develops? If it 
looks like you'll need my help, and I can get away, 
I'll go with you."

Kresge didn't answer, looking undecided.

Take it, buddy, Mulder thought. Because that's as 
good as you're going to get.

"Yeah. Sure. That sounds okay. I'll keep you 
updated on the search."

"Fine," Scully said. "That'd be great."

Mulder badly wanted to add, "Good doggie," to the 
end of her sentence. He swore Kresge's tail was 
wagging again.

"Thanks, John," Scully said, and Mulder caught the 
dismissal in her voice.

Proving he wasn't as dense as Mulder thought he 
was, Kresge nodded and exited the room.

Now that they were alone, Mulder felt a little 
ashamed by the pissing contest in which he'd just 
participated. He sneaked a peek at his partner, and 
found her watching him. "Thanks," he said softly. 
"And, um . . . sorry."

Her smile for him was the genuine article. "Don't 
worry about it, partner. There's nothing like a little 
testosterone-fueled scuffle to make a girl feel 
wanted."

Mulder's eyes narrowed. Huh. Maybe she wasn't as 
oblivious to Kresge's advances as he thought.

***

San Diego Police Station
1:38 p.m.

Detective First Class John Kresge was fuming. How 
could a day that had started out so promising take 
such a nosedive into the crapper?

After they'd gotten rid of Dana's crude partner, John 
had treated her to tales of some of his more colorful 
cases, most of which she seemed to heartily enjoy. 
Only when they were approaching the plaza did she 
suggest that they concentrate on their interrogation 
strategy.

Since he always enjoyed playing the 'bad cop' and 
because he couldn't possibly imagine Dana ever 
playing that role, he allowed her to take the lead in 
questioning their suspect's girlfriend. Dana was 
damned good at it, he had to admit, which only 
made him wonder why she continued to work with 
such a no-talent loser like that Mulder character.

Unfortunately, no matter how much she excelled at 
her job, she couldn't obtain information that wasn't 
there. Roberta Dellarusso had only gone out with 
Dodds twice, and had never spent any time at his 
place, nor he at hers. After their first date -- drinks 
and shooting pool at a local pub -- she'd accepted 
his invitation to dinner in the hopes that the evening 
would turn out a little differently, and that she 
would feel a little less uncomfortable in his 
presence.

It didn't, and though they'd left any notions of a 
third date up in the air, she'd come to the decision 
that she really didn't want to spend any more time 
with him. However, that had been over a week ago, 
and he hadn't contacted her, something for which 
she was grateful. He and Dana hadn't even had to 
press the matter of what about him made her 
uncomfortable -- she was more than willing to tell 
them on her own.

"I felt like he was watching me -- all the time," 
she'd told them. "Not just watching. More like 
studying. Yeah, that's it. It was like he was studying 
me." She looked up at Dana, fear on her face. 
"What are you looking for him for? Does he . . . do 
things to women?"

Dana and he had exchanged a glance at that point, 
and Dana had very tactfully advised the young 
women that it would be in her best interests to 
contact them if Dodds should get in touch with her -
- and that under no circumstances should she agree 
to meet with him. Dellarusso had gotten the point.

They had been able to warn her about Dodds, but 
the interview had gotten them nowhere. Dana 
seemed to take it in stride, while John had been 
utterly frustrated that their best lead so far hadn't 
brought them one iota closer to their suspect's 
whereabouts. 

So with his best lead so far shot to hell, he'd gone 
from hero to bum in the space of a few short hours. 
As if he wasn't feeling low enough, Dana had to add 
insult to injury by wasting her time helping her 
useless partner with his cockamamie ideas.

God, what a smug bastard! John had been sorely 
tempted to belt the guy more than once during their 
brief confrontation. Where did he get off trying to 
tell John how to catch bad guys? John had been at 
this job for over 15 years. Mr. 'One Case at a Time' 
couldn't have anywhere near that much experience.

The only reason Dana was working with Mulder on 
the interviews, John knew, was because the guy had 
no voice. How convenient. How very fucking 
convenient. Well, no matter. Dana would soon find 
out how much she was wasting her time on that 
venue.

Very soon, John would find another lead -- one that 
would pan out this time -- and she'd forget she ever 
had a partner.

**

The Palace
4:55 p.m.

