From: Nancy Nivling <dnivling@redshift.com>
Date: Sat, 08 May 1999 18:56:28 +0000
Subject: NEW: "The Bright White Place," MSR, NC-17

The Bright White Place, a novel by Nancy Nivling

I'll be posting this a few parts at a time; at this point I haven't 
divided it all into sections yet, and it would probably crash my 
computer if I tried uploading it all at once. I'm estimating it will run 
18-20 sections. This novel was originally published in zine format a 
couple years ago, and was my first and only attempt at MSR -- albeit a 
very *dark* MSR. If graphic violence and disturbing themes bother you, 
turn back now.
Spoilers: A whole lot of stuff up through "Nisei/731." After that, it 
goes *way* AU.
Rated NC-17 for language, graphic violence, rape, explicit sex, and 
disturbing themes.
Acknowledgments to: Carol and Margaret for fine beta and encouragement 
above and beyond the call of friendship; and to Don, for being there, 
and for telling me I could finish this novel, even when I was having 
those 4 a.m. doubts.

Feedback may be addressed to: dnivling@redshift.com
    
        
Hell is murky.
        -- Macbeth, Act V, Scene I

She could feel the thin, thready rhythm of his pulse under the pad of 
her thumb, and told herself it was getting stronger.

//It will get stronger. It has to. And then he'll open his eyes and look 
up at me with that lopsided grin of his and everything will be all right 
yes everything'll be fine please God let everything be fine...//

But she'd been repeating that same silent prayer for the last six hours, 
and he hadn't moved or made a sound. All she was aware of was the 
shallow rasp of his breathing and the heart monitor's beep.

Her gaze drifted downward, resting finally on his bandaged chest, on the 
rust-brown disk of moisture seeping through where the bullet had torn 
him open.

He'd been on his way over to her apartment when it happened. The past 
week had been sheer hell for both of them, flying out to Los Angeles on 
a case that took them from one dead-end to another. He'd been brooding 
and irritable the entire time they were there, rushing them through the 
investigation and back to D.C. in a record three days. They'd spent the 
rest of the week trying to catch up on their respective mountains of 
paperwork.

By Friday night she felt like the ragged end of nowhere, but Mulder 
seemed intent on pulling another all-nighter.

He'd been saying something to her and caught her in mid-yawn. "Sorry I'm 
keeping you up."

She'd learned a long time ago to let his smartass remarks pass without 
comment, but this time there was a caustic edge in his tone that rubbed 
her nerves raw. "I'm tired, Mulder. This week's been an absolute bitch."

Her language shocked him speechless -- for about five seconds. "Well, I 
guess you'd know."

She shot him a look that could have frozen fire at a hundred paces, 
snatched up her briefcase and started shoving papers in it. "See you 
Monday," she snapped, heading for the door.

"Hey, what about your report on L.A.? Skinner wants it first thing 
Monday morning."

She'd spun around to see him standing over his desk, hands on his hips, 
collar open, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Even through her anger she 
couldn't help thinking he looked as exhausted as she felt. "I'll finish 
it over the weekend. Okay?"

"Fine," he snorted, tossing his pen down on the desk. "Far be it from me 
to keep you from your hot date with David Letterman."

She stared back at him, stunned. He'd been curt, even callous with her 
before, but never downright mean. "What's the matter with you? You've 
been sniping at me ever since we got back from L.A."

He let out a half-strangled sound, raking one hand through his hair. "I 
just want to get this damn case closed. Do you mind?"

"I'll leave you to it then," she replied hollowly, backing out the door 
and heading for the stairs.

She'd arrived home to find her phone ringing.

"It's me," he said the second the receiver touched her ear.

"What a surprise."

"Look, Scully...I'm sorry for what I said. It was completely out of 
line."

"No argument here."

"So...am I forgiven?"

Did he really have to ask? "Mulder...look, I know this trip to L.A. 
bothered you, and not just because of the case."

For a few seconds she wasn't sure he was still there. Then she heard his 
soft, resigned chuckle.

"You want to talk about it?" she asked.

