From: Kelley Elizabeth Kelly <kellymail@sprintmail.com>
Date: Mon, 01 Feb 1999 21:18:36 -0500
Subject: RESUBMISSION - Hopefully formatted right this time.

Title:    Triangle Squared
Author:   K. Elizabeth Kelly
Email:    kellymail@sprintmail.com
Rating:   PG (sorry folks)
Category: Story
Spoilers: Up to, including Triangle (6x03)
Keywords: MSR
          Summary:  Wrapping up some loose ends that
          followed Triangle (6x03).  Shippy,
          yes, but non-shippers would
          probably enjoy as well.

Disclaimers:   The characters we all know, as
                    we all know, are not mine.  They
          belong to the guru of conspiracy
          and anti-shipper, Chris Carter,
          Gillian Anderson, David Duchovney,
          Ten Thirteen Productions and anyone
          else who can lay the legal claim to
          them that I cannot.  Despite the
          tenets of TXF, trust me on this
          one, I'm not making any money off
          them!  My characters (Jack Henser
          and Del Filer) are mine (I'd make
          money off them, but can't figure
          out how!).  May no one sue me for
          using their characters and may no 
          one use mine without my permission! 

     Thank Yous:    A debt of gratitude is owed to
          Toma, who bugged me until I told
          her what happened next; Ves, who
                    kept the characters honest; boo and
          Sn66py, for their enthusiasm; and
          most of all to my bintwin
          extraordinaire, Carol Sue, without
                    whom this never would have
          happened.

Thoughtful feedback (whether pro or con) is
appreciated, flames are not.  Pats on the
back are always gratefully accepted (LOL!)

_____________________


Saturday
8:00 p.m.

Fox Mulder watched the door closing behind
his partner, his bemused expression 
fading slowly into a smile as he sank down on
the hospital bed and a grimace 
as his bruised face hit the pillow.  The
smile returned as the reason for the 
bruise came back to him.  

Pragmatic scientist that she was, Dana Scully
may not have believed him when he
said he loved her, but she would. 
Eventually.  After all, she had on the ship.  
Whether or not she would ever believe that
she *had* believed was another 
question.  Did that make sense?  He wasn't
sure.  He still wasn't even sure why 
he had chosen that particular moment to
declare himself.  The circumstances 
certainly weren't conducive - battered and
bruised and, no doubt, evincing the 
characteristics of being high on pain meds -
of course she hadn't believed him.  
But, in a way, it made it that much easier,
he thought.  He could get away with 
expressing himself without suffering the
repercussions - she already thought he 
was delusional.  

As he mulled his decision over and over, he
found another question popping to 
the surface (ironic choice of words, popping
to the surface...).  When did he 
finally admit to *himself* that he was in
love with her?  He had been pushing 
that particularly sticky emotion down for so
long that he couldn't remember 
when the smart, practical, beautiful, redhead
moved from being his best friend 
into a permanent fixture in his heart.  The
times it crept into view, he could 
excuse it as concern for his partner. 
Ruthlessly he submerged his feeling to 
get on with what had to be done.  He couldn't
be in love with his partner - it 
hadn't worked with Diana, it wouldn't work
with Scully.  

Only now, something was different.  Something
had changed.  Not her, she was 
still what she had always been - A change in
him that pushed him further away 
from himself and toward her.  Was it that he
finally had faith that she'd still 
be there when they crossed the finish line? 
He laughed to himself - just that 
last thought was evidence of how radical the
change in him was - last week, two 
days ago, it would have been "when *he*
crossed the finish line"...

Faith.  Not something he had specialized in
when it came to people or religion.  
A long forgotten verse from Christian
scripture he once heard floated into his 
mind.  "Now faith is the substance of things
hoped for, the evidence of things 
not seen."  Perhaps he, like Abraham, would
be reckoned righteous by his faith. 
At least from Scully's viewpoint.

What was it about the encounter with a
1939-era Scully that left him more 
exuberant than he had felt since that first
case they worked together?  He 
closed his eyes, the better to focus on the
issues at hand.  Before he could do 
so, his body took over and promptly fell
asleep.

****

Dana Scully stood at the nurses' station
reading Mulder's chart.  Her medical 
training had stood her in good stead through
the years - in addition to 
dissecting everything from "aliens" to
elephants, she could review all the 
latest damage Mulder had done to himself.  

Her particular motive this time was to
determine how long he'd be out of 
commission.  Assorted contusions, scrapes,
bruised ribs - nothing extra-
ordinary.  No fever.  Some minor dehydration. 
Blood work normal.  No meds.  
Expected release tomorrow morning.  In
remarkably good shape given the 
ordeal he'd been through, she thought,
figures.  She began to flip the chart 
closed with a practiced hand, but paused and
reopened it.  

No meds?  

Concerned, she reviewed the data again - if
Mulder was not on any medication, 
whence the delusions?  No evidence of a
concussion.  No evidence of head trauma 
whatsoever except the burgeoning black eye.  

"Nurse," she called, "are there any notations
which haven't been made yet to 
this chart?"  

The nurse glanced briefly up at Scully over
her own pile of charts.  "Any 
notations are made by the doctor directly on
the chart, Agent Scully."  

"Are you certain?" Scully needed to be sure. 
Again the nurse raised her eyes,
looking, if possible, even more pinch-faced
than Elmira Gulch.  Now what had 
brought on that comparison, Scully wondered.  

"Yes, I'm certain.  I have worked in this
hospital for 32 years, Agent Scully.  
I would think I know how things are handled." 


Scully set the chart down without responding. 
She could hear her mother's 
voice telling her to say thank you, but
deliberately ignored it.  What could 
be causing the delusions?  Hopefully it was
just the stress of the boat 
accident and not some internal, undetected,
hemorrhage.  Well, she'd wait 
it out, take him home tomorrow and keep an
eye on him for a few days.  

She eased her aching body into a waiting room
chair.  Climbing up the hull of 
an ocean liner is no picnic, particular not
while trying to avoid imbedding 
rust particles in one's hands.  Recalling the
moment she and the Gunmen had 
seen the Queen Anne, she leaned her head on
the back of the chair.  It was 
quite a sight - massive, hulking, rusted yet
elegant.  Its lines were graceful 
despite the bulk and decay.  But those rungs
up the side - she groaned in 
recollection - seemingly thousands of rungs,
although in reality there were 
probably only a couple hundred, if that.   

Where had the ship been for sixty years?  How
did it avoid satellite detection?
Even more peculiar - where were all the
people?  Granted, one wouldn't expect 
any still alive, but there should have been
remains.  Neither people nor 
skeletons just disappear into thin air.  It
was remotely (very remotely) 
possible that there could have been a secret
airlift of the passengers off the 
ship but why and how?  

A story like that would have been big news -
such a ship disappearing.  Even in 
those days, particularly in those days given
the situation in Europe, any 
passenger rescue of that magnitude would have
been emblazoned across  every 
newspaper's headlines for propaganda's sake,
if not for news reasons.  Slowly, 
she let her lethargy get the better of her
and drifted off.

She was back in the ship - God, it *was* a
beautiful ship.  Where was Mulder?  
He had to be here somewhere.  At least he's
probably alive.  Where are those 
guys?  You call and call and call, but no
answer.  Ok, try this corridor - whoa, 
what was that?  I thought I saw somebody... 
Hmm - nobody there.  Wait, I'm 
supposed to find the Gunmen now, why am I
back in the other hallway?  Here's 
that corner again . . . and there's that . .
. that . . . that whatever that 
was the first time.  Logical explanation,
Dana, there has to be one.  You 
couldn't have seen anyone; there isn't anyone
here to *see* except the Gunmen 
and, hopefully, Mulder.  Hey, what am I doing
back in this damn hallway again?  
I'm a bit tired of this hallway... Don't you
think twice was enough?  

Play the game, Dana, play the game.  Ok, here
we go, nonchalantly walking 
toward the corner, yet *again*.  What IS
that?  WHO is that?  Yeah, right, here 
we are again.  Well, at least if I'm going to
do this again and again, I might 
as well try to figure out what it is.  Eyes
wide open now, Starbuck . . .   
Here comes the corner . . . turn the corner,
spot the thing.  It's a person, I
 think . . .   Well, a disappearing person .
. . where is Mulder when you need 
him?  Ok, one more time, follow the yellow
brick ... Oh my God, it's me . . . 
Wait, wait! Come back, I need to  . . .

"Agent Scully?"  The voice broke through her
dreams - wait! Not yet!  I need 
to . . .  The nurse stood before her.  "You
asked me to let you know if anyone 
wanted to see Agent Mulder.  Well, he's
having company."  

Scully sat up gingerly, struggling to free
her mind from the last vestiges of 
sleep.  "Who?" she asked.  "I don't know and
I don't care - I just want her out 
of there."  At the "her", Scully knew who it
was...and it wasn't 'dear old mom'.  
Sighing, Scully replied, "I'll take care of
it."  "Thank you." The nurse 
stepped smartly back to her post.  'And your
little dog too', thought Scully 
nastily as she walked down the hall.  Why
couldn't she just leave us alone?  
Every time she turns up, that wall Mulder and
I have so carefully deconstructed 
goes right back up.  

Scully stopped for a minute or two outside
the door.  She was not eavesdropping, 
she told herself, she was just trying to get
a sense of how to handle the 
situation.  She didn't know what she expected
to hear - half afraid he'd be 
telling Agent Fowley he loved her too, Scully
supposed, not that it should 
matter to her.  The idea hurt her more than
she cared to admit to herself and 
she pushed it away.  None of her business. 
She stepped closer to the door and 
was about to swing it open, when the arguing
voices hit her ear.

