From: Karen Rasch <krasch@earthlink.net>
Date: Sun, 14 Nov 1999 23:08:23 GMT
Subject: *New* "Words to Live By" (1/17) by Karen Rasch

Hmm.  I think I may have sent this twice.  Sorry.  Guess I'm kinda
rusty with this sort of thing.

"Words to Live By"
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch

I've been talking about this story for quite awhile now.  I knew
the outline of it way back when I wrote "At a Loss", but before
I felt as if I could tackle it, I needed to fill in some of the gaps
for myself.  Hopefully, that mission has been accomplished.  I
guess you guys will be the judge.

Title:  Words to Live By (1/17)

Rating:  NC-17 (language, sexual situations, violence)

Category:  MSRTA (honest!)

Spoilers:  Not really.  Like all the Words Universe, this is set
post-abduction and pre-cancer.  Expect no episode references
past Season Three.  You may want to read the other "Words"
stories to understand what has come before.

Summary:  The Smoker and his buddies are on to our heroes'
relationship.  In order to save Mulder, Scully must leave him.
But will she be strong enough to do either?

Chronology:  Sequentially, this comes after "At a Loss for
Words" and before "A Mother's Words."

Disclaimer:  While I like to think this universe is mine, the
characters who inhabit it are not.  Mulder, Scully, the Cigarette
Smoking Man, Skinner, and the rest are all the property of
Fox Television, 1013, and Chris Carter.

Side Note:  Please realize that while the cabin from "Coming
Back" and "The Calm After the Storm" makes its reappearance
here, those stories are not connected with any of the "Words"
tales.  It's just that I already know in my head what that structure
looks like.  So why reinvent the wheel?

***************************************************
Dana Scully was exhausted that early September evening when she
pulled up in front of her apartment building and maneuvered
her motor pool Taurus into a fortuitous, nearby space.  No
sooner had she lined up the Ford the way she wanted it than,
almost as if in greeting, the block's street lamps flickered
to life, glowing like a double column of oversized fireflies.
Was it that late already? she wearily wondered, killing the
ignition.  Good Lord.  She had been locked away in the
basement for so long she had nearly forgotten what daytime
looked like.  And with night falling earlier and earlier as summer
drew to a close, little was left of that particular Thursday to offer
her much in the way of clues.  The sun had long since set below
the surrounding rooftops, leaving behind only a fuchsia aura
as a reminder of its brilliance, the sky itself having turned
from cloud-free blue to dusky purple.

Pushing open the car door and sliding from behind the wheel,
she stood and arched her back, smiling with a kind of pained
pleasure when she heard three soft pops sound from the base
of her spine.

Boy.  A few more weeks like this one and all those thin, little
vertebrae were going to fuse together for good, she thought.  It
seemed inevitable what with all the hours she had spent lately
hunched before her computer, researching, or bent over one
form or another, filling in the blanks.  It was review time at
the J. Edgar Hoover Building--that yearly period when all
federal agents took stock not only of their accomplishments,
but also of the accomplishments of those directly under them.
It was a tedious process, one predicated upon an endless
succession of reports.  Scully tolerated it as best she could, but
her boredom was such she almost wished Mulder would dig
up a case requiring them to go traipsing through a nice, dense
forest somewhere trailing after Bigfoot's surlier younger
brother.

Almost.

However, seeing as a road trip to escape the paperwork blues
was by any measure unlikely, she decided instead to indulge
in a bath to buoy her mood.  A long, hot one.  Vanilla scented
bubbles.  Merlot on the side.

Paradise.

Smiling now in anticipation, she made her way down the
corridor towards her apartment, her mind drifting, her
step leisurely.  She unlocked her door and entered, juggling
her mail, briefcase, and keys.  Depositing her belongings on
the hall table, she shrugged out of her blazer, her back to the
living room.  With only the streetlights and faintest remnants
of day leaking through the blinds, she was operating more on
instinct than any real sense of sight.  Toeing off her heels, she
stretched out her hand for the wall switch, intending to remedy
the situation.

When all at once she realized she wasn't alone.

"Good evening, Agent Scully," intoned a man seated at her
kitchen table, alerting her to his presence.

Hearing the unfamiliar voice, she whirled, eyes wide with
bewilderment and shock.  An older man calmly looked back
at her, his hound dog face providing her with his identity in
a way his murmur had not.  The Smoker.  The man Mulder
claimed was responsible for ordering her abduction and the
death of his father.

"Make yourself comfortable," he continued, his tone silky
and low.  "After all, this is your home."

Her home.  The murdering bastard was sitting there, smug
as you please, after having obviously broken into her home.

Incensed at the idea, her hands flew to the small of her back,
struggling to free the gun she had holstered there.

"Let's keep it friendly, shall we?" suggested her visitor as he
withdrew a battered pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket.
"I only want to talk."

With that, another man stepped into her line of vision, emerging
from his hiding place in the shadows.  This intruder was larger
and younger than the other.  Dark, sleekly styled hair.  Broad
shoulders.  Thick neck.  Hired muscle, she grimly recognized.
Not all the expensive tailoring in the world could disguise the
banked power lurking beneath his Italian-cut finery.  The
bruiser hovered protectively behind the man seated at the table,
his meaty hands poised on his hips just inside his suit coat; his
right one inches from the automatic tucked into the waistband
of his pants.

In a quick draw contest, she wouldn't stand a chance.

"What do you want?" she asked without ceremony or fear, her
arms falling reluctantly to her sides.  She'd bide her time, she
decided.  Hear him out.  Wait for the proper moment to make
her move.  With a little luck, she might be able to get the two
of them on breaking and entering.

"Why don't you come here and sit down?" the first man offered
with just a touch of condescension, slipping a Morley between
his lips as he spoke.  "You've no doubt had a long day.  I'm sure
you'd like to unwind."

"I prefer to stand," Scully said, wishing she had left on her
shoes.  She felt far too vulnerable, small and girlish, opposing
these two men in her stocking feet.

If either male noticed her discomfiture, they chose not to
comment upon it.  The older one merely flicked his lighter
beneath the end of his cigarette, setting it ablaze.  Drawing
hard on his stick of tobacco, he pocketed the silver-cased
butane, his eyes never leaving hers.  Letting the smoke drool
like water from his lips, he leaned back in his seat and
shrugged.  "Suit yourself."

She nodded.

"But place your weapon on the table."

Her gaze shifted from The Smoker to his henchman.  The
big man's gun no longer rested idly at his waist.

It was instead gripped tightly in his hand.  And pointed
at her chest.

She hesitated only an instant.  Then, lips thinned, she did
as she was told.

"That's better," said the man seated opposite her.  Stretching
forward, he pulled her Sig Sauer to directly in front of him,
effectively putting it entirely out of her reach.  With practiced
skill, he removed the ammunition clip and laid it on the
tabletop beside the weapon.

Scully bit back her frustration and waited.

"I want you to listen to something," said her unwelcome guest,
pausing between sentences to take a drag off his cigarette.
"Something I think you'll find quite interesting."

With that, he gave his hulking cohort a nod.  The younger
man crossed away from the dining area and into her living
room.  Moving with a grace that belied his size, he strode
directly to her stereo, turned it on, and popped in a cassette
tape.  Looking over his shoulder at her, he pressed "Play."

At first, she heard only static.  White noise.  Nothingness.

Then, quietly, the sound muffled yet audible, a man and a
woman began to speak.

Mulder.

And her.

In glorious Dolby stereo.

<"So what do you say, Scully?">

<"I don't know.  I have to admit . . . I'm not exactly 'in the
mood.'  All this paperwork has given me the mother of all
headaches.">

She recognized those words.  Had spoken them less than a
week ago.  Last Saturday night.  After a day spent composing
their annual departmental review.

<"Ah!  A challenge.">

Mulder.  His tone whimsical, lighthearted.  Like a little boy
who after a long day at school was looking forward to the
playground.

<A sound.  Soft suction.  Mulder's kiss.>

His seduction underway.

Scully's eyes darted to The Smoker.  He looked back at her, the
slightest suggestion of a smile curling the corners of his mouth.

No.  They wouldn't.  Not even They would . . .

<"I don't want to disappoint you.">

<"So don't.  It's your choice, Scully.  I would never force you.">

Another kiss after that, she remembered.  The brush of his
lips against hers, too gentle for the microphone to pick up.
All that sounded was the faint rustle of their clothes, and the
hushed, heated murmur of their breath.  Trying to master her
embarrassment, she drew her eyes away from The Smoker's
knowing stare, choosing instead to focus on the floor, her
arms folded protectively around her middle.

<"I am not, however, above trying to persuade you.">

Oh God.

Mulder had been a gifted lobbyist that night, she recalled.
As persuasive as any of the professionals on Capitol Hill.
She had been tired and cranky after a Saturday spent pouring
over case files and arrest reports, trying to make an argument
for keeping the X-Files open for another year.  She hadn't
been lying; a thundering headache had begun pounding behind
her eyes shortly after dinner, its rhythm beating in time to her
heart.

<"It's just stress, Scully.  Your headache.  Stress and maybe
some eyestrain from trying to decipher my handwriting.  You
need to relax.  Let me help you relax.">

"That's enough," she said tightly, her gaze lifting from her
perusal of the baseboards to light on that of the man seated
before her, poised, in control, like a king surveying his court.
"Turn it off."

"Oh no," he said, his tone mild, his expression benign, the
perverse sort of light shining in his eyes inconsistent with his
apparent kindliness.  "I want you to hear all of it."

There was no need.  She knew exactly where this would end.
The memory was only days old, fresh and vivid in her mind.

They had been in her bedroom, Mulder and she, standing
between her bed and the small low-backed chair in the corner.
His hands moving slowly over her, his lips skimming along
her throat, her cheek, dipping from time to time to taste her
mouth, he had lazily stripped her of her clothing.

<"See what I mean?  Feel how tense you are?  You shouldn't
let yourself get worked up over this stuff, Scully.  It's not as
if Skinner is going to close down the X-Files just because we
forget to cross a few T's.">

<"You were the one who said we should put in some hours
on this over the weekend.">

<"A shameless ploy to get me into your bedroom.">

<"We were working in the living room.">

<"Yeah.  But look where we are now.">

She had chuckled at that, she recalled, hearing that laughter
now almost as if it were an echo of the memory.  And despite
the throbbing in her head, she had tried to return the favor, to
rid Mulder of his jeans and T-shirt while at the same time he
peeled away hers.

<"No.  Not yet.  Let me."  A sharp creak.  His knees as he knelt
before her.>

She had stood there, just a few nights past, already naked from
the waist up, the cool breeze seeping in through the raised
casement pleasurably tightening her nipples.  Fingers threaded
through his rumpled hair, she had allowed her partner to finish
undressing her.  Handling her carefully, he had eased her feet
free from the denim pooled around her ankles.  Her socks had
followed soon after.  Then finally her panties.

<"See.  Doesn't that feel better already?  Now there's nothing
to bind you.  Nothing to make you feel . . . restrained.">

At that, he had kissed her, just above the coarse nest of hair
that sprang from the joining of her legs, his fingertips trailing
lightly over the backs of her thighs, her buttocks.

<"Mulder. . . .">

Her voice sounded husky to her now reddened ears, entreaty
drenching the word, molasses sweet and thick.

Mulder must have recognized the plea as well; because he had
then guided her backwards towards the corner chair. . . .

<"Sit.  Now scoot down.  Yeah . . . that's it.>

Listening to the tape it was clear in a way it hadn't been at the
time that anticipation had begun to affect Mulder nearly as
strongly as it had affected her.  His voice had dropped to the
depths of his register, rumbling like a kettle drum.

<"Comfy?">

<"I suppose.">

Trembling now with a combination of mortification and rage,
Scully would have given absolutely anything to stop that
cassette, to run to the stereo, wrench it free and rip the slender
magnetized strip from its casing, shredding it to bits.

Because on that Saturday evening not so many days before,
Mulder had seated her in that bedroom chair, draped her
legs over its arms, and lowered his mouth to the tender area
between her thighs.  Licking and sucking and nibbling over
every sensitive inch, he feasted on her, intent on pleasing
her as only he could.

<"Relax.">

And she was going to have to relive every single intensely
private second of that encounter.

With The Smoker and his friend as an audience.

But they would not have the satisfaction of hearing her beg.

<"Oh, Mulder. . . .  God!">

Not to them, anyway.

She wanted to die.

Scully would later question how exactly she had managed to
live through the next several minutes of her life.  How she
had been able to survive the shame without breaking down
entirely.  Even though she knew the tape couldn't have lasted
as long as all that, while she had stood there, in the dark, alone,
it had felt as if her humiliation was without end.  As if she were
going to be trapped forever in that shadowy living room, a
place that had once served as her haven, her refuge from the
evil Mulder and she daily battled.

Only now, two representatives of that wickedness stood and
watched her reaction as together the three of them eavesdropped
on the sound of her partner's lips moving open and warm
over her swollen flesh while she writhed beneath him, mindlessly
urging him on.

<"Yeah.  There . . . there. . . .  Oh . . .">

Her frantic mewling was bad enough, but the soft, wet sounds
Mulder made as he coaxed from her those cries were far worse,
their wordless yet telling murmurs damning.

<"Mmm. . . oh . . .">

As she listened, she could see the two of them, Mulder and
she, plainly picture them.  She, naked and flushed, her eyes
squeezed shut, her face tipped towards the ceiling, her toes
curled, every particle of her being concentrated on nothing
but his mouth, straining towards it, asking for more.  Begging
him to end the ache.  He, still clothed, his tousled head bent
over her, bobbing, his nose nuzzling her curls.  His tongue
unerringly finding that perfect point, that exact spot, and then
massaging it, rubbing over it in small, tight circles.  His fingers
pressed against her soft, yielding thighs, holding her open,
defenseless against his onslaught, his own arousal heavy and
hard beneath his jeans.

And if she was envisioning the scene, screening it inside her
head like one of Mulder's videos, she had no doubt the men
standing there with her were similarly engaged.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked at last, angry tears held
just barely in check, her hands fisted now at her sides.

"Why does anyone do anything?" The Smoker countered
serenely, stubbing out his spent Morley in the houseplant
centered on her kitchen table  "Why do you and Mulder do
this?"

<A tortured sounding groan growled low and rough, torn
from her lips, seemingly against her will.>

"For pleasure, I expect," he continued, that same unholy
amusement yet twinkling in his eyes.  "But perhaps there's
another reason, something else you seek."

<"Mulder . . . oh . . yeah . . .">

"What would that be, Agent Scully?" he prodded, clasping his
hands together and leaning towards her as if hoping to capture
her confidence.  "Why is it you fuck your partner?"