"Yeah...yeah, I think I would."

"Why don't you come over tomorrow and we could--"

"What's wrong with right now?"

She stole a glance at her watch. Nearly eleven. "It's awfully late."

"I'll stop by Yang's for potstickers and moo-shu pork."

As if on cue, her stomach rumbled. She hadn't eaten since that 
afternoon, and he knew it. "Bribery's beneath you, Mulder."

"Not tonight it isn't."

He was grinning. She could hear it in his voice. "Okay, okay. Throw in 
some kung-pao chicken and you've got a deal."

"Be there in half an hour."

Only he'd never shown up. Around two a.m. she'd gotten a phone call from 
Georgetown University Hospital. The restaurant where he'd ordered the 
food was being held up when he'd walked in, and the two perps had shot 
both Mulder and the restaurant's manager. The manager had been 
pronounced dead on arrival.

And the shooters had vanished without a trace. The police and the Bureau 
had canvassed the neighborhood five square miles around the restaurant 
without finding one person who could describe them, or their vehicle.

But she couldn't think about that now.

All she could think was that if she hadn't been so angry with him, if 
she hadn't stormed out of the office, he wouldn't have called her and 
wouldn't have been coming over and would never have gone to that damned 
restaurant and walked into that bullet...

//Come on, Dana...wallowing in your own damned self-pity isn't going to 
help find the bastards who did this...or make him wake up any 
faster...//

He would wake up. He had to. She wouldn't let herself think otherwise.

She gripped his hand tighter, willing his heart to keep beating, his 
blood to keep coursing through the veins and arteries and muscles 
beneath his skin.

God, how many times had she done this? How many times had she sat at his 
bedside, not knowing if he'd ever look up at her again?

"Mulder...I don't know if I should tell you this, but...I read your 
report on what happened in Los Angeles the last time you were 
there...the one about the vampire case that you investigated during the 
time I was...missing..." she whispered. "And I know you probably 
wouldn't have wanted me to, but it was right there in the filing cabinet 
and...well, it wasn't like you were trying to hide it from me...and I 
could tell from the way you were on this trip that something must have 
happened to you back then, something that wasn't in the 
report...something you couldn't tell me until now..."

She felt a tendon jerk in his wrist, and told herself she had to be 
imagining it. Could he really hear her?

"And I-I just want you to know...I'll be right here, waiting to hear it, 
whenever you're ready to tell me..."

Then his fingers moved, entwining with hers, gripping her hand as 
tightly as she had his.

And his eyes opened.

"Hi," he rasped.

"Hi yourself." God, she knew she had to be grinning like an idiot, but 
she didn't care. Leaning over the bed, she smoothed back a stray lock of 
hair that had fallen over his forehead, apprehension seizing her as she 
looked down into his eyes, their usual deep hazel color now hazed over 
with pain. "I'll be right back."

But he wouldn't let go of her hand.

"I have to get the nurse," she said. "You need medication."

"I can...last a few more minutes without it."

"Mulder..."

"Don't go yet. Please."

"Okay," she replied, letting him pull her back over him, his hand 
gliding up, cupping her cheek. She shivered, but didn't pull back.

"Your face is all wet," he whispered, wiping away a stray tear with his 
fingertips.

She hadn't even realized she was crying. "H-how do you feel?"

"Like I've just had my ass kicked by Bigfoot."

He was okay. God, he was going to be okay. "Well, that's better than you 
were feeling ten minutes ago."

"Actually, I was having this really great dream..."

"You're impossible." Maybe it was the bright hospital lighting, but his 
eyes looked so beautiful just now, their color muted to a soft, 
translucent jade green. She couldn't help leaning closer.

Their lips touched, his silky and moist, hers trembling. A hot jolt shot 
up her spine, and she jerked back.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Why did you do that?"

"Why not?"

"Stop trying to be funny, Mulder."

Something flickered behind his eyes -- surprise, apprehension, 
bewilderment, she wasn't sure which. "Why'd you call me that?"

"*What*?"