***
9:30 p.m.

"Fox," Diana Fowley said urgently, "she is
not doing you any favors.  By 
alienating Kersh, Skinner, even Agent
Spender, she is destroying your contacts 
and your credibility."  Steadying his aching
head, Mulder looked at Fowley as 
she stood by the bed, hair gracefully,
neatly, falling around her shoulders.  
She had taken her jacket off and her
business-like blouse was unbuttoned a bit 
lower than one might find appropriate.  She
wore that scarlet lipstick he used 
to urge her to wear more and the scent he had
given her a long time ago - funny, 
he had liked it at the time.  

Once, before the ship, before Scully came
looking for him, before he kissed her, 
this strategy might have worked.  Didn't
Diana realize that she was only 
convincing him further that he was right?  It
was almost embarrassing.  It 
*was* embarrassing.  

"I think I've managed to destroy my
credibility on my own, Diana.  And the 
closest Spender gets to being a contact is a
battery terminal on the wrong end 
of a jumper cable."  

The idea of Scully ordering Spender to get
the information or she'd kill him 
was priceless.  The whole Scully as a
gun-waiting-to-go-off thing he was hearing 
was so unlike his calm, rational, lover...
uh, partner.  Only on rare occasions 
did that command voice emerge from Scully; he
wished he'd been there to see it.  
He was surprised, but grateful, to know the
lengths to which she had gone for 
him, that he was worth it to her to spawn
that type of tornado.  He smiled to 
himself and an irritated look came across
Diana Fowley's face.

"Fox,"  Fowley's voice drew him back from his
mental image of Scully as the 
Tasmanian Devil and he wondered why he
allowed her to call him Fox and didn't 
allow Scully the same intimacy.   "Are you
listening to me?"  "No." he replied, 
grimacing as he lay down again.  "Fox," her
voice insistently rose, "Do you 
have any idea of the trouble you're in
because of her actions?  She threatened 
another agent's life, demanded information
from not one but two assistant 
directors, impersonated me and injured a
support staffer.  All to locate a 
ship that disappeared nearly 60 years ago and
hasn't been seen since." 

"It *has* been seen since, Diana" Mulder's
voice too began to rise, "I saw it.  
Scully saw it.  We were there."  

Lowering her tone and leaning over him, her
brown eyes earnest, Fowley 
continued, "Fox, whether or not that ship
still exists, you and I both know 
it's too 'out there' for her.  You can't
count on her to be there to back you 
up on this.  YOU may have seen it but, if it
can't be explained, she'll never 
admit to it, you know that.  Trust me."  

Mulder took a mental step away from the
situation. Trust me, she says, trust 
me.  The memory of Scully standing by his
desk asking for the same respect - 
'I'm asking you to trust my judgment, Mulder
. . . to trust me.' Another example
 of his glaring idiocy at times. 

"Diana," he began, when there was a light
knock on the door and it swung open 
gently.   Fowley conspicuously took his hand. 


"Mulder..."  Scully's voice was soft but the
concern and command contained 
within were clear, "You need to get some
sleep... and, if you don't, the-wicked-
witch-of-the-ward is going to have my head." 
Approaching the bed, she added 
"Not to mention the fact that you won't be
released tomorrow if she doesn't 
give the say so..."  Eyeing the hand holding,
Scully turned to Diana Fowley, 
"Agent Fowley, I think you should leave now." 


Fowley released Mulder's hand reluctantly and
removed her jacket from the end 
of the bed.  "Just remember, Fox, what I told
you.  You have to know who you 
can trust."  

"Well, if a battered reputation and blistered
and bleeding hands from climbing 
the hull of the Queen Anne are any
indication, I think I'm fairly sure who I 
can trust."  

"Mulder!" Scully voice rang sharply in the
small room; she had hoped he hadn't 
noticed the state of her hands.  

"What?" said Fowley in a tone of gentle,
mocking, surprise, "You actually saw 
the ship?"  

Finding herself in the midst of a battlefield
with both Fowley and Mulder 
watching her intently, Scully tightened her
lips slightly, willing herself to 
relax and not clench those blistered hands
and tired muscles.  "Oh, I saw it 
alright, every single last rung of it," she
said lightly.  "If you're finished, 
Agent Mulder needs to get some sleep."  

"Oh, by the way, Agent Scully," Fowley said
over her shoulder as she opened the 
door, "AD Kersh would like to see you as soon
as possible."  

Drily, Scully replied "I'm sure he would. 
Goodbye, Agent Fowley."  

"Goodbye, Fox.  Agent Scully."  Agent Fowley
nodded infinitesimally in her 
direction and closed the door firmly behind
her.  

Without thinking, Scully let her breath out
in a whoosh, "God, what a pill that 
woman is!"  Realizing what just came out of
her mouth, she turned quickly to 
Mulder, "Mulder, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean
that like it came out - I know she's 
a friend of yours."   Her voice faded.

"Was."  His voice was quiet, solid.  

"Excuse me?" Scully asked, eyebrow raised
questioningly. 

"Was, Scully, past tense."  

Scully sat on the edge of his bed, "Mulder,
you're tired, you need to sleep."  

"This isn't about me needing sleep, Scully. 
This about me waking up and 
smelling the coffee." He paused, avoiding her
gaze. "Everything she said was 
true, you know."  

Before Scully could recover from the shock
and hurt, he continued "She just 
said it about the wrong person."  He closed
his eyes for a minute.  When they 
reopened, he took her hand and turned it palm
up, studying the blisters, broken,
starting to scab over where they had bled. 
"Everything I've done in the last 
five years, Scully, you bear the scars for. 
Every road I've taken, you've 
paved for me - your body and soul have taken
the brunt of the blows that were 
meant for me."  

"Mulder..."  Scully's voice trailed off as he
interrupted her.  

"No, I'm not feeling sorry for myself.  I'm
not even feeling guilty, though God 
knows I probably should given all that's been
done to you - given all that 
*I've* done to you."  

"Get some sleep, Mulder."  Scully smoothed
his hair gently with her free hand, 
trying not to wince as she did so.  

"I can't, Scully, not yet.  You need to hear
this.  I need to *say* this."  
Mulder looked up - searching her face with an
raw honesty that hurt to see.  
"I know who I can trust; I know who trusts
me; I know you believe in me even 
when you don't believe me . . . For once this
isn't about 'I need to know'.  
I need *you* to know I have faith in you.  In
us."  Exhausted, Mulder's body 
crunched into the pillows, his shoulders
tight.  

Scully stroked his hair again gently,
fighting for the right words.  "I know," 
Mulder said, mumbling into his pillow,
mimicking her tone, "Mulder, get some 
sleep."  Smiling in spite of herself, Scully
replied, "Tomorrow is also a day, 
Mulder.  Get some sleep.  We have a long row
to hoe ahead of us."  

She started to get up, but Mulder gripped her
arm suddenly, "Stay with me."  
She settled back down onto the bed as he
curled on his side around her.  

"Scully?"   Patiently, she answered "Yes,
Mulder?"  A smirk crept onto his 
lips, making the right side of his face ache. 
"I wish I could have seen you 
threaten to kill Spender."  Scully smiled
sardonically.  

"Ask Kersh for the video - he probably hasn't
had the secret cameras taken 
down from our old office yet."  He was asleep
before he could finish laughing 
at their inside joke.

****
Saturday
11:30 p.m.

In a seedy hotel lobby, Diana Fowley stood
waiting.  She had been standing, 
waiting, for some time now and her feet were
getting tired and sore.  Patience 
was not her strong suit, just as it was not
Fox Mulder's.  She supposed that 
was why they didn't make it as a couple. 
Neither was willing to submerge 
their own selfish interests for the other,
even temporarily.  The pang of 
regret soon passed.  She was way ahead of him
now and more than willing to 
make the deal the man she currently waited
for had offered a few months ago. 

She glanced around the lobby; there was not a
single chair in the place.  
Bloody hell, she thought, even the Motel 6
has a chair in its lobby.  She 
shifted her weight.  The plants scattered
about were plastic and dingy.  The 
drapes looked more dust than fabric.  The
corners were dim, but appeared to 
have mold growing on the walls.  She peered
around the corner down the corridor, 
looking for her contact, and spied a chair
near the elevators.  Grateful for 
the respite, she perched cautiously in the
battered metal folding chair.  She 
was just easing one of her shoes partway off,
when a movement overhead startled 
her.  

A tall man with graying hair and a lined
face, he stood above her, his face 
reathed in smoke.  He ignored the shoe that
had come flying off when he startled 
her.  Diana Fowley was still watching the
shoe, forming a perfect arch in flight, 
as he spoke, "It seems we have a bit of a
problem with your friend, Mulder."  

The shoe landed on the filthy carpet with a
slight noise.  

"It seems," he continued quietly after
pausing to drop his cigarette on the 
carpet, stubbing it out with his foot, "that
your blandishments are not working; 
that Mulder is more involved with Agent
Scully than ever before."  

Diana Fowley stilled the quiver that crept
down her neck as he spoke.  "It's 
just a matter of time," She tried to get that
awful pleading sound out of her 
voice, "I've planted the seeds.  For both of
them.  He'll come around."  

A flash of gunmetal blue caught her eye;
turning her head, she found she faced 
the business end of a handgun fitted with a
silencer.  Given the distance, she 
didn't know what kind; she didn't suppose it
mattered.  Dead was dead.  

"You underestimate their attachment, I
believe." The cold voice echoed only 
slightly in the corridor.  He smiled
slightly, "You have to know which pieces 
to sacrifice..."  

His voice trailed off as Fowley fell backward
from the impact.  Quietly, he 
removed the silencer, stowing it in his
trenchcoat, and replaced the gun in 
the briefcase that stood at his feet. 
Fortunately, the spray did not mark his 
coat or his briefcase - he was particularly
fond of the leather bag and didn't 
care to dispose of it.  As silently as he
came, he was gone.  Agent Fowley's 
lifeless body lay slumped over the fallen
chair as the dust continued to settle 
around her, soaking up the blood that pooled
around her corpse.

