Category/Rating:  Slash, Mulder/Scully/Pendrell -- NC-17/X
Disclaimer:  Don't own 'em. CC does.  Please don't sue us, we only own
our computers and a pair of sick and twisted imaginations.
Archive:  EXCLUSIVE TO "THE SOCKS SHOPPE".
DO NOT FORWARD OR ARCHIVE ANYWHERE PLEASE.

Summary:  The sequel to "Trini: Three At Once" by Ladyfox.  Seven
mysterious murders in the town of New Orleans are investigated by the
new *team* of Mulder, Scully and Pendrell, who have been involved in
the relationship we last left them off in in "Trini:  Three At Once".

Content Warnings:  Oh, boy.  Where to begin?  In this fic there are
long, *graphic* descriptions of m/f/m sex, m/f sex, m/m sex, mild to
medium non-consensual m/m activities, bondage, voyuerism, illegal
substance abuse, boozing, gluttony, bad taste in clothing, the
occasional dangling participle, faux Creole French stolen from a
Beaujolues lyric book and used as dialogue...in short, it is a
masterpiece of utter depravity.

Therefore, if anyone under 18 attempts to read it, their head will no
doubt explode, ala "Scanners." And, if you don't like this sort of
thing, but try to read it anyway, you will immediately suffer from
spontaneous insanity and cause your family all sorts of grief and
monetary hardship as they go from asylum to asylum desperately trying
to find a cure for you.

So don't do it.

As for the rest of you brave and hardy souls...enjoy.

Love,
LadyFox & Sox


TRINI II:  TORCHED
by Lady Fox and "Sox". 1997

If you enjoyed this at all...please let us know.
flying.hamburger@mailexcite.com
or
dbkate@yahoo.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*This is perverse.*

Daniel Pendrell sighed as he pulled another slide out from underneath
his microscope viewer and logged it.  He wished that his thoughts were
referring to the evidence at hand, but they weren't.  Far from it.

*So perverse.*

A good Catholic boy shouldn't get himself into situations like this,
he thought, with an imperceptible shake of his head.  Weren't you told
that sleeping with a woman that you weren't sanctified in the holy
Sacrament of matrimony with was an absolute and mortal sin?

Not to mention sleeping with her partner at the same time.

He closed his eyes against the microscope viewer and tried very hard
to ignore the warmth that was now rolling down from his heart, past
his stomach, straight to his groin. But he could picture nothing in
the darkness, but soft red hair, wet lips and long white legs,
underneath a thin torso that held up perfect breasts; soft, glorious
and fitting exactly into the palm of his hand.

Yes, Dana Scully was very, very beautiful in bed.

But Fox Mulder was too.

Daniel could still feel the occasional pair of strong fingers in his
mouth; or sometimes just brushing it casually, slick, hot and wet with
something wonderful. And, not often, but every now and then, a more
demanding pair of lips against his own, taking him like he had taken
Dana's, the hour...or was it moment...before.

He let out a groan, partly from misery, partly because the heat
between his legs had now become a burdensome throb, hard and troubling.

*Didn't they mention that you weren't supposed to sleep with other men?*

Yes, Mom, they did, thought Daniel, shifting uncomfortably in chair,
wincing as he did.  And he'd never planned to, until his desire for
Dana Scully had seemingly taken his sanity from him and turned every
thought into a longing so intense, he would have done virtually
anything to have her, to love her, to keep her.

Even if that meant sharing her.

But now, after the past two months, he was no longer sure that his
acts were the ones of a desperate man doing anything to hold onto a
woman he adored.  He'd begun to think of them both as one inseparable
unit, no longer his Dana and her other lover, but just Dana and Fox,
something whole and equal unto itself, a puzzle that he too was
somehow an inextricable piece of. The thought frightened him as it
excited him, the feeling of absolute closeness and acceptance,
overshadowed with a trembling fear and uncertainty that what he was
doing wasn't only wrong, but, in some strange way, deadly to his soul.

*Perverse*

Pendrell didn't open his eyes when he heard to lab door open, but was
startled to feel a small, warm hand cover his own.  He looked up and
saw Dana Scully's brilliant blue eyes staring back into his, with a
tiny smile playing about her lips, making her look like everything she
was, mysterious, beautiful...

Perfect.

"Tired?" she asked, the smile growing slightly larger, the pair of
sapphires twinkling underneath light lashes.

Pendrell sighed and nodded with a grin.  "You could say that."

"Not too tired for those reports, I hope," Scully replied, slipping a
small folded piece of paper toward Pendrell, with a slight raise of
her eyebrow.  He palmed the note carefully and shook his head.

"Nope.  Almost done, Agent Scully," he replied. "Do you need them
tonight?"

"Yes, but I'd planned on going home.  Any chance you could bring them
by?" she asked casually, but he could see the heat in her eyes.

Pendrell nodded, his breath catching in his throat.  "Sure.  That
would be no problem at all."

"Great.  See you around eight?" she asked crisply, her expression one
of complete professionalism.

"I'll be there," he replied in the same tone, the note dampening
slightly in his tightly clenched palm.

She smiled at him and left.  He watched her go, and couldn't resist
staring at her stockings, her legs and that pair of impossibly high
heels she always wore.  Pendrell bit his lip slightly and shifted once
more in his chair as he thought about what those legs would look like
later, without stockings or shoes, just white, soft and warm
underneath him.  He shook his head, trying to clear it, when he opened
his hand and took out the note.

He unfolded it and smiled when he read it.

"Don't forget the wine. - Mulder"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Dana Scully opened her apartment door and jumped slightly when she saw
a figure sitting casually on her couch, in the dim light of the single
living room lamp.

"Mulder..." she said disapprovingly, shaking her head and tossing her
bag onto a nearby chair. "That's a great way to get shot."

"You've already shot me, Scully," he replied with a slight grin.  "I
figured you might want to go two for three."

Scully rolled her eyes and walked up to him.  Mulder wrapped his arms
around her shoulders and pulled her against him warmly, the height of
his long body overshadowing hers, making her feel tiny and completely
safe in the hollow of his embrace.

Scully reached up, put her arms tightly around his neck and looked
carefully into his eyes, examining the warm greens, golds and soft
browns all mixed together in a confusing array of color and
expression, a pair of enigmas, not unlike the man who possessed them. 
She ran a tentative hand over his cheek, felt its rough silk and the
bone underneath and couldn't help but shiver when he closed his eyes
and tilted his face against her touch.  He's very beautiful, she
thought.  Not many men are beautiful, but here is one.

Here is one.

Scully pulled him down and they kissed lightly, his tongue grazing her
bottom lip and the warmth just beginning to take its hold over her
body, rolling and trembling with desire.  But the kiss didn't deepen
and Mulder pulled away with a grin, his eyes bright.

"Aren't we missing someone?" he asked with a raised eyebrow, a
sardonic gleam in his eye.

Scully nodded, returning the look with one of her own.  "As a matter
of fact, we are.  He'll be here at eight."

Scully kicked off her shoes and retreated to the bedroom with Mulder
following.  She unbuttoned her suit jacket and he helped her out of
it, retrieving a hanger from the closet and returning it to her,
neatly smoothed over the wood frame.

She nodded with thanks and peeled off the rest of her suit, slipping
into her robe with a relieved sigh.  She walked over to her bedroom's
vanity set and sat with a groan as Mulder walked up behind her and
together they examined each other's reflections in the mirror, eyes
meeting one another in the glass.

"Mulder, what do you think of this?" she asked carefully, picking up
the hairbrush that lie on the table in front of her.

Mulder gently took the brush from her hand and began to run its
bristles through the brilliant red and gold hair beneath his hand, the
strands sliding between his fingers like crimson silk.  "I think you
should use less conditioner," he replied, still brushing.

Scully sighed.  "No, Mulder.  You know what I'm talking about.  About
us.  About us and Agent Pendrell."

"Agent Pendrell?" replied Mulder, with a raised eyebrow.  "I thought
we were on a first name basis with him by now."

Scully blushed.  "Sorry.  Bad habit. But seriously, do you think what
we're doing is....."

"Wrong?"

"Wrong.  Immoral.  Unwise. I don't know.  I mean, I can't say that
what we've been doing for the past two months hasn't been anything but
enjoyable..."

"Mmmm," replied Mulder, putting one of Scully's hair clips between his
teeth and beginning to braid her hair with slow, smooth motions.  "I
agree."

"And I still can't say I can choose between either one of you," she
continued carefully, watching Mulder face in the mirror.  But Mulder
continued to braid silently, her hair slowly entwining between careful
fingers.

"But I wonder if there isn't some sort of inherent unfairness here. 
Should I worry that you're here now and he isn't?  Should I feel bad
when I talk with one and not the other?  Am I being completely
selfish, Mulder?"

"Someone's sounding a bit guilty," replied Mulder, expertly twisting
the braids into a chignon and pinning them up, away from her neck.  He
leaned down and planted a soft kiss underneath her hairline and she
shivered against it. "But if I were to be completely honest with you,
Scully..."

"Yes?" she asked Mulder's reflection that stood behind her own,
shining with warmth and love.

"I'm enjoying this as much as you are," he said with a shrug.  "It
didn't begin that way, I suppose, but there's more here now than a
simple compromise between two besotted men.  Not that I'm not
completely besotted with you, of course."

"Of course," she replied with an arched eyebrow.  "You'd better be."

Mulder laughed. "Yes, mam', I am.  But there's something more going on
here, and I think we should consider keeping open minds.  This is what
extreme possibilities are all about, Scully.  The willingness to face
our discomforts and examine them along with our happiness, but not
giving up one for relief of the other.  Living with both, exploring
together the guilt and the pleasure, and having the courage to see it
through to its natural conclusion, whatever that may be."

"And how do you think it will end, Mulder?" asked Scully, her voice
uncharacteristically small.

"I have no idea," he replied, as the ringing of a doorbell echoed
through the apartment.  "But I'm willing to find out.  Shall I get
that?  I think our wine is here," he said with a grin.

Scully nodded and watched as Mulder walked out of the bedroom.  She
sighed as she went into the bathroom and started her bath, the steam
of the hot water rising against her face, hot and wet.

Extreme possibilities. The courage to explore the guilt and the
pleasure.

Wherever they may lead.

Or end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


"Don't want any..."

Mulder opened the door with a flourish and smiled at the sight of a
nervous Daniel Pendrell, juggling his suitcase with one hand and
bottle of wine in the other.

"Hmm, wait, I've changed my mind," said Mulder as Pendrell walked in
and shut the door behind him.  "I think I want some."

"It's merlot. I hope you like red," said Pendrell, handing him the
bottle of wine.

"That's not what I meant," replied Mulder, gently pulling the younger
man toward him and kissing him softly. Pendrell gasped slightly, and
shyly returned the kiss, just brushing his lips, almost fearfully,
against Mulder's.

Mulder pulled away and smiled.  "I used the mouthwash today, I swear
it."

Pendrell blushed deeply.  "No, I...uh..."

"That's OK, Danny," replied Mulder, taking the wine into the small
kitchenette. "We don't want to make Scully jealous anyway.  She gets
pretty mad when she's jealous."

"Where is Dana?" asked Pendrell, loosening his tie with a nervous yank.

"In the tub," replied Mulder.  Pendrell heard a pop coming from the
kitchen and soon Mulder returned, three glasses of red wine balanced
in his hands.  He offered one to Pendrell, who took it gratefully, and
put Scully's down on the dining room table.

"To extreme possibilities...and happy endings," toasted Mulder,
raising his glass toward Pendrell, who looked at him with a slightly
confused expression, but raised his glass in return nonetheless.

"To happy endings," replied Pendrell with a nod, clicking his glass
against Mulder's.  Together, they lowered their glasses and clicked
them against Scully's, three glasses as one.

"You aren't drinking without me, I hope."

Both men turned toward the voice, and Pendrell's eyes flew open at the
sight of Scully in ice blue silk, her hair still pinned up and her
face flushed and beautiful from her hot bath.  He shook his head and
wondered when he would stop feeling like a nattering schoolboy in her
presence, pounding heart, trembling knees and all the rest.

He wondered if the man next to him was affected in the same way, but
doubted it.  Mulder always appeared so much calmer, cooler...in
control.  Not like me, Pendrell thought unhappily.  Agent Goober,
placed in the most unlikely of situations, a menage a trios with a man
who fit into the tall, dark and handsome category without any problem
and a woman who was perfection defined.

Pendrell felt his heart sink, until he felt the warm arms around his
neck.  He looked into dark blue eyes and his own closed as he felt
Scully's lips, hungry and demanding against his mouth.  All thought of
inferiority fled and he suddenly felt like the most desirable man on
earth.  He felt her soft tongue against his own, and he moaned into
the kiss, his body tipping into hers and the hardness between his legs
almost unbearable.

But Scully pulled back, breathing harshly.  "Glad you could make it,
Daniel."

Pendrell nodded, trying to catch his breath.  "Wouldn't have missed it
for the world."

Mulder picked up the third wine glass and held it out to Scully.  "We
were just toasting, Scully.  Want to make another one?"

"Certainly," replied Scully, lifting her glass.  She tipped some wine
into her mouth and leaned up toward Mulder.  Her lips pressed against
his and the wine mingled between them, warm and sweet.  They swallowed
as they kissed, and when the wine was gone, Scully took another sip
and pulled Pendrell toward her and repeated the motion, drinking the
wine together with him, lips entwined and the liquid shared as one. 
She pulled away, her lips red and full, with both wine and passion.

She turned to them both and raised her glass in salute.  "To this
bottle of booze," she toasted with an innocent look.  "Great stuff."

Mulder and Pendrell exchanged looks.

"She's a funny one, isn't she, Danny?" asked Mulder, taking a step
toward Scully, who backed away with a stifled laugh.

"Hilarious," replied Pendrell, stripping off his jacket and advancing
with Mulder.

Mulder circled behind Scully, who had begun to laugh uncontrollably. 
"Better than a night at a comedy club, I'd say."

"Much better," said Pendrell, who continued to walk toward Scully,
smiling.

Suddenly, Scully felt two strong arms encircle her from behind and,
shrieking with glee, she felt herself being lifted up and carried the
short distance to the bedroom down the hall.  She tried to laughingly
kick her way out of the hold, but her legs were grabbed by the man in
front of her and she soon found herself deposited into her bed, both
men tumbling in after her.

And soon she felt two pairs of hands removing her robe, and she arched
into them, her eyes closed, but knowing well enough by now, whose hand
belonged to whom.  The smooth, gentle ones were Pendrell's, complete
with soft reverent touches, barely skimming over her breasts,
sometimes tracing gentle, maddening patterns over her stomach and
thighs, making her ache and desire more with each tentative pass.

The warm, demanding ones were Mulder's, taking each part of her
brusquely and possessing it with strong caresses, her breasts squeezed
and kneaded under insisting hands, with wonderful pinches and
scratches against her nipples, forcing them into hardened peaks of
desire and need.

The first pair of lips she felt skimmed her left ear and they were
again Mulder's, pulling the soft flesh of the lobe, biting it gently,
his warm breath tickling the sensitive skin of her outer and inner ear.