"You keep calling me Mulder. It sounds...I dunno, kinda strange."

"Well, I tried calling you Fox once, but you told me you hated it." She 
sat down again, a sudden chill sweeping her. "You mean you don't 
remember?"

"Can't...remember much of anything...it's all jumbled up..."

"It's okay. You're just disoriented from the anesthesia. You were in 
surgery for almost six hours," she whispered, taking hold of his hand 
again. "Do you remember who I am?"

"Ummm...Dana..? Is that right?"

"Yes." Relief flooded her, so strongly she almost laughed aloud. "Do you 
remember the last time we talked?"

"N-no..."

"How about earlier last evening? At the office?"

"We...work together?"

"Almost three years now."

"And that's all we are to each other?"

She nodded.

An unreadable expression passed over his face, then he half-smiled, 
half-winced, drawing a thin, ragged breath. "Too bad."

This time she didn't let him stop her from getting the nurse.

*   *   *

Skinner was waiting for her outside Mulder's room when she returned to 
the hospital early the next morning.

"What's happened?" she asked, anxiety seizing her. God, if his condition 
had deteriorated during the night...but no, they would've called her 
before now if--

"We're not exactly sure yet. But I'm going to have to ask permission to 
search your apartment."

"My apartment? Why?"

"We suspect that this was not a random incident."

Somewhere in the back of her mind she'd suspected the same thing. "What 
evidence do you have?"

"There's no sign that it was a botched robbery -- no money was taken 
from the register, and the office safe was untouched as well. Besides, 
there was a liquor store two doors down that would've been an easier 
mark, if that's what they were looking for."

She nodded numbly. "Anything else?"

"We lifted at least two dozen prints, but I doubt that'll lead anywhere. 
Nobody saw anything, and this was a busy neighborhood on Friday night. 
It just smells like a professional job. The shooters couldn't have been 
in there more than a minute and a half, yet they took the trouble to 
shoot out the security camera in the foyer."

"So you're saying they knew Mulder was coming? That they were waiting 
for him?"

Skinner nodded, his expression turning more sympathetic than she'd ever 
seen it. "We've swept your offices for bugs, but there was nothing."

"So they must have been listening in from my end?" She paused, fighting 
down a sudden wave of nausea. "By all means, sir, do whatever you feel 
is necessary to expedite the investigation."

"Thank you, Agent Scully. I wasn't looking forward to executing a 
warrant on this."

"Sir, I would never stand in the way--"

"There'll be a conference on this matter in my office at one o'clock. 
I'll expect to see you there."

"Of course."

Without another word, he headed for the elevator.

Nodding to the agent stationed outside Mulder's room, she went in, 
relaxing slightly when she saw him lying there, propped up on a pile of 
pillows.

He smiled and flicked the remote control, turning off the TV. "Jesus, 
I'm glad you're here. If I have to watch another five minutes of Martha 
Stewart, I'm gonna lose my breakfast."

"How d'you feel?" she asked.

"You mean, aside from a splitting headache and a hole the size of a 
peach pit in my chest?" Before she could protest, he caught her hand, 
carrying it to his lips. "I missed you. Couldn't sleep at all last 
night."

Her mouth went dry, her heart giving a tiny lurch. "You should have 
asked for a sedative."

"Didn't want one. I had too much to think about." He shifted on his 
pillows, grimacing. "I still can't remember anything."

"Mulder, it's not at all uncommon to suffer short-term memory loss after 
a serious physical trauma. You'll remember, I'm sure of it, you'll just 
have to give it time."

"But it's not just being shot that I don't remember. There are other 
gaps...whole years that I can't account for...bits and pieces of my life 
that're just...missing."

"How do you mean, missing?"

"Well, I remember high school and just about everything about Oxford and 
my first few years with the Bureau...but I can't remember where I grew 
up or my parents's names or even what they looked like..."

"Or your sister?"

"I...I have a sister?"

//Oh, God. Oh, Jesus God...//

"Had. Her name was Samantha. She...disappeared when you were twelve."

He shook his head. "I guess it all must've gotten sucked into some black 
hole in my brain. Along with the last three years."