****
Noon
Sunday

Walter Skinner was waiting at Mulder's
apartment when Dana Scully arrived with 
the battered Agent Mulder in tow.  He wasn't
supposed to be there and he knew 
it, but, then, he wasn't supposed to have
gone to the hospital either.  He 
watched the pair make their way out of the
elevator, wondering, as always, what 
it was about these two that made them so
compelling, what it was that made him 
push the boundaries for them even now, when
his future at the FBI could be on 
the line if he were found to be doing so. 

Mulder glanced up from looking for his keys,
spotting the figure by the door.  
Skinner saw Mulder's quick glance at Scully
and, even more quickly, her weapon 
appeared in her hand. 

Hmm, Skinner thought, the famous 'wordless
communication'.  "It's just me, 
Agent Scully."   Scully stepped forward a few
tentative steps and slowly 
lowered her gun.  "Sorry, Sir."  Her voice
was brusque and she stowed her 
weapon back in its holster nestled snugly in
the small of her back.  

For a minute, the three of them stood
awkwardly in the hallway before Scully 
reached for Mulder's keys and opened the
door.  "Scully told me what you did, 
Sir." Mulder said as Skinner followed him
through the doorway, "I just want 
you to know I appreciate it."  

"Part of my job, Agent Mulder, or it *was*,
at any rate.  Guess I just got into 
the habit."  Skinner paused and glanced over
the room - box after box of charred 
remnants dotted the living room floor, the
desk piled high with unread newspaper 
clippings, the answering machine light
blinked vigorously.  Scully slipped from 
the room as Mulder moved toward the kitchen.  

"Mulder," Skinner began, "did Agent Fowley
visit you in the hospital last 
night?"  

Mulder turned from the empty fridge, one hand
still poised on the open door, 
"Why?"  

"Agent Mulder, does everything have to be an
argument with you?"  Skinner's 
annoyance was contagious. 

"Excuse me, sir, but, given the questions
that have been asked of Agent 
Scully and me recently and the disbelief in
the credibility of the responses 
we gave in answer to those questions, I feel
I have a right to know why you 
want to know."  

"I'm not supposed to be telling you this. 
I'm not even supposed to BE here."  
Skinner sighed and smoothed a hand over his
scalp.  "Agent Fowley was found 
dead earlier this morning in a fleatrap hotel
on Georgia Street.  She was 
shot once through the forehead."  

Mulder straightened slowly and closed the
refrigerator door firmly.  He 
walked to the couch and leaned on its back in
silence.  He rubbed his face 
briefly and stood up again, facing Skinner. 
"Agent Fowley stopped by my 
hospital room last night about 9:30."  

"What did she want?"  Skinner asked shortly.  

Mulder almost laughed.  Skinner was never
going to believe this.  "She wanted 
to split Scully and me up."  He could tell by
looking at Skinner that he had 
called that one correctly.   Before Skinner
could respond, however, Scully 
re-entered the room, bearing the contents of
his mailbox.  "Well, Mulder, 
you don't seem to be a popular lad these days
- although you could get a 
great deal on the girl of your dreams . . ."
she said, waving a catalog 
wrapped in brown paper.  

Mulder took the small packet of mail from her
wordlessly.  Skinner decided to 
try again.  "Agent Scully, why did Agent
Fowley visit the hospital yesterday?"  

"Why do you want to know, sir?" Scully asked. 


"She's dead," Skinner said with frustration -
these had to be two of the most 
suspicious people in the entire world, "now
will you answer the question?"  

Scully glanced at Mulder, concerned for his
loss.  He didn't return her gaze.  
She looked back at Skinner.  

"Sir, Agent Fowley was concerned with my
behavior following Agent Mulder's 
disappearance and . . ."  

Skinner interrupted, "Agent Mulder seems to
feel that she was trying to break 
your partnership."  Surprised that Mulder had
realized that, Scully glanced 
at him again and found him watching her.  "Do
you agree with Mulder's 
assessment of the situation?"  

She hesitated.  "Yes, sir."  Scully said
reluctantly, "I believe that Agent 
Fowley has been attempting to create a rift
between us."  She didn't add that 
it would have been blatantly obvious for any
woman over the age of 10 to 
realize that Fowley had been coming on to
Mulder big time.  

"For what purpose?" asked Skinner - his tone
was still clipped and somewhat 
disbelieving.  

"Pardon me for asking, sir, but what's your
interest in this?  As I recall, 
you told me quite firmly that you were not
allowed to be involved with us."   

"Agent Scully, as I told Agent Mulder, I am
not supposed to be here.  I felt, 
however, that knowing why Agent Fowley was
killed could be useful," he said 
as he looked at the two of them, each firmly
planted, not giving an inch 
under his scrutiny.  There was no physical
contact between them, yet they 
were connected - always, they were connected. 
 They had been that way almost 
from the beginning.  He supposed that, if he
spent years chasing little green 
men and monsters despite the worst that the
world had to threaten being 
thrown at him, he wouldn't cower in the face
of 'authority' either.  

"Have a seat, sir," Scully offered suddenly. 
Her request to Mulder was more 
of a command.  "Sit down, Mulder."  

"I'd rather stand."  Mulder replied.  

"I know you would, but you need to sit down." 
Mulder sat.  

"Sir . . ."  Scully and Mulder stopped.  "Go
ahead, Mulder."  .

Mulder sat rigidly on the couch, his body
still tense.  "I believe that 
Cancerman convinced Agent Fowley to destroy
our partnership because we were 
getting too close to the truth."   

"Excuse me?" Skinner began.  

Mulder's voice ran on, "By diverting our
attention to separate goals, by 
trying to erode our trust in each other, I
believe she was attempting to 
keep Scully out of the way while destroying
what little reputation I have 
left in order to either get me fired or
killed.  And she was very nearly 
successful."   

Skinner examined Scully's face.  That she was
surprised by what Mulder said 
was apparent . . .  but, beneath the
surprise, he thought he could see 
vindication.  Obviously, one of this
partnership had seen what was happening 
early on.  Skinner wondered how she had felt
about it, wondered, in fact, 
what she felt about it now.  What the heck,
if it came down to it, he was 
really wondering what they felt about each
other.   With a determination 
born of much practice, Skinner pushed the
curiousity away.  That issue was 
no longer his responsibility.

Would they lie for each other?  That much had
been proven.  Would they kill 
for each other?  A more difficult question. 
These two respected life far 
more than most people in his experience.  He
studied the pair as they reviewed 
the substance of their recent interaction
with Agent Fowley for him.  They sat 
opposite each other: Mulder on the coach,
Scully on the coffee table.  
Glancing at each other briefly to clarify a
point if need be, debating, almost 
arguing, the nuances of the visit, these two
were the most natural partners 
he'd ever dealt with.  They would kill for
each other, he thought, if forced 
to it, but not this way - not as a matter of
convenience.  The briefing 
completed, Mulder and Scully regarded Skinner
as he did them.

"Thank you."  Skinner stood to leave.  Scully
followed him to the door.

"You didn't see me.  In fact, you haven't
heard from me since that scene in 
the elevator."

"Understood, Sir."  Scully's voice was as
firm as his own.  

"Oh, and Scully,"  She stepped through the
door in time to see him pause in 
the hallway without turning.

"Sir?"

"Be careful.  Your latest escapade has not
exactly endeared you to Kersh."  
The words hanging in the air between them, he
strode down the corridor without 
looking behind.  Scully stared after him for
half a moment, then closed the 
door quietly behind her as she turned her
attention to Mulder - still perched 
edgily on the sofa.

"Mulder . . ."  She paused and sat down next
to him.

"I'm fine, Scully," Mulder said as he stood
and moved to the window.  

Pushing her away again.  She heaved an inward
sigh.  Even in death, Fowley 
was still raising that wall between them.

"Ok, you're fine."  Scully turned in her seat
to look at him as he stared out 
the window.  "So where do we start?"  The
assumption that they would, as a 
matter of course, be investigating Fowley's
death hung in the air.

"We don't."  Mulder replied flatly, still
staring out the window.  

Scully's surprise and concern showed in the
angry edge to her voice.  "Are we 
just going to let them get away with this?" 
God, she hoped she wasn't going 
to have to pull him back together yet again.  
 Mulder turned away from the 
window and she was further surprised by the
warmth in his eyes.  

"The Diana Fowley I would mourn died years
ago - I just didn't realize it."  
At Scully's knit together eyebrows, he went
on.  "She was in bed with 
Cancerman, Scully; I'm sure of it.  The woman
who came back into my life as 
Diana Fowley, I can't mourn.  She hurt us too
much.  She hurt you too much.  
Let Spender follow that particular trail of
cold blood and colder motives if 
he wants."  He glanced at her face, a flush
creeping over her pale skin.  
"What is it?"

"Damn it, Mulder, Spender and Kersh are in on
it too.  The rat bastard was in 
Kersh's office and was ringing Spender's desk
looking for Fowley when I 
picked up the phone just before Kersh's
assistant came looking for me."  
While Mulder was a bit confused as to which
man she was referring to as a rat 
bastard, the gist came through loud and
clear.

"That's nothing we hadn't figured already, is
it?"  he asked patiently, 
crouching down next to her, his face intent
on hers.

"Well, maybe you figured it, but I hadn't." 
Her anger at Kersh, Spender, 
the whole situation, flooded back, making her
tone sharp and unforgiving.  
"I can't let go of this that easily.  I need
somebody to pay."

"You've suffered far worse at their hands,
why now?  Why this?  She was 
trying to destroy us - why avenge her death? 
She's only paid the price for 
the deal she made."  

The look that she shot his way would have
killed a lesser man.  "It's not her, 
it's us."  The venom in her usually rational
voice was dripping.  "We paid, 
Mulder.  Our partnership paid for her deal
with Cancerman.  I'm sorry, but I 
can't bring myself to forgive her, or them,
for that."  