<"Yeah. . . . =Oh!=">

And with that sharp, bitten off yelp, Scully's ordeal ended
as quickly as it had begun.  The woman on the tape moaned
in ecstasy, signaling her climax.  Waiting only a moment for
her voice to crack then shatter into a long, breathy exhale, The
Smoker nodded to his helper.  Immediately, the other man
stopped the cassette and, ejecting it from the player, pocketed
it again.

And for a moment, the three of them simply held their
positions in silence.  The men giving away nothing with
their stony countenances, Scully breathing rapid and hard,
trying desperately to keep from flying apart under the strain.

"As you can imagine, there are other tapes such as this one,"
the Smoker said after a time, his tone conversational.  "Several,
in fact.  Some recorded at his apartment, some at yours."

He paused, almost as if inviting commentary.  But for the life
of her, Scully couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"We've yet to stumble across anything . . . untoward taking
place while you've actually been on the job."  With that, he
smiled, toying with her now like a lazy tom with a confused,
overmatched mouse.  "I really must commend you two on your
professionalism."

"What difference does it make?" she gritted out, taking a step
towards The Cigarette Man, her backbone rigid.  "We're not
breaking any laws.  The FBI has no policy forbidding personal
relationships between employees."

"True," he admitted with a nod.  "Technically, your employers
have no say over your personal lives."

"Then why are you so interested in them?" she asked.

"Because I do."

At first, his bland proclamation took her so much by surprise
she could only blink her astonishment.  Then, a grunt of
humorless laughter forced its way past her lips.

"Oh really?"

Hearing Scully's softly spoken challenge, the second man
abandoned his post at her stereo, crossing instead towards
the pair at the table.  Seeing him stride closer, The Smoker
lifted his hand, staying The Henchman.  Like a show dog
demonstrating obedience, the big man stopped almost at
once, midway between his target and his starting place.

"I brought you this tape, Agent Scully, as proof," said The
Smoker, in contrast, apparently unruffled by her reaction.
"Evidence, if you will, to substantiate our claim."

Her brow arched dangerously.  "And what claim is that?"

"You're sleeping with your partner," her nemesis said
bluntly.

"I don't see what--"

"And that has got to stop."

"=What=?" she said, eyes wide, as she took a step nearer
to the man, her hands resting now on the back of one of
the table's chairs.  "What are you talking about?  Why
do you care what Mulder and I do?  We don't work for you."

"No, you don't," he agreed easily as he tapped another
Morley free of its pack.  "You work against me.  You
both do."

Scully shook her head in frustration.  "I don't understand."

He dug out his lighter from his coat pocket, worrying it
between his fingers while he spoke, the cigarette already
dangling between his lips.  "My colleagues and I made a
mistake when we first teamed you with Agent Mulder.
We had thought that giving him a partner--particularly
one who was skeptical of his work, his beliefs--would slow
him down.  Interfere with his investigations."

He paused to light up, pulling deeply on the Morley, his
cheeks hollowing with the effort.

"But that didn't happen," he continued, his face now shrouded
in smoke.  "Instead, his confidence grew, his solve rate soared."

He eyed her darkly, his cigarette pinched between his thumb
and forefinger, the effect oddly effeminate.  "The only time
that trend has reversed was when you were missing."

Her hands tightening around the chair's thick wooden back,
Scully wished she instead had them wrapped around his
throat.

"In the months since you two have gotten . . . closer, matters
have only worsened," he said, taking another puff.  "You
have brought a certain stability to the work, a methodology,
a maturity that despite his years, Mulder once lacked.  You
two complement each other in ways we had never considered.
Together, you are a threat to our work."

How strange, she thought.  How surreal to be standing there
with the man responsible for any of a number of atrocities
perpetrated against her and her partner, listening to him
list her accomplishments, praising her as if she were a prized
pupil.

"And that can't be allowed to continue.  Our mistake must be
remedied."

His pronouncement didn't frighten her.  It only made her
furious.

"I don't have to listen to this," she said coldly, pushing away
from the chair to stand, feet planted shoulder's width apart,
her stance clearly combative.  "Get out of my apartment."

The Smoker didn't move.  "I'm afraid you do need to listen,
Agent Scully.  That is . . . if you want to keep Agent Mulder
alive."

An icy tendril of fear began inching its way down her spine,
weakening her resolve.  "What do you mean?"

"I told you.  With you, Mulder has become more than a nuisance.
He has become a detriment to our work.  Someone we can no
longer ignore."

He pulled once more on the Morley.  "He needs to be taken
out of the picture.  Eliminated."

Her blood ran frigid and fast through her veins, her pulse
suddenly roaring in her ears.  "If you so much as lay a hand
on him, so help me God--"

"Oh, come now," The Smoker said, chuckling indulgently
at her outburst.  "Do you honestly believe you could stop us
if we chose to end your partner's life?"

Oh please, God.  Not that.  Not now.

"Have you ever killed anyone, Agent Scully?" he slyly asked,
almost as if he sensed her terror, and like any predator scenting
vulnerability, was moving in for the kill.

"Yes," she said softly, her mouth parched, her heart beating
wildly.

"It's easy, isn't it?" he asked, the question almost chummy.  "So
simple and so many ways to do it.  A bullet, a knife, a car crash,
a fall.  The human body isn't nearly as resilient as we like to
think.  Bones can be brittle.  Skin, paper thin."

"Why are you telling me this?" she queried hoarsely, fearing
she already knew the answer.

"Agent Mulder lives because I allow it," he replied, his
cigarette once more poised between his fingers.  "I protect
him."

"Why?" she asked again, knowing this was a question Mulder
himself asked from time to time.

The Smoker shrugged.  "Past alliances.  Debts which are
owed by me and by others.  A certain fondness for his family.
Call it a whim if you like."

He took one last puff then stubbed out this Morley like he
had the first.  "Unfortunately, the time for such indulgences
is at an end."

"I won't let you hurt him," she quietly swore, her words spoken
like the most sacred of oaths.

The Smoker smiled, unfazed.  "That won't be necessary if you
do your part."

"Which is?"

"Leave him.  Leave Mulder and the X-Files.  Walk away."

A kind of disbelieving laughter welled up inside of her, bubbling
from her lips in a series of wet-sounding chuckles, the sort that
threatened at any moment to turn into sobs.  "You want me to
quit the FBI?"

"Oh, I don't know if it needs to come to that," The Smoker said,
pursing his lips as if considering the scenario.  "I'm sure I could
arrange for a transfer to any office you like.  Any department you
like."

"If I resign as Mulder's partner," she said, her words a statement,
not a query.

"And as his lover," he murmured, watching her with hooded
eyes.

For a breath or two, Scully just stood there, shaking her head,
her expression incredulous.  "That's crazy.  Even if I agreed,
what makes you think Mulder would let me go without a fight?"

"Oh, I'm well aware of your partner's devotion to you, Agent
Scully," he assured her grimly.  "We've been closely monitoring
you these past few months.  I know how much he depends upon
you, both on the job and off."

Monitoring her for months.  Good Lord, exactly how many
tapes like that were there? she wondered in dismay.  Had
Mulder and she enjoyed even a moment's privacy since they
had consummated their relationship?

"He won't believe me," she said, desperately searching for
an argument to refuse his demands.  "I can't just end
what we have without a reason.  He'll be suspicious."

The Smoker's face was without sympathy or mercy.  "That's
your problem.  You have to find a way to make him believe.
It's either that, or I arrange for Agent Mulder to suffer an
unfortunate accident.  The choice is entirely up to you.  I
place his life in your hands."

"If he dies, I'll kill you," she whispered, her eyes filling with
fiery tears.  "I don't care what rock you hide under, I'll find
you."

"Agent Mulder stands to live a long and healthy life," he said
soothingly, his mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile.
"One without you, true.  But then . . . is laying between your
legs really worth dying for?"

Her cheeks burned with chagrin.  If she had been armed, she
would have happily pumped every last bullet into his smiling,
hateful face.

"It's simple, Agent Scully," he said briskly, the matter apparently
settled in his eyes.  "End your relationship with Mulder and the
X-Files.  Move on."

The Smoker then rose, his action acting as a signal to his
assistant.  The larger man saw it and crossed to stand beside
him once more.

"If you can't do that, if you can't bear to leave your partner
and the basement, you will leave me no choice but to find
another way of rendering him less . . . effective."

He paused there for a moment in her all but light-less
apartment, taller than she had first thought, all legs and arms,
studying her almost thoughtfully.   "It's not so much to ask,
when you think about it.  Couples break up everyday.  You
know what they say--all good things come to an end.  Yours
and Mulder's just came a bit sooner than you had anticipated."

Together, the men crossed past her for the door, The Henchman
quelling any heroic notions she might have entertained by
keeping his automatic pointed in her direction.

Scully watched them go, her mind whirring, franticly trying
to come up with something to turn it all around, to allow her
some small victory.  Something, at least, to work with.  A
chance to think. . . .

"I'll need time."

Her visitors turned to regard her, the older one with his hand
resting on her front doorknob.

"I can't just break it off with him," she said, clearing her throat.
"If you want me to convince him, I'll need to work up to it.  To
make it seem real."

The Smoker considered her request for a second or two.  "All
right.  You can have some time."

She breathed a silent sigh of relief.

"But know my patience is not without limits," he warned, his
voice ominous in the darkness.  "We will be watching you,
Agent Scully.  One word, spoken to Mulder or anyone else,
and his life is forfeited.  There will be no second chances.  Do
you understand?"

"Yes," she whispered with dread.

"I'm giving you the opportunity to save him," he told her quietly,
his shadow lean and menacing, staining the floor between them
like inky blood.  "To save you both.  Don't make me regret my
generosity."

And without another word, he and his companion slipped out
of her apartment and into the light.

While Scully stood motionless in the darkness, wondering if
this was a nightmare from which she would ever be allowed
to awaken.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *


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

9:38

At most, mid-morning.

Still, late nonetheless.

Standing at his office file cabinets in his shirtsleeves, Fox
Mulder glanced from the pages in his hand to his watch and
pursed his lips in concern.  Scully should have been there by
now.  What could be detaining her?  True, with the hours he
kept, she almost never beat him in the door.  Just the same,
she was usually at work by nine.

Did she have an appointment or something he had forgotten
to write down?

He had just crossed to his desk and picked up the phone,
thinking he would try her cell, when she breezed in the door,
her cheeks flushed, her hair wind-tousled, briefcase and an
extra large cup of coffee in her hands.

"Hey, Scully," he murmured casually, his eyes sweeping over
her, surreptitiously checking for clues as to the reason for her
tardiness, searching for signs of injury or distress.  On the
surface, all seemed to be well.  She appeared perfectly sound.
Pant-suit clad and ready for business.  A bit harried, perhaps,
her gaze shadowed with what looked to be annoyance or
anxiety.  But that was to be expected if she had rushed to
get downtown.

"Morning, Mulder.  Sorry I'm late."

"Traffic bad?" he queried as he perched his hip alongside his
computer monitor and watched her settle in for the morning.

"No," she mumbled, unpacking her briefcase, her eyes averted
from his.  "I overslept."

"Late night?" he asked, his tone light, his eyebrows raised.

"Long week," she answered, glancing up at him for just an
instant, a tight, almost embarrassed smile stretching her lips.

"Well, I don't know if this is any consolation," he said, pressing
to his feet and strolling to stand before her, his hands buried
deep in his trouser pockets.  "But, the worst of 'review week'
should be over.  When I got home last night, I keyed in those
last few edits we'd talked about.  Then, this morning, I ran
copies of all the support data we'd collected, put the two
together and dumped it all in Skinner's in-box."

"Great," she said absently, booting up her computer, her
focus on it rather than on him and his news.  "That's good
to hear."

Studying her, shadow painted by the office's fluorescents, the
tiniest glimmer of unease flickered at the edges of Mulder's
consciousness, its sparkle too quick and too faint for him to
fully grasp what was being revealed to him.

"You all right, Scully?" he asked at last, wishing he could be
more original, but unsure how else to voice his worry.

That brought her gaze to his.  "I'm fine," she said with
another small smile.  "It's just . . .  I'm really ready for the
weekend.  You know?"

Rather than returning her smile, he searched her eyes.
Ocean-blue, they regarded him mildly.  He thought he
spied the weariness to which she had alluded swimming
in their depths, clouding the water.

Otherwise, she looked okay.

Didn't she?

He couldn't decide.  So, in the end, he murmured only, "It's
been a long week."

She nodded and returned to her work.

Which left him standing there, staring stupidly at her profile,
unable to fully shake his disquiet.

Yet he couldn't just gape at her all day.

"Uh, listen, Scully," he said, clearing his throat and running
his hand distractedly through his hair.  "The guys in VC
wanted my opinion on that stalker they've been tracking in
Philly.  So, I think I'm gonna go up and--"

"Go ahead," she urged, pulling open her desk drawer and
rummaging around its contents.  "I've got stuff to do.  I'll see
you when you get back."

"All right then," he said evenly, trying not to feel as if he were
being summarily dismissed.  Which it sure as hell seemed as
if he were.  "Maybe if I get back in time, we can grab a sandwich
or something for lunch."

"Sounds good," she said brightly, shutting the drawer and
swiveling back to her computer, newly selected ballpoint and
legal pad in hand.

Hesitating for an instant, Mulder finally nodded.  Then,
retrieving his suit coat from the back of his chair, he slung it
over his shoulder and exited the office, his brow knit in thought.

Scully waited until she heard the elevator doors open and
close before she bent down and popped open her briefcase.
Withdrawing from it the evidence bag she had packed
that morning, she headed for the door, her prize clutched
tightly in her hand.  But rather than following her partner's
path, she turned away from the bank of elevators at the end
of the corridor, hurrying instead towards the stairs opposite
them.  Let Mulder ride inside that creaky old Otis.  Violent
Crimes was five floors up.

While the Identification Unit was only two flights away.

                        *****

"Who is it?"

"It's Scully, Frohike.  Open up."

At a few minutes after one, Dana Scully stood outside the
headquarters of the Lone Gunmen, impatient, exhausted,
and feeling more than a trifle guilty.

She had slept little the night before, only managing to fall
into an uneasy slumber just before dawn.  Despite her nagging
fatigue, she had been far too keyed up to snooze.  She hadn't
the time.

She needed to plan.

Locks clicked behind the thick, metal door, one after another,
like machinegun fire.  Once, such precautions would have
amused her.

Not anymore.

After the previous evening's confrontation, she recognized
them as necessary.

Which was why she had come to these three men when she
should have been having lunch with her partner.

Oh boy.  Mulder was not going to like that note she had left
on his desk.