The next kiss was a soft one against her throat, and she moaned as a
tongue ran softly along her jaw line, with small, hot licks, turning
into gentle kisses down her neck, over her shoulders, barely skimming
her breasts.  Scully's breaths became labored and short, the ache
between her legs becoming hot and thick...painful.  She opened her
legs, but no hand moved to relieve her desire and she began to twist
and turn under the hands that were everywhere, but nowhere at once.

"Please, please, please..."

Scully didn't know if they were words or thoughts.

"Please?" she heard in reply.  There. She had said it and received a
reply, but the voices were mingling now, her own soft moans and the
harsh breathing that surrounded her.

In a blinding moment, a hand snuck between her legs and began to
stroke the soaked, soft flesh...the secret place, her core and
demanding center.  Other hands and lips took parts of her, claimed
them as her own, and, with her eyes still shut, she could no longer
tell whose hand belonged to whom.

Scully's own hands wandered over the two bodies that were feasting on
her, taking and touching in every place, and she felt the similarities
and the differences in each, wondering at both.  She felt the rough
touch of a chest thick with hair and the smooth silk of another.

She felt the maddeningly slow, controlled slide of a probing finger
inside her. In and out.  She writhed and moaned at the intimate touch.
 Was it Pendrell?  No, he would never be so bold or would he?  He'd
changed so much over the past two months, and she had taken extreme
pleasure in watching him emerge from his cocoon of shyness.

She'd marveled at his progression from halting touches to confident
strokes.  He was a skillful lover, treating her body as he would a
perplexing puzzle to be solved, studying and learning every inch of
her with his lips and hands.  Seeking out her sensitive areas,
discovering what made her moan, what made her scream.  But more than
anything she loved it when he forgot about trying to please her, when
in the spasms of ecstasy he lost control.  In those brief moments she
could glimpse a completely new side of him: intense, volatile,
powerful.  Sensual.

The stroking at her center increased in pace, becoming controlled
thrusts.  Scully's hips bucked in reaction, grinding against the hand,
loving the less-than-gentle slide of it between her legs.  Her eyes
opened to slits, and through the veil of her lashes she could make out
the hazy outline of the owner of the hand.  But in the darkness of the
room, he was impossible to identify.  Curiosity almost opened her eyes
all the way, but the thrill of the mystery made her squeeze them shut
again.

It could be Mulder.  The hard possessive strokes were consistent with
his blunt, ardent lovemaking.  The depth of his intensity in his work
had sometimes scared her, and he showed the same passion in the
bedroom.  His almost casual possessiveness of her body as he laid
claim to it excited her.  Yet he never forgot the third party in their
triangle, often taking control of both her and Pendrell, sending them
both to heights they'd never imagined.

The sharp ache that pulsed beneath the tormenting hand transformed
into a throbbing clenching, the beginnings of orgasm almost stealing
the last of her conscious thought.

She grabbed at the hand between her legs, pressing it further against
her, when she discovered not one hand but two.  It was Pendrell's hand
pressing up inside her, stroking her, but Mulder's hand covered his,
guiding it, both hands wet with her desire as she inched toward climax.

Her eyes opened in surprise and she watched them both, watching her. 
Their hands moved in synchronization, urging her toward orgasm and her
hand clenched atop theirs as she strained against them both, her
climax imminent.

It was at that point that they withdrew.  A brief look passed between
Mulder and Pendrell before they drew their hands apart and away,
leaving Scully panting and on the brink.  She could have cried with
disappointment but she'd seen their exchange of look and knew what it
meant.  It meant something else was coming.  Something better.

She burned with anticipation as they changed position, Mulder drawing
aside and Pendrell slowly lowering his body to cover hers, his rigid
cock pressing insistently at her stomach.  Her hips tilted upwards,
beseeching him to enter.

He accepted, sliding into the melting heat of her, loving the tight
fit, the perfect feel of being inside her.  He took her mouth with his
as their hips began to move,  kissing her with all the pent-up passion
he was feeling, drawing on her lower lip, sucking her tongue.  He
grasped her waist and rolled them both over, so they lay, still
joined, with him beneath her.

This new position allowed Mulder greater access to Scully's tempting
body, and he took full advantage of it, his hands roaming over her
sensuous curves, tangling in her hair.  He ran his lips down her back,
across her shoulder blades, the underside of her breasts.  As he drew
her erect nipple between his lips grazing it lightly with the edge of
his teeth, the ache in his groin tightened, becoming a demand.

His hands slid over her the twin curves of her buttocks and he could
see where she and Pendrell were joined so intimately.  He let his hand
stray downwards, sliding his fingers along her outer lips where they
embraced Pendrell's stiff pulsing shaft.

Their joined hips moved and Mulder's hand became deliciously wedged
between their rubbing bodies.  He could feel their quivering reaction
to the additional stimulant of his wandering hand, and his own cock
began to throb and harden further, begging for release, longing to be
buried within the hot cavern of a warm body.

He curved his upper body over, pressing his chest against Scully's
back as he guided both her and Pendrell to lie on their sides, drawing
up behind Scully so their bodies pressed together, the length of him
flush against her.  She let out a strangled breath and reached for
him, turning her head to receive his hungry open mouthed kiss, even as
her lower body, still locked with Pendrell's, continued to thrust. 
This is what she loved, what she longed for, the hard crushing heat of
being trapped between two male bodies.

Pendrell watched the two of them, the strangely intimate sight of
Scully and Mulder's shared kiss, their faces so close to his.  His
hips continued to rock in time with Scully's, fueling his orgasm, and
he could feel the force of Scully's thrusts increase as Mulder began
to buck his hips with her, the impetus from his movements transferring
to hers.  He let his hand slide from Scully's hip to Mulder's,
downward, between the two hard thighs to hold the other man's rigid
length.  He seemed to measure Mulder's desire with his hand and ever
so briefly, their eyes met past Scully.

It was then that Pendrell withdrew, his stomach muscles tensing with
effort as he slid from Scully's body.  Scully's small whimper of loss
failed on her lips as his mouth captured hers, his hand guiding
Mulder's straining erection to her wet, waiting opening.  His own hard
length pulsed with want as he felt Mulder and Scully's sinuous
movements, but he almost forgot his consuming ache for release as
Scully's lips took his hungrily, gratefully, praising his sacrifice.

Pendrell's hard length didn't remain unsatisfied long.  Hands, both
masculine and feminine, crept to his groin to take his cock, still
moist from Scully's wetness, letting it slide between their fingers,
grasping it, pumping it, the tips of their fingers dancing over his
most sensitive areas.

Suddenly it was hard to breathe, Pendrell's head flew backward, his
hips straining toward the snaking, sliding embrace of Mulder and
Scully's fingers.  Straight from one kind of pleasure to another. It
was all too much Scully's breasts against his chest, her tongue
sliding between his lips, her hand at his rigid cock, milking it with
the borrowed expertise of Mulder's maddening hands.

The sight of not one, but two gorgeous people drawing toward climax. 
Pendrell could feel the first fluttering of orgasm begin to build.

Mulder too, was getting close. Impossibly hard, he pumped into
Scully's welcoming warmth, feeling the taut, sweet squeeze of her
internal muscles around him, stimulating him, making him bite his lip
to keep from crying out.  His mouth pressed at her neck, the harsh
breaths that pushed between his lips onto the sensitive skin behind
her ear just another maddening caress driving her closer to the
blinding release of orgasm.

Pendrell's hands slid over the soft skin of her breasts, the taut
curve of her rib cage, the smooth line of her back.  His knuckles
brushed against the hard muscle of a smooth male chest, making him
catch his already straining breath.  At the accidental touch, the grip
of Mulder's hand at Pendrell's crotch tightened almost imperceptibly,
making the younger man groan and buck his hips in reaction, pressing
him closer to Scully's ravished form.  Their three bodies meshed in a
thrusting, pulsing dance of desire, drawing them nearer and nearer to
climax.

With a groan, Mulder came, his unrestrained burst of release
triggering Scully's orgasm, making her cry out as he spurted within
her.  She trembled and shook as climax claimed her, but Mulder
withdrew swiftly, his cock still throbbing as it left her body and his
hands guided Pendrell's rigid length into Scully's clenching cavern.

Scully shrieked in reaction as she felt Mulder leave her, only to be
immediately replaced by Pendrell. Her breath came in little gasps as
the intense pleasure of her orgasm multiplied, spurred on by the
unexpected catalyst of changing between two men.  The shaking spasms
of her release intensified and she rode them out, her internal muscles
tensing and pulsing around Pendrell, inducing his own climax.

Mulder watched almost calmly as Pendrell's face contorted, a throaty
groan escaping the younger man's lips.  Pendrell's climax was almost
violent in its intensity and Mulder savored the sight of him, of both
of them, as the last sensations of release racked his own body.

Slowly, the combined rhythm less thrusting of their hips wound down,
leaving them breathless and sated, their limbs heavy and slick with
perspiration.  They lay still, boneless and drowsy, their bodies
deliciously crushed together, as the blissful lethargy claimed them. 
Not wanting to move or in any way break contact, they fell asleep that
way, three lovers locked in each others' embrace.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the suffocating darkness of the early hours, someone stirred. 
Whether by purpose, or in response to the unseen figures of a dream, a
wandering hand encountered flesh warm and inviting.  Still partially
asleep, a body arched in reaction, bending to the caressing hand,
reaching out in the inky blackness to touch and grasp at another.

Blind, and strangely reluctant to break the heavy silence with words,
they spoke in gestures, touches and movements.  A soft caress.  The
hot velvet stroke of a tongue.  The insistent slide of skilled hands
over quivering flesh.  Reaching, touching, taking.

Loving.

It was completely anonymous and exquisitely uninhibited.

She felt the strong hands at her breasts, the wet rasp of a mouth at
her throat, the slow circular roll of hips against hers, making her
grind her hips in response, inhibitions drowned in the dark, sightless
void of the early morning darkness.  It was almost dreamlike, in the
hazy consciousness that lies between sleep and wakefulness, and they
made love savagely, but not roughly anonymously, but with the intimate
knowledge of long term lovers.

Hands.

Scully felt hands all over her.

Hands roughly raking over her body, grabbing and lifting her breasts,
twisting and pinching her nipples to aching erection.  Hands grasping
and kneading her ass, holding her buttocks apart to allow other hands
to slide between them, to touch and tantalize her hot melting wetness.

Then mouths replaced hands and it escalated to new dizzying heights of
pleasure.  Flicking tongues, nipping teeth, lapping, stroking and
biting her desperately aroused flesh.  The light brush of a silken
cock at her thigh, and another at the curve of her rear, brief but
insistent touches, pleading for entrance.  And she wanted them, both
of them, inside her.

Sightless in the darkness, mindless with desire, she took them in,
bending low to draw one pulsing shaft between her lips and letting her
hips sway back and forth, teasing the tip of the other with the
luscious curves of her ass.  It was forceful, harsh and explosive as
hands grasped at her waist, forcing her hips backward, so she could
feel the thrust of a rigid cock slide up inside her, filling her warm
cavern just as the other filled her mouth.

She sucked at one with her lips, and pulled at the other with the
clenching squeeze of her lower lips.  The thick silence was broken by
harsh male groans and she sucked harder, feeling the body in front of
her arch and sway toward her, the silken cock between her lips
shifting and moving.  Behind her, the slow, sliding thrusts began to
push into her, and she felt the light slam of hips against her rear as
he bucked and moved.

Whoever he was.

It was primitive, animal.  It was taking without pretense.  It was
beautiful.

Grunts and groans pervaded the room, she knew he was close.  And so
was he.  She was too, so she released the last sliver of grasp she had
on reality and let the sensations take her.  Someone screamed. 
Someone moaned.  She felt her mouth fill with heavy warmth, as the
heated pulsing spasms in her groin spread throughout her body, racking
her slight form with violent intensity, as the bucking, thrusting male
bodies pressed into and against her.

She may have cried out.  She may have just cried.  But afterward they
held her, crushing her body between theirs, showering her with moist
kisses and soft caresses, until she fell back into the void of
unconsciousness.

And as she slept, he stroked her hair.

And so did he.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


When Dana Scully entered the AD's office on Monday morning, as
requested, she was more than a little surprised to see both Mulder and
Pendrell awaiting her arrival along with Skinner.  She took her
customary seat in front of Skinner's desk, between them both and shot
Skinner a questioning look.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"  she asked.

Skinner looked up from the open folder in front of him and addressed
all three of them.  "Good morning, Agent Scully.  I don't know if
Agent Mulder informed you yet, but I've a case of special interest
here that I'd like your assistance on."

Scully pursed her lips and shot a glance at Mulder.  "No, he didn't
mention it, sir."

Mulder shrugged sheepishly at her in reply.  Scully rolled her eyes
and turned back to Skinner.  "What is it about?"

"It's a serial murder case down in New Orleans," replied Skinner. 
"Five women, two men, all between the ages of 18 and 27, murdered
within the last six weeks.  The New Orleans bureau specifically
requested Agent Mulder and as a favor to the section chief,  who is a
friend, I'm going to grant their request.  Agent Mulder has already
kindly agreed to take the case, but would like to have your and Agent
Pendrell's assistance.  This is a voluntary non-XFile assignment,
Agent Scully, so please feel free to say no."

Scully bit her lip, hard.  What was Mulder thinking, taking Pendrell
with them?  He wasn't a field agent and hauling him into the heart of
a serial killing case was not exactly the way to break him in. "I'll
be glad to assist sir, but may I ask why Agent Pendrell is joining us?
 Isn't he needed here in the Sci-Crime lab?" she asked gently, praying
that Pendrell wouldn't take it the wrong way.

But Mulder interjected.  "I asked for him to join us, Scully.  The New
Orleans Crime Lab is infamously slow and shoddy.  Pendrell's been
working on the peripheral evidence up here already, so he's completely
familiar with the case.  If it's his field experience you're concerned
about, it's irrelevant, because he'll be locked in a lab down there as
well."

He turned to Pendrell with a wry shrug. "Sorry."

Pendrell shrugged back with a grin.  "Same old story.  Chained to the
microscope no matter where I go."

Skinner turned to Scully.  "Is that satisfactory, Agent Scully?"

"Yes, sir," replied Scully, with an annoyed glance at both Mulder and
Pendrell.  How could they not tell her about this *before* she came
into this meeting?  Now she looked like a schoolmarmish whiner.

"All right.  The paperwork's been approved and the travel office
should have your tickets," said Skinner.  "Any questions?"

All three agents shook their heads.

"Good," replied Skinner.  "Good luck to the three of you."

"Thanks," said Mulder, rising.