Poor Mulder, she thought as she watched him 
getting out of the car. She didn't like the pallor to 
his skin or the dark circles under his eyes. She 
really didn't like the way he held himself, hunched 
over as if every cough ripped at his chest. He should 
be in bed. Hell, he should be in a hospital, she 
corrected herself and immediately kicked herself 
mentally. If there was one thing she'd learned in 
seven long years, Fox Mulder hated to be seen as 
weak -- even to himself but especially to her.

He pushed and pushed until he collapsed. Then he 
would struggle against his body's attempts to heal 
until his mind and body came to a Mexican 
standoff, usually resulting in his coming back to 
work too early. The current situation was a perfect 
example. He should have stayed back in DC; for 
that matter, he should have still been at home, in 
bed. But instead, he was here in San Diego, having 
more frequent asthma attacks, opening himself up 
for a secondary infection in his lungs. Didn't he 
know that he was putting himself at risk for 
permanent respiratory problems? That he could lose 
his field status just as easily from a chronic cough 
as from his imaginary peg leg? There were times 
when she just wanted to throttle him!

Kresge certainly wasn't helping matters. If they'd 
been working the case alone, she could have kept a 
better eye on Mulder, made him rest when he 
looked about to keel over. But Kresge seemed to 
resent Mulder's presence, which just made Mulder 
want to be around the guy more. She felt like a 
chew toy between two terriers. Mulder was being 
territorial and Kresge was being a schmuck! All 
those Sylvia Plath novels she was forced to read in 
high school were beginning to make a lot more 
sense.

"Who's next on the list?" Mulder rasped out. His 
voice was worse than it had been when they arrived. 
It now sounded more like gravel and broken china 
tossed in a blender.

"Um, Douglas Kocin AKA 'the Great Kocini'. He's 
a part-time performer. The only address we have on 
him is the Palace," she said.

They walked into the building and back behind the 
stage. There were a couple of dressing rooms, one 
with a rather wilted star thumb-tacked to the wood 
reading 'Enter at your own Risk'. Scully chanced a 
quick glance over at Mulder and shrugged. He 
smiled and winked at her as he knocked loudly on 
the door. "Mr. Kocin, FBI. We called earlier," 
Scully called out.

The door opened suddenly and a man of medium 
height and slight build looked at them with a grim 
expression. "May I see some identification?" he 
requested formally.

Mulder pulled out his ID wallet and Scully pulled 
out hers, both agents holding them up so that the 
man could view them. After reading even the fine 
print, Kocin stepped aside, allowing them to enter 
the room.

There was a large make up mirror on the wall with 
lights around it, but aside from that fact, the room 
looked more like a storage closet -- or the janitor's 
closet. Brooms and mops along with mop buckets 
were tucked next to the door and rolls of bathroom 
tissue sat on shelves along the wall. The furniture 
consisted of wooden warehouse crates. Kocin 
directed the two agents to sit and Scully wondered 
idly if she'd end up with splinters in her dress 
slacks.

Mulder whipped out his notebook and pen before 
giving Scully a nod. She rolled her eyes, but smiled 
at the man standing impatiently before them. "We 
just have a few questions to ask, Mr. Kocin."

"Is this about those murders? The 'flower murders', 
I think the newspaper called them?" Kocin asked, 
turning from them to sit at the make up mirror. "I 
hope you don't mind, I have a show in two hours 
and I really need to get ready."

"No, that's quite all right. We'll just stay out of your 
way here. Yes, it's about the recent deaths. Were 
you acquainted with any of the victims?" Scully 
continued, not at all ruffled by his attempt to brush 
them off. She handed him photos of the victims -- 
snapshots, not crime scene.

"Acquainted might be too strong a word. I 
remember seeing them, at least the last one. George 
was the nighttime janitor here. Used to come in and 
rifle through my pockets for spare change," he said 
dourly, handing the photos back. "Sorry, I didn't 
know much about him -- or any of them for that 
matter."

"How about this one?" Mulder rasped out, showing 
him a recent photo -- a mug shot from LA, of 
Darren Edward Dodds.

"Eddie? He's a bartender here. Is he dead too?"

"No, sir. We're just trying to locate Mr. Dodds to 
ask him a few questions."

"You know," Kocin said, rubbing his chin 
thoughtfully. "Eddie has always been a mean 
sonavabitch. You might ask him if he knew all 
those people."