<Had errands to run.  Don't know if I'll be back.  Have a good
weekend.>

I'll make it up to you, Mulder, she silently promised, her arms
folded tightly across her chest.  I swear I will.

"The lovely Agent Scully," murmured the diminutive man
framed in the now open doorway, a certain endearing eagerness
in his eyes.  "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"I need your help," she said, stepping past him and into the
Gunmen's den, squinting as her eyes adjusted from mid-
afternoon sun to the near darkness within.

"Always happy to oblige," Melvin Frohike said, securing the
door behind them once more, the fringe on his suede vest
swinging lazily as he moved.  "What can we do for you?"

"Where's Mulder?" Langley asked before she could reply,
looking up from where he sat at a nearby counter, a sub
sandwich, chips, and soda spread before him, his mouth
half full when he spoke.

"Working," she said shortly.  "He doesn't know I'm here."

"Do you mind if I ask why?" Byers queried, crossing towards
her from a bank of computers on the far wall, his kind eyes
bright with curiosity.

"This doesn't concern him," Scully said, hoping against hope
she had built enough trust with these men over the years for
them to keep this visit from Mulder.  If not, she was in big
trouble.  As was her partner.  "This is about me and my
problem."

"And what problem would that be?" Frohike asked, sidling up
alongside of her.

"I think I'm being bugged," she told them, her expression grim.
"And I need you to tell me how to get rid of them."

                        *****

"Well, looks like your suspicions were right on," Langley
admitted, dropping four small silvery objects into her open
hand.  She gasped when their slight weight landed with a
silent thud against her palm.  "Bugs.  And I don't mean
cockroaches."

Swallowing hard, she gazed at them in disbelief.

Oh my God.

Scully didn't know why the sight of the listening devices
unnerved her so.  After all, The Smoker had been far from
subtle in providing her with proof of his treachery.  Still, it
was one thing to be told she was under surveillance and
quite another to hold the evidence in her grasp.  Shit.  She
half expected one of the tiny microphones to suddenly
develop teeth and take a bite out of her flesh.  They were
simply that menacing to her.

Surrounded by the Gunmen, like Snow White amongst the
dwarves, she stared at the bugs with a mixture of repulsion
and fascination, rolling them between her fingers like dice.
"Where did you find them?" she queried softly at last.

"Two were in the phones, the others we found in the living
room and bedroom," Byers said, standing opposite her, his
tone almost apologetic.  "Don't worry.  We've taken the
liberty of deactivating them.  They're nothing more than
scrap metal now."

"Is this all of them?" she asked, lifting her eyes from the
bits of circuitry to question the trio.

Hovering protectively on her right, Frohike shrugged, then
nodded for emphasis.  "Should be.  We've been over the
place three times."

Three times.  The Gunmen had been busy while she had
been out.

"But you should realize, Agent Scully, just because we've
gotten rid of these, that doesn't necessarily guarantee you
won't still be listened in on," Byers said.

"What do you mean?" she said with a frown, her insides
knotting with dread.

"There are other ways to get the job done," Langley said
bluntly, towering over her on the left.  "Remotes, satellites
even."

"Satellites?" she echoed, shaking her head in denial.  "Why
would . . . ?  I can't imagine anyone would consider me
important enough to aim a satellite at."

"You'd be surprised, Agent Scully," Frohike said gently.  "It's
easier than you'd think.  That kind of thing doesn't just happen
in techno-thrillers anymore."

Her life was turning into one big techno-thriller, she thought
with dismay, one written by Tom Clancy with an assist from
Stephen King.

"They could even keep it simple, come back and replant
devices similar to these," Langley said, gesturing to the objects
in her fist.  "If they got in once, they can do it again."

"Oh, that's reassuring," Frohike muttered, throwing his long-
haired cohort a scathing look.

"What?" Langley asked blankly.

"If you like, we could come back and sweep the place every
couple of days," Byers offered in a rush, seemingly also trying
to make amends for his associate's tactlessness.  "Till this is
over, I mean."

Smiling wistfully, Scully shook her head once more.  "No. . .
no.  Thanks.  But if what you've told me is true, I don't see
what good it would do."

Pivoting towards Frohike, she took his right hand in her left.
Turning it palm up, she placed the now dead bugs in its center
then pressed his fingers around them, sealing it shut.  "I'm
sorry I wasted your time."

"You . . . you didn't *waste*--," the little man began,
stammering at her touch.

"I do need one more favor though," she quietly confessed,
her hand still resting lightly on his.

"Name it," he said fervently, staring at her with unabashed
devotion.

"It's a long shot, but see if you can dig up anything on who
manufactured these things."

"Three guesses," Langley mumbled, his brows lifted behind his
thick black frames.

She nodded.  "I won't be surprised if it's a government vendor.
But I would like to know for sure."

She gave Frohike's hand a friendly little squeeze before releasing
it.  "In case."

"In case of what?" Byers asked cautiously.

She slicked her lips and took a deep breath.  "Hang on to these.
If anything happens to Mulder or me, I want you to take them
to Assistant Director Skinner.  Tell him about this.  All of this."

"All of what?" Byers demanded, his forehead wrinkled with
care, his hands lifting and lowering feebly at his sides.  "You
haven't told us what's going on."

"Why can't you tell Mulder?" Langley asked.

"Who is it you're afraid of?" Frohike chimed in.

But Scully only shook her head.  "I've told you too much
already.  Just please, =please= trust me on this.  You can't
say anything to Mulder.  His life will be in danger if you do."

"What about your life?" Frohike gravely queried, his voice
hesitant and low.

She smiled sadly at her pint-sized friend.  "Mine is mine to
worry about."

If asked, the three men standing with her would have told her
they shared in that concern.

                        *****

Less than an hour later, Dana Scully had stripped off her
power suit and slipped into her favorite terry cloth bathrobe.
Unfortunately, this beloved article of clothing didn't provide
quite the measure of comfort it usually did.

Yet the soft tap of rain against her living room windows did
in some way ease her soul.  Its gentle sound was soothing.
And unexpected.  She couldn't recall anyone mentioning it
would be a wet weekend.

Like your mind has been on anything as ordinary as the
weather, she thought with the tiniest hint of derision.

Cup of tea in hand, she sank down onto her living room
sofa and, placing her beverage on the end table, wearily
ran her hands over her pale cheeks.

What a hellish 24 hours.

Chuckling mirthlessly, she lowered her fingers from her face
and checked the clock on the mantel to confirm her math.

8:26.

Yep.  Almost exactly a day.

So why did it feel as if she had been undergoing this particular
ordeal for decades?

She should have known not to get her hopes up.  Her plan had
never had anything but the slightest chance for success.

Yet, even recognizing the odds, for a brief time she had allowed
herself to believe she might actually have a way to fight back.

She had sat up the previous night, mind spinning frantically,
struggling to come up with a means around The Smoker's
demands.  Several hours and countless cups of tea later, she
had decided that rather than play the victim, she was going
to go on the offensive.  Her nemesis apparently knew all her
secrets.  So maybe it was time she unearthed a few of his.

Starting with his identity.

And she had prayed the thumbprint she had lifted from her
front doorknob would provide that information.

She had been so proud of herself the evening before, rustling
her dusting kit out of the suitcase she kept packed on the floor
of her closet, the one she always had handy in case Mulder
called unexpectedly, airline tickets in hand.  Wielding her
brush with the care of DaVinci, she had dabbed graphite on
the brass, the overrun drifting like sooty snow to the newspaper
laid below.  Almost magically, the lines and whorls had
appeared beneath the powder.

Yes!

Smiling with a kind of muted delight, she had painstakingly
lifted the print with tape and transferred it to the latent.  She
had then tried the same trick on her cassette player, hoping
to also assign a name to The Henchman.  Unfortunately, the
stereo's plastic casing hadn't proved as cooperative as the
doorknob's slick surface.  She would have to be satisfied with
attempting to track down only one of her two visitors.

Still, one would have been enough.  If he had appeared in any
of the Bureau's numerous databases.

"You're sure there's no match?" she had asked Agent Willa
Monroe that afternoon, unable to keep the disappointment
from her voice.  The statuesque African-American had
been a pal since the Academy, and was currently one of the
Identification Unit's senior techs.  Having left the print with
Agent Monroe that morning for analysis, Scully had snuck
back into the lab after her meeting with the Gunmen, all the
while worried she might run into Mulder in the halls of the
Hoover Building.

"The guy doesn't have a record," the ebony-skinned agent had
told her, "if that's what you mean."

"What about the Bureau database?" she had asked, her urgency
scarcely held in check.

At that, her friend had turned from her computer to eye her
with the sort of skepticism Scully usually reserved for Mulder.
"You think someone from the Bureau broke into your car?"

In the absence of a case file to assign the inquiry to, she had
needed to come up with a reason to impose upon the FBI's
resources.

And Scully had decided to make it personal.

"It was parked in the Bureau garage," she had said with what
she hoped was a nonchalant shrug.  "Seems like we should
check and see if the thief is one of our own."

Seemingly doubtful of her logic, Monroe had held her gaze
for a second or two before eventually sighing and bowing to
her request.

Only to come up empty once more.

After that, Scully had spent the remainder of the afternoon
personally searching the military and governmental databases.

With the same result.  The Smoker didn't officially exist.

It was as if her intruder had been a figment of her imagination,
as insubstantial as the smoke that had drifted from between his
lips.

Defeated, she had finally driven home, her mind more on
her phantom persecutor than on the thick Friday night traffic.
By that time, the Gunmen had already been at her apartment
for hours, meticulously searching its confines per her request.
She supposed she should have been relieved by what they
had found, justified in the paranoia that had haunted her
throughout that long, hard day.

But in the end, she just felt overwhelmed, and confused as
to how she should proceed.

Sipping thoughtfully at her tea, her melancholic musings
were interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Scully?"

Mulder.

Great.  Just what she needed.

For a moment or two, she simply sat there, wondering how
best to get rid of him.  Much as it pained her to hurt him,
she simply couldn't do this right now.  Couldn't maintain
the facade.  She was too tired and too frightened to pretend
all was right with the world.  Besides, on the off chance
The Smoker had other ways of monitoring her than the
listening devices they had destroyed, she had to toe the line.
Had to make him believe she was taking steps towards
dissolving the bond between Mulder and she.

Her partner's life might depend on it.

"Scully, you in there?"

If she waited much longer, he was bound to use his key.

Pushing to her feet, she padded to the door and peeked
through the peephole.  Mulder stared back at her, damp
and flushed.  Dressed in sweats and a ripped, worn
Frank Zappa T-shirt, he looked as if he had gotten caught
in the recent downpour.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.

"Hey," he murmured, his eyes sliding down her slender
form, noting her attire.  "Did I wake you?"

"It's not even nine yet, Mulder."

"Then why are you dressed for bed?"

She tilted her head to the side, her arm braced against the
jamb, barring his entrance like a gate at a tollbooth.  "If you
must know, I was getting ready to take a bath."

She expected him to come back with an innuendo-laden
retort.  Instead, he merely nodded and asked a bit diffidently,
"Can I come in?"

She sighed.  It was so much harder to deny him when he
was acting more puppy than tiger.

"Mulder, look," she began, her gaze focused somewhere
around his knees.  "It's been a long week.  I'm tired and out
of sorts and, quite frankly, not very good company right now."

"Did I do something?"

His softly voiced query dragged her eyes up to his.  He looked
back at her, his gaze steady yet troubled, his face near hers, its
bottom half shaded blue-black with stubble.  "What?"

"Did I leave the toilet seat up or run over the cat?" he asked,
his anxious expression belying his playful tone.

She couldn't believe it.  She was the one who had given him
the cold shoulder that morning, who had stonewalled his best
attempts at communication then ditched him without so much
as a backwards glance.

She ought to be the one apologizing.

Yet there stood Mulder, wholly contrite, like a child willingly
stretching out his hand to have his wrist slapped.

His readiness to take the blame made her insides cramp with
guilt.

"This isn't about you, Mulder," she said slowly and patiently,
wondering as she spoke if he could sense her control about to
fray.  "Not about you or anything you've done.  This is about
me.  About my needing a little time to myself.  That's all.
Can you give me that?"

Solemnly, he nodded.  Just as she knew he would.

Yet he made no move to leave.

They stood there, contemplating each other, for a second or
two.  Now that she got a good look at him, Mulder appeared to
be more drenched than damp.  His hair lay flat against his skull,
its rich brown shiny as a seal pelt.  The soft jersey of his ratty
old tee clung wantonly to his shoulders and chest, coating his
sleek muscles and knobby little nipples like faded red paint.
She could smell the rainwater on his skin.

"So, did you come all the way over here to ask me about my
nonexistent cat?" she queried, the words coming out husky
and velvet rough.

"I don't know why I came," Mulder quietly confessed.  "I was
running.  And before I realized it, I was here."

Her eyes grew wide.  "You didn't jog all the way from Virginia,
did you?"

"No," he said with a lopsided smile.  "I took off from the Hoover
Building.  I'd worked late and decided I needed to clear my
head before I went home."

Leaning against the door jamb, she chuckled ruefully.  "You
mean to tell me you ran, unarmed, at night, in the rain, through
the streets of downtown D.C.?"

"It wasn't raining when I started," he argued sheepishly, a self-
directed bemusement shining in his eyes.  "Besides, it's not all
that far to Georgetown.  It's basically a straight shot down
Pennsylvania."

"Did you give any thought as to how you were going to get
back?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest and
arching her brow.

He shrugged.  "The way I came, I guess."

She shook her head.  "Uh-uh.  No way.  I'm not letting you
tempt fate a second time.  Give me a minute.  I'll change
clothes and give you a lift to your car."

Scully turned away towards the bedroom, but before she could
take more than a few steps, Mulder grabbed her arm, halting
her progress.

"Scully, don't worry about it," he said, his fingers curled
tightly around her wrist.  "I'll just hop a cab."

"On a Friday night, in the rain?" she queried in disbelief.
"Just how long do you plan on waiting for one?"

"Then I'll go on foot," he said with another lift of his shoulders.
"It's not like I can get much more wet."

"Mulder--" she began with a sigh.

"Scully, you were just about to get in the tub," he reminded
her, a gentle smile softening his mouth.

They stood in her living room, close, her robe sliding over
his legs, her forearm resting against his chest.  He still had
hold of her, his fingers circling her like a bracelet.  She looked
up into his eyes and saw there a fatigue that matched her own.
A care she had helped foster.  Lips pressed thin in regret, she
reached up with her free hand and pushed back a shock of hair
from his brow.  He shivered.  She wasn't certain of the cause.

It might have been the brisk September air.

She hoped it was her touch.