"You don't remember our working together, yet you knew me as soon as you 
woke up. Do you have any idea how that could be?"

"I don't know...but when I saw you sitting there, I felt something, a 
connection..." He shrugged. "I can't explain it any better than that."

"Well, it's a place to start, at least."

"You're blushing."

Her free hand flew to her cheek, felt the heat rushing there. The 
realization that he could see it made her even more uneasy.

"Look, I don't mean to embarrass you," he said softly. "I know you said 
we don't have that kind of relationship. But when we do this" -- he 
indicated their clasped hands -- "it feels right to me. Natural. Like 
we've been doing it for years."

"Mulder..."

"Skinner said you were the last person I talked to before the 
shooting...that I was on my way over to your place when it happened."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I...don't understand..."

"Why was I coming to see you so late at night if we're not..." He 
stopped, giving her hand a squeeze. "Sorry. I've got no right to ask--"

"We'd had a fight at the office and I walked out on you. You called to 
apologize, said you had something to talk to me about."

"But I didn't say what it was?"

"No. No, you didn't." She stole a glance at her watch. "I have to go. 
Skinner's called a meeting and I've...got a few things to do before 
then."

"Come back tonight? Please?"

His woozy, lopsided smile threatened to make her knees wobble. "Of 
course," she replied, her voice sounding thin and forced to her own 
ears. "Get some rest, okay?"

"Like I've got a choice?"

A blanket of coldness settled over her as she marched to the elevator 
and searched the hospital directory for Mulder's surgeon's office. Then, 
after finding it, she waited nearly forty-five minutes for him to put in 
an appearance after morning rounds.

"You have to understand, Agent Scully, he was in cardiac arrest when the 
paramedics brought him in. It took the E.R. trauma team several minutes 
to revive him. We replaced his entire blood volume twice during surgery. 
Under those circumstances, the kind of amnesia you describe is hardly 
unexpected."

"I know. But it just seems so bizarre...entire years of his life wiped 
out..."

"And some or all of it may come back to him eventually. Right now 
patience is of the essence."

"But it might not come back to him. He may never remember what he's 
lost. Is that what you're saying?"

"There is always that possibility." The surgeon paused, looking her 
straight in the eye. "But the important thing is that he's come through 
the surgery much better than I expected. The next few days will be 
critical, but there's every reason to believe he will make a complete 
physical recovery."

She made her way down to her car and drove back to the Hoover Building 
in a daze, digesting the morning's events, trying to tell herself not to 
dwell on the worst-case scenario.

But, bottom-line, she knew exactly what that scenario was. If Mulder's 
memory didn't return, he'd be put on permanent disability and dismissed 
from the Bureau.

And they'd close down the X-Files, this time for good.

She'd be reassigned, and Mulder...he'd have to find something else to do 
with his life. Without his memories of Samantha, his quest to discover 
what had become of her would no longer drive him onward.

And the saddest thing was, he wouldn't even know the difference.

She pulled into her parking spot, cut the engine, and stared into empty 
space, a sudden bereftness sweeping over her.

Whichever way it went, one thing was certain -- their relationship could 
never go back to the way it was. Even if Mulder's memory did come back 
and they resumed working together, they'd come dangerously close to 
saying things that partners should never say to each other. They had -- 
or at least, Mulder had -- acknowledged something they'd both known had 
existed between them almost from the start.

All that remained was for her to acknowledge it -- and she had, 
privately, a long time ago. After all, Mulder was an attractive man. 
Half the women at the Bureau would fall into bed with him if he gave 
them a second glance. And she was a normal, healthy woman...and yes, 
she'd allowed herself a fantasy or two...

Especially when he'd leaned in close the way he did when they were 
talking, and she could smell his skin's scent, warm and spicy, and 
wondered what it would be like to press her lips to his throat, just to 
taste him a little--

//Stop it, Dana...you can't be thinking of him this way...he's still 
your partner, damn it!//

But what if he wasn't? What if they had no working relationship to 
maintain, no Bureau regulations to uphold?