"Yeah," muttered Scully under her breath.  "We'll need it."

~~~~~~~~~~
TO BE CONTINUED IN "TRINI 2:  TORCHED"
Chapter Two
by LadyFox and "Sox"

PLEASE let us know what you think.
Feedback makes us write faster!
Send to either
LadyFox: flying.hamburger@mailexcite.com
or "Sox": dbkate@yahoo.com



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

At Dulles airport Scully sank a bit deeper into the uncomfortable
plastic chair with a tired sigh.  All three agents had spent the
afternoon in the conference room discussing the case and Mulder had
picked the last flight out from DC to New Orleans, which left at the
obscene hour of 1am.

Scully was exhausted, but Mulder and Pendrell were animated, the older
man obviously looking forward to returning to his investigative roots,
the younger man enjoying the novel experience of actually experiencing
a case firsthand, not vicariously through the evidence that was passed
onto his desk by other agents.  Scully watched them both as they sat
across from her, hunched together over the file, discussing intently
some minor points of evidence and occasionally nodding in agreement or
shaking their heads in argument.

And a strange thrill of possession ran through her as she watched them.

//Mine//

Scully tried to push the triumphant little voice from her head, but it
simply continued, crowing louder when she saw two young women pass by
and stare pointedly at Mulder and Pendrell, an unmistakable look in
their eyes.  The two women poked each other and giggled as they
passed, but Mulder and Pendrell didn't look up, either not noticing or
uncaring.  The women shrugged and continued to walk away, but after
they left, Scully watched as Mulder lifted his eyes from the file and
a slow smile spread across his face.  She smiled back, as Pendrell
too, looked up and smiled, first at her then at Mulder.  Scully
shivered as they both stared at her, the thrill deepening and becoming
a slight, but wonderful ache throughout her stomach, rolling down her
legs.

//Mine//

Maybe this trip will be good for us after all, she thought.

Maybe it'll be good for me.

The announcement of their departing flight interrupted her thoughts
and the three of them rose at once, with Pendrell taking her travel
bag and slinging it over his shoulder, as Mulder guided her toward the
gate, his hand resting lightly against the small of her back.	They
both turned again to smile at her as they boarded, and Scully couldn't
help but listen to that voice, as it grew louder and happier by the
moment.

//Mine//

//Both of them//

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

Scully entered her hotel room and dumped her bags with a groan.

It was now 3am and the flight had been bumpy, stuffy and long.  She
rolled her eyes as Mulder and Pendrell came in simultaneously through
the connecting doors on either side of her room, and watched them
laugh when they saw each other enter.

"Guys," said Scully sternly, as she flipped off her shoes, sat, and
started to rub one of her aching feet.  "We are on a case.  No
hanky-panky while investigating."

Mulder sat next to her, took her foot from her hand and began to
massage it for her.  Scully leaned back and sighed contentedly.  "All
right, foot massages are OK, but nothing else."

"Uh, huh," said Mulder, leaving the chair and kneeling in front of
her, he slid his hands under her skirt.  His fingers hooked the
elastic on the top of her stockings and he gently tugged them downward.

Scully, exhausted, but becoming impossibly aroused, lifted her hips as
Mulder slid the pantyhose slowly down her legs and discarded them. 
"All right, helping me undress is OK, but nothing else."  She groaned
and wiggled as his hands slid underneath her skirt once more, and
tugged her panties off.

Scully looked up through hooded and tired eyes at Pendrell who was
merely watching what Mulder was doing, intently, but with his arms
folded casually across his chest, making no move toward them.  She
felt a real thrill at his casual indifference, his impassive spectator
ship something new and exciting.  Scully gasped as she felt her skirt
being pushed up, way up over her hips, exposing her private
areas...the tops of her thighs and the small triangle of curling hair,
red, but a deeper, richer tone than the hair on her head.

"Spread your legs," Mulder whispered, still kneeling, his lips against
her knee.

"Oh, but...Mulder," she whispered, becoming embarrassed,
self-conscious and impossibly aroused.  She looked up at Pendrell who
stood nonchalantly, watching carefully, but still not making a move. 
Scully met his eyes and quickly gasped when she felt two strong hands
wrench her knees apart and hold them there, exposing her completely,
the cool air caressing her secret parts.

"What do you think?" Mulder asked aloud, holding Scully's legs apart
and carefully examining her private areas, which were starting to
become noticeably damp, the outer lips reddening and swelling under
the combined gaze of both men.

"Beautiful," answered Pendrell hoarsely.  "Gorgeous."

Mulder ran a gentle finger over the outer lips and Scully trembled at
the touch.  He carefully spread them with his thumb and middle finger
and began to flick his index finger over Scully's clitoris, slowly
adding pressure, circling the tiny bud with his fingertip, her heat
and wetness becoming more obvious by the moment.  Scully groaned
loudly and closed her eyes, the excitement and the humiliation
combining, as she shamelessly began to lift her hips from the chair in
a rocking motion, as if she were a creature in heat,	reason fleeing in
the face of desire.

"So pretty," Mulder whispered, as he carefully placed a finger inside
of her and he continued to stroke her, adding short thrusts of his
hand to the mix.  "So very pretty."

Scully started to thrash in the chair, her head back, her eyes still
closed.  "Mulder, please...." she croaked, barely able to get the
words out.  She couldn't ever imagine being this insatiable, but here
she was, begging for yet another release, as she had that morning and
the night before.  It seemed endless, this circle of desire and
satisfaction, one a constant ache, the other such a short burst of
glorious relief.

But before she could come, Scully felt Mulder's hand leave her and she
groaned loudly at the loss.  It was less then a moment though, before
she felt an even better sensation.

A mouth was against her now, hot, demanding and wonderful.

Scully's thighs began to quiver, and her back arched impossibly high,
her knuckles whitening, as she gripped the arm rests.  She cried out
and ground herself against the mouth that assaulted her, the
irrepressible waves of her orgasm spreading heat and peace throughout
her entire body.  She a long, deep ragged breath and slowly opened her
eyes, her hand still unconsciously clenching the hair of the man who
was kneeling between her legs.

She started slightly, then started to chuckle, when she saw Pendrell's
face looking up at her, his lips still swollen and wet.  She lie back
laughing, and jumped with a squeak when she felt him affectionately
nip the inside of her thigh.  Scully turned to look at Mulder who was
leaning against the bureau, a wide smile on his face.

"Share and share alike," he said sagely.

"Uh, huh," replied Scully, sleepily, stretching like a cat against the
chair.  "Now I really can't move.  I'm never going to get to bed."

Scully suddenly felt herself being lifted by two strong arms and
deposited gently atop cool sheets.  Two pairs of hands undressed her
completely, as she sighed as a warm comforter was pulled over her
shoulders and tucked beneath her chin.  She vaguely heard two voices
whisper over her, and then two kisses, one after the other against her
cheek.

"Good night, Scully," said one voice.

"Good night, Dana," said the other.

And, before she could even think of replying, Scully was fast asleep.

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

Mulder couldn't sleep.

He could sense it, lying in wait for him.  Like a fire blazing behind
a closed door.  He couldn't see it, but he could smell the flames, he
could feel the heat.  Sleep tonight would not bring rest.  It would
bring fear, clawing and desperate.  It would bring dreams, haunted
dreams, raking his senses with nightmarish visions.  Visions he'd been
having since he was twelve.

This was not an unusual situation.  Over the years he had become
accustomed to insomnia.  He'd even developed his own strange ways of
dealing with it.

Two months ago he would be reaching for the remote, reaching into his
private video collection, watching the tapes he pretended not to
watch.  The ones he made jokes about.  Sometimes thinking of Scully as
his hand slid beneath the sheets. Sometimes it worked.  Sometimes the
release was enough to send him to sleep.  Deep, dreamless, healing
sleep.  And sometimes it wasn't.

Sometimes he would lie awake for hours, thinking and rethinking a
case, turning it over in his mind.  Inventing and reinventing
theories, the wilder the better.  Then, he would reach for the phone
and share them with Scully, just to hear her voice.  And her sleepy
tones would soothe him, and he could slumber without fear.  Two months
ago, that was enough.  Sometimes.

Tonight, he paced the floor, frustrated with himself.  He hadn't had a
sleepless night in two months. He'd begun to think that maybe, just
maybe, he'd found the answer.

Found it with Scully, with Pendrell.  Their solution was better,
better than the shallow, one-handed release of his videos.  Better
than the distant, stilted reassurance over the phone lines.  With
them, the release and the comfort were real and enduring.

It was like a revelation.  Which is why he couldn't understand why
suddenly the thought of sleep was so terrifying to him.

That was how he found himself in Scully's room, watching her sleep. 
Her slow deep breaths soothed him, her face in the dim light of the
hotel room looked like an angel's.

She was so at peace, so relaxed and yet so vulnerable. In spite of
himself, a small smile crept across his face.  No, he wouldn't wake
her.  She needed to sleep and he was glad she could.  Perhaps her
peace could be enough for both of them.

Perhaps.

He was about to go back into his room, alone, when for the first time,
he noticed the dim glow coming from beneath the other adjoining door. 
Pendrell's door.

Curiosity gripped him and he hesitated.  For a long while he stood
there in Scully's room, his glance flicking between Pendrell's door,
and his door.  Suddenly the notion of going back into his room was
extremely unappealing.  feeling atypically nervous, he raised his hand
to knock on Pendrell's door.  Then he let it drop back down. Strangely
shaky, and unsure why, he took a deep breath and raised his hand again.

This time he knocked.

A moment later, Pendrell opened the door.

"Mulder, wha-"

Mulder hushed him, placing a finger over his lips and gesturing his
head towards Scully, wrapped in sleep and oblivious to the two of
them.  Immediately understanding, Pendrell stepped back, opening the
door and allowing Mulder inside.

As he entered, Mulder noted Pendrell's lap top, open on a table, the
screen displaying anonymous looking charts.  Then he noted Pendrell,
still dressed in the same suit he'd worn on the plane, only now minus
the jacket and tie, sleeves rolled up and top three buttons undone. 
If Pendrell noticed Mulder's appreciative glance, he didn't comment on
it, but he didn't appear to be averse to his presence.

Mulder turned his eyes to the computer.

"You working?"

"Yeah, I was just going over some of the evidence again." Pendrell
explained, slightly confused by Mulder's presence, but not at all
threatened by it.  "Couldn't sleep."

"Me neither."

Mulder looked up and their eyes met across the table, the buzzing
computer screen bathing their faces in eerie blue light.  And suddenly
the room was too small, the walls pressing at them, pushing them so
close... too close.

Pendrell could feel Mulder's breath on his face, could smell him,
could almost taste him.  Like an animal caught in the headlights he
froze, entranced.  Mesmerized by the man in front of him.  Then he
tore his eyes away, withdrawing as nervous words bubbled to his lips.

"I don't know if it's sleeping in a strange place, nerves about the
case, or just jet lag-"

He never got to finish that sentence.  Two warm lips met his,
effectively silencing him.  Startled, it took Pendrell a moment to
respond, but he did, his lips slowly softening, then clinging to
Mulder's.  Any thought of resistance was melted away beneath the
seductive draw of Mulder's lips, the gentle slide of his tongue. 
Pendrell's soft moan was swallowed by Mulder's questing mouth, as he
closed his eyes and surrendered.

Surrendered to the exquisite pleasure of kissing Fox Mulder.

It was Mulder who broke the kiss, drawing back to see Pendrell's
reaction.  The glazed eyes, the wet shiny lips, the shaky in drawn
breaths.  The noticeable swell beneath his belt buckle.

"Why did you do that?"  Pendrell's voice was strangely distant,
detached, like he was hearing himself from across the room.

A smile tugged at corner of Mulder's mouth.  His eyes danced with
excitement... and arousal.

"I was curious."  Mulder let his hand slide to Pendrell's cheek,
playful fingers toying with a lock of ginger hair that curved over his
ear.  Pendrell drew in a quivering breath, unwittingly leaning his
face into Mulder's light touch.

"What about?"  Pendrell's voice grated out, almost silently.  His
mouth was dry, so dry.  Mulder's hand was creeping around to the back
of his neck.  He could almost sense what was coming next and he willed
it, but at the same time it frightened him. It frightened him how much
he could want this.

"About us... "Mulder's voice was low and lazy, but with an edge of
intense need. The pressure at the back of Pendrell's neck increased,
propelling his face toward Mulder's.

"About *this*."

The words were almost lost as his lips crushed against Pendrell's. 
The kiss was hard and hungry, pleasure with the slightest edge of
pain.  Pendrell almost whimpered, but then Mulder's lips were so soft,
and his tongue stroked at his so temptingly, that every hurt was
forgotten.  He let Mulder take his lips, his tongue, his mouth,
returning every touch eagerly.  His hands wandered over Mulder's body,
down his chest, around his waist, needing to touch him.  To feel him.

All of him.

Even as Pendrell drowned beneath Mulder's devouring mouth, somewhere
deep in his conscious mind, a whisper began chant.  A voice begged to
be heard.

//Dana//

Mulder's hands slid beneath Pendrell's shirt, sliding over bare skin.
Bare, hot skin burning to be touched.

//Dana//

Mulder's lips slid across Pendrell's cheek, down his throat, licking
his chest. Hands tugged at Pendrell's belt.

Pendrell burned beneath Mulder's lips, taking panting breaths, the
hard throbbing ache in his pants demanding. He struggled with reason,
to hear the voice.

A whisper became a scream.

//DANA!//

Lips still moist from Mulder's mouth, head still spinning from
Mulder's kiss, Pendrell's voice was a strangled groan.

"What are we doing?"

Mulder stopped, taking his time turning his gaze upward, to Pendrell's
startled eyes. His look was challenge, a promise.  An invitation.

"Call it an experiment."  Hazel eyes teased.  Blue eyes reflected
confusion.  Hands crept over heated skin.  Mulder continued,  "This
thing between us... I was wondering.  Would it still be there if it
was just...us?"

Pendrell drew shaky breaths.  He could feel Mulder's hand heavy
against his bare stomach.  So close to where he longed to be touched. 
Pendrell forced his voice to work.

"So-" he drew in a harsh breath as he felt Mulder's hand slide down
into his pants. "What is your *scientific* opinion?"

Mulder's hand slipped beneath the silk of Pendrell's underwear,
closing over him, so hard and heavy. His breath was hot against
Pendrell's ear as he answered.

"I think it needs further study."

With a moan he claimed Pendrell's mouth again and then they were both
lost.  A tangle of reaching arms and stroking hands, their lips and
bodies melted together.  Wanting.
Needing. Taking.

Pendrell's head was reeling.  He was falling deep into a chasm of
desire and Mulder was his only anchor, so he held on to him, gripping
Mulder's arms tightly as he swooned
beneath roving hands.  He *did* want this.  So badly.

As his arms slid around Mulder's neck to pull him closer, something
inside him snapped.  Something inside him was screaming.

//DANADANADANADANADANA//

He tore his mouth from Mulder's.

"Wait!"

It was a desperate moan on an outward breath.  Mulder heard it,
registering the desperation and immediately withdrew.

Pendrell stepped backwards.  His breathing was harsh, his chest
heaving and his legs unsteady as he drew his gaze back to Mulder.  He
was still painfully aroused, he
could feel the need thrumming through every nerve of his body, but
some part of him was running scared.  He just couldn't continue.

For a while the only sound in the room was that of harsh breathing. 
Then Pendrell spoke.

"I'm sorry.... I just-"

"Shhh...it's okay."  Mulder's voice was soothing.  He closed the
distance between them and held him, tenderly.  Pendrell almost
flinched away, but it was a gentle touch, comforting and
understanding.  Almost brotherly.  The confusion in him quietened
briefly.

Mulder dropped a gentle kiss on Pendrell's forehead.

"Goodnight Daniel."

He was at the door when Pendrell called him.

"Mulder..."

He turned back, not with expectancy, but with an expression that was
completely open.  Pendrell lost his train of thought, fought back a
tide of desire, and forced his legs to carry him to where Mulder stood
by the door.

There was a moment of silence as his courage deserted him, but he
forced the words out. //He deserves an explanation.//

"I think I'm in love with her."

He studied Mulder's face.  No anger, no hurt, just a wry knowing smile.

"Me too."

And Mulder slept that night.




TRINI II:  TORCHED
by Ladyfox & "Sox"

Chapter Three

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

The next day Dana Scully awoke to a gloriously sunny Louisiana morning.

She stretched out underneath her comforter, and yawned, clicking her
tongue against the roof of her mouth.  For a moment, she debated
sinking further into the warm blankets, but with a groan, she rose and
headed to the shower.  Soon, the fragrant steam was rising and she
gratefully felt a burst of hot water over her back and hair, soothing
away her morning stiffness.  She washed quickly, wrapped herself in a
surprisingly large and thick hotel room towel and went back into her
room, where Pendrell and Mulder were waiting for her, already dressed.

She shook her head and waved a hairbrush at them menacingly.  "Back. 
Stay right there.  Both of you.  I mean it."

Pendrell chuckled as Mulder feigned a yawn.  "Sorry, Scully, but even
I have limits."

Scully snorted in response as she dressed quickly, toweling her hair
until it was dry.  "Yeah, right."

"I don't," said Pendrell cheerfully, wincing when he felt Mulder's
fist smack playfully into his arm.

"It's always the quiet ones," said Mulder with mock annoyance. "So,
are we grabbing a bite here in the hotel before heading out?"

Scully shrugged, as she picked up her handbag and gave her hair once
last comb-over.  "Guess so."

Pendrell looked at them both with amazement.  "We're in New Orleans
and you two would even *consider* eating breakfast in a hotel
restaurant?" he asked, with an expression that bordered on horrified. 
"Oh, no, no, no..."

Still shaking his head, he led them downstairs and steered both of
them out of the lobby door. Soon, they found themselves in the heart
of the French Quarter, walking down the Rue Bourbon toward an elegant
building that had only one word above the antique French
doors..."Brennan's".

Scully peered at the bay windows and the delicately wrought iron
balcony above the door.  "This place looks a little pricey, Daniel,"
she said hesitantly.

Mulder nodded in agreement.  "I see the accounting department bursting
into flames already."

Pendrell bit his lip and shrugged.  "Look, if they give us a hard
time, this will be my treat.  But we just *can't* go to New Orleans
without having a least *one* breakfast at Brennan's," he said
imploringly.  "It would be a crime."

Mulder and Scully looked at each other with a smile.  "Well, we are
here to fight crime," said Mulder with a wry grin.  He opened the door
and together, Pendrell and Mulder ushered Scully inside.

Scully gasped when she saw the interior.  Spotless and crisp white
linens hung over antique tables surrounded by Queen Anne chairs and
the walls were covered with both grey silk and red velvet.

The matre'd approached with an already apologetic expression lining
his face.  "Monsieurs...Madam, welcome to Brennan's.  You have a
reservation?"
Mulder raised an eyebrow and then pointed at Pendrell.  "That's his
department," replied Mulder.

"Ah, I am so sorry, Monsieur, but we are completely..." began the
matre'd, but Pendrell pulled him aside, and quietly began to speak to
him in perfect Creole French.

Both Scully and Mulder stared at Pendrell in surprise, as he appeared
to carefully negotiate with matre'd, who made un unusual face and
returned, giving all three of them a slight bow.

"My mistake, Monsieurs, Madam, we have one table left.  Step this way,
please."

As they followed the waiter, Mulder leaned in to whisper in Pendrell's
ear.  "You have to teach me that trick."

A small smile curled Pendrell's lips as he whispered back.  "Easy. 
First thing you need is a French grandmother and a few years living in
a shack on Rue Domaine."

They soon arrived at their table which stood inside a large
greenhouse, over looking a magnificent garden, filled with fountains
and flowers of every color and description.  The waiter came over
introduced himself in both French and English and then left without
another word, simply motioning the two busboys on either side of the
table to begin the serving.

"No menus?" asked Scully curiously, as hot chicory-flavored coffee and
freshly baked French bread began to arrive in silver pots and huge
baskets.

"No," replied Pendrell, waving away the bottle of white wine offered
by the cellar-master who looked rather insulted at the dismissal. 
"There's only one breakfast here."

"And I assume it's not corn flakes" said Mulder, leaning back as the
flurry of activity continued at their table.  Soon, delicate bowls
filled with soup were laid in front of them, warm and spicy smelling.

"I should hope not," said Pendrell raising a coffee cup toward both of
them.  "Bon appetite."

Both Mulder and Scully gingerly took a taste of the soup and then
looked up in surprise.  It was an unrecognizable flavor, very rich but
delicate at the same time.  Scully took another sip and raised her
eyes in surprise at Pendrell.  "It's delicious. What is it?"

"Yeah, it's not Campbell's," said Mulder breaking off a large piece of
bread and dunking into his dish.

"Turtle soup," replied Pendrell, as two spoons fell into their
respective bowls.

"Turtle soup?" replied Mulder and Scully in unison, their jaws hanging
open.

"Yes, that's right.  Turtle soup.  And don't tell me you don't like
it, because you know you do."

Scully smiled in agreement and picked her spoon back up, but Mulder
still looked upset.  "I had a pet turtle once.  His name was Fred."	

He picked up his spoon with a sigh, and took another sip.  He
swallowed, suddenly looking thoughtful.  "Of course, if I'd known how
tasty Fred was, he might not have lasted that long."

Pendrell rolled his eyes and poured out more coffee.  "Let's get to
business.  I finished the materials analysis on evidence taken from
all seven bodies, including the analysis of the autopsy findings.  The
DNA evidence suggests that there was one killer, who was working
alone.  I also found the stomach contents of the victims to be
remarkably similar, all of them containing the same substance."

"And that would be?" asked Mulder.

Pendrell pulled out a file from his briefcase with a flourish.
"Absinthe," he intoned, as if saying something mystical.

"Absinthe?" repeated Scully thoughtfully.  "Isn't that a drink?"

"Well, yes, but then again, not exactly," said Pendrell, pulling out
some sheets and scanning them as he spoke.  "It's a liqueur, a
distillation of artemisia absinthium, commonly known as wormwood.  It
contains a potent neurotoxin called thujone."

Pendrell looked from side to side and then carefully pulled a tiny
vial out of his pocket and handed it to Mulder.  It contained an
astonishingly bright blue-green liquid, utterly dazzling in the
sunlight.  Mulder stared at it curiously for a moment and handed it to
Scully, who examined it with equal intrigue.

"I distilled a small batch of it in the lab so you could see what it
looks like," said Pendrell in a quiet voice.  "Don't hold it up too
high, it's illegal.  But I thought it might be important for you to
recognize it when you see it."

"Why is it illegal?" asked Mulder, taking the vial from Scully and
opening it.  He took a small sniff and backed away quickly from the
powerful scent, a bitter combination of anise and licorice.

"Thujone is a powerful hallucinogen, and it's believed to be highly
addictive and an aphrodisiac to boot.  At the turn of the century,
many people noted the high suicide rates of absinthe addicts, and so
it was banned throughout the Western world along with opiates,
cocaine, and cannabis.  You can't get it anywhere now, except in the
Czech Republic and some parts of Spain."

Mulder continued to sniff cautiously at the vial. "What does it taste
like?"

"Absolutely disgusting," replied Pendrell, reaching over and carefully
corking the vial before Mulder could try and find out.  "That's
actually the main problem with it.  People spent all their time trying
to figure out ways to make it more palatable.  Probably the reason why
it was never a good black market item, unlike pot or cocaine."

"It's also impractical to smuggle liquids versus powders or dried
leaves," interjected Scully.  "Too heavy."

Pendrell nodded.  "There are substitutes for it now, such as Pernod or
Herbsaint, which is used in these areas for cooking and flavoring,
minus the wormwood.  But what was found in the stomachs of those
victims was the real deal."

"Where do you think they got it?" asked Scully.  "Did they make it in
the bathtub?"

"I doubt it was a homemade batch.  Distilling large quantities of
absinthe is difficult, if not downright dangerous.  Wormwood is
extremely toxic in its pure form," replied Pendrell. "I'd assume
there's a small professional distillery working the area down here, or
in some other part of the city."

Mulder nodded, as their plates were cleared away and steaming dishes
of Eggs Benedict were laid before each of them with much flair. 
"Well, absinthe was always a French drink, and New Orleans was always
a French city at heart."

"It's nasty, dangerous stuff," said Pendrell, shaking his head.  "I
can't imagine why people still use it.  And why we'd find all seven of
the victims having had ingested such a rare drug."

"I'm sure it has a certain chic appeal," replied Mulder, tilting the
vial in the sunlight, watching the aqua and sapphire colors change and
shift.  "Maybe it's an underground group activity, an absinthe club of
sorts."

Scully nodded and dug into her eggs.  "Which would suggest a
connection between all the victims and their killer, perhaps belonging
to the same circle of acquaintances."

"Well, that part is up to you guys to figure out," said Pendrell,
taking a sip of coffee.  "I'm just the lab tech."

Scully smiled at him, a small intimate smile.  "A lab tech we couldn't
do without."

"In more ways then one," said Mulder dryly, and then laughed as he
felt two faint kicks under the table. After a moment, he became
serious.  "Pendrell... Scully and I will search out the city's
absinthe haunts this afternoon.  In the meantime, I'd like you to
double check the DNA for me."

Pendrell looked at him curiously.  "The DNA?"

"Yeah, there's something about it I don't like.  But first things
first," said Mulder, sitting back with a groan, the last of his eggs
finally gone.  "And the first thing is hiring a forklift to haul my
ass out here."

Scully nodded and threw down her napkin.  "You said it," she sighed. 
"I feel like someone's going to have to shove me back out to sea."

Pendrell looked surprised.  "But we're not done yet.  Dessert's coming."

"Dessert?" moaned Mulder and Scully together.

"Sure.  Bananas Foster," said Pendrell, as a large cart rolled up. 
"It's the house specialty.  Bananas flambe over vanilla ice cream
soaked in white rum and banana liqueur with..."  He was drowned out by
the loud groans of two stuffed agents.

Pendrell shrugged at them.  "I'll eat yours. No problem."

And he laughed, as two napkins hit him square in the face.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Chantel Lyon lit her third cigarette.

"Monsieur Mulder," she said, with a lilting, but affected Creole
accent.  "I really can't tell you much more than I already have told
the police."

Mulder tapped his fingers against the cafe's old wooden table as
Scully examined the woman in front of her.  Chantel Lyon's hair was an
eclectic mix of pure black with hints of blue, matching her lipstick
almost perfectly.  A white complexion stood in stark contrast to the
rest of her make-up, all harsh, sharp colors, dark blues and blacks
lining her eyes and mouth.  She wore no rouge, giving the impression
that she'd spent most of her life in a dark cellar, but it was obvious
the effect was strived for, not a natural result of any type of true
deprivation.

Her cheeks were sunken and her cheekbones were unattractively sharp,
over a long, thin neck, from which hung beads of Mardi Gras past.  A
thick swathe of black velvet was tied around her neck as a choker to
compliment her long matching gown, impractical and provocative apparel
in such a humid and tropical climate.

It was obvious to Scully that this woman belonged to some sort of
clique, some fashionable group of artists or perhaps simple deviants,
that lurked in the New Orleans night life and she was sure Mulder
noticed it too.

"I'm not really interested in the details of your last night with
Sophia Chenier," replied Mulder, naming one of the victims.  "What I
need is a place where I can get a long, cold sip of this," he said,
pulling out the absinthe-filled vial.

Chantel Lyon's eyes grew huge.  "Mon Deiu, monsieur.  Where did you..."

"That's irrelevant, Chantel," interrupted Mulder.  "I just need to
know where I can find this, in what one might call a social setting."

Lyon turned even paler than her wont and began to wring her hands.  "I
can't tell you that.  If I say where..."

"If you don't tell us, the consequences will be worse," replied
Scully, in a no-nonsense tone.  "We'll keep any information you give
us in the strictest confidence."

"Mon Deiu," repeated Lyon, lighting yet another long, brown cigarette
with a trembling hand.  "All right, but you must know that it will be
my death if you betray me."

Mulder shook his head. "Don't worry.  Just give us an address."

Lyon laughed, a short, harsh sound.  "As if you could even enter Le
Turnstile.  Don't you understand, this is all very underground. 
Policemen, politicians, senators...they all want to go to Le
Turnstile.  You wouldn't even make it past the door."

She eyed them both condescendingly.  "Not dressed as you are now, at
least.  You look like a pair of narcs."

"Then maybe you could help us out.  What's the clothing of choice?"
asked Mulder, raising an eyebrow at Scully, who looked quite
disgruntled at Chantel's assessment of her apparel.

Lyon sighed, relaxing visibly.  "I cannot teach fashion in a matter of
moments.  It takes a lifetime to learn," she replied airily.

Scully scowled.  "Well, guess what?  You're going to start teaching
us.  This afternoon, as a matter of fact.  Mulder, I think we're all
going to go clothes shopping."

"Oh, goody," said Mulder, rising with a smirk.  "Does the fun in this
town ever end?"

Lyon rolled her eyes dramatically as Scully jerked a thumb at her,
motioning for her to rise.  "Mon Deiu...at such an early hour yet. 
Will this torture ever cease?"

"Not likely," said Scully, as they headed toward the cafe door.  "Not
likely at all."