Mulder was very still; his eyes searched
hers.  He hadn't realized how much 
Diana's return had impacted Scully. 
Obviously, it went a lot deeper than 
Scully had shown.  A wave of regret that he
hadn't seen it sooner - hadn't 
been able to reassure her. . . .  Reassure
her of what, Mulder?  You were 
the biggest part of the problem.  You ditched
her time and again running after 
Diana.  Of course, it upset her, romantic
feelings, if any, aside, she saw her 
hard won partnership going down the tubes. 
She had been reduced to working 
on her own and begging you to trust her
judgment in the results.  She had 
fought against the loss - trying to be the
partner you seemed to want, doing 
your gruntwork while you played boy hero. 
She had tried to tell you - you 
refused to listen.  Ironic, wasn't it?  That
someone who spent his life 
listening to tales no one else would should
not listen when it was most 
critical.  Despite the sorrow, part of him
rejoiced, grateful she felt their 
partnership - their relationship? - was worth
fighting for.  

He glanced up, some of the anger had left her
face, but the upset was still 
clearly written in her stiff posture.  His
expression evolved back into a 
gentle smile so subtly that the difference
was almost invisible.   "So where 
do we start?"  He replied.

****
9:15 a.m.
Monday

The following day was overcast, the smoky
clouds hugging the Washington 
terrain.  Despite the hour, it was dark
enough yet that the streetlights 
were still lit, shining dimly in the dank
streets.  Dana  Scully glanced 
around her - Georgia Street had been a nice
enough address at one point, but 
no more.  The hotel she stood in front of
probably saw its prime nearly forty 
years ago.  As her partner finished parking
his car, she studied him.  A tall 
man, lanky - he was at ease in his body.  She
couldn't see his eyes at the 
moment, but knew the hazel depths as well as
she knew her own blue ones.  
Broad shouldered, strong, she smiled to
herself, hair that stood on end every 
chance it got.  Why her?  Why him?  What odd
force of human politics or 
nature brought them together was almost
irrelevant anymore.  What is it that 
keeps us together, she wondered.  Or should
the question be 'what keeps us 
apart'?  Unbidden, as usual, the query arose. 
Turning it over briefly, she 
waited while he locked the door and started
toward her.  He had said in the 
hospital that he loved her.  Did he?  Did she
love him?  She must have 
looked puzzled because, upon reaching her,
Mulder asked what was up.

"Hmmm?"  She came out of her reverie,
"Nothing - let's go."  Falling into 
step, the two went through the doors and into
the shabby foyer.  The hotel 
desk was hidden behind a large, and very
dusty, plastic plant.  To prevent 
people from checking in, she wondered, or
out?  Behind the desk and the 
plant, a medium man sat watching a
television, the sound apparently being 
fed him by earphones as no noise emerged from
the vicinity of the tv.  

"Couldn't choose a better nondescript
suspect, could you, Scully?"  Mulder's 
voice was tinged with both ironic humor and
frustration.  The man was truly 
very medium - medium build, medium coloring,
medium hairlength.  He even 
appeared to be medium height.  He appeared to
have no distinguishing 
characteristics.  No visible tattoos, no odd
scars.  He was just . . . medium.  

"Excuse me."  Mulder rapped on the edge of
the desk.  The clerk took no 
notice.  "Excuse me, we need some help here." 
The rap was louder this time.  
The clerk shifted in his chair - flashing an
annoyed look at them.  Sighing, 
Scully withdrew her ID - just once she'd like
to have an investigation that 
didn't involve recalcitrant people, just
once!  Mulder rapped on the desk 
one more time, this time with the butt of his
weapon.  Scully winced - It was 
bad enough he kept dropping it; if Skinner
saw him treat the weapon like 
that . . .  It did seem to be effective
however, as the desk clerk rose slowly 
from his chair and turned toward them,
jumping slightly when he saw the 
weapon.  Funny, the medium man even showed a
medium amount of fear.  

"May I help you?"  he grumbled, "but I don't
know anything about that woman, 
if that's what you're here about."  

"What woman would that be?"  Scully asked
calmly.

"You know, the lady that was killed her
t'other night."  The clerk stared at 
her as if she had three heads.  "It was all
over the news - what are you some 
kind of recluse, you don't watch the news?" 
Scully cocked an eyebrow at him.  
Fascinated, the clerk went on "You know - 
you must have seen it.  She was 
killed right over there."  He gestured toward
the elevators.  "Right on that 
chair," indicating a battered metal folding
chair leaning against the wall.  

"Actually," Mulder said, "We're from the
Health Department.  We're more 
interested in the structural integrity of the
building than dead bodies - 
although," he turned to Scully, "Make a note
that we should send the 
sanitation investigation team out too."   The
desk clerk paled.

"Lord - Health Department - You all are worse
than the FBI for business 
around here!  As if all those men in dark
suits weren't bad enough."  The 
medium man glanced toward the ceiling, as if
pleading with God that, when he 
looked down, Scully and Mulder would be gone. 
He glanced down; they weren't 
gone.  Sighing, the clerk reached behind the
counter.  Scully was reaching 
behind her back for her own weapon when she
realized the clerk was pulling 
out the building plans.  She tucked it back
in the holster, but left the 
holster open, just in case.

"You'll be wanting these," the clerk stated
resignedly.  "Are you going to 
start at the top or the bottom this time?"

Glancing at Scully, Mulder reached for the
plans, "Top, I think."

"Well, just avoid the northeast attic area. 
We've had a problem with . . . 
animals  . . . in that section."  

"Better add the vermin investigation team to
the sanitation one."  Mulder 
said to Scully over his shoulder as he headed
for the elevator, plans in hand.  

"Take the stairs," called the medium man,
"Elevator's been acting up since 
the killing - something about the shot
reverberations, I think."

As they started up the staircase, torn rubber
treads covering the worn marble,
 the mahogany banister scratched beyond
repair, Mulder turned to Scully,
"Get the feeling they've been through this
before?"

Scully smiled slightly, "Well, if you're
right about the current occupant of 
apartment ___, I think the Health Department
should probably live here 
themselves."  

Reaching the landing between the second and
third floors, Mulder glanced out 
the window as Scully unrolled the plans to
get a better look at the off-
limits northeast attic area.

"Hey, Scully..."

"Hmmm?"

"Take a look at this."  He moved to the side
of the dirty window flanking the 
landing and pointed.  "Stay to the side." 
Scully moved to join him, her 
eyebrows forming tight peaks as she made out
the figures below.  "Seems you 
were right about the latest denizen of the
basement." he stated as they both 
stared cautiously from the edge of the
windowframe.  

The two men faced each another a couple of
paces apart.  The older man stood 
nonchalantly, lighter in hand as he bent to
it.  Raising his head, he blew 
out a trademark stream of smoke as an
emphasis of some point he was making.  
Spender waved the smoke away from his face
and was beginning to gesture.  
His face wore a stiff, pinched look,
underscoring the anger of his hands.  

Scully glanced around the edge of the window;
it was painted shut.  "I'm 
going to try to find a way down to that
loading dock.  We need to know 
what's going on down there."

Nodding, Mulder agreed, "I'll go.  Spender's
already mad at you from the 
threatening incident."  

"Don't protect me, Mulder - He was born mad
at you and I'll be damned if I'm 
stuck here waiting for you and Spender to
finish your alpha-male battle.  
I'm going - you head for the attic.  I want
to know what the ' . . . 
animal . . .' problem is." 
 
"Bossy today, aren't you?" he said as she
headed down the stairs.

"And don't you forget it," her reply floated
behind her as she disappeared 
around the turn in the stairs.  A twinge of
nervousness hit him as he went 
up the stairs, as it always did when his
partner was out without backup.  
He knew he shouldn't try to protect her that
way, knew it mentally at any 
rate.  Knowing it in his gut was another
thing altogether.  As he reached 
the next landing, he tried to check on the
arguing pair below, but the window 
had been completely painted over.  

The stairs crested finally, some 10 minutes
later and 15 floors up, leaving
 Mulder in a narrow hallway probably 10' long
in each direction, lit by a 
couple of bare bulb light fixtures.  The
chains hung from the fixtures as 
dully as the plants sat in the lobby below;
not rusty, exactly, but tired, 
and old.  There was a door at either end of
the hallway.  While his sense of 
direction while driving was pretty accurate,
he had never been particularly 
good with directions within buildings,
preferring right and left to north 
and south indoors.  Glancing at each door, he
noticed the door on the left 
had a shiny modern lockset, not at all in
keeping with the style of the sets 
on the other doors in the building.  'I think
I'll take what's behind door 
no. 1, Bob.'  As his hand nearly grasped the
doorknob, it turned under his 
grip.  Flattening himself as much as possible
against the wall behind the 
door, he watched with utter astonishment as
Cancerman emerged.

"Agent Mulder," the man said with a slight
grimace, "You're faster than I 
would have thought." 

"Not as fast as you seem to be though,"
Mulder muttered as he tried to make 
sense of what he was seeing.

"Ah, but that's the way it's supposed to be."
replied Cancerman as he started 
down the stairs.  Noticing Mulder eyeing the
door, still standing open as he 
had left it, "Go ahead.  I wouldn't, of
course, if I were you, but I suppose 
that's where all the difference is, isn't it? 
Knowing when to rush forward 
and when to hold back?"  His voice lilted
through the sentences.  

Leaving the door, Mulder went to the top of
the stairs, "What the hell is 
that supposed to mean?"

Cancerman turned slightly about halfway down
the flight. "It means, Agent 
Mulder, that there is nothing in there which
will lead to the truth about 
Agent Fowley's death.  I suggest you find a
better use for your time."  He 
disappeared around the corner as Mulder
started down the stairs after him.  