Fuck The Smoker.  Fuck 'em all.

"You look like you could use a nice hot bath yourself," she
murmured, her gaze lingering on his.

"Actually, I'm more a shower kind of guy," he mumbled,
his breath stirring her hair.

She drew away from him and crossed to the door.  Closing it,
she locked them in.  "Why don't you go take one then," she
suggested, tossing the words over her shoulder as casually
as she was able.  "I'll see if I can find you something to wear."

"I thought you wanted some time to yourself."

She turned to face him once more.  Poor Mulder.  He appeared
utterly confused.  She couldn't say she blamed him.  She knew
she was sending him contradictory signals.  It wasn't intentional,
just a byproduct of their situation.  She wanted to protect him,
would do absolutely anything to keep him from being harmed.
And yet, only a day into this charade, she was finding it
impossible to keep him physically safe without wounding him
emotionally.  She had seen the questions shining in his eyes.
What's going on?  Why are you acting so strangely?  Is it my
fault?

Damn it.

The man had literally run to be by her side.  She couldn't just
turn him away.

"I do," she said at last.  "I do need some time on my own.  But
I have the rest of the weekend for that."

He nodded a bit uncertainly.

"I don't need to be alone tonight."

Mulder dipped his head again, his eyes locked on hers.

"Go on," she instructed, unsettled a bit by his stare.  "Go on
and take your shower before you catch a chill."

Scully watched his back as, without another word, Mulder
retreated from the living room down the hallway towards
her bathroom.  Nibbling on the corner of her mouth, she
crossed to the stereo and turned on her CD player.  Instantly,
soft classical music filled the room.  She listened for a moment,
then bumped up the volume.

There.  That's better.

If she really was still under surveillance, there was no sense
in making it easy for them.

                        *****

Fox Mulder stood naked beneath the stream of soothing warm
water, closing his eyes as it sluiced over his head, rinsing the
shampoo from his hair.

Thank God, Scully didn't go in for all that flowery girly
stuff, he mused, rubbing his hands vigorously over his
face to help rid it of suds.  Rather than roses or lilies, the
woman he loved opted for subtler, greener scents when
choosing toiletries.  Shampoos and soaps that reminded
him of leafy vines and forests and newly mown grass.  Which
meant not only did she smell great, but he could borrow her
grooming supplies without fear of reeking like Rex Reed's
latest pool boy.

It felt good, the water raining down over him, washing away
his weariness, his sweat, the worry that had been plaguing
him since Scully had first sailed into their office that morning.
He couldn't put his finger on it, couldn't pin it down and neatly
label it.  But something was wrong.  He'd bet his life on it.

At first, he had feared it might be him, that he had somehow
done something to anger or annoy her.  While Scully wasn't a
game player, she sometimes had trouble addressing issues
between them.  Such a scenario might account for the tension
he thought he sensed crackling around her, hissing and snapping
like a field of static electricity.

Yet, if that were the case, he honestly couldn't recall what
would have set her off.  He had been mulling it over since
midday, since returning to the basement, eager to steal a
work-free hour with his favorite redhead only to find a terse
note in her stead.  Crushing the scrap of paper in frustration,
he had begun replaying the past week or so inside his head,
searching for clues.  And had come up with zero.

He had been a good boy lately.  On his very best behavior.

So, if it wasn't him, what was it?

The question had echoed endlessly between his ears as
he had pounded his way down D.C.'s darkened streets.
Aimlessly, he had run, examining the problem from every
angle, dissecting it, meditating on it.

Yet, ultimately, failing to achieve enlightenment.

With this present quandary monopolizing his thoughts, was
it any wonder he had ended up on her doorstep?  He hadn't
meant to bother her, hadn't planned on disturbing her solitude.
But something had summoned him that night, drawing him
to her in a way he couldn't entirely explain.  He had needed
reassurance, had wanted to make certain Scully was all right.
That, together, they were both all right.

Thankfully, it appeared they were.

After all, she was letting him spend the night.

Contemplating just what 'spending the night' might mean
in this particular instance, Mulder heard the bathroom door
open, then click shut.

"Scully?" he called, soaping his belly.  "What towel did you
want me to--?"

His question died when the shower curtain slid noisily on
its thin, metal rod, folding in on itself like an accordion.

To reveal Dana Scully, her hair piled winningly atop her
head, wearing not a stitch of clothing.

Smiling shyly at him, she stepped into the tub.  For a
moment, he could only stare.

"Wha-- . . . what are you doing?" he queried dumbly at last,
his shoulders pummeled now by spray.

"I'm conserving water," she said lightly, reaching out to
take the soap from his suddenly paralyzed hands.

"I thought you were looking forward to your bath," he
said, mesmerized by the way droplets of water bounced
from his body to hers, the manner in which they beaded
on her pale skin, clinging to her like fat, juicy gumdrops
of moisture.  He wanted to eat them off her, one by one.  To
lick and suck, to dry her with his tongue.

"I decided that you, in the shower, was more appealing than
me, alone, in the bath," she murmured, lathering her hands.
"Do you mind?"

Mind?  Why would he mind sharing a shower with a gorgeous
woman?

"No," he answered succinctly.

"Turn around," she directed, setting the soap back in its dish.
"I'll do your back."

Mulder did as he was told.  Facing the faucet, he stood so that
his chest was once more hit by spray.  Scully slowly ran her
hands down his body, gently spreading the suds with her palms,
rubbing it into his skin with her fingertips.  It was heavenly.
Bowing his head beneath the nozzle, he sighed with contentment.

"Feel good?" she asked quietly, her words muffled by the water
falling around them.

"Feels great," he assured her, his hands braced now against the
shower walls for balance.

Almost as if she had been awaiting such tacit permission, she
began smoothing over him a bit harder, rolling his muscles,
working out the kinks.  Without thinking, he tipped back his
head and let loose with a groan, the water running down his
cheeks like tears.

"Sore?" she queried.

"A little," he muttered, eyes squeezed shut.  A lot, if he were
to be honest with her.  Between the days spent putting together
their review for Skinner, the hours spent worrying over what
was going on with his partner, and the minutes spent running
over D.C's unforgiving pavement, his body was in knots.

Good thing Scully's fingers were so nimble.  And so strong.

Firmly, she kneaded the length of his back, starting at his
shoulders and working her way down.  Gripping and releasing,
she massaged his aching flesh, digging deep, stroking long.

Finally, she made her way to his behind, pressing against
the thick, heavy muscle there with the heel of her hand,
rotating against it in tight, hard circles.  Mulder was in
ecstasy, pushing back against her with his hips, his chin
tipped downwards so that it rested against his chest.

"Yeah . . . oooh, Scully.  Right there."

They stayed like that for a long while, with Scully giving
his ass more attention than it probably deserved.  Mulder
was just about to make a crack about her having missed
her true calling.  When, all at once, her hands strayed from
their task, trailing instead around the front of his body to
make their acquaintance with another part of his anatomy.

"Oh!" he gasped when her fingertips closed carefully
around his not-quite erection.

"Shh," she crooned, her arms twined tightly around him,
steadying him as she strained to reach her goal.  "It's okay."

It was more than okay.  It was fabulous.  Tenderly, Scully
slid her hand down his cock and back again, the way eased
by suds.  She handled him delicately, as if she feared hurting
him, the pressure exerted not tremendous.  Still, it was enough
to stiffen the muscle beneath her fingers, to thicken it.  To add
an inch.  Then, two.

"Oh, . . . Scully," he moaned, water pounding against his scalp,
flowing into his ears, his mouth.  "Oh, yeah . . ."

"I know," she whispered from his shoulder, her thumb circling
his tip before her hand slipped down to ever so gently jostle his
balls in her palm, moving them slowly from side to side.  "I
know."

She was draped over him like a blanket, her breasts flattened
against his shoulder blades, her ripened nipples nudging him
like impatient fingers.  As much as he was reveling in her
ministrations, part of him wanted to turn and pull her into his
embrace.  To caress her, kiss her, drive her as out of her mind
as she was making him.

But Scully wouldn't let him.  She held him fast and near,
her cheek plastered to his back, her hands slowly yet steadily
drawing him away from his torso, stretching him to his fullest.

Over and over she stroked, varying the speed and intensity
in what he assumed must be an effort to prolong his pleasure.
Much to his delight, her tactic was succeeding.  His hips
pumped with the rhythm she set, back and forth, the crisp
hair between her legs tickling his backside each time he
swayed into her.

Finally, he knew he couldn't take much more.  He could feel
his groin growing hotter, harder, tighter until . . . . .

He jerked in her hold, his head snapping back so the water
above him poured wildly into his mouth and nose.  Splattering
the tile before him with his release, he groaned and grunted,
thrusting against her still moving hand, wildfire blazing up
and down his spine.

And as he shuddered mindlessly beneath the now cooling spray
only one thing kept his joy from being complete.

The note of desperation he swore he heard woven through
Scully's words when she fiercely whispered, "I love you, Mulder.
Never forget I love you."

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *



Mulder slept late the following morning, even though he and
the woman who shared with him her bed had retired early the
night before.

The retiring early part had been all Scully's idea.

After their bathroom encounter, she had pleaded exhaustion
which, while it wasn't entirely a lie, was a smoke screen.
Having judged the slap of water against tile and porcelain loud
enough to camouflage their activities, she hadn't worried about
being overheard when she had joined Mulder in the shower.
However, even with the stereo cranked, she hadn't been certain
they wouldn't be listened in on elsewhere in the apartment.

And no way was she adding to The Smoker's tape collection.

Luckily for her, Mulder had been as genuinely wiped as she
had claimed to be.  He had followed her lead without argument
or coercion.  Sweetly bidding each other goodnight, they had
nestled cozily beneath her comforter, lying close, their limbs
tangled like tree roots.

Yet, even sheltered in her lover's embrace, cradled against
him warm and secure, Scully had lain awake for hours, her
thoughts jumbled and all-consuming.

What to do. . . .  What to do. . . .

The question echoed still when she finally slipped from
bed, groggy with fatigue, shortly after dawn.  Tiptoeing
silently about the flat so as not to rouse her overnight guest,
she threw on black leggings and a long, bulky grey cable
knit, wanting to be dressed when he awoke.  She would have
preferred, of course, to have simply remained beneath the
covers, wrapped around Mulder, skin to skin, all morning
long.  But such indulgences were no longer an option.

You just never knew who might have their ear pressed
against the wall.

Pondering that disturbing new reality adjustment, Scully
stood at her kitchen counter, slicing in two a wheat germ
bagel, when she heard Mulder steal up behind her.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," she murmured fondly as he
pressed a soft, damp kiss to the nape of her neck.  "Did
you sleep well?"

"Too well," he mumbled in reply, his arms looped heavily
around her middle, his nose burrowing now in her tousled
hair.  "I didn't hear you get up."

"You weren't supposed to," she retorted mildly, popping the
bagel into the toaster.  "I was trying to be quiet."

"But, Scully," he whispered from just behind her ear, his
voice morning gruff, his breath scorching her tender lobe.
"I like it when you're loud."

With that, he drew her yet more fully against him, her back
to his front, his groin pressed firmly against her buttocks.
Stealthily, his hands slipped beneath her sweater to stroke
along her suddenly ticklish midriff.

"Mulder," she sighed in breathy rebuke, her eyelids drooping,
her insides turning almost instantly to thick, bubbling syrup.

But rather than take note of the faint censure threading through
her voice, Mulder chose instead to focus on the arousal his
touch had so obviously stirred.  Skimming up her satiny skin,
he reached beneath her clothing to cup her breasts in his palms.
Lifting them slightly, his thumbs traced slow, bone-dissolving
circles around their crests.

"So whaddya say?" he murmured, punctuating the question
with a sharp nip just inside the neckline of her pullover.
Scully twitched and moaned as his teeth scraped her skin, her
fingers tightening their already fierce hold on the countertop's
edge.  "Wanna make a little noise?"

He couldn't have killed her desire any more thoroughly if he
had somehow morphed into The Smoker himself.

"Uh-uh," she grunted as she twisted gracelessly in his hold,
determined to face him.  To end his seduction before it could
begin.  "I'm not falling for that."

"Falling for what?" he asked, his hands reluctantly sliding free
from her clothes.

His arms caged her now against the counter.  Thus positioned,
he loomed over her, standing so close their bare toes nudged.
Scully pressed back against the cabinets, trying to win a little
breathing room.  Yet, there was scant to be had.  Mulder was
purposely crowding her, urging her to be aware of him.  Of his
needs.  His intentions.

Message received, Sir.  Loud and clear.

Heart thumping with his nearness, she snuck a peek at his
face.  His hair feathered messily across his forehead, falling
forward as he stared down at her to mingle with her own.  His
breath slipped from between his parted lips, bathing her brow,
warm and vaguely minty.  He had taken the time to brush his
teeth.  The louse.  It was so unfair.  That she should be expected
to resist this.  Resist him.  Torture really, when she wanted it
as badly as he.  Sighing at the injustice, she bravely pulled
her eyes away from his tempting mouth, glancing downwards
instead as she sought to find an avenue for escape.  Bad decision.
Not the need to flee--the whole eyes below the waist thing.  She
had forgotten Mulder had gone to bed dressed in nothing but a
pair of plaid flannel boxers.  He was garbed in them still.  Well-
worn, they left little to the imagination.

"You're trying to seduce me so I won't kick you out," she
mumbled resolutely, determined to remain strong.

"I'm trying to seduce you for reasons other than that," he
assured her, bending down to nuzzle along her hairline.

"Maybe, but the result would still be the same," Scully argued
as, spying an opening, she swiftly ducked beneath Mulder's
arm and crossed away to the refrigerator.  Don't look at him.
Mustn't look at him.  "If I give you half a chance, you'll lure
me back to bed.  And before you know it, the day will be gone."

"Missing time," he murmured from somewhere behind her.
"We've got an entire file drawer dedicated to the phenomenon
back at the office.  You sure you don't want to investigate,
Agent Scully?"

Keeping her back to him, she pulled open her Frigidaire,
searching for the orange juice she had bought earlier in the
week.  "Not today, Mulder.  I have things I have to do."

At first, nothing was said as she rooted amongst the
perishables.  It wasn't until she had finally located the
elusive quart of Tropicana that Mulder mumbled . . .

"Things that don't include me."

Shit.  She had hurt him.  Again.

"I need this, Mulder," she muttered, hiding behind the
refrigerator door, the carton of orange juice clutched tightly
in her hand.  "It's a weekend.  That's all.  Don't turn it into
something it's not."

He made no reply.

So, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Scully closed
the gleaming white side-by-side and returned to the counter,
pretending as if the matter was closed.  Stretching up to seize
two glasses from the shelf overhead, she began to pour the juice.
Almost as if on cue, the bagel she had dropped in the toaster
seemingly hours before sprang from its fiery prison, announcing
its readiness.

Pity she had lost her appetite.

"If there was something wrong, you'd tell me.  Wouldn't you?"
he queried softly at last.

Briefly, she closed her eyes, guilt squeezing her heart like a
hurried housewife might wring a sponge.  Opening them once
more, she turned to steal a glance in his direction.  Mulder
stood with his fists on his hips, his head bowed.

"There isn't anything wrong.  How many times do I have to
tell you that?"

Gnawing thoughtfully on his lower lip, he met her eyes.
Studying her for a beat, he admitted, "Until I believe it."

"Mulder--," she sighed.

"Try to understand, Scully," he said quietly, taking a tentative
step towards her, his fingers raking restlessly through his hair.
"This thing we have . . . it's been going well between us.  For
a long time now.  Almost a year."

She nodded slightly, encouraging him.

"I've been . . . happy," he confessed with a sheepish shrug.
"And you . . . well, I haven't felt like I needed to hide sharp
objects from you or anything."

She thinly smiled, hoping the curving of her lips might
direct his attention away from the moisture gathering in her
eyes.

"I'm not used to that," he continued, seemingly oblivious to
the tempest raging inside her, unknowing of the shame his
simple disclosure stirred.  "Not used to getting the things I
want and then being allowed to keep them."

Grimacing, he shook his head and rubbed his palm over his
lips and jaw, almost as if he were somehow trying to scrub
clean his mouth, to erase what he had just said.  "You.  You're
what I want.  What I wanted for a very long time.  And
sometimes . . . sometimes I'm afraid it's all gonna go away.
That the proverbial other shoe is finally gonna drop."

Swallowing hard, she reached out and closed her fingers just
above his wrist, thinking to reassure him with her touch.
"Don't be afraid."

For the longest time, he stared down at the sight of her hand
on his arm, his brow scrunched tight in contemplation.  Finally,
shaking his head once more, he pulled from her grasp and turning
away, headed for the bedroom.  "I better go."

Chasing him across the kitchen floor, she grabbed him by the
shoulder, stopping him before he could leave the room.
"Wait . . ."

He rounded on her impatiently.  "Make up your mind, Scully.
Stay or go.  What do you want me to do?"

She wet her lips and shrugged a bit helplessly, feeling foolish.
"It's just . . . you don't have to take off right away.  Don't you
want some breakfast?"

"I'm not very hungry," he murmured, his breath ruffling her
hair.

She still had hold of him, her fingers digging into the firm,
pliable muscle atop his arm.  Yet even as she clung to him,
she asked herself why.  Why stop him from doing what she
had been hoping he would do since he had arrived?  Why try
and keep him there?

Better he should leave.

They might be listening.

"I'm sorry," Scully whispered, releasing him, her eyes unable
to meet his.

"Don't be sorry for telling me the truth," he said evenly.

Oh God, Mulder, she thought with a measure of desperation.
Twist the knife, why don't you?

"Maybe you're right," she mumbled dully, gesturing towards
him as if to say 'it's your call'.  "Maybe you should go."

Mulder hesitated for a moment.  Then, nodding sadly, he did
just that.

                        *****

Mulder hadn't been gone an hour before Scully tried calling
him.  She didn't know precisely what she was going to say,
how she was going to make amends for her behavior.  At
that moment, however, details were inconsequential.  She
needed to hear his voice, to attempt in some way to atone
for her sins.

Yet all she got was his answering machine.

She hung up without saying a word.

She had no more than returned her cordless to its charger
when she heard a muffled ringing from the entry hall.

Her cell phone.

Mulder?

Scarcely resisting the urge to run, she hurried to the front
door.  Fumbling in the side pocket of the briefcase she had
left leaning against the wall there, she retrieved the palm-
sized Nokia.

"Scully."

"That was foolish, Agent Scully."

The Smoker.

She froze in the foyer, her mouth turning drought dry, her
heart plunging to the soles of her feet.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, careful to keep her
tone even and low.

"The objects you and your three friends found.  I told you
no one was to know of our discussion."

"They don't know," she said quickly, her pulse thudding so
loudly at her temples she almost couldn't hear herself.  "I
didn't tell them about that, only that I was being bugged."

"Even if what you're saying is true, their discoveries
are bound to make them . . . . suspicious.  It puts our
arrangement at risk."

She had to chew on her bottom lip to keep from laughing,
afraid once she started, she'd never stop.  "I don't think you
have to worry.  Finding those bugs isn't going to make the
Gunmen anymore suspicious than usual."

For a moment, he was silent on the other end of the line,
seemingly mulling over her words.  His reticence frightened
her.  What if this small transgression was enough to make
him strike out at Mulder?

"I trust them," she said calmly, hoping her fears in no way
seeped through her voice.  "They're my friends.  I have asked
them to keep this a secret.  From everyone.  Even Mulder.
They won't betray me."

"They had better not," he finally murmured.  "Betrayal will
not go unpunished, Agent Scully."

She breathed slow and deep, trying to quell the nausea
churning sluggishly in the pit of her stomach.

"See that you remember that," he warned.

"I will," she assured him quietly.

For an instant, neither of them said anything.  Scully wondered
if she had permission to hang up.  Then the man on the other
end of the line spoke once more.

"On a more pleasant note, I must congratulate you on your
handling of the situation this morning."

"What situation this morning?" she queried with a frown.

"Getting Mulder out of your apartment," he said, his knowledge
of the incident destroying any hopes she still harbored regarding
her home's surveillance.  Or lack thereof.  "I was concerned, of
course, when I learned he had spent the night.  But I'm
beginning to see the benefit to doing things your way."

"My way?" she echoed warily.  "What exactly do you mean by
'my way'?"

"This 'taking your time'," he explained.  "Working up to it
bit by bit.  The more I think about it, the more I approve.  After
all, how can Mulder help but believe you no longer want him
once you give him incident upon incident illustrating that very
thing?"

Bastard.  As if she didn't already know her role in this farce.

"Go to hell," she snarled into the handset and, punching a
button, severed their connection.

Yet, even though she had silenced his voice, Scully swore she
could hear The Smoker still, chuckling softly, mockingly,
inside her head.

                        *****

Fox Mulder felt like 34 going on 100.

Damn basketball hustlers.

He had been jogging by the university, leaving Scully's
neighborhood in the same fashion in which he had arrived,
when he had happened upon a pick-up game on one of the
school's outdoor courts.

He had watched for a moment or two, gaze drawn, as always,
to any sort of athletic activity.  To his critical eye, the pair
who had captured his attention had seemed evenly matched;
neither was more than six feet tall, one stockier, more muscular
than the other, but at the same time clumsier, less sure on his
feet.  They were pretty good ball handlers, possessing no great
speed, but decent jump shots.  They would have been even
more formidable if they had dared to take it to the hoop.
Instead, they each seemed to prefer playing the perimeter.

When the two saw him watching their game, peering almost
wistfully through the rusting chain linked fence, they had
invited him to join them.

"Come on, man.  You up for a little two-on-one?  Twenty
bucks to the winner, just to make it interesting.  We'll even
spot you five points to even up the odds."

Feeling as if he could do with an outlet for all the emotional
gunk swimming around his system, he had shrugged in
acceptance and strolled through the gate.  He could take these
guys, he had judged with a confidence that bordered on swagger.
He could take them and maybe teach them a little something
while he was at it.

Yet, as it turned out, he was the one who was taught a lesson
that morning.

If asked, Mulder would have liked to have been able to say
his b-ball opponents were better actors than they were players.

But that would have been a lie.

They were damned good players.

Once they had him in their grasp, their tentative, low-keyed
styles vanished.  True natures revealed, they showed no mercy,
darting and passing and shooting like they had somehow
suddenly gotten hold of John Thompson's play book.  Up
and down the cracked slab of concrete they ran him, their
game fast and physical, their accuracy with the basketball
humbling in the extreme.

*Swish*

*Swish*

*Swish*

It wasn't long before Mulder's wallet was $20 lighter and his
limbs felt about 20 pounds heavier each.

"Hey, no hard feelings.  You know?" the skinnier shyster said
when it was over, pocketing the only cash Mulder had been
carrying.  "I mean . . .you don't play too bad for an old guy."

Oh.  So that was what was meant by 'damning with faint praise'.

"Thanks, sonny," the ancient one mumbled between gasps.

Sigh.

Was he really that big a patsy?  Did he have the word
"Sucker" tattooed across his forehead?

It sure felt like it these days, Mulder silently fumed as he
sat hunched forward on a court-side bench, trying to capture
his fugitive breath.  God.  First, Scully . . . then his two Nike
wearing con-men. . . .

Wincing, he felt the sting of conscience's whip.  That's out
of line, he thought with a shake of his head, wordlessly
reprimanding himself.  How ridiculously unfair to lump the
woman he loved in with the pair of would-be Hoyas.  She
asked you for a weekend, Mulder, and you label her a Jezebel.
Try not to be anymore pathetic than you have to be, okay?

It wasn't the weekend, he silently argued, pushing to
his feet and taking a few weak-kneed steps towards the
street.  He could handle being on his own.  After all, it
wasn't as if Scully and he had ever been joined at the hip.
They spent plenty of time apart.  Caution dictated they do
so.

It wasn't that she supposedly needed time to herself.

It was that she was lying to him.

He was positive of that now.  The warning bells had begun
clanging the previous morning and had only gotten louder
and more vehement as the day had progressed.  He imagined
most guys wouldn't get so bent out of shape by a bit of simple
secret-keeping.  So, she doesn't tell you everything.  Big deal.
Everyone has stuff they want to keep to themselves.  A little
mystery is good for a relationship.  It keeps you from
becoming complacent, from taking your partner for granted.

However, Scully and he had never operated that way.  Not
since Chicago.  Oh sure, she would dodge his inquiries every
now again.  Claim she was "fine" when he knew damned well
she was anything but.  Yet she had never been able to keep up
the charade for any length of time.  If he called her on it,
demanded her honesty, she would come clean.  Reluctantly,
but thoroughly.

Not this time though.  Something was going on.  Something
she was hiding from him.

In the beginning, he had thought it might be him.  That Scully
was angry with him or tired of their whole cloak and dagger
love affair.

The notion had terrified him as few things had the power to.

But after the previous night, that theory had all at once become
far less compelling.

She wouldn't have been able to give him that truly exquisite
hand-job unless things were right between them.

Would she?

She wouldn't have held him like that, her arms slim yet
strong, told him she loved him while his body quaked in her
embrace, helpless with the force of his passion for her.

No.  Scully wasn't capable of that kind of deceit.

And never in a million years would she have invited him into
her bed, melting against him all soft and yielding.  Not if she
had truly wanted him gone.

Then again . . . she hadn't let him make love to her.

Mulder grimaced as he slowly made his way up one of
Georgetown's busier thoroughfare, hobbling as if he were a
suffering from the gout.  Jesus.  He must have pulled something.

He could do with another of Dr. Scully's patented shower
massages.

Eat your heart out, WaterPik.

Yet it wasn't likely he would see one of those again in the near
future.

Not when the woman was running so hot and cold.

Ba-boom ching.

A little shower humor, folks.

Good grief.  Did one of those guys elbow him in the head when
they were scrambling for the ball?

Nope, he ruefully yet silently replied.  The pain in his noggin
was all about tension, not body checks.

He needed to find a cab.

Stepping gingerly to the curb, Mulder shielded his eyes against
the noonday sun, searching for a taxi.  He desperately tried to
keep his focus on that simple task.  Look for and find a car with
that nifty little emblem atop it, he wordlessly directed himself.
Go home.  Shower . . .

Oh God.  We're back to that again.

Yet, in reality, it wasn't actually the shower he kept returning to,
it was what had happened after the water had been shut off.

When he had come back to himself, secure still in Scully's
arms.  They had kissed then, standing beneath the spray, her
face cradled in his hands, her palms running lightly along
his sides.  Her lips had met his, soft and warm, and willing.
Mulder was absolutely certain she had been willing.

Which was why he had been so surprised when later, beneath
the sheets, she had nixed the idea of their lovemaking.

"I'm tired," she had mumbled into the crook of his neck, her
fingers weaving through his hair.  "So tired.  Would you hold
me?  Just hold me."

Of course, he would.  Gladly.

And yet . . .

There, in the distance, he spied a taxicab.  Waving his arm
like a castaway trying to signal a rescue plane, he flagged
down the battered sedan.  Moving slowly and carefully,
Mulder popped open the passenger side door and folded
himself into the back seat.

"Where to?" said the driver, checking out his fare in the rear
view mirror.  He was young, with wildly curly black hair and
a goatee.

"Downtown," Mulder said shortly.  "The Hoover Building."

With a nod, the cabbie spun the wheel, slicing away from
the curb and into traffic.

Staring moodily out the window as the taxi sped down streets
packed with Saturday shoppers, Mulder recalled what bothered
him most about his night in Scully's bed.

He had dozed off first.

For all her supposed weariness, Scully had been the one to
hold him while he had slept.  Not vice versa.  Now, granted,
he too had been tired, most especially after enjoying his
partner's bathtub ministrations.  Still, he had fought off
slumber as long as he could, hoping Scully and he might
perhaps be able to have a bit of serious conversation before
calling it a night.

Hoping Scully might change her mind about the "just hold me"
thing.

But it hadn't happened.  She had held tough, escaping his
questioning, dodging his attempts at intimacy.

They may have spent the night together.

But, looking back, it seemed to him as if miles had separated
them.

"Hey, pal.  Here you go," said Mulder's scruffy chauffeur,
pulling over to the corner of Pennsylvania and Tenth.
"Hoover Building.  Sixteen bucks."

Mind still elsewhere, Mulder absently dug in his pocket for
his wallet.

It felt rather thin between his fingertips.

Shit.

He hated weekends.

"Listen," he began hesitantly, patting himself down as if he
might magically have an extra twenty pinned somewhere on
his person, like the milk money of old.  "I . . uh . . don't
suppose you take plastic."

The cabbie's eyes narrowed.  "Cash, my man.  And cash only."

Mulder sighed.  "In that case, I need you to drive just a little
bit further."

His driver was not amused.  "Oh yeah?  Where'd you have in
mind?"

Mulder shrugged, an embarrassed smile on his face.  "A bank,
an ATM, a drunk you think I can roll.  Right about now--I
don't care.  I just need to get some money."

His friend in the front seat only glared.

For some reason, his expression made Mulder laugh.

His friend glared harder.