~~~~~~~~~~

Pendrell sighed and pulled at his collar again.

"Are you sure you want me to come with you?" he asked for the fourth
time.  "I'm not a field agent.  Really, I'm not."

Mulder merely grinned at him, and brushed some lint from the left
shoulder of Pendrell's new jacket.  "You are now."

Pendrell sighed again and looked at himself and Mulder in the large
hotel room mirror. They were both dressed alike, in very non-FBI
approved apparel.  Head-to-toe black, lean and slim looking,
everything fitted, from the turtlenecks, down to the form-fitting
black jeans and expensive linen jackets.

"Great," said Pendrell almost unhappily, turning around again, as if
to make absolutely sure it was his reflection in the mirror.

"Strength in numbers.  Besides, your knowledge of the local lingo is a
definite advantage," said Mulder, putting both hands on the younger
man's shoulders and shaking him affectionately.  "But, if you really
don't want to..."

Pendrell was about to reply, but was interrupted by a vision coming
out of the adjoining room.  A vision swathed in floor-length black
velvet.  Both he and Mulder stared as Dana Scully entered the room,
oblivious to the stir she was causing in both men.  She walked over to
the mirror, tutting at her own dramatic make-up, smoky lines of
charcoal and blue surrounding her eyes, making them appear huge within
her heart-shaped face.  Her lips were outlined with a dark, velvety
burgundy colored lipstick, making them warm looking and very enticing
against her pale skin.  Auburn hair was carefully pinned up, with
select tendrils falling and framing her face perfectly.  She glanced
at both of them and tugged at the black velvet choker that encircled
her neck with a humorous, empathic gesture as she walked over to the
mirror.