He kept up with the man for several flights
until, rounding a corner without 
looking, he crashed into another person. A
petulent voice rang out beside 
him.  "What do you think you're doing, Agent
Mulder?" 

Mulder sighed and turned back up toward the
attic, "Investigating a murder 
which the Bureau seems to be happy enough to
ignore, Spender.  What do you 
think you're doing?"

Spender followed close behind, his schoolboy
frown pinching his face even 
tighter than it had been in the parking lot.  
"I, Agent Mulder, am the 
investigating agent for this murder."  He was
within a few feet of Mulder 
now and tried to stand a little taller.  No
matter how important Spender knew 
himself to be, he couldn't help but be a bit
intimidated by the taller man 
with the unruly brown hair.  Mulder's eyes
could flash such intensity at 
times, it frightened Spender, though he was
loathe to admit it.   "Until 
such time as I ask for your assistance in
this investigation, if you make 
any further inquiry into this, I will report
you.  Is that clear?"  

"Crystal." came Scully's response from the
top of the stairs, startling them 
both. "Unfortunately, Agent Spender, I can't
agree with you,"  she continued 
as she emerged from the darkness, carrying an
evidence bag in one latex-
gloved hand.  

"Is there an elevator in that attic or
something?" Mulder asked plaintively, 
"and, if there is, how come I had to take the
stairs?"

"Shut up, Mulder." Spender said sharply as he
and Mulder topped the stairs.  
"I'll report you for this, Agent Scully.  You
are interfering with an 
official Bureau investigation.  You have no
authority here."  


"Somehow I don't think she's listening to
you, Spender," Mulder said, 
studying the bag she handed him.  

"Report me if you like; however, until such
time as I am relieved from 
duty, I have an obligation to the law which I
am sworn to uphold."

Scully reached for her handcuffs as she
approached Spender. 

"Jeffrey Spender, I am placing you under
arrest for the murder of Diana 
Fowley.  You have the right to remain
silent."  Spender stood stunned as 
she approached.  "Anything you say may be
used against you in a court of 
law.  You have the right to an attorney."  He
stared at Mulder as if trying 
to coax an admission from him that this was
all a joke.  "If you cannot 
afford an attorney, one will be provided to
you."  

She was behind him now and he felt the cold
steel of her handcuffs snapping 
on his right wrist.  Coming out of his
stupor, he swung hard to the left, 
trying to break for the stairwell.  Scully's
hands, still battered from the 
trek up the Queen Anne, weren't prepared for
the suddeness of the motion.  
The cuffs, latched firmly on his right wrist,
swung loose, catching her across 
the left cheekbone.  Before he could make the
stairs though, Scully was on him.  

Surprisingly strong for her height, she used
his weight to her advantage: 
arms around his waist, her weight
counteracted his motion, pulling him, face 
down, to the floor.  

"Don't give me an excuse."  Mulder was over
him, handgun at the fore, as 
Scully forced his wrists together and snapped
the left side a bit tighter 
than necessary.

"I'll get you suspended for this; it's
ridiculous!"  Spittle flew from his 
mouth as he shouted.

"Agent Spender," Scully replied coolly as
Mulder hauled the young agent to 
his feet, "You're only making it harder on
yourself, as you know."  She picked 
up the videotape which Mulder had dropped as
he grabbed his weapon.  Spender 
followed her gaze to the bag.  "What is it?" 
he asked, a combination of 
sullen curiousity and ire.

"Evidence."  Scully replied, "Let's go,
Mulder." 

"But. . ." Spender struggled against Mulder's
grip on his shoulder.
"You heard the lady, Spender.  Let's go."

****
4:30 p.m.
Monday 

Having turned Spender over to the Capitol
police in the lobby of the hotel 
and having survived the debriefing  Mulder
and Scully headed back toward the 
stairs.  Instead of starting up them,
however, Scully turned down the hallway 
toward the janitor's closet.  Mulder paused
for a minute, one foot already on 
the staircase, then followed.  

Emerging in the attic a minute later, Mulder
scowled jokingly at Scully.
"I repeat my question - how come I had to
take the stairs if there was an 
elevator stuck back here?"

"Because it lowers the testosterone.  Look at
this."  

Mulder glanced around - the room was filled
with television monitors and video 
cassette recorders.  "There must be 50
cameras in this place!"  

"Probably more," Scully replied, "Look at the
keypads - it looks like each 
monitor has several cameras assigned to it." 
Mulder looked  - probably more 
like 200 cameras, he noted.  What on earth
could Cancerman be doing so close 
to home that would warrant all this hardware?

"I found the video tape in this one."  She
gestured to a monitor directly 
across from the elevator door from which they
had emerged.  "It was paused 
on the image of Spender turning away from
Agent Fowley's body, tucking his 
gun into his coat pocket."  

"That doesn't prove anything."

"I rewound the tape briefly."  Her voice was
tight, even Spender was a fellow 
agent, "It clearly shows the whole incident."

Mulder was uncomfortable.  "I don't like
this."

"I don't either," she replied, "She was his
partner."

"I don't mean that - the whole thing was too
easy.  Finding the room, finding 
the tape.  Spender falling into our hands. 
This is a setup, Scully, whether 
for him or for us.  If he had gotten up here
first, would he have found a tape 
showing you to be the killer, or me?"  His
voice began to rise as he protested.

"Mulder, that's ridiculous.  They're in
league with each other.  Why would 
Cancerman set Spender up?"  

"Why does he do anything?  Maybe Spender's
too close to the truth."  
Scully's skeptical look was not lost on him. 
"or maybe he just got pissed 
off with Spender's whining.  I don't know,
Scully, but you have to admit this 
was handed to us."

"I do not have to admit that, Mulder.  We
have a video tape, showing the 
suspect in custody commiting the crime of
which he accused; you don't get 
better evidence than that."  

"You don't.  That's the problem."

Scully regarded her partner with frustrated
understanding.  "How about this?  
We'll make a copy of the tape and hand that
in as evidence, and let the Gunmen 
take a crack at this one.  OK?" 

****
6:00 p.m.
Same day

"Yeah, he's on his way now.  No, he doesn't
have time to stay for dinner - he 
needs to get some sleep."  Scully listed for
a few seconds to the protest from 
the other end of the line.  "This is his
doctor speaking: he needs to get some 
sleep.  Don't you guys ever go to bed?  What? 
Just check out the tape, 
Frohike.  Yes.  Thank you."  She hesitated
for a minute, then pressed the off 
button on her cellphone before stashing it in
the pocket of her jacket as it 
hung on the back of the chair.  Mulder knew
her home phone number and could 
reach her if necessary and she needed a break
from life for an hour or two 
just to think about things.  

Reaching the kitchen, she glanced into the
freezer.  Somehow, she just didn't 
feel like eating yogurt tonight, bee pollen
or not.  Must be my lucky day - 
one last Healthy Choice dinner hid behind the
ice cube trays.  Reaching for it, 
she realized just how much her body ached. 
She sighed as she pulled the 
plastic plate from the cardboard.  Who'd have
thought that the FBI would be 
more gruelling than 48 hour shifts as a
resident.  Leaning on the counter as 
the dinner rotated in the microwave, she
examined her hands.  Quite a 
combination of scabbed-over scratches and
blisters still waiting to burst, 
she thought wryly.  Should wipe these down
with disinfectant before eating.  
No point in getting anything more in there -
probably should have bandaged 
them this morning.  That fight certainly
didn't do them any good.

Now why did they build this cabinet so that
you have to close the bathroom 
door to get into it?  Stupid, stupid, stupid! 
She bumped the door closed with 
her hip, holding her newly disinfected hands
in the air.  Suppose I should 
know better than to keep things down here I
need, but what's the use of a 
cabinet you can't keep things you need in.  I
know I have gauze pads in here 
somewhere.

The blast from the kitchen shook the bathroom
door from its hinges and knocked 
Scully to the floor.  Jesus, what was that?  
Crawling painfully from under 
the door, she peered around the door frame
enough to note that her jacket was 
in flames.  Shit!  The whole kitchen is going
to ignite any minute.  She heard 
the microwave beep as, she assumed, her
dinner came to a heated stop.  Trying 
to clear her head, she raced for the phone in
the bedroom only to find no dial 
tone.  Great, just great.  Now what? Down the
fire escape and try to get back 
in the building without my keys or through
the kitchen to the hallway? Once at 
her bedroom window, she quickly noted that
the tracks were as clogged with 
paint as the hotel's windows this morning had
been.  Double shit - I just can't 
face breaking that window with these hands. 
Option no. 2,  through the kitchen.  
Well, at least it's me and not Mulder.  

Running back to the bathroom, she wet a
washcloth and, holding it over her 
mouth and nose, made a dash through the
kitchen, snatching up her purse from 
the couch on her way through, and burst into
the clearer air in the hall.  As 
she slammed the door behind her, one of the
hall neighbors was just emerging 
from his own apartment.  

"Hey, what's that. . ."  Scully didn't allow
him to complete the thought.  

"Call the Fire Department."  He hesitated,
hovering halfway through the door. 
"Now!"  She was just pulling the fire alarm
in the hallway as the neighbor 
re-emerged carrying a cellphone.  Noting his
expression, Scully decided some 
explanation was in order.

"Sorry, out of control kitchen fire.  We need
to get people out - this floor 
at least."  Nodding, he began at one end of
the hall, pushing people toward 
the entrance as they answered the door. 
Within a couple of minutes, they were 
themselves flying down the steps as the smoke
began to creep from under her 
door.  As they burst through the front door,
the fire trucks were just pulling 
up.  

"first floor, immediately to the right"  She
pointed them up the steps.   She 
turned to her neighbor.  "Thanks for your
help, Mr. Smith."  