Mulder smiled his patent 'no comment' smile at 
Kocin and closed his notebook. "Thank you, Mr. 
Kocin. That's all the questions we have." The 
magician escorted them out of his room and into the 
backstage area.

Mulder watched as Kocin closed his door. A loud 
snick was heard, indicating that the same door had 
been locked. "Real Emily Post," he whispered 
hoarsely.

"He was just anxious to get ready for his 
performance, Mulder," Scully said with a sigh. 
"Well, there are two more performers to question -- 
a juggler and a belly dancer."

Mulder's eyes lit up. "Let's divide the list, go 
faster," he suggested in his best gravel and sawdust 
murmur. 

"Oh, I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Scully 
shot back, holding the notebook with the two names 
out of his reach. "No, I think we better stick 
together on both of these."

She had just spoken the words when her cell phone 
started ringing. She flipped it out and answered it. 
"Scully."

Mulder watched her closely, noting the obvious 
excitement that came to her eyes. "That's great! 
Yes, I want to be there. OK, I can be at the station 
in -- " She glanced down at her watch. " -- twenty 
minutes. Yeah, we can go directly from there. Good 
work, John!" She disconnected the call and looked 
up at Mulder.

"That was Kresge. They got a call from another of 
Dodds' ex-girlfriends. He has a friend who lets him 
stay at an old farmhouse just a few miles out of 
town. We have the Sheriff's department at the scene 
-- they're waiting for us. I'm heading over right 
now." She started for the door, with Mulder hot on 
her heels. Seeing him out of the corner of her eye, 
she stopped. "Mulder, where do you think you're 
going?"

He looked at her with one eyebrow cocked to show 
his exasperation. "With you," he croaked unevenly.

She put her hand on his chest. "Oh no, you're not. 
You're going back to the hotel. I'll call you as soon 
as we know something."

He took her hand and frowned down at her. "Who's 
gonna watch your back?" he ground out.

She reached up and cupped his cheek. "Mulder, you 
know what Skinner said. You aren't up to this. You 
couldn't back me up out there; it would be too 
dangerous -- for both of us." 

He bristled at that and she had to hold fast to his 
shoulder to keep him from turning away from her. 
"Mulder, listen to me." She waited until the 
thunderclouds in his eyes abated a bit and he was 
looking back at her. "I know how much this hurts 
you to be unable to go with me. I would hate to be 
in your shoes. But please, understand. If you go 
with me, I'm going to spend my time worrying 
about you and that's not safe for either of us."

Grudgingly, he nodded his head. He took her hand 
and placed a kiss on her palm. "Call me," he 
whispered. "Please."

"I will," she promised. She turned to go, but then 
remembered. "Mulder, you're going to have to call a 
cab -- I need to get out there quickly and I don't 
have time -- "

"Go," he ordered gruffly, but smiled to soften his 
tone. "I'll be fine."

She pulled on his shoulder so that she could whisper 
in his ear. "I love you."

He let a smile break his saddened expression. "You 
too," he answered, before turning her around and 
giving her a light push from behind.

He thought about calling her back, to get the names 
of the two other performers, but she was out of the 
range of his vocal chords and he wasn't up to 
running after her. He turned on his heel and decided 
he'd just take potluck with whoever might be 
backstage.

He was heading toward the sound of a piano 
playing on stage when he saw Kocin leave his 
room. From near the stage curtain, Mulder could see 
the magician look both ways and then hurry out the 
backstage door. 

Mulder flashed back for a moment on Kocin's 
insistence that he was preparing for his act. 
Curiosity overcame reason and Mulder headed out 
the door, staying in shadows as he trailed Kocin to 
his car -- a beat-up Cutlass. As Kocin pulled out of 
the parking space and headed down the street, 
Mulder noticed a cab sitting at the curb. He ran to it 
and pointed at the faded blue Cutlass.

"Follow him," he croaked out, pointing to Kocin's 
rapidly moving vehicle.

"You're kiddin', right?" the cabbie sneered.

Mulder held up his badge and then a twenty he'd 
extracted from his wallet. 

"Anything to help the Feds," the cabbie said 
gleefully and pulled out into traffic. "Hey, does this 
mean if I get pulled over for speeding -- you're 
taking the points?"

Mulder rolled his eyes and shook his head.

**end of part 4**