"Ridiculous," she murmured, twirling in front of the glass, shaking
her head with disapproval at her very un-professional appearance.

"Beautiful," echoed Pendrell and Mulder in unconscious unison.

She turned to them both and laughed, a sweet, tinkling sound.  "You
think so?"

Mulder walked over to her and embraced her.  He kissed the top of her
head  affectionately, enjoying the warmth and softness of the material
that clothed her.  "I think so."

He turned to Pendrell.  "And you?  What do you think?"

Pendrell looked at them both, shyly.  "I know so."

It was a simple, succinct statement but it took Scully's breath away.
Feeling as though she'd never received a more heartfelt compliment,
she turned to Pendrell, whose face had already started to redden.
Deeply touched by his unconscious sincerity, she was amazed to find
that she was close to tears as she replied,

"Thank you."  Taking his hands in hers, she leaned in to press her
lips to his.

It was meant to be a brief kiss, a gesture of gratitude for his
words... but when their lips met soft pressure became a crushing
melding of mouths as the hunger that had been simmering between them
exploded in a rush of desire.  Pendrell's blood quickened and he
tightened his arms around her, clasping their bodies together,
struggling for closer contact.

The velvet of her dress was unbelievably soft beneath his hands, as
they roved over her back, skimming the edges of her dress, then
sliding underneath it to stroke his fingertips over her soft skin. 
Scully moaned against his mouth, slipping her hands to his waist to
tug his shirt from his jeans and slide her hands inside it.  His back
muscles tensed beneath her touch, then one hand slid lower, into his
jeans to grasp the firm flesh of his buttocks.

Mulder's eyes hungrily drank in the sight of his two lovers, their
straining bodies and seeking mouths.  His own arousal was pressing at
the front of his jeans, hard and insistent, and he longed to touch
them, to join with them.

But he also longed to watch.

Pendrell and Scully sank down onto the floor in a tangle of limbs. 
Scully had opened Pendrell's jeans revealing a turgid erection that
tented his underwear.  Her skirt was hiked up, Pendrell's hands
pulling it up over the tops of her thighs so Mulder could see her
arousal, the dampness of her underwear.

And Mulder wanted to touch, to reach out, but he couldn't tear his
eyes from them,  he couldn't devote any of his energy to moving when
he needed it all simply to concentrate
on the erotic spectacle of their writhing bodies.

"Mulder..."  Scully's voice called to him, muffled against the skin of
Pendrell's neck.  She was inviting him, asking him for his presence. 
When he didn't accept, when she didn't feel another pair of hands on
her, another firm body against hers, she looked over at him, confusion
in her clear blue eyes.

He met her gaze, and his resolve wavered.  Her eyes were pleading, her
lips swollen and wet, auburn her hair falling like a curtain down
around her face.  She was knelt over Pendrell on her hands and knees,
looking over her shoulder at Mulder.  Her dress hung up around her
waist, exposing her gorgeous legs and pert ass to him, her neckline
dipped low, showing her creamy cleavage.

She looked wanton and exciting and very, very tempting.

"Come on, Mulder."  This time the speaker was Pendrell, his voice
gruff with arousal.  Mulder's eyes flicked to him and his arousal grew
more demanding.  Pendrell was obviously straining to control his body,
and this brief pause was costing him dearly. Sweat dotted his brow,
and with every breath he took his chest heaved upward. His straining
erection had pushed through the fly of his boxers, exposing the tip. 
Mulder
swallowed, his breathing shallow.

How he wanted them, both of them, and they both wanted him.  But for
once, just once, he was desperate to indulge his voyeuristic
tendencies, to watch rather than participate.

He just hadn't thought it would be so difficult.

"Please... let me..." Mulder tried to explain, forcing the words from
his lips in a low pleading whisper.  "I want... just to... watch."

Mulder knew the exact moment when Scully comprehended his whispered
plea.  Her eyebrows raised slightly, she blinked, then a moment later
her mouth curved into a sly knowing smile.  Mulder watched as she
leaned down to Pendrell, her movements  languorous.

She whispered something in Pendrell's ear and the confusion faded from
his face.  He glanced at Mulder his eyes questioning, as if seeking
permission and saw the intensity of the other man's gaze, the extent
to which he and Scully had aroused him.  The corner of Mulder's mouth
lifted into a small smile, and like a mirror image, Pendrell's followed.

For a moment the gaze held, linking the two men, an understanding
passing between them that couldn't be expressed in words.  Pendrell
turned his gaze to Scully and with new confidence, he slid a hand to
the back of her head, splaying his fingers and pulling her mouth to
his for a long, hot kiss.  His other hand slipped down to grasp the
soft flesh of her barely-covered ass. Every sensation seemed
heightened as they kissed, every touch electrified by the knowledge of
Mulder's audience.

And so the show began.

Pendrell's hand slid down Scully's back, grasping the zip of her dress
with sure fingers and pulling it down, letting his fingers trail over
the silky skin of her back.  The dark material slid open, hanging down
in the front to expose the delicate black lace of her bra.  Pendrell
dipped his head to run his lips over the soft mounds of her breasts,
wetting the lace with his questing tongue.

Impossibly aroused, Scully tossed her head, leaning into Pendrell's
mouth.  Impatiently,
she dragged her arms out of the sleeves of her dress and Pendrell
broke the exquisite contact of his mouth for a moment to help her pull
it over her head.

Mulder watched entranced as Pendrell undressed his partner, heat
thrumming through him as he absorbed every detail of her near-naked
state.  He loved to look at her.  Her flawless pale skin, perfect ass,
the hard points of her nipples visibly erect beneath the silky lace of
her bra.  She leaned down to Pendrell, kissing him with unexpected
gentleness, and Mulder could see the excitement in the other man's
response, the way his eyes creased to slits and his hands tightened on
her waist, returning her kiss slowly and lingeringly.

This seduction... a sight so intimate, yet he was a welcome spectator.
 His hardened erection began to throb demandingly, yet he made no move
toward them, trapped in his audience... seduced by the sight of them.

Scully pulled Pendrell's shirt over his head, taking her time pressing
kisses down his bare chest, flicking her tongue across his heated
skin.  She could feel his hands sliding lower, down over her hips to
stroke at the sensitive curves of her ass.

Mulder's heavy gaze followed Pendrell's movements, resting on her body
like a caress,
increasing every sensation Pendrell introduced, intensifying the
melting sensation between her legs as Pendrell's fingers slid lower to
stroke her damp core through her underwear.

At his first tentative touch, she lost concentration, turning her face
from Pendrell's chest, a moan escaping her lips.  When she opened her
eyes she found herself looking at Mulder, trapped in his intense gaze
as his eyes traveled between her face and Pendrell's skillfully moving
hands.

She let out a small shaky moan as Pendrell's hand slid beneath her
sodden underwear, at the first touch of his fingers to her hot wet
flesh she bit her lip to stifle a cry of response.  She arched her
back, lifting her hips to press herself against his hand, rubbing and
thrusting against him, desperately wanton and aroused beyond caring.

Mulder watched as Pendrell pulled off her underwear and raked his
jeans down his thighs, too impatient for closer contact to even pull
them all the way off.  Mulder's breath came short as Pendrell's cock
came into view, his lean hips rising, so it stroked at Scully where
his hands had touched her only moments before.

A small choking noise came from Mulder's throat as Scully's breathed a
low moan and rubbed herself on Pendrell's cock. Then, slowly, she
lowered herself onto it and their bodies rocked together, slick with
perspiration, hips grinding incessantly, striving for that perfect
rhythm that Mulder could hear beating in his head and his groin as he
watched them.

Scully's hips ground against Pendrell, her breasts crushed to his
chest, her hands clawing his shoulders as she rode him.  She could
feel the familiar clenching of her drenched sex around his hard
pulsing cock, and she knew she was close, and her  awareness of
Mulder's observation was pushing her toward the edge harder and faster
than ever before.

Mulder's hands had slipped down his body, seemingly of their own
accord, acting out
of years of old habits.  He barely realized it as he tugged open the
button and zipper of
his jeans, dragging down his underwear to release his straining
erection.

With practiced ease, he began to stroke, working his cock with his
fist, only vaguely conscious of his own actions, his body answering a
need he'd become too distracted to notice, but one he was desperate to
relieve.

Out of his mind with arousal, ready to explode, Pendrell bucked
against Scully, his whole body rubbing against hers.  He could feel
the first twinges of orgasm in his groin, and his hips bucked harder,
his breaths becoming groans of pleasure.  Somewhere in his state of
incredible arousal, something drew his eyes away from Scully, pulling
his gaze like a magnet to rest on Mulder.

Their eyes locked, and immediately Pendrell's thrusts became harder,
faster, his hips moving in time with Mulder's working hand, riding him
as he rode Scully, their movements in synchronization.  The steady
clenching of Scully around Pendrell's cock had become the tightening
grip of Mulder's fist.  For long moments it continued, an intense
spiral of pleasure that ran like a current through their locked gaze,
until Pendrell's eyes clenched closed, sensation claiming the last of
his thoughts, as Scully climaxed, her rippling orgasm inducing his.

Seconds later Mulder joined them, his own climax spurred on by the
sweet clenching touch of a hand covering his.  Pendrell's hand, his
grasp on Mulder, echoing the sweet tightening of Scully around him.  A
long choking moan escaped Mulder's lips as he came, his eyes squeezing
shut as the release claimed him.

Gradually the sounds pervading the room quieted, the moans and harsh
breathing subsiding into exhausted silence.  Mulder opened heavy lids
to see Pendrell and Scully sprawled on the floor, relaxed and sated.

Watching him.

Feeling himself flush slightly underneath their combined gaze, Mulder
looked down with a smile. "I knew I should have brought that
camcorder," he said jokingly.  He was pleased to see both of them
return his smile and then, his expression turned serious.

"Thank you, Scully," he said, placing a finger underneath her chin and
lifting her soft mouth to his.  The kiss was long and sweet, and
Mulder could smell the dampness of her flushed skin, the small beads
of sweat that had gathered at her throat.

Mulder gently pulled away from her and turned to Pendrell who was now
sitting up, looking shyly at them both.

"And thank you, Daniel," Mulder said, and he repeated the motion,
raising the chin of the red-haired man beside him and taking his mouth
beneath his own, just as gently and sweetly as he had Scully's. 
Pendrell shut his eyes and succumbed to the kiss, trying to stifle the
slight moan that was threatening at the back of his throat.

He tried to pry the memory of Mulder's kisses from the previous night
from his mind, along with all the images from the fantasies that had
followed, images of him and the man next to him, doing things that
he'd never imagined he'd enjoy, let alone crave with a desperate
desire. But how wonderful it felt, Mulder's lips against his and how
very much more he wanted.

But before he could take more, Mulder pulled away, smiling at the
gasping, slightly trembling man beside him.

"We *do* have somewhere to go tonight, you know." he heard Mulder
whisper.  Pendrell just nodded in reply, blushing furiously.  Getting
up on somewhat shaky legs, he began to put on his clothing and with
some surprise, noticed that Scully was already dressed, looking as
though she'd been through nothing more strenuous than a light breeze.

"Now, do I still look all right?" she said, carefully brushing the
last piece of lint from her dress.

"Magnificent," replied Mulder, straightening out his own coat.

"Fantastique," said Pendrell, yanking on his blazer and brushing the
arms off.

"And those are two unbiased opinions, I assume?" she said wryly.

"Of course, Scully.  Two perfectly unbiased opinions," said Mulder, as
he picked up her coat, a length of black velvet and wrapped it around
her shoulders.  "What else could they be?"

Pendrell offered her his arm, and she took it as they walked toward
the door.

"Well, it's good to know there's still some objectivity left around
here," said Scully dryly, as they left the room.  "Or I might start
getting a big ego."

"Heaven forbid," replied Mulder as he locked the door behind them.

And as they left the hotel and walked toward the French Quarter, all
three linked arms, with Scully in the middle, heading as one into the
black New Orleans' night.

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

The door of the basement club was painted dark green.

All three agents stood before it, hesitating, as if the old wood
itself knew their secret identity.  Pendrell turned toward Scully who
turned toward Mulder, who shrugged and jogged down the stairs with
bravado.  He knocked loudly, with three furious raps, and turned back
to his companions with upraised hands and an "simple-as-pie" gesture. 
But as soon as he knocked a deep voice boomed out from behind the door.

"S'ill n'est pas la, quoi faire sa voix?" it said, in a thick, harsh
tone.

Mulder's eyes flew open and he turned back with a panicked expression.
 Pendrell quickly stepped down the stairs and replied in as a
confident a voice as he could muster.

"C'est pas Cadien, ni poli." he answered, hoping it was the right one.

Slowly, the door cracked open, and a huge, swarthy man stood in its
entranceway.  He stared at the three agents for a long moment, and
then ushered them inside with a quick gesture.  "Welcome to Le
Turnstile," he growled, as the door slammed shut behind them.

"Merci," replied Pendrell, his mouth suddenly turning very dry.

As the three of them entered a black and winding hallway, Mulder
couldn't help but notice the strong scent of sweet smoke and licorice,
the unmistakable smell of absinthe.  He took Scully's hand, and she in
turn took Pendrell's, as they slowly walked forward, noting exits and
other possible escape routes, just in case.

They came to a flight of steep stairs, and as they silently descended,
they heard music, muted at first, growing louder with each step.  It
was an unusual sound, a strange combination of violins, guitars and
conga drums, all mingling together underneath a loud, wailing
accordion.  It was very sweet, but very wild music, almost mystical in
its sound and ability to force movement from its listeners.

Pendrell turned to Scully and whispered in her ear.  "Acadian music.
Older than you can imagine."

Scully simply nodded in reply as they reached the bottom of the
stairs.  All three glanced at each other before drawing back the dark
velvet curtain and stepping inside.  Immediately the smell of absinthe
became overwhelming, a choking haze of bitterness and sugar. The room
was so smoky and dark it was difficult to make out how many, if any,
other people were there, but soon, the figures came into focus, all
dressed alike, all holding a glass of the same dazzling green liquid. 
So astonishing was the sight in front of them, they didn't notice the
three large men who eyed their entrance warily.

Or the pair of bright green eyes that were following their every move.

"Bingo," said Mulder softly tugging on Scully's arm and nodded at
Pendrell to take seats at a small side table, close to the bar.  They
sat nervously, keeping a careful watch on their surroundings, that
were shifting and changing through the soft, dark haze.

"You don't even need absinthe to get high in this place," whispered
Pendrell, as a man approached their table with a large crystal canter
filled with absinthe and ten tiny drinking glasses hanging from his
belt.

Deftly, he removed three of the glasses and balancing them between his
fingers, he poured the absinthe with the other, not allowing the flow
to stop, but merely moving the canter's mouth from rim to rim, without
spilling a drop.  He set it down a single glass in front of each of
them, as Mulder slowly took a hundred dollar bill from his pocket and
tossed it upon the table.  The man scooped it up as deftly as he'd
poured, and quickly walked away.

"No change?" asked Scully incredulously.

"Guess not," replied Pendrell, no less astonished.