"I think you maybe should try those microwave
meals, Miss Scully."  He replied.  
"The stove seems to be a little tough for
you."  A glimmer of smile played 
about the corners of her mouth, "It was a
microwave meal, sir."   Mr. Smith 
snorted in sympathy and moved away to check
on the other neighbors.

"Gee, Scully - been cooking again?"  Mulder's
grin faded quickly as he noted 
the cloud of smoke that seemed to huddle
around her.  

"Something like that."  Her face was grim
and, with his hand in the small of 
her back, he quickly steered her away from
the crowd.

"Ok, what happened?"  They had moved to the
side of the building and she could 
see the smoke billowing from her apartment -
The firefighters must have broken 
a window to vent the fire.

"I think my cellphone blew up."  Scully
stated matter-of-factly.

Mulder just looked at her.  "Kind of gives a
new meaning to crank call, 
doesn't it?"  he joked.

"Very funny.  I was in the bathroom.  There
was a blast strong enough to blow 
the door in.  When I looked out, my jacket
was in flames."

"And your phone was in your jacket."  It
wasn't a question - while most women 
kept their cellphones in their handbags,
Scully kept hers, as did he, closer 
at hand. 

"And my dinner was in the microwave," she
replied ruefully, "Mulder, you need 
to go home and get some rest."  

"I'm fine."  His voice was firm, reminiscent
of her own protestations in 
similar, but reversed, situations, "So what
do you think happened?"

She was tempted to say 'what the hell do you
think happened, my cellphone blew 
up', but realized he was trying to help.  "I
don't believe it was an accident - 
cellphones don't blow up.  Under the right
circumstances, I suppose they could 
ignite; but they are not explosive."   

As she pondered this for minute, Mulder
studied her with a gentle eye.  She 
had no shoes on and, as a result, was even
smaller next to him than usual.  
Yet, even in all the tumult, she seemed
collected.  How could anyone run out 
of the building after having their kitchen
blown apart and still be so 
together?  The answer, of course, was that no
one could.  She was thinking 
about the actions that needed to be taken,
the investigation that would ensue.  
She wasn't allowing herself to think about
the impact this would have on her 
life.  He realized that she was not phobic
about fire, as he was, but even so 
the event was bound to have some
psychological repercussions.   

"I turned it off."  Her voice broke through
his musings and he forced himself 
to turn his train of thought to hers. 
"Actually," she said, "I wonder if that 
was the trigger."

"Scully, you never turn your phone off." 

She thought she detected a slight hurt in his
voice and bristled, "You have my 
home phone number, Mulder.  It's not like you
couldn't reach me."

He held his hands up, "Peace, peace!  I
wasn't being critical; I was just 
surprised.  You *know* it's a rare thing for
you to do - so why would anyone 
choose that as the trigger?"

"It's a rare thing for *me* to do, Mulder,
but it's pretty common in the 
general population, isn't it?"  She was
beginning to work through the details 
and it felt good:  pieces falling into an
ordered whole.  "Most people turn 
off their cellphones at night to save the
batteries."  So, if it was a bomb, 
it may not have been a recent plant.  Who
knows how long it was there - I 
can't even remember the last time I turned my
cellphone off."

"I can."  Mulder said slowly.  "You were on
vacation in Maine - I tried to 
reach you for hours."  She looked at him,
surprised.  "I was worried," he 
protested, "You had that psychotic doll thing
going on . . ."  She left that 
one alone.

"That one was lost between here and
Antartica.  I have a new one now."

"That's it then.  They didn't succeed with
the bees, so they thought they'd 
try to blow you up instead."  His anger was 
palpable - why did they keep 
targeting her when he was the thorn in their
side?.

"I don't think so, Mulder."  She furrowed her
brows as the issues sorted 
themselves in her head - how was it, that
Sondheim song?  Bit by bit, putting 
it together... "If they didn't know I don't
normally turn my phone off, they 
probably don't know I don't keep it in my
purse, either."  Piece by piece...  
"I think it must have been set on some sort
of delay - a good 5-10 minutes 
elapsed between my turning the phone off and
detonation."  She paused, knowing 
that it couldn't be possible, that her phone
had not been out of her sight all 
day.  "Maybe they were trying to destroy
something in my purse."

"What, they didn't like your driver's license
photo?"  

"Well, I don't." she remarked.  "Seriously,
I've stashed evidence in there 
from time to time.  That video was in there
today until you dropped it off."

"They were trying to destroy the video,"
Mulder stated flatly.  

"I thought you said they wanted us to the
find the video, Mulder.  Why would 
they destroy it?"  Her voice cracked and she
spoke more loudly to mask the 
stress. "Even assuming that they *did* want
to, for whatever reason, my phone 
hasn't been out of my hands all day."

"They *did* want us to find the video.  This
whole thing was a set up.  Why 
can't you see it?"  Mulder's left hand still
rested lightly on the small of 
her back, but his right began to emphasize
his growing frustration.  "Diana's 
plea in the hospital room was probably her
last chance.  When it failed, 
Cancerman decided to cut his losses and kill
her.  But Spender knows who she 
was working for so he fakes a tape framing
Spender and leaves it for us to 
find - knowing that we are incapable of
leaving well enough alone."

"Mulder..."  Scully's voice was tired and
every limb ached from exhaustion 
and stress.

He plowed on as if he hadn't heard her, "But
he knows we'll have the tape 
checked out, so he couldn't leave us with the
evidence of the tampering."  
His face tightened.  The bastards never left
any evidence, useful or not.

"Mulder," she repeated, "My cellphone hasn't
been out of my hands all day."  
Looking at him squarely and with more than a
little frustration of her own, 
she continued "so when was the explosive
planted?"  His hand stilled in its 
agitated movement and he opened his mouth to
speak.  Forestalling him, she 
protested.  "It's preposterous.  They
couldn't have known before the Triangle 
that Diana would fail, if indeed that even is
what triggered this whole 
scenario.  What you're suggesting is that
they put a bomb in my phone just 
because it might be useful?"

"Given their past behaviour," he retorted. 
"What makes you think they 
wouldn't?  Think about the potential, Scully! 
It's just pure chance that you 
weren't wearing your jacket."  

"Don't think I haven't thought about it,
Mulder!  I felt that blast in another 
room with the door closed."  She glared at
him.  "I had to run through raging 
flames in my kitchen to evacuate the
neighbors.  Don't you even suggest that 
I haven't thought about the fact that it
could be me splattered across the 
walls!"

Mulder looked at her, this petite woman,
temper as red as her hair, eyes 
flashing blue fire.  Of course she had
thought about it.  Under all of her 
other conversations, under all of the
calmness and problem-solving 
rationalization, it was probably all she
could think of.  She was too good a 
person to point out that she was still taking
the heat, literally this time, 
for his actions, but he didn't need her to. 
He was more than capable of 
taking on that burden himself.  How could he
have almost lost her again?   
He glanced at her face again to find her
watching him.  

As she watched, her face softened a bit.  He
was blaming himself, as he always 
did.  "It's not your fault, Mulder."

Great, now she was even trying to take the
guilt away from him.  "If it 
weren't for me, you wouldn't have bombs in
your cellphone, you wouldn't have 
been abducted.  Hell, you probably wouldn't
have even had cancer!"

"You don't know that!  For all you know, I
could have ended up in the domestic 
terrorism department on my own and been
targeted by militia groups for 
abduction or assassination.  And what's to
say I couldn't have managed to wind 
up infected with something else, if I had
gone into practice or research?"

His hand on her back pulled her to him and,
reluctantly, she allowed herself 
to be drawn in.  It felt so good, but she
didn't dare let herself relax.  The 
minute she did, she would lose the last
vestiges of control and Lord knows 
what would happen.  She let her forehead rest
briefly on his shoulder, letting 
her acquiesence give him a modicum of peace. 
"Come on then.  You're tired.  
I'm tired.  I haven't had dinner.  We've a
lot of work to do."

His arms tightened around her.  I'm not ready
to let go yet, Scully.  If I let 
you go, they might take you from me again.  I
meant it - I am not going to 
watch you die because of some hollow personal
cause of mine.  If you won't go 
be a doctor, the least you can do is let me
try to protect you.  Just let me 
protect you.  He pushed himself out of his
internal conversation as a fireman 
approached and Scully broke free from his
grasp.

"Miss Scully?"  The fireman's gear was
streaked with soot and there was a dark 
mark across his face where he had wiped his
forehead.  In one hand, his helmet 
dangled from the chinstrap; in the other, he
carried a walkie-talkie.  "The AC 
needs to talk to you for a few minutes, if
you would please."

"Sure," she said as she followed, Mulder
falling into step with the the fireman.

"Jack Henser", the fireman said as he slapped
his helmet back on his wringing 
wet hair and stuck a hand out to Mulder by
way of salutation.

"Fox Mulder.  So, fire out?"  Mulder took his
hand, pleased at the man's 
firm grip.

"Just about, some smoldering still going on,
but they're wrapping it up now.  
Give it another 1/2 hour or so and we should
be able to call it a night.  
Oh, AC Filer."  Henser called, "Excuse me for
a minute, Miss Scully, Mr. 
Mulder."  He jogged toward the Fire
Department's command post, intercepting a 
figure just entering the mobile home.  The
two heads bent toward another as 
they conversed.  Mulder was struck by how
familiar the scene seemed.

"What is it, Mulder?"  Scully's voice broke
into his thoughts.

"I can't figure out what it is, but I've seen
this before." Curiously, she 
followed his gaze to the pair talking by the
command post.

"They look like us."  She remarked
offhandedly.  She noted his startled look 
and focused on what it was that made her
thought spring to mind.  "Seriously, 
haven't you ever watched a surveillance tape
of us?  They seem to interact the 
same way we do."  They watched as the pair
came closer, Mulder still looking 
somewhat surprised.

"Watching them is like watching us."  She
concluded.