"I'm sorry," Mulder said, snickering still.  "I'm sorry.  I know
this isn't cool.  It's just . . . with the day I've had so far, I
gotta
tell ya--sixteen bucks is no big deal."

The cabbie looked him over as if trying to judge whether his
passenger was giving it to him straight.  Eventually, he came to
a decision.

"All right," he said, nodding reluctantly.  "We'll go find your
drunk.  But don't plan on rolling him for sixteen.  Better make
it thirty.  I figure you're gonna owe me a nice, big tip."

Thirty dollars for a sixteen dollar ride!?  Mulder silently railed.
The little thief.  That made it twice in one day he had been
robbed.  This was getting ridiculous.  He was supposed to be
in law enforcement.

"Twenty," Mulder countered swiftly.

"The longer I sit here talking to you, the more fares I lose,"
said his savvy cabbie, seemingly getting into the negotiations.
"That's money, my friend.  Outta my pocket.  Twenty-five."

Mulder shook his head, surrendering.  "Fine.  Twenty-five.
Whatever.  Let's just go."

Satisfied, the driver set off for points unknown.

While Mulder slouched tiredly behind him, realizing that
when you got right down to it, twenty-five dollars wasn't a
whole heck of a lot of money.  Would that all his woes could
be solved so cheaply.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

Every Friday afternoon, Walter Skinner promised himself he
wasn't going to do this.

Yet, seemingly, every time Sunday night rolled around he had
invariably broken his oath.

The weekends were supposed to be about rest and rejuvenation.
So why in the world couldn't he make it through one without
logging a few hours at the Hoover Building?

You almost made it this time, though.  Didn't you, Walt? he
silently razzed as he scooped up his leather jacket from the
arm of his office sofa and slipped it on over his navy T-shirt.
You very nearly lasted until Monday morning without
succumbing to the urge.

Well . . . at least this week you waited until after "Sixty
Minutes" before dragging your sorry ass into D.C.

Shaking his head with disgust, he snapped shut his briefcase,
tucked it and a few stray file folders under his arm, and
crossed towards the door, hitting the lights on his way out.

The halls were nearly empty this late, with only a few hardy
souls manning the graveyard shift.  Skinner checked his watch,
frowning at the information it imparted.  After midnight?  Jesus,
what had he been thinking?  For a man who hadn't originally
planned on making an appearance at all, he had certainly put
in more than his share of face time.

And yet, what the hell else did you have to do? he wordlessly
asked himself as his boot heels click-clacked on the high-
gloss linoleum.  It's not as if your social calendar has been
jam packed the past few months.  Ever since Sharon had
walked out, weekends had been more things to endure than
any sort of respite or reward.  Days when his apartment
echoed in its silence.  Hours filled by the necessities of life
rather than by its pleasures.  The running of errands, the
laundry and the oil changes, the occasional trip to the gym.

Chores.

Performed alone.  Always alone.

You lead a solitary existence, you son of a bitch.

And you have no one to blame for it but yourself.

Wincing at the turn his thoughts had taken, he opted for
the stairs rather than the elevator.  It was better that way,
he thought, nodding politely at a freckle-faced agent whose
name floated just beyond his grasp.  Too many times he had
been trapped beside some overeager rookie looking to score
points with such inspired conversation starters as, "So, sir
. . . you're here late.  Big case?"

He wasn't that lonely.

Besides, after sitting on his behind for the past however many
hours, he could use a little exercise.

Slipping into the stairwell like a phantom, he began trotting
lightly down the steps.

Actually, when you stop to consider, it hadn't been such a bad
evening's work, he mused, trying to bolster his spirits.  He had
taken care of some private correspondence, the paying of bills
and the like.  But more importantly, he had managed to plow
through a half dozen reviews, jotting notes in the margins, and
checking the math on the corresponding budgetary figures.
He had plenty more to analyze, of course, stacks of pages,
double-spaced and boring as hell.  But at least he had made a
dent in it.  The rest he could get to as the week progressed.

He somehow had the feeling he would have the time.

Second floor.  One stop to make before hoofing it to the car.

Skinner shouldered open the stairwell's door.  Like the floors
above it, this one held little traffic.  Turning to his right, he
swiftly flipped through the manila folders in his hands, head
bowed, searching for the one marked "Personal."  There it was.
Inside lay folded the form he needed to deliver.

The request to take Sharon off his insurance.

Sighing, he paused before the entrance to Human Resources,
one of the few Bureau departments that actually kept business
hours.  The office was dark.  He tried the doorknob.  Locked.
No one was working at quarter after twelve on a Sunday night.
He should have realized that.  God.  What had he been thinking?
Glaring down at the offending paperwork, he weighed his
options.  He could simply return to his desk, stick the damned
thing in an interoffice envelope and let it wind its way to its
destination the following day, courtesy of the mailroom.

But given all the times he had argued with Sharon over this
decision, the phone calls he had made pleading with her to
reconsider, the dread with which he had even approached
asking for the stupid form in the first place. . .

No.  He just wanted it over with.  To get it out of his hands
once and for all.  To never have to see this Goddamned
piece of official Bureau b.s. ever again.

Not when it represented written proof that his marriage was
at long last over, this document, turned over to the powers-
that-be before the divorce papers themselves had even been
filed.  Neatly submitted.  In triplicate.  Signed by his hand.

Shit.

Squatting, he angrily shoved the paperwork under the door,
his hand catching and scraping against the portal, rattling
it violently in its jamb.

"Easy, Walt," a husky female voice urged.  "I don't know
what beef you have with HR, but I'll bet that poor door had
nothing to do with it."

Grimacing, Skinner peered up through his wire-rims, and
spied a familiar face.  One surrounded by a cap of wavy
blond hair and featuring a pair of intelligent green eyes.

"Hey, Chris," he murmured sheepishly, standing once more,
his gaze lowered, contemplating his skinned knuckles rather
than Agent Christine Chauncy's obvious amusement.  "What
are you doing here so late?"

"I could ask the same of you," she countered, her arms folded
tightly across her ample bosom.

That brought his eyes back to hers.  The expression he saw
there made him shake his head in wry recognition.  "You
could ask.  But you won't.  You'll just sweat it out of me with
that gorgon stare of yours."

"Are you insinuating my middle name should be Medusa?"
she queried, her voice as arch as her brow.

"Never," he said, genuine affection warming his tone.
"With a middle name like Sergei, I know better than to
cast aspersions."

With that, her mock affront melted, leaving behind only a
smile.

Skinner returned it, his pique momentarily soothed.

He liked Chauncy.  They were friends.  Once, their
relationship had gone deeper than that.  They had gotten
involved with the Bureau within months of each other, and
involved with each other not long after that.  It had never
amounted to much, a few drinks, a few dates, a few evenings
spent thrusting into her strong, soft body, her arms twined
tightly around his shoulders, her legs wrapped just as fiercely
about his hips.  They had been young and ambitious, and more
interested in a commitment-free good time than anything
lasting.  Things had inevitably changed, of course.  He had
met Sharon and Chris had met . . . Howard, was it?  She had
kept her maiden name when she had gotten married and he
had a mental block about her husband's identity.  Anyway . . .
they had parted, friendly, with few regrets. A computer
specialist, she had swiftly moved up the ranks in MIS.  He
ran into her from time to time.

"I was getting some paperwork out of the way," he said, strolling
away from Human Resources and back the way he had come,
faintly embarrassed this particular woman had found him on
his knees, taking out his aggression on a defenseless door, and
wanting to get away from the scene of the crime as smoothly
and as quickly as possible.  "Reviews.  You know.  What's your
excuse?"

"The flu bug," Chris said with a growl of annoyance, falling
into step alongside him, her long legs matching his, stride for
stride.  "Half my team is out with it.  I needed someone to fill
in for the overnight."

"And you're the lucky girl?" he teased.

"The only healthy girl, apparently," she retorted dryly, a low
chuckle rumbling beneath her words.  "I called everyone on
my staff list and came up empty."

"Sorry to hear that," he said, stopping before the stairwell.

"Not as sorry as I am," she assured him with another curving
of her lips, this one coaxing out of hiding the smallest hint
of a dimple, a tiny crescent moon curling around the right-
hand corner of her mouth.

Chris had dimples.  He had forgotten that.

He had also failed to recall how attractive she was, Skinner
admitted to himself, the insight unexpected.  Chauncy's
roundish face might have been marked with a few spidery
lines, and her middle softened by an extra pound or two.  But
the same could be said of him. Could be said of them all.  She
looked good.  He wondered if Howard and she were happy.  Or,
if instead, she might every so often see his name on a report or
catch a glimpse of him prowling the halls and stop to wonder
what might have been.

The same way he did sometimes.

"Hey, do me a favor before you go, will you?" she asked,
interrupting his reverie.

"Sure," he said, trying his best to shake off the melancholy.
"What?"

She glanced over her shoulder, and shook her head.  "Listen . . .
I know you live this job twenty-four/seven.  But I gotta tell
you--that kind of lifestyle doesn't work for everyone.  Some
Bureau employees are mere mortals.  They need things like . . .
oh . . . I don't know . . . =sleep=."

Skinner's brow wrinkled in confusion.  "What are you
talking about?"

"I've got one of your agents in my I.D. lab," Chris said,
gesturing vaguely down the corridor.  "Dead to the world.
According to the kid I relieved, she'd been there through
most of his shift.  Apparently, he'd tried making small
talk with her when he noticed she was fading, suggested
she might want to call it a night.  But she didn't want to
hear it."

"Which agent?" he queried.

"Scully.  The girl from the basement."

He nodded ruefully, grunting with a small, humorless chuckle.
That poor junior tech.  He was probably smarting still.  After
all, in Skinner's experience, Special Agent Dana Scully did
not take kindly to being told what to do, no matter how well
meaning the sentiment.

"I was just gonna grab some coffee before trying to kick her
out myself," Chris finished with a shrug.  "But seeing as
you're her direct superior, I'm thinking you might have better
luck chasing her home."

"Where is she?" he asked.

"This way," she replied.

When they got to the doorway of the lab, Chris reached out
and laid her hand on his shoulder.  "There she is," she
murmured, leaning in to direct his eyes towards the back of
the room.  "The only die-hard in the place.  Third carrel on
your left."

From where he stood, Skinner couldn't see anything but the
top third of what had to be Scully's machine.  A twisting,
turning, multi-colored screensaver danced with abandon on
its black backdrop.

He started to move away towards his agent, but Chris' fingers
tightened, holding him in place.

"Hey . . . um, I'm gonna get that coffee now," she said quietly,
almost as if she were trying to keep from waking Scully, half
a room away.  "You'll probably be gone when I get back, so
I just wanted to say . . . "

But, rather than complete her thought, Chris trailed off, her
gaze wandering as well.  Skinner was bemused and more than
a little surprised; he had never known Chris Chauncy to be
anything less than forthright.  It was one of the things he liked
most about her.

"What?" he prodded.

She moistened her lips with her tongue.  "Look . . . I know this
is none of my business.  That I forfeited that right a long time
ago . . ."

"You're worrying me, Chauncy," he muttered, his words spoken
not entirely in jest.

"Yeah, well . . . then the feeling is mutual," she muttered back.

"What . . .?"

"All I'm trying to say is . . . you may want to stop making a
habit of these late nights yourself."

He shrugged, utterly befuddled.  "I have no idea what you're
talking about."

She smiled with gentle affection.  "No.  I don't suppose you
do."

She slid her hand down his arm and enfolding his fingers
with her own, gave them a quick, soft squeeze.  "You look
tired, Walt."

Christ.

If he wasn't careful, the kindness he heard underlying her
words was going to be his undoing. It had been so long since
anyone had spoken to him like that.  Like they were looking
out for him, without any ulterior motive.  His throat suddenly
felt full, blocked by some entirely unwanted emotion.  "Chris,
I'm fine--"

"I know," she murmured, letting go and backing away.  "You're
a tough guy.  I knew that about you from the start."

She paused with her hands buried in her pockets, looking at
him with a shrewdly yet warmly.  "But even tough guys need 
friends.  So, don't forget you have at least one.  Okay?"

Not trusting his voice, he simply nodded.

"Good," she said, nodding in reply, a small smile stretching
her lips.  "Now go see if you can get your agent out of here
and home in one piece.  I think she's drooling on one of my
keyboards."

He chuckled at that.  "Thanks, Chris."

"Don't mention it," she said quietly, and turning away,
sashayed out of sight.

Skinner watched her go, considering, if only for an instant,
choices made.  Then, deciding he couldn't change the past,
he set off to do what he could about the present.

Namely, find out what the heck was going on with Scully.

He crossed noiselessly to stand just behind her chair, careful
not to rouse her.  Not yet.  He knew the minute she was
awake she would be full of apologies and explanations.
She would no doubt smooth her hair and adjust her clothes,
and go from flustered to fabulous in under thirty seconds
flat.  All that was fine.  He expected nothing less.

But, just once, he wanted a moment between them without
all the usual Scully armor in place.

And when she lay there before him, crumpled over on the
desktop, her cheek pillowed on her arm, her glasses resting
crookedly on her nose, her hair rumpled, sliding forward to 
tickle her parted lips, there wasn't a codpiece or breastplate 
in sight.

Jesus, Scully looked like just a kid.  Like a coed who had
crashed while trying to cram for finals.  Amazing, he mused.
Who would have guessed this woman would appear so young
and innocent, so remarkably vulnerable in repose?  He could
detect no trace of the firebrand who had once stared defiantly
at him down the barrel of gun, ordering him to drop his weapon
or suffer the consequences.  Asleep like this, she looked incapable
of such theatrics, unlikely to be involved in anything more
dangerous than a campus sit-in.

Ha!  That just goes to prove--looks can be deceiving.

And enjoyable, he noted almost absently.  Quite enjoyable.
Because in addition to all her other laudable attributes,
intangibles such as loyalty, strength, and courage, Dana
Scully had something else to recommend her.

She was very, very pretty.

Sighing, he wearily shook his head.  Sick, Walt, he silently
chided as his eyes swept over his slumbering charge.  This is
sick.  This is nothing more than a form of voyeurism.  You
know it as well as anyone.  What the hell is wrong with you?
First Chauncy, now Scully.  Why don't you just stop by the
convenience store on your way home, buy something with
a centerfold in it, and relieve yourself of a little of this . . .
tension?  God.  If this kept up, one of these days he was
going to find himself accused of sexual harassment.

Lips thin with annoyance, he stretched out his hand and
jostled Scully's slender shoulder, putting an abrupt end to the
interlude.  "Scully?  Come on, wake up."

Instantly, she bolted upright, her glasses tumbling from her
nose to her lap as she roused.  At first, she seemed disoriented,
frightened and confused as to her surroundings.  Gradually,
however, her eyes found his and, blinking, widened with
chagrin.