"Hey, poisoning yourself doesn't come cheap these days, guys," said
Mulder, raising the glass to his lips.  "Salude"

Pendrell grabbed his wrist with an angry look.  "Are you nuts?  You
don't know what's in that stuff."

Mulder fixed him with a stern glare.  "Remember why we're here,
Daniel.  Remember who you are supposed to be and remember what you are
*not*.  Forgetting that will kill us faster than this will."

"But, Mulder, he's right, you can..." started Scully, but before she
could finish, she was interrupted.

"Hey, Creole," said the largest of the three men that were suddenly
surrounding their table, seemingly out of nowhere, drunk on absinthe,
their eyes filled with a strange, soft menace. "M'alle marcher sur
piquante doree, non?"

"Ouais," replied Pendrell edgily, noting how dilated their pupils
were, how shallow their breathing seemed.

"But Creole, you have yet to drink," said the second man, somewhat
ominously.  "What is wrong?  Don't you like maudite 'tite bouteille?"

The other two men laughed and the third one turned to Scully with a
fogged lust in his eyes.  "Et quels jolis yeux, aussi clairs, aussi
bleus..."

"Yes, her eyes are very beautiful, but you're out of luck.  She's with
us," replied Pendrell quickly in English, putting an arm around
Scully's chair with affected carelessness.  "And true, we're here to
have some of your cursed little bottle, and you should pray it's good.
 We don't like to waste our money."

"*Us*, Creole?  She is with *both* of you?"

"That's right," Mulder replied, putting his hand on Scully's knee and
he rubbed it gently, but obviously.  "Both of us."

The three men turned to one another then back to the table with
confused expressions.  "You share this woman?" asked the large one,
all threatening gestures replaced by looks of curiosity.

"No," replied Scully softly, raising the glass to her lips carelessly.
 "I share them."

Slowly she brought Mulder's mouth her own, and deliberately kissed it,
with smooth lips.  She turned to Pendrell and repeated the gesture,
keeping her eyes open and trained on the men who stood before their
table, gaping.  Their stares grew larger when Pendrell reached over
and gently ran his hand through Mulder's hair, intimately, while also
keeping his eyes on the three, by now, astonished men.

The men looked at each other, and then, simultaneously, burst out
laughing.  "She shares them!" the huge one cried.  "Mon Deiu...well,
then, enjoy.  You are in the right place," he continued, giving them a
slight bow, still chuckling.  "Come, drink up and we will show you the
back rooms.  You like a little danse ue belle valse, non?"

"Ouais," replied Pendrell, with an inward sigh of relief. "A little
dancing would be nice."

"Good," said the man, pointing to a red door in the back.  "When you
have drunk, knock four times.  And we will have danse..."

"Merci," said Pendrell as they walked away, and with a miserable look
at his two companions, he too, raised the glass to his lips. 
"Salude..." he said, right before the glass slid from his fingers and
landed right on his jacket.

Pendrell stared at the spreading stain on his clothing and rolled his
eyes.  "You can take the doof out of the lab," he started woefully,
trying to wipe the sticky sweet liquid from the linen with his hands.

Scully stifled a small smile.  "I think you might want to wash that
off."

Mulder was already staring at the door of the back room. He nodded
toward Pendrell, who'd gotten up and was already trying to find a
possible path to the men's room through the haze.  "Meet us in there,"
he said, tilting his head toward the red door, offering a hand to
Scully.  "We'll stay by the door until you get there."

Pendrell nodded in reply and walked away, working his way through the
crowd, a swaying mass of glassy-eyed bodies.  He politely maneuvered
past them, finally reaching a small dark hallway that looked
promising.  With a sigh of relief he saw the men's room door at the
end of the dark hall and went in, turning on the water and grabbing
paper towels off the rack with an annoyed gesture.  He wet them and
began to wipe his jacket off, with short, irritable gestures.

"Hello," said the voice behind him.

Pendrell stopped wiping and turned around, surprised. He hadn't seen
anyone there when he'd entered.  "Hello?" he replied, more of a
question then a response.

"I saw you out there with your friends," said the man as Pendrell
stared curiously at him.  He was very handsome, gorgeous even, and
young, with sharp cheekbones and the brightest green eyes that
Pendrell had ever seen.  Eyes that were clever and quick with the
slightest hint of cruelty.  Pendrell instinctively backed away, trying
to appear nonchalant, inwardly regretting his new field agent status
more by the second.

"Oh, yeah," he replied, nervously, not sure what he supposed to say. 
The proper etiquette for undercover work hadn't been covered in his
forensic courses at Quantico.

"With friends like those," said the man, smiling sharply, his teeth
very white.  "But I'm being rude.  My name is Alex.  And you are?"

"Daniel," replied Pendrell, with a slow nod.  "My name's Daniel."

"Daniel," repeated the man with an obviously seductive smile.  "I like
that name.  I really like it."

"Thank you," replied Pendrell, confused.

"Any time.  So do you dance?" asked the young man, his eyes growing
brighter, his grin wider. "Or more to the point, would you care to
dance with me?"

Pendrell sized him up once more, noting the intent in his green eyes
and decided that the man was just trying to pick him up.  He sighed
and went back to cleaning his jacket, trying to blot the damp areas
with dry towels.

"Thanks, but no thanks, Alex.  I'm with some people," he said, no
longer paying attention to the man next to him.  "But really, thanks
anyway, I..." he said, looking up apologetically.

But Alex was no longer there.

Pendrell looked from side to side in astonishment and was about to
turn around when he smelled it.  Something very sweet, sweeter than
even the absinthe that surrounded him.  It was a familiar smell, one
he'd used in his lab many times before.  He tried to place it, when he
felt a very cold, very wet piece of cloth against his mouth and nose.

In shock, Pendrell flailed against it, the sweet smell taking his
vision from him, turning the world around him into spots of white,
then fading into a dim gray.  He choked into the cloth, and then he
felt his body relax into the darkness, only dimly noticing the sharp
pinch that assaulted his thigh.

He suddenly felt the cold tiles underneath his neck as the world
around him turned black and for a brief moment he thought he could
still hear the man's voice...a whisper in his ear.