"Except we're cleaner!"  Mulder commented.  

Scully laughed, a wry laugh, gesturing toward
her bare feet and rumpled 
clothing.  "Speak for yourself!"

"Miss Scully?"  Green eyes peered out from
under the helment's brim.  "I'm 
Assistant Chief Delphine Filer.  I just need
to get some information from you 
and pass along some information to you about
what happens next.  Let's head 
back to the Command Post, if you don't mind. 
You look like you could use to 
sit down and I know I could." 

Henser watched the two women as they walked
away.  "It's hard, you know," he 
said conversationally.

"What is?" Mulder asked, still watching
Scully as the door to the command post 
closed behind her, wanting to follow.

"Being involved with your partner."

"Excuse me?"  Mulder's voice was cool and his
eyebrows raised.  He studied the 
other man's face while making a mental check
that his handgun was in its 
holster.

"Oh, come on, Agent Mulder - I know who you
are, both of you."  Mulder stared 
at him.  Henser stared back and then smacked
his head, "No, of course, you 
didn't put the names together.  Henser-Filer
Electronics?"

"The Lone Gunmen's wire guys?"  Mulder was
astonished and leaned back on the 
building with a thud.

"Well, half right," Henser chuckled, "Filer,
of course, being a 'wire gal'.  
That's how we're on the scene even though
we're primarily a headquarters unit.  
Byers heard Miss Scully's neighbor's call
come in on the 911 line and called me."  
Mulder took a minute to digest this, "They
have the 911 line tapped."

"I don't think there's much you can tap that
they haven't."  Henser agreed, 
"Not that I know any of this, mind you." 
Mulder laughed, nodding his head.  
That would explain why the Gunmen had been on
the scene so quickly after Scully 
was stung in his hallway and he was shot in
the alley - that had bothered him 
for some time now.  "But as I was saying,
it's hard being involved with your 
partner, don't you think?"

"I wouldn't know," Mulder replied evasively,
"We're not involved."

"The Hell you're not!"  Henser's tone was
good natured, but left no room for 
doubt.  "I was watching the two of you for a
while before I came over.  You 
guys look just like us."  "Cleaner, of
course," he added, indicating his smoke 
streaked face.

Mulder was silent, studying Henser.  Henser
was looking into middle distance, 
in the direction of the Command Post.

"She still goes out on fire calls, still
straps on the suit and tanks from 
time to time.  Every time she does, I still
wonder if she's going to come back 
alive.  After all this time - heck, it's been
nearly 10 years - I still worry."  
His eyes focused on Mulder.   Mulder thought
he could see guilt lurking under 
the man's gaze.  "Don't get me wrong, she's a
good fireman, one of the best 
even, but you can't always control what goes
on in a fire situation. . ."  His 
voice trailed off.   Mulder stayed quiet as
the man was lost in his thoughts.  
He looked out onto the street, at the Command
Post where, even now, Scully was 
dealing with the latest ramifications of
being his partner.  He started 
slightly when Henser continued.

"We were on a call 5, 6?, years ago.  I had
to go change O2 tanks.  I hadn't 
been out of the building 10 seconds when the
roof fell in."  Henser's face was 
shuttered, as if he were trying to restrain a
much greater flow of emotion 
than he intended to allow.  "She'd been a
civilian employee of the Fire 
Department for a few months, but she really
wanted to fight fires.  I 
encouraged her, pushed her even, to go for
it.  She did go for it, had a great 
track record and it turned out we worked
really well together.  Partners, 
backed each other up, always tried to get
assigned together.  Some partner, 
there she was in a collapsing building and I
stood outside tankless like a 
kitten up a tree."  Henser banged his
clutched fist against the solid brick of 
the building.  "She made it out ok.  She
always does.  But I don't think I'll 
ever stop feeling guilty and I know darn well
I'll never stop worrying."  He 
paused and chuckled, "she gets on me for
trying to protect her, says she's a 
grown woman and a perfectly capable one at
that.  I just canna he'p it, as my 
dad used to say."

Mulder didn't know what to say.  He wasn't
even sure he believed the man.  The 
story seemed too pointed, too directed at his
situation to be truthful.  He 
ran a hand through his hair without realizing
that Henser had removed his 
helmet and was doing the same.

"You guys practice that while we were filing
out forms?"  Scully's voice, while 
tired, was somewhat amused.  "Mr. Henser, Del
would like to see you about the 
inspection tomorrow."  Henser picked up his
helmet and headed toward his 
partner, calling over his shoulder, "It was a
pleasure, Mr. Mulder, Miss 
Scully.  Maybe we'll see you around
sometime."

Mulder turned to Scully.  "Let's go home."  

"Mulder," she replied with a slight smile, "I
*am* home."

"Ah, but your kitchen is in ashes and you
haven't had dinner - you'll have to 
come home with me!"  He leered exaggeratedly.

"I see, so it wasn't the cellphone - it was
my partner trying to land a date?"

"Hey, we basement dwellers do what we have
to."  He steered her toward the car.

"Wait, I do need to go back up before the
firemen leave and seal my apartment.  
We should try to get the phone, if we can,
and . . ." She glanced at her feet, 
"I could use some shoes."

Mulder looked at her feet and shrugged, "I
don't know, Scully - I think Kersh 
would love the multicolored toenails."

"If I hear one comment, from *anyone*, about
my toenails, you are going to 
dwell underground forever." Scully glared at
him and headed toward the door.  
She turned briefly, "And that's after I pass
on the information about those 
videos that aren't yours."

"Ouch."  Mulder mouthed as he followed her
in.

***
Mulder's apartment

"Really, Mulder, I can stay in a motel." 
Scully offered, watching him stack 
the boxes from the old office as neatly as
possible along one wall of his 
living room.  Mulder shook his head.

"It's no trouble, Scully.  Let me just get
these out of the way."  Scully 
moved to help, but Mulder waved her off
between boxes.  "Sit down - I'll grab 
you a blanket in a minute."

She sat down on the couch without argument,
exhaustion seeping from her pores.  
She had hung two suits on the hook on his
bathroom door without looking too 
closely at the state of the facilities,
feeling some things were better left 
uninvestigated.  She rose again.

"I'm just going to brush my teeth."

"You haven't eaten yet," Mulder protested,
"the pizza should be here any 
minute. . ."

"So, I'll brush again afterward."  She headed
to the bathroom.  To her 
surprise, it was reasonably clean.  Closing
the door behind her, she turned 
toward her clothes, intending to check that
she had everything she needed for 
tomorrow.  As she bent toward her bag on the
floor behind the door, her world 
suddenly reeled and her hands flew up to
protect her head.  She whimpered 
slightly as she hit the floor.

Mulder straightened up from moving the last
box.  I should have remembered 
about the boxes of charred files.  Not a very
welcoming sight for someone 
emerging from the throes of a housefire.  

A dull thud echoed down the hall.  "Scully?" 
There was no answer from the 
bathroom.  "Scully?" he called a little more
loudly.  The only echo now was 
that of the silence broken only by what
sounded like crying.  He headed for 
bathroom, knocking quietly on the door. 
"Scully?"  He turned the knob slowly 
and opened the door.  Scully was sitting on
the floor, her arms wrapped 
tightly around her knees.  Her forehead lay
on her kneecaps, closely drawn to 
her chest.  He crouched down and gently
touched her shoulder.

"Scully, are you ok?"  Concern filled the
words, while dread filled his mind.  
Scully started at his touch and struggled to
remember where she was and regain 
her poise.  "I'm fine, Mulder - I just . . .
lost my balance."  He searched 
her face, noting the traces of tears on her
pale cheeks but knowing she would 
not thank him for bringing it up.

"Sure," he began.  The door buzzer sounded
and Scully jumped.  "As long as 
you're ok.  I'll just go get the pizza - I'll
be right back."  Scully nodded, 
pulling her overnight bag closer and rooting
through it.  Mulder watched her 
for a second before standing up as the door
buzzer went off again.  The 
pyschologist in him knew that it was likely a
normal reaction to stress and 
to be expected, but the partner in him
worried anyway.

She chided herself for giving way to the
fear.  I can't let it get to me.  I 
can't let it get to me.  I mean, really, I
can't go around the rest of my life 
afraid to close the bathroom door or bend
over!  Relentlessly, she pushed the 
irrational fear away and by the time he
returned with the pizza, Scully had 
changed into leggings and a sweatshirt and
had found some plates and silverware.  

Setting the pizza down on the table, Mulder
could see that, for the moment at 
any rate, she had put herself back together.

"Hope you like double anchovies and peppers." 
He laughed at her expression. 

"That better be veggie pizza light on the
cheese in that box or I'm heading to 
the office to sleep under my desk!"

Mulder opened the box.  "Well, fortunately
for us both, they seemed to take 
your request over mine."  Scully's mouth was
already watering before she even 
got her hand into the box.  How long ago was
it that she had last eaten, 
anyway?  She tried to think and got nowhere. 
Oh well, didn't matter - she 
was eating now.

The pizza was still hot enough to be gooey,
but not so hot as to burn the roof 
of the mouth.  The onions had crisped
slightly where they rose to the surface 
through the cheese and the mushrooms were cut
in large slices, rather than 
chopped.  She sighed with the simple
contentment of a perfect slice of pizza.  
Picking up her silverware, she dove in.

"Silverware, Scully?!  You can't eat pizza
with silverware!"  She paused, a 
piece of mushroom speared on her fork. 
Mulder folded his slice in half.  "It's 
hand food - a perfectly folded slice of
American glory meant to be conveyed to 
the mouth only by the graceful dextrousness
of the human fingers."

"My fingers are holding my fork, Mulder,
close enough."   The mushroom was 
delicious - shitake maybe - definitely not a
plain white button mushroom.  

Mulder shrugged and they sat in silence as
the pizza disappeared.