"Sir?" she murmured, clearing her throat, her fingers pushing
hurriedly through her tousled hair.

"Agent Scully," he answered mildly.  "You want to tell me
what you're doing here in the middle of the night?"

"I'm . . . um . . . ," she began, pausing to grab her spectacles
before they could complete their journey to the floor, her focus
on her rescue of the eyewear rather than on him.  "I was just
trying to get caught up on some work."

"What work?" he asked bewilderedly, attempting to get a better
look at her face.  The glimpses he caught didn't tell him much.
Her cheek was pink and creased by the weave of her sweater.
Her mascara had smudged beneath her eyes, accentuating the
shadows there, and her lipstick had seemingly been entirely
eaten away.  All evidence pointed to Scully having put in a
very long day with little in the way of breathers.  Yet he still
didn't know why.  "Neither you nor Agent Mulder have recently
filed a 302."

"No, sir," she agreed, capturing a yawn.  "It's, um . . . research
for a case currently under review."

"Research?" he echoed in disbelief, crossing his arms firmly
against his chest.  "Research is what has you spending an
entire Sunday combing Bureau databases?"

She took a moment to once more don her glasses, to tuck her
hair behind her ear and ever so slightly stiffen her spine.

"Are you checking up on me, sir?" she queried at last, calmly
gathering her belongings as she spoke, flipping closed her
legal pad and capping her pens, all the while averting her
gaze from his.

He sighed in exasperation, looking heavenward for a second
or two, searching for patience.  "No, I am not checking up
on you," he assured her, his tone measured and deliberate.
"I'm just curious as to what would draw you to the office on
your day off and then keep you here past midnight."

Scully looked at him then, her blue eyes hazed with fatigue,
her jaw set.  "I would imagine, sir, that what draws me here
isn't much different than what draws you."

He didn't know what to say to that, didn't know how to
justify the reasons for his own late night stint at the Hoover
Building.

So, looking for something to fill the void, he reached out and
jiggled the mouse laying midway between Scully's hand and
his.  The monitor before them instantly crackled to life.  On it
was a page of pictures.  All of them were of men in their late
twenties or early thirties, all with dark hair, all possessing
criminal records.  Skinner wondered at this, curious as to why
the female half of the X-Files would be studying anything so
mundane as petty felons.  But before he could spend much
time contemplating the puzzle, Scully leaned past him, loosed
the mouse from his grasp and, clicking, exited the program.

"You're right, sir," she said, continuing to shut down the
computer, her eyes again trained pointedly away from his.
"It's late, and I should be getting home."

He stood there for a moment, stunned by her uncharacteristic
high-handedness, yet unsure what to say in protest.  After
all, she was under no specific obligation to disclose the
purpose of her research.  She had said it was in relation to a
case she hoped to pursue, and he should respect that.  But he
couldn't escape the notion that something else was going on
here, something Agent Scully very much wanted kept secret.

"Scully, is there anything you'd like to share with me?"
he asked, struggling to keep the query from becoming an
accusation.

"No, sir," she said, her expression giving away nothing.

Frustrated both with her and with himself, Skinner tried
again, not sure why he felt compelled to push, but somehow
believing it necessary just the same.  "You know that you
can come to me. . . . that if you have a problem . . . I can be
a resource for you."

He had expected another brusque reply, another brush-off
or evasion.  But this time, Scully surprised him.  She kept
her gaze locked on his face, her eyes seemingly searching
for something in his.  Not for the first time, he wondered
what she saw when she looked at him, if what she regarded
inspired confidence or disdain.  Finally, she nodded as if a
question had been answered, the action slow and slight.  He
would have given anything to know what conclusion had
been reached.

"Thank you, sir," she whispered then, her voice scratchy,
like an over-played forty-five.  "I appreciate that."

Faced with her apparent approval, Skinner all at once felt
oddly ill at ease.   Shrugging, he mumbled, "Don't thank me.
That's the way it's supposed to work."

Eyeing him still, she smiled a trifle sadly and stood, bending
to collect her things.  "Maybe.  But we all know what's supposed
to happen isn't always what does.  You can't count on life
working out the way you plan."

He could feel the undercurrents swirling beneath her simple
statement, could sense the meaning, like a language he had
once known but had since forgotten.  And even though the
actual words were lost to him, he knew what was required in
response.

Reassurance.  For what, he was not certain.

"I don't deny that sometimes life tosses you a curve," he said
awkwardly, taking a half step towards her.  "But I meant what
I said before, Scully.  You can count on me.  You and Mulder,
both.  That's a promise."

"I hope it won't come to that, sir," she said softly, her eyes
flickering to his.  And for just an instant, her mask slipped,
revealing a burden that made Skinner's own shoulders ache
with the weight.  "I hope that's one promise you never need to
keep."

And all at once, he questioned just what the hell he might
have pledged his support to.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *


Over the next several days, Dana Scully's life fell into a kind
of routine, a pattern which she loathed as much as upheld.

She arrived at their basement office on time.  Strictly on time.
Impeccably dressed.  Hair coifed, make-up perfectly applied.
Must keep up appearances.  Wouldn't do to make Mulder
anymore concerned than he was already.

Once there, she worked like a woman possessed.  She got
caught up on all her case notes, filed her expense report,
answered the basket full of correspondence she had been
putting off.  She consulted on autopsies, researched leads
on several of the investigations Mulder and she had been
considering pursuing. . . .

Busy.  She had to keep busy.  No time for lunch or breaks or
talk.

Definitely no time for talk.

After all, if her home was bugged, she was damned well
certain their office was also under surveillance.  Which meant,
in effect, she was damned if she did and damned if she didn't.

Talk, that is.

If she said the sorts of things The Smoker wanted to hear,
she would again hurt Mulder, wounding him as she had
at her apartment that past weekend; yet, if she shared with
her partner the discussion she had had with their cigarette
sucking friend, thinking perhaps to include him in her plans,
she would most likely be signing his death sentence.

And that was unacceptable.  To put it mildly.

No.

Avoid.  Deny.  Keep searching for a way around this, her
conscience urged.  A means to save both Mulder and your
relationship.

I'm trying, she would meekly reply, hoping such assurances
might silence that nagging little voice.  Honestly.  I =am
trying.

Indeed, she was.  The Sunday before, when she had been
so rudely awakened by Skinner, her boss rousing her from
sleep with all the delicacy of a rooster on steroids, she had
spent the day plowing her way through the FBI's criminal
database.  Her quest for The Smoker had amounted to zilch,
but perhaps his henchman's identity wasn't so well guarded,
she had thought, her optimism fragile, but alive.

In the days to follow, she snuck out when she could, stayed
late, came in early, dashing to the I.D. lab to steal an hour or
two before retiring to their cubby below.  Yet, all her efforts
were for naught.  It took her until Wednesday night at 11:48
p.m. to make it through the pictures of every single white male
between the ages of 25 and 35 who possessed not only brown
hair and brown eyes, but a criminal record.

The Smoker's sidekick was not among them.

Her failing optimism instantly flat-lined.

Frustrated, exhausted, frightened in spite of herself, it was
all she could do not to break down right there in front of the
computer terminal.

Instead, she went home and collapsed onto her unmade bed,
not even bothering to get undressed first.  Now what? she
asked herself, staring up at her shadowed ceiling, her eyes
burning, her back throbbing.  What could she do?  Where
could she turn?  If she went public, ran to Mulder or even
Skinner and confessed all, she had no doubt of the outcome.
The Smoker would never be caught, never stand trial.  He
would only slink back to his hidey-hole, disappear like a grain
of sand in the desert, watching and waiting.  Lurking until he
spied an opportunity to see both her partner and she punished.
Sure, they might be able to protect Mulder at first, assign him
guards or tuck him away in a safe house somewhere.  But he
couldn't live out the rest of his life that way.  Sooner or later,
he would rebel, or would relax, grow less cautious.  And The
Smoker would be there.  To pay her back for her betrayal.

Then leave him, Dana, said that insistent inner voice.  Do
as the nicotine fiend instructed, and walk away.

I can't do that, she argued back, scrubbing her cheeks with
her palms, her eyes squeezed shut as if to hold back tears.
It would break Mulder's heart.

And mine.

That was the real irony of the situation.  The thing that made
her want to laugh even as her throat tightened in misery.
When The Smoker had first broached with her the dissolution
of the relationship Mulder and she shared, he had spoken only
of what it would do to Mulder.  How it would distract him,
make him less effective, take away the stability and focus her
presence had seemingly granted.

But nothing had been said regarding what Mulder had given
her.

Was that common? she wondered now, twisting on to her
side and drawing the bedclothes up over her.  Did outsiders
believe the give and take between Mulder and she was
utterly one-sided?  The Smoker had told her he knew Mulder
depended upon her.  Yet, wasn't he aware she relied on her
partner just as fiercely?  She loved him, for heaven's sake.
More than anything or anyone.  More than her life.  He was
so deeply a part of her now that to lose him would be like
lopping off a limb, tearing from her a kidney or a lung.  The
Smoker might have thought she would approach this logically,
would look at the situation in rational terms, realize she had
no options, and then, resigned, bow to his will.

But her vaunted reason grew strangely mute when it came
to what Mulder and she had being threatened.  In its stead,
pure emotion swept through her, its surge as powerful and
as bracing as the tide.  She had made Mulder a promise on
that night so many months before, when he had tried to
warn her something like this might occur, that their enemies
might one day attempt to use their feelings against them.
She had sat there in his darkened apartment on that cold
November eve and listened to his admonitions, solemnly
acknowledging the truth in his words.  Then, she had looked
her partner in the eye and calmly denied The Smoker and his
henchmen that kind of sway.  "No," she had told Mulder.
"They can't have this."

And you still can't, you son of a bitch, she now silently vowed.
You can try and take it from me--from us both --but I won't go
down without a fight.

Her resolve stiffened, she lay cocooned beneath her comforter,
thinking, her woolen pantsuit and silk blouse both sorry
excuses for pajamas, her body too leaden with fatigue to even
contemplate slipping from beneath the covers to change.
Slowly, painstakingly, one final gambit began to take shape
inside her weary head, the strategy risky, yet too tempting
to disregard.

One that required an accomplice of sorts, if not in deed then
in the sharing of information.

Tomorrow, she would be paying a visit to Assistant Director
Skinner's office.  She had feared she might eventually be forced
to take him up on his offer of assistance.  Yet, she was certain
neither of them had thought the day would come quite so soon.

Please, God, she prayed as she watched the tree outside her
window thrash helplessly against the bullying wind.  Please
let Walter Skinner be a man of his word.

                        *****

A.D. Skinner's Thursday had been progressing fairly typically.
A meeting with the other Washington A.D.s to discuss
staffing and budget for the coming year, a postmortem on an
investigation one of his teams had recently closed, an hour
of tedious yet necessary phone calls, and lunch at his desk--
corned beef on rye and a bag of chips.  His calendar that
afternoon was open, free of commitments or demands.  Maybe
I can get some more work done on those damned reviews, he
thought, lips pursed as he considered the rest of his day.  His
recommendations were due on his superior's desk by the
following Wednesday.  And while his social life was admittedly
pathetic, he hoped to do *something* that weekend besides sit
round-shouldered and bleary-eyed over paperwork.

Yet, he had scarcely gotten more than a page into his reading
when he heard the soft rap of knuckles on wood.

"Yes?" he called, not bothering to look up.

The office entryway cracked open and a small, sharp-featured
face peered inside.  "Sir?"

Scully?

Surprised by the identity of his visitor, he set the report aside.
"What can I do for you, Agent Scully?"

She stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind
her.  "I'm sorry, sir . . . Kimberly wasn't at her desk . . ."

He shook his head, dismissing her apology.  "Don't worry
about it.  She's at lunch."

"Good," Scully said with a nod.  "I didn't want to intrude."

"You're not," he assured her.  "What's on your mind?"

She hesitated for a moment, seemingly torn as to how she
should proceed.  In her hand was a small, folded piece of
paper.  Her thumb rubbed slow little circles over the back
of it, the gesture seemingly performed without conscious
thought.   "I have the documentation you requested, sir, on
that 302."

He blinked at her in confusion, unable to recall when he had
asked for such information.  "What 302 was that?"

Her expression screaming silent words of warning, she
crossed the additional few steps to his desk.  Laying flat the
scrap of paper she had been worrying only moments before,
she pointed to the message written on it.

<I need to talk to you.  Outside.>

Their eyes met over the desk and held for a moment.  Then,
Scully deliberately drew hers away, letting her gaze sweep
instead over the room's paneled walls.

They have ears, she seemed to be telling him.

This, he well knew.  Or at least suspected.  Scully apparently
shared in his belief.

"Well, as it happens, I was just about to head out for a cup
of coffee," he said evenly, pushing up from his chair to
stand before her in his shirtsleeves.  "Don't suppose you'd
care to join me?  We can talk on the way."

Her face visibly brightened.  "I'd love a cup of coffee."

"So, let's go."

Together, they left his office and walked side by side down
the length of the hall.

Skinner slowed only slightly as they strode towards the
floor's break room.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I got the impression you weren't
really in need of a caffeine fix," he mumbled beneath his breath.

"No sir," Scully replied, eyes straight ahead.

"This way then."

Stepping quickly, he continued past the vending machines and
the coffeemaker.  Scully followed wordlessly on his right.  When
he reached the end of the corridor, he turned left and ducked
through the stairwell door with Scully at his heels.  They said
nothing as they descended, exiting the shaft once they reached
the parking garage.

For a moment, they paused just inside the concrete chamber,
their footsteps echoing hollowly off its cement walls.  Skinner
stood just a half step in front of his companion, his eyes
narrowed as he scanned the area, looking for anyone who
might later call into question this clandestine conference.
In the distance, he could faintly hear the sound of traffic, yet
directly before them the place looked empty.  The out-to-lunch
crowd must all be back at their desks by now, he absently
thought.

"Sir, I--," Scully began softly.

"Not here," he muttered, indicating the surveillance camera
perched on a nearby corner's molding.  Slowly, it scanned,
electronically searching for those engaged in activities of a
dubious nature.   Much to his chagrin, Skinner feared that
description fit what Scully and he were up to.

"Come on," he murmured, and grabbing the woman beside
his just above the elbow, pulled her behind one of the structure's
thick support pillars.  She went with him willingly enough,
but not without throwing him a look ripe with annoyance.
Agent Scully apparently didn't like being manhandled.

"All right, Scully.  You wanted to talk," he said quietly, his
shoulder braced against the column, his body close to hers.
"So talk.  There's no guarantee how long we'll be left alone
down here."