//Want to dance, Daniel?//

~~~~~~~~~~~

He wasn't there.

Scully's eyes took in the mass of merging bodies, searching for
something, anything that would identify Pendrell among the faceless
tide of people.  Blonde, brown, black, even red - but none had his
distinctive shade of ginger hair.  None had his clear piercing blue
eyes.  None were Daniel.

Both her and Mulder had waited for almost half an hour at the entrance
to the back lounge, waiting for Pendrell to return from his trip to
the men's room, one that shouldn't have taken more than a few moments.
 Slowly, both of them began to stare at each other with expressions
that turned from confused, to worried and then, to panic.

Finally, Mulder stormed off through the crowd to the back rooms where
they last saw him enter.  Scully stayed behind, every second bringing
terrible thoughts, each one upon the heel of the other.  It was only
another few moments before she too, took off toward the club's back
exit, shoving through the oblivious crowd.

It was there that she felt it.

A hand on her shoulder.  She turned, expectantly, hoping against hope...

It was Mulder.

She searched his face for a clue, any sign of hope.  But she knew the
answer before he even opened his mouth.

"He wasn't there."

She barely felt the pain in her lower lip as she bit it.  //Pull
yourself together.  This doesn't prove anything is wrong.//

But it did.  She wasn't sure how or why, but she suddenly felt as if
an incredible weight had settled over her heart.  She knew, with a
knowledge she couldn't begin to explain, that they weren't going to
find Pendrell.  Mulder's voice pierced through her clouded thoughts.

"I found this in the bathroom."

He held out a black linen jacket. //It could be anyone's jacket.//  It
was the same size and style of the one Pendrell had been wearing, but
still that didn't necessarily prove

Then she saw the stain.

//It's his.//

A large sticky area on the upper breast of the jacket, precisely where
Pendrell had spilled the absinthe.  Certainty, desolate and damning,
penetrated her tormented
mind.

//Oh god, it's his.//

She struggled for control, fighting down the rising tide of panic by
trying to employ her investigative instincts.  Her gaze collided with
Mulder's and instantly an understanding
passed between them.

"Scully-"

She didn't wait for him to finish.  "We have to find him."

Abruptly, she turned and began to head toward the staircase, but
Mulder's hand around her wrist forcefully restrained her.  Almost
annoyed, she cast a harried glance back at him.  She almost spoke, but
the look on his face halted the words before she'd even formed them.

"Scully,"  He took a steadying breath, seeming to take immense effort
to speak. "That's not all I found."

His voice was deadly serious and she found it suddenly impossible to
breathe.  Unable to force the air from her throat, she stood stricken
as Mulder removed an object
from the folds of Pendrell's jacket.

An empty hypodermic needle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At midnight, in St. James Square, Chantel Lyon looked up and saw
nothing but the shadows of ancient statues and wrought iron fences,
silhouetted against a black-blue sky.  And even though she'd seen them
almost every evening of her short life, tonight they looked
particularly amazing.  Yes, they were
beautiful...breathtaking...absurdly astonishing.

How ridiculous to even notice them, Chantel thought as she walked
onward.

But, alas, that's what the *maudite 'tite bouteille*, that cursed
little bottle, usually does to one, she thought hazily, licking her
green-blue stained lips, brightly discolored over the black lipstick
she'd chosen so carefully only a few hours before.

Stumbling, she looked at the ground and saw the outlines of the broken
stones, the ragged cobbles that made up the streets and sidewalks of
the old port town that is New Orleans, and they were worn...worn flat
with age.

Not caring to look where she went, she instead took the time to peer
around and stare at each building, as she crept down the Rue Bourbon
and into its narrow back alleys. And she noted, for the first time,
with drugged interest, the handiwork of centuries past, the art that
was carved into every dark doorway.

It was lovely, perfect, spectacular, she thought giddily, tripping
through the filthy gutters, with the faint sounds of jazz and Dixie
beating through her heart and mind.  She would have continued on in
the same vein, perhaps until dawn, but she was forced to stop in front
of an abandoned shop, a store perhaps empty for a hundred years or more.

Chantel was forced to stop because she was surrounded by three men. 
Tall, slim, nondescript men, ones you'd pass by on the street without
a second glance, if they were walking alone.  But if they walked
together, you'd notice them immediately.

For they were three identical men, exactly the same, in every possible
way.

Chantel stared at them curiously, these strange triplets, and listened
as one of them started to sing softly to her, in the ancient language,
that bastard tongue of the great city that met both the river and the
sea..

"Conja, conja, conja ape vini," he sang, softly, in time to the
faraway music that surrounded him.  "M'alle marcher sur piquante doree."

Without warning, he pulled the knife from his pocket.

"M'alle voir ca ya dis moin," he continued to sing.

[Who is there who can stop me?]

Chantel had no time to cry out, no time to scream, as the blade was
drawn quickly, across her throat, from ear to ear, the dark red blood
squirting onto the ancient, abandoned streets.

"Mo gagnain soutiens la Louisiane," sang his second twin.

[I have the support of Louisiana.]

Her body drooped and then fell to the cold, stone covered ground, the
light of life leaving her eyes.

"M'alle voir ca ya dis moin," sang the third one.

[Who is there who can resist me?]

The three identical men turned to each other and smiled, their song
lost in the vast darkness of a cool New Orleans' night.  The first man
wiped the knife carefully on his blue silk handkerchief, and pocketing
it, he turned and began to follow his twins out the dark alleyway.

"M'alle voir ca ya dis moin," he sang once more.

[Who is there who can resist me?]

Oh, yes.  Who, indeed?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Floating.

He was floating.  Nestled among large fluffy clouds, carried away on
soft pockets of air, drifting in a dark, sightless void.

Numbness.  It pervaded his entire body, trapping him in a haze where
he couldn't see or feel anything but the still emptiness.

*Click.*

It was the clear, crisp sound of metal on metal, a lock snapping into
place, sending a vibration up his leg.  His eyes snapped open and he
tried to sit up.  Immediately, pain sluiced through his head and neck,
hard and intense, piercing through the haze of his drug fogged mind
and searing through his skull like a white-hot knife.  His head fell
back weakly, a small moan catching in his throat.

"The patient awakes."  Cold and mocking, the voice filtered through
Pendrell's clouded head.  His gaze skittered around the room until it
rested on the speaker.

Krycek slowly raised himself to his feet, satisfied that the handcuffs
he'd just fastened were secure around his captive's ankles.  He
approached the head of the bed, to which he'd fastened Pendrell's
hands at the wrist with duct tape.  Leaning over, he studied the man
spread-eagled on the bed before him.

He wasn't bad looking.  Not at all.  In fact, he was quite handsome if
you like that fair, sweet-faced, blue-eyed sort.  Which Krycek
sometimes did.  He leaned over and placed two fingers firmly at the
pulse point of Pendrell's neck.

"Tell me your full name."  He posed it as a demand, but his voice was
low, almost gentle.

Pendrell was lost.  There was a strange absence of information in his
mind.  His arms hurt and he couldn't seem to move his legs. The
fingers at his neck were like
a brand, the light touch causing his skin to burn, heat radiating from
that one point to suffuse his entire body with warmth. For the life of
him, he couldn't remember
his name.

He didn't know where he was or how he'd gotten there, or who this
dark-haired man with the smoldering eyes was.  To top it all off, he
appeared to be tied to a bed.  In his dazed state, he may have found
his predicament almost funny if the mysterious man's intense stare
weren't shooting arrows of fire right down to his toes.

Krycek regarded his prisoner with interest.  He wondered vaguely if
his question had even registered.  He noted the degree of dilation in
the younger man's sharp blue eyes, fixed on him.  Probably not.

He asked again.  "Your name?"

"I... uh..."  Pendrell's voice was coming in little gasps, released on
an outward breath.  Impatient for answers that didn't seem
forthcoming, Krycek abandoned the interrogation and reached for
Pendrell.

The hands that searched Pendrell's prostrate form were brisk and
efficient.  Fingers encircled his upper arms, sliding downward over
his chest, then around to skim up over his back.  Pendrell's
half-hearted moan of protest was lost on his lips as Krycek's hands
became suddenly too intimate and all too familiar with his body. 
Krycek's carefully measured gaze was trained on Pendrell as his hands
lingered perhaps a second too long on the crotch of his form-fitting
black jeans, before sliding beneath him to feel his buttocks with
movements that were almost a caress.

Before Pendrell could register that it *was* arousal he was feeling in
response to Krycek's invasive hands, the assault abruptly ended as
Krycek found and removed Pendrell's wallet.  He flipped it open and
studied Pendrell's badge.

"Pendrell."

He flinched at hearing his name.

"Daniel Pendrell, ring a bell?" Krycek's eyes were mocking.  "So, you
are with the Bureau.  Agent Pendrell, Sci-Crime Laboratory."  He
continued almost thoughtfully, with a disdainful look at the prone
agent.  Satisfied, he closed the wallet again and tossed it on the
bed.  It bounced lightly off Pendrell's chest before falling to the
bed covers.

Pendrell's reaction was violent.  A sharp anger, heightened by the
effect of the drugs, suddenly welled within him.  Triggered in part by
his own surging reaction to Krycek's brief, but thorough, frisking and
spurred on by the frustration of being unable to move or quite
understand what was going on.  He strained against his bonds, almost
spitting.

"What do you want?"

Krycek let his gaze linger for a while on Pendrell's straining form. 
His body was bowed, his hips thrust upward as he pulled against the
bindings that wouldn't give.  He wasn't giving up easily, his body
twisting with effort, making every muscle stand out and causing his
shirt to ride up ever so slightly, exposing a slim band of bare skin
to Krycek's wandering eye.

//Not bad, this one.  Not bad at all.//

Slowly, Krycek sat down on the bed's edge and waited patiently until
Pendrell's struggles ceased, and he watched as the man beside him
finally fell back against the mattress, gasping and trembling from the
effort.  Krycek grinned at his audacity, most people in his position
were reduced to begging long before the first question.

"Are you done now?" asked Krycek, almost kindly.

"I don't know who you are," replied Pendrell hoarsely, his anger still
boiling near the surface. "But I think you should realize that the
entire New Orleans Bureau will be looking for me. So if you don't want
a hundred agents..."

"Blocking off the roads, interrogating the local populace, tracing
phone lines, retrieving security video tapes from miles around, taking
over toll booths, tapping the main switch-board center..." interrupted
Krycek, with a smirk at Pendrell's astounded expression.

"Are you're wondering how I know all this, Daniel?" asked Krycek, the
sharp, half-smile still hovering around his mouth.

He pulled a small wallet from the inside pocket of his leather jacket
and flipped it open with a flourish.  "Are you wondering how I know
what those one hundred FBI agents are doing right at this moment?"

Pendrell nearly choked at the sight of what Krycek held.  For inside
the open wallet was a badge.

An FBI badge.

"Because I used to be one," finished Krycek, with mock sweetness. 
"And I know most, if not all, of their interesting methods of hostage
retrieval.  *And* how to avoid them.  So, I suggest you relax for a
while, because no one is coming to get you any time soon."

He leaned in closer and Pendrell could almost feel the heat from the
emerald eyes that hovered just above his own.  Breathing became
difficult and he felt trapped, not only by his bonds, but by a strange
suffocating sensation.  The sensation of being able to feel, to taste,
to touch everything around him, with painful clarity, from the cotton
sheets that were scratching unmercifully at the back of his neck, to
the very air surrounding him, heavy against every part of his body.

"You see, Daniel...you don't mind if I call you *Daniel*, do you?"
asked Krycek, his eyes still focused unrelentingly upon Pendrell's. 
"Daniel, I believe you have some information I need, information about
these murders that have taken place here over the last few weeks."

But Pendrell wasn't listening anymore, because his very clothes were
attacking him, their fibers ripping into his skin, hurting and itching
nearly beyond his ability to endure.

"What did you give me?" asked Pendrell with a shaking voice, but
trying not to panic, as the sensation of being assaulted by mere light
and air grew stronger.  "What was in that needle?"

"Oh, that? That's just a little science experiment of mine," replied
Krycek, reaching down and slowly tracing a finger along the pale cheek
of the man underneath him.

Pendrell gasped and closed his eyes as the roving finger's warmth and
pressure shot down from his cheek and emanated throughout his body in
merciless waves of sensation.

"Something I discovered during my time here in New Orleans and wanted
to see exactly what it did," continued Krycek, smiling at Pendrell's
response.  "You know, I heard it has interesting side effects.  Not
only good for subduing a target, but it also can spice
certain...aspects...of your life considerably."

Krycek looked smugly at Pendrell, registering the confusion in the
blue eyes below him with amusement.  "Of course, from what I saw
tonight, your life doesn't need much *spicing up*.  Both of them at
the same time, huh?  Well, I can almost see being with Mulder, but I
certainly don't envy your taste in women. As I remember, her nickname
at the Bureau was "The Ice Queen".  But maybe I'm wrong."

Pendrell felt his cheeks flush, with both embarrassment and rage, as
Krycek continued.  "So, tell me something," he continued gleefully. 
"Is Mulder a top or bottom?  You know, I always pictured him as..."

But here Krycek was interrupted as a warm, wet mass hit him upon the
cheek.  He grimaced as he wiped it off with his fingers and saw what
it was.

Why, he spat at me, Krycek thought with surprise, glaring at Pendrell
who returned his look defiantly. The good, little Bureau boy actually
spat in my face.

Do the surprises never end?

Krycek smiled at Pendrell, with a thin, dangerous grin.  "You know
what, Daniel?  I think I know what Mulder sees in you."

Without warning, Krycek threw himself upon Pendrell and straddled him,
the pointed leer still firmly in place.  Pendrell squirmed helplessly
underneath Krycek, trying without success to buck him off.

Slowly, Krycek leaned in closely, too closely, and with a groan,
Pendrell shut his eyes tightly.  He nearly cried out when he felt a
pair of lips, impossibly warm and soft, caressing him gently just
below his left ear.  Pendrell's hips leapt up again, but this time,
without a thought of escape.  He was brutally excited, horrifyingly
so, and he had no idea why.

With a short burst of laughter, Krycek pulled away as Pendrell kept
his eyes tightly shut, trying to force away the terrible, unwanted
ache between his legs that tormented him not only physically, but
mentally as well.

*I don't want him, I don't. This is the drug.  I don't want him.*  He
repeated it as a mantra, jerking his head away from the tickle of
Krycek whispering in his ear.

"I need that DNA evidence, the evidence that you've collected, Daniel,
and you're going to tell me where and how I can get it.  And then
you're going to tell me *exactly* how much Mulder knows about the
Absinthe Killer and Le Turnstile."

"So, sleep tight," whispered Krycek, running his index finger down the
inside of Pendrell's thighs, slowly, one after the other, smiling at
the strangled, unwilling moan that came from the younger man's throat.
 "But I have no doubt you will."

And as he got up and left room, shutting off the blinding overhead
light, Pendrell could hear his laughter, even from behind the closing
door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Yeah, I've seen it before."

The beefy agent waved the hypodermic needle underneath his nose once
more, as around him, the flurry of activity in the New Orleans' Bureau
office grew to a near fever pitch.

"It's called "torch", the latest in designer drugs," he said with a
grim look.  "It's in the same family as special-K, but with differing
effects."

"Ketamine," said Scully, trying to will her lurching stomach to calm
down.  "That's a powerful hallucinogen and tranquilizer."

The agent nodded as Mulder rose from his chair, and then sat down
quickly again, as though he had to move, but had nowhere to go.  He
looked at Scully, at her ghostly white cheeks and trembling lips, and
wondered if he looked as upset as she did.  He could feel the dull,
sickening throb guilt running through him, threatening to tie itself
around his throat and choke him with misery.

"I'll send it to the lab," said the older agent, placing it in an
evidence bag and handing it to a subordinate.  "But I'm 99% sure
that's what it is. Our man's kidnapper wasn't kidding, it seems.  I
hope he didn't give him too much of the stuff.  It has bad side
effects."

"Such as?" asked Scully, swallowing dryly.

The older agent scratched his chin.  "Well, for starters, it's
supposed to be highly addictive, but since it's such a new narcotic,
it's hard to say.  The users we've spoken to say that it's a powerful
tactile hallucinogen, heightening and exaggerating all the senses, but
especially touch.  There's rumors of violent rages associated with its
comedown.  Locals brought in a manslaughter suspect last week who was
rumored to be coming down from a *torch* high, but that's just a rumor
as far as I know."

Jesus, thought Mulder, when he heard this.  What have I done?

How could he have taken Daniel with them to that place?  How the hell
could he have allowed it?  He promised Skinner, and Scully, that
Pendrell would be confined to the lab, that his field experience would
be irrelevant, because he wouldn't be going anywhere.  And what does
the veteran field agent do then?  He puts a twenty-three-year-old
forensic right in the line of danger, perhaps even fatally.  Daniel
could be anywhere, hurt, suffering...

Dead.

No...no, he's not dead.  Because I won't allow that, thought Mulder. 
I refuse to allow that.

I absolutely refuse.

"Sirs," said a young agent, interrupting Mulder's reverie.  "We've
blocked off every road from here to the northern bayous, we've also
put in a call to the Baton Rouge field office and they are sending in
everyone they can spare."

"Good," said the older agent.  His voice turned grim.  "We don't plan
on losing any of our own, not in my town."

"I'm going back to the club we were in," said Mulder sharply,
surprising the older agent with the violence of his tone.  "And I'm
going to meet with the owner."

The older agent raised his eyebrows, and replied slowly, in his thick,
Southern drawl.  "Well, if you're looking for the owner of Le
Turnstile, that would be Livia August, but you may not be able to meet
with her.  You know, New Orleans is a town where power and money
measure your culpability, and she has enough of both to refuse even us
an audience."

"I don't care," said Mulder, yanking on his jacket.  "She'll see me. 
She won't have a choice. Scully?"

He turned to his partner, who nodded and picked up her coat.  They
both walked out and when they reached the outside, Scully took a long
deep breath of the cool night air, trying to calm her pounding heart.

"Mulder," she whispered as they reached the car.  "What are we going
to do?"

Mulder turned to her and noticed miserably that he'd never seen her
look so despairing.  She was near tears, a truly shocking sight, for
Scully was a woman who didn't cry easily.

Mulder let out a long shaking breath.  "We're going to take this
one-step at a time, Scully.  I'm sure the club has some sort of hidden
surveillance devices.  Once we confiscate the tapes from the owner, we
might get a break."

"And if we don't?" she asked, visibly trembling. "What if we never
find him?  What then?"

He folded her into his arms, and whispered into her hair.  "We will,
Scully.  I promise we will."


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

Pendrell was asleep.

As dim light filtered into the grimy room, hanging like dense fog in
the dusty air, Krycek registered that fact.  He stood in the doorway,
his lean figure casting a dark shadow into the sparsely furnished
room, watching as his captive slept.  Long into the night he'd heard
the  muffled moans, the bed creaking beneath the weight of a restless,
squirming body, the jangle of handcuffs.

A tiny, cruel smile curved his lips.

Stealthily, he approached the bed.  Pendrell was sleeping heavily,
probably exhausted.  Even in sleep, Krycek could see the deep circles
beneath his eyes that marred the smooth lines of his face.  He knelt
down and gently pressed two fingers to the base of Pendrell's neck,
finding a pulse pounding steady and strong.  His skin was warm, not
feverish, but sleep-warmed and inviting.

Krycek's hand lingered a little longer than necessary at Pendrell's