Standing up to put her plate in the sink,
Scully was so tired she could barely 
see.  "I think I'd better get some sleep. 
And so should you," she added, 
"you've had a rough few days."  She headed
toward the bathroom again, trying 
not to shudder as she stepped inside.  

"Mind if I keep you company?"  She hadn't
realized he was so close behind her 
and tried not to sound startled.

"In the bathroom?"  She managed an amused
tone, though she felt a wave of 
relief.  Really, this was ridiculous - she
was going to have to use the 
bathroom sooner or later for its most common
use and she didn't want company 
for that.  I have got to shake this.  She
stepped back to let him in.  He sat 
on the edge of the tub as she brushed her
teeth. She found the methodical 
action of the toothbrush almost meditational
as she tried not to think about 
her partner sitting in the bathroom with her. 
His knees almost brushed hers - 
she could feel the heat coming off him.  He's
too warm; a shiver of worry went 
through her.  She spit and rinsed her mouth,
drying her hands on the towel 
Mulder handed her. The intimacy was strange
to both of them.  A little too 
normal, maybe?  No, she didn't think that was
it - how many 'normal' people 
have audiences for their oral hygiene? She
reached a cool hand toward his 
forehead.  His hand stayed hers just as it
brushed his brow.

"I don't have a fever, Scully."  He lowered
his hand, still holding hers.  
His voice was a bit odd she thought.

"But, Mulder . . ."  He interrupted, "It's
just a little warm in here," and 
stood up.  "Will you be ok if I go make up
your 'bed'?"  Too tired to keep up 
the pretense, Scully nodded.   He squeezed
her hand and brushed by her as he 
went out the door.  He does have a fever, she
thought, he's radiating heat.  

Thankfully, he had considerately left the
door open a crack.  Is there nothing 
he can't figure out?  Nevertheless, I'm not
using the facilities with the door 
open.  Resolutely, she closed the door,
bracing herself against the wall for a 
minute before finishing her routine.

She emerged from the bathroom to find that
Mulder had literally made a bed for 
her on the couch.

"Your couch awaits, madam."  He gestured
grandly toward the sofa.  She covered 
a smile - he had even turned back the covers
for her.   She walked slowly to 
the couch and hesitantly sat.  This was
pretty odd, she had to admit, as she 
allowed him to tuck the covers up under her
chin, very comforting though to be 
taken care of.  A small part of her bristled
at the idea, but was quickly 
soothed by the very tired, very emotionally
drained rest of her.  Mulder had 
turned the lights down and stopped by the
couch.

"If you're all set, I'm just going to check
my e-mail before hitting the sack."

"I'm fine."  He paused next to her and tucked
a wayward lock of red hair back 
behind her ear.  "Thank you."  She responded
groggily and he moved away.  She 
was asleep before he even sat down.

Mulder turned the computer on, hoping that
the various beeps and whirs wouldn't 
wake his partner.  Having been away, he
hadn't yet had a chance to catch up 
with his e-mail.  Look at that incoming list
- I shouldn't have done this 
tonight.  He rubbed his eyes briefly.  You
know what, I'm not going to do this 
tonight.  Resolutely, he shut down the
computer, settled back into his desk 
chair for the night, flipping on the tv.  He
winced as the sound came on and 
quickly muted it.  Oooh, Debbie does Dallas -
just what I need, he thought 
grimly, as if I'm not getting warm enough on
my own.

***
10:00 a.m.
Tuesday

They sat, waiting as always, in Assistant
Director Kersh's office; the summons 
this morning having been delivered in such a
way as to brook no disagreement.  
Scully shifted her weight and recrossed her
legs.  Glancing at the movement, 
Mulder was surprised she was so fidgety
today; that was usually his role.  Of 
course, he was usually the one in trouble. 
His gaze moved to her face, turned 
downward toward the magazine she held on her
lap.  She looked as though she 
were looking clear through the magazine,
reading the file that lay underneath.  
She was, as always, beautiful.  

Feeling his gaze, Scully looked up from her
magazine, glanced at her watch and 
then looked at him.  He shrugged slightly and
a grimace passed fleetingly over 
her face before she returned to the world of
"Law Enforcement Weekly:  News and 
Information for Today's Law Enforcement
Professional".

Other than his brief comment in the hospital,
they hadn't discussed the matter 
which brought them here.  He supposed she
could be censured for it, maybe even 
dismissed, although he doubted it.  The
threat to Spender could be portrayed 
as an ill-advised but harmless attempt to get
help.  Approaching Skinner, 
forgetfulness, maybe, in the heat of the
moment?  No, probably not.  
Uncomfortable coming to a new boss, who
didn't know her and was predisposed 
for the worst, was accurate, but not very
politically savvy.  As he turned 
over the best ways to get her off the hook,
Kersh's assistant spoke.

"You can go in now."  Her voice was cold,
although she favored Mulder with an 
acquisitive look as he passed her desk.

"Better watch out -" Mulder started slightly
at the sound of Scully's whisper.  
"She's a man-eater."  Scully's face wore a
half smile that disappeared the 
minute they were inside the door.  

The air was dry and held the lingering odor
of cigarette smoke, though, as 
Scully herself smelled slightly of
eau-de-housefire, she couldn't really be 
sure if that was her imagination.  Kersh sat
reading some papers, eyes firmly 
in place until they had stood inside the door
for a full minute.  Kersh looked 
up at him, his face icy.

"Sit down."  His voice was, if possible,
colder than his face.  They sat.  He 
eyed them for another minute before speaking
again.

"Threat of bodily injury to an agent of the
Bureau.  Impersonation of an agent 
of the Bureau.  Interrogation of a senior
officer (two counts).  Misuse of 
classified information."  He paused, letting
the charges hang there.  Scully 
noted that he hadn't included the support
staffer whose foot she had stepped 
on in the elevator.

"Agent Scully, do you have any legitimate
justification for these acts?"

"I assume, sir," she replied, "that by
'legitimate justification' you mean 
'reason beyond assisting my partner'?"  She
met his gaze and held it.  
"Assuming that is indeed what you mean:  no,
I have no 'legitimate' 
justification for these acts, sir.  I acted
without regard for Bureau protocol 
for the sole purpose of preventing Agent
Mulder's death."  She knew her tone 
could be seen as antagonistic, but somehow
lacked the willpower to mute the 
anger.

Mulder sat as still as he could in his chair,
the wool of his trousers 
scratching his legs.  Why is it that these
things never happen when you don't 
care if you keep still.  Kersh is as flushed
as Scully is pale.  Funny how 
anger can have such different physiological
effects.  Why is she doing this?  
Why didn't she just walk away a long time
ago?  His ears perked up slightly; 
Kersh was asking the same thing.

"I find it astounding, Agent Scully, that you
should put up with Agent 
Mulder's antics.  Just walk away.  If he
wants to kill himself chasing little 
green men and imaginary ships, let him." 
Kersh's voice was sweetly dripping 
with scorn.  Apparently he felt that direct
anger was getting him nowhere.

"Grey." Scully corrected him.  Kersh looked
confused.  "With all due respect, 
sir, Agent Mulder is my partner and my
friend.  I will not walk away from him 
when he needs me and I will not let him kill
himself chasing little grey men, 
ghost ships or international conspiracies." 
She paused and continued 
deliberately, "Understand me in this, sir: I
haven't and  I won't."

Kersh's face was unreadable and the silence
that followed seemed to stretch 
beyond the walls.  Mulder swore he could hear
the clock ticking in the 
anteroom.  He watched the dust sift through
the dim light of the desk lamp, 
sifting slowly onto the files laying on
Kersh's desk.  He tried to read the 
files, but most were illegible, the files
being upsidedown to him and the 
light weak.  A corner of a brochure stuck out
from under the files and he 
strained to read the logo.  ser- ler ronics. 
If only Kersh would just shift 
that top file over a little, he might be able
to make out the rest.

If only Kersh would just shift his mind into
high gear, they could get out of 
here.  Scully was tired and frustrated.  She
ran over the list of things that 
had to get done today, none of which involved
her job.  If he was going to 
fire her, just be done with it already!  She
watched Mulder from the corner of 
her eye; he was craning his neck ever so
slightly toward Kersh's desk.  Trust 
Mulder to try to spy on the AD with him
sitting right there.

Kersh grimaced and swept the open files into
a pile; the pamphlet fluttered to 
the floor.  "It galls me to have to do this,
particularly in light of Agent 
Scully's reckless disregard for the safety
and wellbeing of other personnel 
and for the protocols of this agency, but,
unlike the two of you, I follow my 
orders." He looked from one to the other.
"Agent Mulder, did you lose 
something?"

Scully turned to see Mulder reaching for a
folded piece of paper that lay on 
the floor.  He reached it with his
fingertips, lifting it back to Kersh's desk.

"I believe you dropped this."  Mulder's voice
was mild, but Scully noted 
something dubious in his expression.  "Just
trying to be helpful."

"In the future, Agent Mulder," Kersh said
sternly as he pushed the brochure 
into the stack of files, "don't."

Mulder sat back in his chair slowly, not
about to admit any discomfort for his 
action.  Let Kersh wonder what he'd seen.

"In addition to the previous charges, there
remains the charge of interfering 
with a Bureau investigation.  As this charge
was lodged by Agent Spender, who 
is currently charged with the crime being
investigated, I am unable to proceed 
on that as well."  His frustration was
evident in his tone: overly controlled, 
highly enunciated.  "Agent Scully, I hereby
place you on unpaid suspension 
until further notice.  No censure will be
placed in your file, however much I 
believe one is warranted.  Agent Mulder, I
expect you to report to your 
department immediately.  You have a backlog
of background checks to complete."  
Kersh bent his head back toward his files.

They sat, waiting for something further. 
Kersh spoke again, emphasizing each 
word, "You are dismissed."

Silently, they stood and walked out.