She gazed up at him, her face pale in the shadows cast by
mortar and by him, her blue eyes wide and troubled.  "I need
your help."

Scully admitting need?  Alone?  Skinner frowned in confusion
and concern.  "Does Mulder know you're talking to me?"

"No."  Her answer was quick and cutting, and it roused his
suspicions as violently as might the sudden, unexplained
appearance on this woman of a black eye or a swollen lip.

"Did he do something?  Is he the reason you're coming to me?"
he asked, his tone turning harsh.

"No, sir," she said quickly, astonishment contorting her features.
"Mulder has done nothing.  This isn't about him.  This is about
me."

Skinner took a deep breath.  Calm down, Walt, he told himself.
Get that knight-in-shining-armor impulse under control here.
"What about you?"

She slicked her lips with her tongue, her eyes drifting away
from his.  "You told me . . . a few nights ago . . . you said
that if I had a problem, I could come to you," she murmured,
her voice husky and low.  "That I . . . that =Mulder= and I
could count on your support."

The tiny hairs on the back of his neck were tickling him,
standing upright, pricking his skin in warning.  It was an
unconscious physical phenomenon, a throwback to the days
when man was more ape than human, when he walked
hunched and hirsute.  Skinner ruefully rubbed his bald pate
and sighed.  Thousands of years out of Africa and a guy could
still instinctively recognize trouble in the form of a woman.
"My support for what exactly, Scully?"

"I need you to tell me where he lives."

He pulled away ever so slightly to get a better look at her
expression.  She stared back at him, as maddeningly
composed as a Raphael Madonna.   "Where who lives?" he
asked cautiously.

"The Smoker."

Stunned by her request, Skinner pushed away from the pillar
to stand squarely before her, his hands on his hips, his words
shoved from between his gritted teeth like meat squeezed from
a grinder.  "Are you out of your mind?"

She took a step towards him and thrust out her chin, clearly not
cowed by his reaction.  "I'd ask you for his name.  But I don't
believe that has any meaning anymore.  Not now.  Not for him.
I need to find him.  And you're the only one I can think of who
can help me."

He shook his head.  "Even if I had that information--"

She ruthlessly silenced his lies.  "I =know= you have that
information, sir.  Or you did at one time."

There was only one person who could have let that particular
cat out of the bag.  "What did Mulder tell you?"

She shrugged, the gesture conveying not a lack of care, but
the withholding of knowledge.  "That when I came back . . .
after Duane Barry, he needed . . . answers."

Answers, Agent Mulder? Skinner wordlessly asked his
absent subordinate.  Is that what you're calling it these days?

"That you took a chance and gave him the Cigarette Man's
address."

"Did he tell you what happened then?" he queried, that
question having long haunted him.  It had all turned out right
in the end, Scully's return.  But he had often wondered what
had occurred when Mulder had confronted his nemesis, if
perhaps their meeting was, in fact, the reason for Scully's
miraculous recovery.

"Not entirely," she hedged, her slight glance away confessing
she knew more about the incident than she was willing to
share.  "But I do know the information you gave him was
correct."

"That was more than a year ago, Agent Scully," he said,
attempting a little hedging of his own.  "I'm certain The
Smoker has moved on by now."

"Not far enough," she muttered, her arms folded tightly
across her chest.

He would have laughed at that, at the utterly disgruntled
tone of her voice, if what they were discussing wasn't so
absurdly dangerous.

"Sir, you once trusted Agent Mulder with that knowledge,"
she continued, her gaze again fastened on his.  "And I
would hope that you would extend to me the same level of
professional courtesy and respect."

That did it.  "Oh, for crying out loud, Scully.  This has nothing
to do with 'professional courtesy' and you know it!" he snapped,
losing his cool.

"But it has everything to do with trust, sir!" she countered,
matching him in volume and in attitude.  "With trust and with
you being willing to back up your agents."

"Back up my agents?" he parroted, the words disbelieving and
loud.  "On what?  A suicide mission?  Or have you turned
vigilante on me, Scully?  Are you looking for a little payback
here, a little getting even?"

Her eyes dropped from his, training now on the floor.  Seeing
her tacit admission of guilt, Skinner wondered exactly what
nerve he had struck.

"I don't want anyone to get hurt, sir," she said quietly, speaking
to his shoes.  "That's why I need to meet with him."

He wrapped his hands around her upper arms and bent down
to try and steal a look at her face.  "Why would anyone be in a
position to be hurt, Scully?  Has that bastard threatened you?"

With what appeared to be great reluctance, she lifted her gaze
to his, her eyes looked bruised in the half-light, their color
more black than blue.  "No, sir.  I'm not in any danger."

He studied her hard, searching for clues in her expression.
But that afternoon, Scully seemed to him little more than a
cipher.  She gave away nothing.

Yet demanded from him so much more.

"I know you know, sir," she whispered, standing straight and
strong in his hold.  "And I ask you now to trust me as you did
Mulder.  To believe me when I tell you I wouldn't ask you for
this if I thought there was any other way around it."

"Around what, Scully?" he muttered, the urge to shake her
almost unbearable, his fingers twitching to do the deed.  "You're
asking me for information any of a dozen men would kill to
have.  And yet, you give me no solid reason why you should
even need such knowledge."

Her lips tightened, flattening long and thin, then releasing on
a sigh.  "I am trying to keep a very bad situation from turning
worse."

He dropped his hands away from her and, slipping off his
glasses, wearily rubbed the back of his hand between his
eyes.  "And that's all you're going to say?"

"Yes, sir.  I'm afraid it is."

He shook his head, needing time to think, to consider the
ramifications of such a betrayal.

And what could happen to Scully and her partner if, instead,
he refrained from turning traitor.

"Please, sir.  Lives may depend on this."

Skinner looked at her then, surprised to see the vulnerability
he had witnessed the other night once more softening her
features.  With some women, he would have deemed the shift
in expression calculated, designed to bend a man to their will.

But not with Scully.

In fact, he felt certain, were he to point out to her the way in
which such sincerity, such honest need made her seem smaller,
more delicate and easy to wound, she would cringe in disgust.
Scully wasn't enamored of that sort of weakness.  He had seen
her in action, had watched as she had stubbornly clung to
control, often in the face of nearly insurmountable odds.  Dana
Scully could be a formidable foe.

But could anyone take on The Smoker single-handedly?

"I need to think about this," he told her at last, deciding to
end their discussion by telling her the truth, feeling he owed
this woman that small kindness at least.

"I understand," she said with a nod.

"Am I right in believing I should mention this conversation
to no one?" he queried sardonically, his hands buried deep in
his trouser pockets.

"Yes, sir.  That's correct."

"Not even Mulder?"

She hesitated no more than an instant.  "Not even Mulder."

"All right then, Scully," he muttered.  "You have my word.
I'll get back with you on the other."

And saying nothing more, Skinner turned and walked away,
leaving her alone in the garage.

He didn't make her wait long.

Friday morning, Scully awoke to find a plain brown envelope
shoved under her door.

In it was a slip of paper with an address typewritten on it.

She committed the string of numbers and letters to memory,
then burned the piece of paper in her sink.

Her body quivering with excitement and dread, she took her
shower, began getting ready for work.

But as she stood beneath the water, her mind wasn't on the J.
Edgar Hoover Building or even Fox Mulder.

Rather, Dana Scully was planning her Friday night.

                        *****

Scully stood outside the red brick apartment building and
looked up at the darkened second floor windows.  Her breath 
puffed white and fluffy in the cold, black night, its mist
reminding her of ghosts, of spirits haunting the earth in
search of rest and redemption.

Like Selene and Jack.

In New Orleans.  With Mulder.

Stop that, she said, giving herself a small mental shake.  This
is no time to turn fanciful.  She needed her wits about her if
she hoped to come away from this with anything resembling a
victory.

Victory.  God.  Mulder and she could win this.

But not without an assist from Skinner.  Thank God for the
big guy.  She still couldn't entirely believe he had come through
for her.  The day before, he had seemed so dead set against the
idea of her coming here that she had feared her pleading had
fallen on deaf ears.  But, apparently her boss wasn't in need of
a hearing aid after all.  Because here she stood outside the home
of the infamous Smoker.

Ding-dong, Avon calling.

Moving swiftly and silently, she slipped into the building's
vestibule.  Pulling from her jacket pocket her Bureau-issued
lock gun, she grappled with the inner door.  As solid as the
rest of this Cold War era structure, it resisted her attempts
at first.  Yet, after a minute or two, its lock at last fell victim to
modern technology.  With a final whir of the bit and a twist of
her wrist, it clicked open.

She was in.

Running into no one, she tread lightly up the stairs, her
jeans, black turtleneck and leather coat blending in with
the hallway's murk.  She could hear the muted tones of
televisions--the late news and sitcom reruns--and conversation.
From above, a baby cried.  But no one opened their apartment
door to take out the garbage or visit a neighbor.

Good.  Perfect.

Once she reached the second floor, she searched for #2N.  The
"N" standing for "north" according to the building information
she had tracked down that afternoon.  She had ditched poor
Mulder late morning, and had hightailed it down to City Hall.
There, she had studied the necessary blueprints, memorizing
things like fire exits and apartment layouts.

It paid to be prepared, she reasoned.

There.  At the end of the hall.  Her destination.

Cautiously, she approached, listening with the intensity of a
doe on the opening day of hunting season.  Yet, try though
she might, she couldn't hear anything on the other side of
the door.  She bent down and peered beneath it.  No light.
Consistent with what she had seen from the outside.

Satisfied, she withdrew once more the tool she had used
downstairs.  This door proved easier than the first, its tumblers
yielding without putting up much of a fight.  What she wouldn't
give to have The Smoker be this big a pushover, she mused.

Fat chance.

Her Sig Sauer in her hand, Scully inched open the door.
When the archway didn't light up with gunfire, she grew
bold.  Stepping between the door and jamb, she entered her
enemy's lair.

It took a moment or two for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.
The glow from the street lamps outside provided some
illumination, enough to keep her from running into furniture.
But it was still tough to see.  Briefly, she considered turning
on a light, only to decide against it.  She didn't know where the
apartment's tenant was or when he might return home.  No
sense in warning him of her presence.  She would have to do
her scouting in the shadows.

Fitting, really.  When she stopped to think about it.

Moving carefully through the place, she looked for clues as
to The Smoker's true identity--personal items, correspondence,
photographs, anything that might give him away.

Yet, there was next to nothing for her to analyze.  The flat
was small, typical for this part of D.C., with a single bedroom
and a narrow galley kitchen.    The furnishings were simple
and nondescript.  Functional rather than fashionable.  A plaid,
overstuffed sofa with a coordinating solid colored chair in the
living room.  End tables, cocktail table.  Television.  A desk,
but no computer.  Table and chairs in the dinette area.  The
sleeping quarters had a double bed, matching night stands and
dresser.  She tiptoed to the closet and peeked inside.  A row of
suits and shirts, a rack of decidedly sedate ties, all smelling
faintly of cigarette smoke.

Nothing unexpected there.

A well-perused TV guide lay curled and creased atop the
one of the two end tables.  Otherwise, she found no papers or
magazines, no mail or bills.  She looked inside his refrigerator,
taking care to keep the light dimmed by pressing in the door
release with one gloved finger.  Milk, orange juice, a can of
Folgers, beer, some eggs and lunch meat.  Typical bachelor fare,
she judged with a rueful half-smile.  Nothing special there
either.

Fine, she thought, shutting the side-by-side.  His dwelling
might not tell her anything.

But the man himself damned well would when she was through
with him.  Now all she had to do was wait.

A phone rang.

Startled, her hands flew to her jacket, thinking it might be her
cell.  No, of course not, she realized, her heart pounding at fast
forward speed.  She had left her Nokia blocks away in the car
with her purse.

Someone was calling Him.

Her head swiveled in the direction of the noise.  There.  The
phone.  Tucked away on the corner of the desk.  She hadn't
seen it at first.  Oh good God. . . .  He had an answering
machine!

What luck.

Walking slowly towards it, as if she feared it might all of a
sudden go into attack mode, Scully neared the phone and its
mechanical secretary.  Neither was anymore remarkable than
anything else in the place.  Studying the answering machine,
she found the volume control and eased the level up,
wanting to be sure and catch every word that was said, not
knowing what might prove useful.

On the fourth ring, the machine picked up.

The Smoker had no message greeting callers.

Why was she not surprised?

"Good evening, Agent Scully."

The amazement that had been lacking only moments before
slammed into her with all the force of a baseball bat.

Shit.  He was calling his own number.

Knowing he would reach her.

"Sorry I wasn't there to greet you.  But then . . . I didn't know
you were coming, did I?"

She backed away from the desk in horror.  All her hopes
shriveling away to nothing.  Turning to dust and settling
in her mouth, the powdery residue choked her.

"Did you really believe you could successfully steal into my
home unannounced?  Did you think I wouldn't know about
your pitiful little plan?"

She could only shake her head, unable to answer.

"I assure you, Agent Scully.  I know.  We always know."

Christ.

"What did you think you would do once you got there?  Put
a gun to my head?"

What had she planned on doing, she now asked herself.
Reason with him?  Blackmail him?  Shoot him through the
forehead as if she were some kind of contract killer?

"Agent Mulder tried that once, you know.  It didn't work
for him either."

Mulder.  Oh my God, Mulder.

"Such presumption can't be overlooked, Agent Scully.  I
forgave you for talking to your friends, but now you've
gone too far."

She had to get out of there.

"You have no one to blame for this but yourself, you know."

Blame?  Blame for what? she longed to ask.

"No one but yourself."

And with a noisy click, the line went dead.

As soon as the room fell silent, she lunged for the phone.
Mulder.  She had to warn him.  What did it matter if the
line was bugged?  They were already on to her.

She tried his apartment first.

One.  Two.  Three.  Four rings.

Answering machine.  "This is Fox Mulder, please leave a
message. "

"Mulder, pick up.  It's me."

Nothing.

"Pick up," she urged again.

Still nothing.

Hanging up, she tried his cell.

By now, her hand was shaking so badly, she had to punch
in the number twice before she got it right.

It rang. . . .

Please, Mulder.

And rang. . . .

Please answer.

And rang. . . .

I'm begging you.

And rang. . . .

Oh God, I'll never forgive myself.

And by the time the recorded voice at last announced the
cellular customer was unavailable, Dana Scully had already
dropped the handset.

Burst through the apartment door.

And stumbling, pounded down the stairs.

Mulder.  I have to get to Mulder, she thought wildly, breaking
into a run when she reached the outside.

I have to get to him before it's too late.

If it wasn't already.

*       	*       	*      	 *       	*