neck, then instead of removing it, he let it drift upward, brushing
the backs of his fingers over the
stubble-roughened curve of his cheek.

Pendrell didn't stir.  Krycek grew bolder, letting his hand slide over
the rim of Pendrell's ear and behind it to splay his fingers through
the short crisp hairs at the back of his neck.  He leaned in closer to
the sleeping Pendrell, so he could feel his breath feathering over his
face.

Krycek stared at his sleeping prisoner.  Pendrell's eyes were closed,
his lashes dark against his pale skin.  His mouth was relaxed in
sleep, making his lips look soft and tempting.  Krycek brushed a
finger briefly across them, watching carefully for any reaction. 
Pendrell didn't even flinch.  Krycek leaned in closer, so close his
own breath, much sharper and harsher than Pendrell's relaxed
breathing, gently blew over the other man's face.

So close now their noses touched, Krycek hesitated only a moment
before letting his lips meet Pendrell's.  Gently, he let his lips draw
on Pendrell's, Pendrell, who continued to sleep, oblivious.  Heat
gathered in Krycek's groin as he imagined what it would be like to
have these lips respond to his.  His hand tightened in Pendrell's hair.

Then Pendrell was responding, his lips moving ever so slightly on
Krycek's, kissing back, widening to allow Krycek's tongue and then his
lip to slip between them.  Krycek lost control, deepening the kiss and
lifting Pendrell's head to his.  He was lost, lost in sensation, the
sweet, hot sensation of Pendrell's response...

Pendrell's eyes flew open.

Immediately pain, sharp and intense, shot through  Krycek's lower lip.
 Gasping, he wrenched himself away from Pendrell's assaulting mouth,
pressing the back of his hand to his lip.  He brought it away, smeared
with blood.

//He bit me.//

Pendrell was glaring at Krycek, hatred vibrating from every cell in
his being, his lips wet with the other man's blood.

A smile tugged at Krycek's lips.  //I doubt Sleeping Beauty reacted
this way.//

Pendrell could taste blood in his mouth.  He watched, outraged, as
Krycek straightened and stood up.  He was regarding Pendrell with
interest and what appeared to be amusement.

He leaned over Pendrell, his face looming above threateningly, a
cruel, predatory smile twisting his lips.

His fingers touched Pendrell's cheek, and the younger man flinched
away, trying to move his head out of Krycek's reach, but unable to
because of his restraints.  Krycek's
fingers continued to teasingly stroke at his cheek and Pendrell had to
try to ignore the arrows of warmth that shot from Krycek's fingers
right to his groin.  And this
time he couldn't blame it on the drugs.

"Daniel..."

Krycek's voice was low and gravelly in his ear.

"If I didn't know any better I'd think you responded to me."

Pendrell's eyes skittered around, refusing to meet Krycek's.  His face
was close, so close he was only a breath away from kissing him. 
Pendrell held his breath.

"What happened... mistake me for Mulder?"

Krycek's sharp mocking laughter was the only sound as he withdrew,
watching Pendrell's face flush with anger and humiliation.  Pendrell
began to fight his bindings, wrenching and pulling at them until they
cut into his wrists and ankles. He didn't even feel the pain,
continuing to struggle although he knew it was hopeless.
He swore violently at his captor, venting all his fury on him.

"A bit hostile, Daniel?"  Was Krycek's unruffled reply.

"Fuck you."

That got his attention.  Krycek turned and pinned  Pendrell with an
unreadable look.  It wasn't threatening, but Pendrell felt panic well
up inside him.  He tugged uselessly at his restraints.

One of Krycek's eyebrows arched up.  Then he raised his arm so
Pendrell could see what he held... a hypodermic needle, full of
blue-green liquid.  Panic became paralyzing fear.

"No..."

"Sh-"  Krycek silenced Pendrell's protests immediately.  He roughly
pushed up the sleeve of Pendrell's shirt.  Pendrell began to struggle,
desperation clawing him,
but Krycek caught him by the arm and halted him with an intense look.

"Don't struggle.  You'll only make it worse for yourself."  His voice
was tight with concentration as his fingers bit into Pendrell's bicep.
 He waved the needle before his captive's face, seeing how Pendrell's
eyes followed the shiny tip like a man hypnotized.  He gripped
Pendrell's arm and brushed the sharp tip across his straining vein. 
He heard Pendrell's sharp intake of breath.  Amusement lit in his eyes
and the needle wavered for a moment, then drew away.

Turning his gaze to Pendrell's frightened expression, he slowly lifted
Pendrell's arm, bending his head to it.  Pendrell stared at Krycek in
confusion - confusion that became panic as Krycek's lips opened and
his tongue slipped out to press wetly against the exact spot the
needle had brushed.  Pendrell arched and squirmed, but
Krycek's grip was strong, holding him in place as his tongue traced
Pendrell's vein, lapping and licking it, then pressing the full length
against him, his eyes never
leaving Pendrell's.

Pendrell bit back a betraying moan as Krycek's mouth tortured his arm,
his lips sucking at his sensitive flesh.  He wanted to yell, to curse,
to scream at him to stop, but the sickening throb at his crotch sapped
his will.  Finally, it was Krycek who withdrew of his own accord.  He
sat back on his heels and administered the injection with a casual
detachment that brought a furious flush to Pendrell's face.

Angry at Krycek, angry at his own body's reaction, Pendrell fought
back then, swearing, squirming and shouting at Krycek with all his
strength, until the familiar languor of the drug seeped in, leeching
his energy.  Krycek silenced him by placing a hand over his mouth,
leaning in close to whisper in his ear.

"I know you liked that."

And Pendrell's brain concurred, a moment before he sank into
unconsciousness.


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

Three.

Such an unlucky number, thought the woman who sat in the now silent
and darkened club, alone, except for a glass of absinthe and a deck of
cards divided into three piles before her.  With an annoyed gesture,
she gathered them up, shuffled them hastily, and divided them instead
into two piles, leaving the cursed three behind.

Much better, she thought lazily.

Livia August, the owner of Le Turnstile, sighed as she picked up the
top card from the antique tarot deck that sat divided before her, two
stacks of small, square prophecies.  She picked up another Gitane
cigarette and lit it as she peered at the card.

The Wheel of Fortune.

A delicate eyebrow arched over aristocratic French features, made more
interesting by the creamy brown skin of her complexion.  Livia August
was a lost mix of races, born of every port, a cafe au lait Creole
woman of mystery.  It was rumored that she was a direct descendant of
Marie Laveau, the great voodoo Queen of New Orleans, a powerful
sorceress who's grave is still adorned by the charms and wishes of her
followers.  August did nothing to discourage these rumors, it was good
for business, she thought.

And whatever was good for Le Turnstile, was good for her.

August took another deep drag of the unfiltered cigarette in her hand
and exhaled a thick cloud of dark smoke.  Now this card, she thought
as she pondered the painted wheel before her.  This card...what
exactly does it mean?  The Wheel Of Fortune wasn't a particularly
lucky or unlucky card, it depended entirely on the whole reading, on
the cards that surrounded it, on the questions you asked of it.

Good luck...bad luck...it was Fortuna's Wheel and where it stopped, no
one knew.

With a huff of impatience, she tossed the card aside and drew once
more from the deck, placing the new pick carefully atop the black
velvet tablecloth.
She reached for the glass beside her, the tiny glass glowing with
green liquid, the absinthe she herself sold to the select group she
allowed into her sanctuary.  It has the power, this liquid, she
thought, taking a tiny, bitter sip...it has great power.  Squinting in
the dim light, she examined
the card before her.

The Hanged Man.

Oh, this was a good card, she thought cheerfully.  It meant renewal,
adventure, drastic change.  It wasn't meant to be taken literally,
there was
no death in this card, just subtle hints toward future directions. 
She smiled as she took another sip of absinthe, another drag of dark
smoke and
felt suddenly hazy, dim...strange.	Oh, this cursed little bottle, she
laughed lightly to herself, it still affects even me.

But can you ever grow immune to this...this magic...this devil's brew?

Never, she laughed, louder this time.  It has the power, the power of
the ancients in it, the power of all my ancestors.  Behind her she
heard the door
open, but didn't turn to look.  Whoever it was, they must come to me,
she knew.  Everyone comes to Livia August...

She looks for no one.

A moment later, the voice of her door manager, Lyon, whispered above
her, but she didn't look up.  She lazily fingered her cigarette as he
spoke, as if he
were just an intruding wind.

"Madame August," said the small, respectful voice above her.

Short draw on the cigarette...dragon's puff of smoke.  "Yes, Lyon?"

"There are people here to see you, Madame.  They are from the FBI, in
regards to the agent that disappeared from the restroom here this
evening.  I told them you were unavailable, but they refuse to take no
for an answer.  The gentleman in particular is quite vehement...he is
threatening to beat Chenier to gain entrance."

The Hanged Man lifted, then overturned.

"Let them in," replied August dully, as Lyon nodded, bowing as he left.

A moment later she heard the rustle of coats and short, sharp steps of
two pairs of shoes, one male, one female.  Still, Livia August didn't
turn around
or even change her demeanor, as she sipped and smoked and picked up
yet another card up to lay against the velvet.

The Tower.

Not good, she thought with annoyance.  Aggravated, August glanced up
at her visitors, at their pale faces and shiny badges.  One, a tall
handsome man,
spoke, his face white with sleeplessness, stress...and something else.

"Mulder, FBI," he said shortly.

August didn't reply, but instead, picked up her fourth and final card
from the Minor Arcana deck, asking the deck silently what this man
wanted of her. 

She stared at it, and shook her head.  Damn it. Another unlucky card.

The Three of Hearts.

Damn it.

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

When Pendrell awoke, the first thing that registered was that he was
cold.
The second was that he was also naked and his skin was unbearably
sensitive
and prickled with goose bumps.  He struggled to sit up and discovered
that
for the first time in what felt like years his arms were unbound.  He
stretched experimentally, rotating his shoulders and flexing his wrists,
feeling his muscles achingly object.

He glanced around, taking in his unfamiliar surroundings.  He was in a
bathroom,
on the floor... cold, hard tiles.  No wonder he was freezing.  He
wrapped his
arms
around himself and tried to get his brain working.  A sound caught his
attention
and he looked up, just in time to see Krycek enter the room, a towel
draped
over
his arm.  It was then that he realized, too late, that he'd just
missed a
perfect
opportunity to attempt escape.

Frustrated with himself for not acting sooner, he immediately
attempted to
formulate a new plan, before Krycek could drag out the handcuffs again.
Aware that this may be his only chance, Pendrell knew he had to get
out of
the hotel.  There was only one thing stopping him from doing that...

And that was Krycek.

Krycek knelt before him and began the familiar routine of checking his
vital
signs.
Pendrell's hand clenched into a fist behind his back.  If he was going
to
take Krycek out, it would have to be now.  He was ready... just one more
second....

Krycek's fingers touched Pendrell's throat and his oversensitive skin
burned
beneath the light touch.  Heat.  The warmth of Krycek's hands on his
cold
skin sent
heat coursing through every vein in his body.  All thoughts of escape
fled
Pendrell's
mind as Krycek's fingers danced over his skin, now discarding the
pretense of
checking his pulse to openly stroke and rub at his neck.  The delicate
friction of Krycek's motions shot fire through Pendrell, the drugs were
potent, multiplying the effects of Krycek's touches and sending all
his nerve
endings into overdrive.  He could feel the heat of his desire swell,
and his
turgid arousal became visibly clear to them both.

Krycek's lips curved into a sly smile as he saw Pendrell's reaction to
his
brief
touches.  He hadn't even started yet.  He swept a finger gently over
Pendrell's lips
and watched him swoon beneath the light touch.  He could feel himself
hardening,
but he ignored it, hauling himself and the weakened Pendrell to a
standing
position.
He walked Pendrell to the shower stall and drew a pair of handcuffs
from his
belt.

Pendrell glanced dazedly around.  His sudden change of position had
made him
dizzy, and he tried to affix his gaze on something that might help him
orient
himself.

Unwillingly, he found his eyes focusing, seemingly of their own
accord, on
one Alex
Krycek.

*Click.*

Startled by the noise, he looked up to see a shower head.

*Click.*

And he was cuffed to it.

//Not again.//

His left arm stretched above him, dangling from the cuff that attached
him to
the
shower pipe.  The metal cuff felt like it was sawing through wrist,
slicing
his skin
with a hot and cold pain.  Krycek's hands clasped on his arms burned hot
enough to leave imprints.  Pendrell swayed slightly, and tried to
concentrate
on something
besides the pain, the heat, the glaring brightness... and almost
succeeded.

Then Krycek turned the shower on.

A warm cascade of water poured down on Pendrell, saturating him with
sensation.
The heated droplets caressed his sensitized skin, running down his arms,
chest and legs, like hands, tongues.  His desire-soaked mind converted
sensation to thoughts - Dana's hands, Mulder's hands, Krycek's
hands... his
own hands.

Then he realized they *were* his own hands.  Almost of it's own
volition, his
free
right hand had begun to slide over his chest and abdomen, stroking and
touching,
feeding the sensations he was feeling.  Slick with water, his fingers
began
to drift
lower... lower to where his arousal, teased to throbbing by the warm
water,
ached
for attention.

"Go on Daniel.  Do it."

Krycek's voice, a low teasing whisper, alerted Pendrell to the other
man's
intent
scrutiny.  Like a frightened animal, his gaze shot to Krycek, standing
just
beyond
the doorway of the shower stall, watching him in rapt attention.
Immediately, Pendrell's face flooded with red, his hand faltering even
as his
arousal intensified at the added stimulus of Krycek's presence.

Ashamed, Pendrell looked away, staring at the wall, at anything but
the man
who watched him so closely.  But the heat still thrummed through him,
his
erection demanding, the incessant beating spray of the shower
caressing and
heightening the stimulation.

"Touch yourself, Daniel.  I know you want to."

Pendrell wished he could just turn the hot tap off and end it then and
there,
but
the intensity of his arousal was too much to ignore.  His hand began
to creep
ever
so slowly up his thigh.  Krycek's voice, a soft and suggestive murmur,
pulled
him.

"Imagine it's Mulder on his knees before you."

As much as he tried to ignore it, Krycek's suggestion pierced his
fogged mind
and
his imagination immediately supplied the image of Mulder, his beautiful
Mulder, on
his knees right before him, watching him, wanting him. Pendrell's mind
was
filled
with visions of pleasures as yet untried and untasted.  Wetness that
wasn't
water
rolled down from the tip of his cock.

One finger brushed the underside of his shaft, perhaps accidentally,
sending
heat
through him that could set off sparks.  His knees almost buckled and
he hung
onto
the chain of the handcuffs for support.  Almost there... he was so
close to
doing
it.  Some distant voice in his mind screamed at him to stop - to think
of
where he
was, who was watching  - but his body cried out for the release.  He
longed
to touch himself, to give in, to just take himself into his hand and
end this
ache, this wanting.

He could hear Krycek's teasing whisper, "Do it Daniel."  He longed to
obey...

"No."

Pendrell was surprised at the strength of his own voice.  Screwing up
all his
will
he forced his body into submission, holding every muscle perfectly
still,
taking
deep panting breaths, struggling to ignore the pleas of his loins.  He
met
Krycek's
eyes defiantly.

"Not for you."

Krycek's brows arched up almost comically, he was surprised - even
impressed
- with Pendrell's show of control, althouggh bitterly disappointed.  He
strode
over to Pendrell who still stood frozen beneath the relentless spray,
leaned
over and shut off the taps, tossing Pendrell the towel.

"Dry yourself off."  He added dismissively as he walked away.

The sudden absence of water was a shock to Pendrell's body, he was
surprised
to find he was trembling as he clutched to towel to his chest.

"Pervert."  Pendrell muttered darkly at Krycek's departing figure. 
Krycek
spun around and shot Pendrell an unreadable look.

"You're lucky that's all I am."

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

"I need your surveillance tapes from last night," began Mulder, his
voice cold.  "All of them."

Livia August bristled at his tone, but only for a moment.  She slowly
stubbed out her cigarette and looked up with a bright, white smile. 
She was still a beautiful woman, this she knew, and could still charm
if it was required.

"Monsieur, I would love to help you, but what makes you think I have
surveillance tapes to give you?" she asked softly, with a whisper of
smoke in her voice.

She noted with curiosity that the petite red-haired woman next to him
said nothing so far, but was staring around the club intently, as if
she could
pull answers from the air itself.

Mulder was unfazed.  "I don't have time to play games.  A federal
agent was abducted from these premises this evening and I need to know
what happened. I'm quite sure you have cameras in every room in this
club running every night, for whatever purposes, whether protection or
blackmail.  And I need them.  I need them all."

A tiny smile quirked the corner's of August's mouth.  "You are very
persuasive Monsieur Mulder, but you should know that is quite
impossible. My...customers...here relish their anonymity, for many of
them hold high positions in government, even in law enforcement.  I
cannot possibly give these tapes, even*if* they exist, to you without
the proper warrants."

Her eyes narrowed.  "Do you have a warrant, Monsieur?"

Mulder was stuck silent.  He had nothing, nothing but his and Scully's
need. "No," he said calmly.  "But I need those tapes.  The agent who
was taken here tonight is..."

"Is?" asked August, with lazy curiosity.

"Is our partner," Scully interrupted, and August noted the slight
trembling of her cheeks.  "And we need to find him."

The delicate eyebrow raised once more.  "Your *partner*?  How is that?
 I thought you were only assigned one partner," asked August, glancing
at the
tarot card, at the Three of Hearts, sitting in front of her.

But perhaps...perhaps...

Mulder ground his jaw and he hissed out the words.  "He is our
partner.  Both of ours.  And we have to find him."

August's eyes widened.  Three.  So they were the three the cards spoke
of. Carefully, she picked up another cigarette and lit it.  Three was
an unlucky
number, she thought with a superstitious chill.

Better get them out of here, and fast.

"Lyon," she called out sharply in French.  "Gather the tapes from this
evening and give them to these agents for viewing.  And after they are
done,
quickly, get them out of here."

Lyon nodded again and waved Mulder and Scully toward him.  They
followed him to the back door and entered a small, dank room, full of
surveillance
equipment.  Lyon barked in Creole at the tech who sat monitoring the
boards going over the evening's tapes and soon, he and Scully had
their hands full
of small, black boxes.

"You will look at them here," said Lyon brusquely, pointing at a small
monitor in a cramped corner of the room.  "You may not leave with them."

"I don't have to," replied Mulder, as Scully quickly turned on the
equipment and together, they began to scan the tapes.

Images of smoke, haze and endless lines of black suited men and women
filed by, numbing in their similarity.  Quickly, Mulder and Scully
forwarded
through the tapes, seeing scenes of drunkenness, laughter and anger. 
There was dancing, fighting....loneliness, one of every emotion
imaginable.

Yanking the first tape out, Mulder grabbed another and hit the monitor
control again. The images were flying by now, blurred and jerking with
haste, but a moment later, he felt Scully's fingers bite into his arm.

"Wait," she said and he took his finger off the fast forward.

A bathroom came into view.

"There," she whispered, pointing at the young man in the black linen
jacket wiping it off with short movements of his hand.  The tape had
no sound, but
it was Pendrell, without a doubt, speaking to someone, someone who
stood just out of the camera's view.

Mulder slowed the tape down and examined it carefully.  Come on, come
on he silently pleaded with the tape.  Just give me a face, just for a
moment. That's all I need.  But no face came into view, until Scully
let out a soft gasp beside him.

"There.  There, Mulder.  Look," she whispered.  She put a finger
against the monitor, and pointed to the bathroom mirror.

Mulder's eyes flew open and he hit the "stop" button and then "rewind."

//No.  It couldn't be.//

But it was.  Mulder felt the heat of rage filled him as Scully's hand
tightened around his arm.  For there was no mistaking the man in the
mirror, the man Mulder knew quite well, from harsh and miserable
experience.

No, there was no mistaking the face of Alex Krycek.