No invisible line between them, never to be crossed?

Shivering, she got out of the car.

*   *   *

The conference in Skinner's office was brief and to the point. The sweep 
of Scully's apartment had uncovered bugs in her phone, in one of the 
lamps in her living room -- and behind her bedside table.

It was all Scully could do to keep her breathing level and gaze steady 
when she heard this last piece of information. Then, after a few prickly 
moments of silence, Skinner continued with the briefing.

The slugs removed from Mulder and the restaurant manager's body were 
standard nine-millimeter; ballistics reported that the analysis would be 
completed shortly. Agent Pendrell's team was working up the prints 
lifted at the scene, as well as the security camera videos.

"That will be all for now. There will be another conference tomorrow 
morning at nine, barring any new developments," Skinner said, typically 
brisk and succinct. "Agent Scully, you'll stay, please."

Scully said nothing as the other agents filed out, leaving her alone 
with the A.D., who shut the door behind them and sat down behind his 
desk. She couldn't help noticing his distinctly uncomfortable 
expression.

"Sir?" she prompted finally.

He reached over to the right hand side of his desk, pulling an oversized 
evidence envelope onto his blotter, reaching inside.

It was a bundle of clothing, rumpled grey sweatpants and white t-shirt. 
Men's clothing.

Mulder's clothing.

//Oh, God...//

"We found this when we searched your apartment this morning," Skinner 
said.

//Eyes front, Dana...don't let him intimidate you...don't let him make 
you feel like you've got something to be ashamed of.//

He didn't say anything more. He didn't have to. His next question hung 
in the air between them, silence thickening the tension.

"We...that is, Agent Mulder and I...were working on a report at my 
apartment one evening. We finished up the report and it was still light 
out, so we decided to go running...but it started pouring down rain and 
we both got soaked..." She paused a moment, knowing that if she didn't, 
her voice would crack. "He changed back into his suit, and I kept his 
wet clothes to wash and return to him later."

"And apparently you never got around to returning them."

"Apparently."

He studied her in silence for another endless moment. "Agent Scully, I'm 
not saying I don't believe you. But if you have anything to tell me, 
anything that will make a difference to this investigation, let me urge 
you to do so now."

"Sir, I won't deny that Agent Mulder and I are...close. I trust him with 
my life, and I'm sure he feels the same about me. But there is nothing 
improper or unprofessional in our relationship."

//Not yet, at any rate...//

"But surely you can see how it would appear that way," he said, 
indicating the bundle on his desk.

//I can see how you *want* it to appear that way.//

She nodded, biting back what she was dying to say aloud. "Sir, I 
want...I need to be a part of this investigation. Perhaps I could 
perform the autopsy of the restaurant manager--"

"There won't be an autopsy," Skinner cut in. "The man's family refuses 
to allow it, and there's nothing to indicate that it's warranted. The 
cause of death is clear, and we already have the bullet. That will have 
to be enough."

"Then perhaps you'll allow me access to the crime scene. There might be 
something the other team missed, and I can--"

"No."

"Sir, please..."

"I said no, Agent Scully. And that's final," he replied. For the 
briefest of moments, she could have sworn she saw sympathy in his eyes. 
"You're too close to this. I can't allow an agent whose judgment may be 
impaired anywhere near this case. I think we both owe Mulder better than 
that."

"Yes, sir," she murmured.

"Go home, Agent Scully. I know it's going to be impossible to forget 
what's occurred, but try to put it in perspective. We will do everything 
possible to find the men who did this and bring them to justice. Believe 
me, I want them found as much as you do."

She was across the room and at the door before another thought occurred. 
A thought she had to verbalize. "I'm curious, sir...about what you 
wanted to know earlier...if I'd been partnered with anyone other than 
Mulder, would the question have come up at all?"

A muscle jumped, worked in Skinner's cheek. "I have an obligation to 
ensure that this investigation is not compromised. In any way." And he 
drew a stack of files toward him, effectively dismissing her.

But she didn't go home. She headed straight for the basement, straight 
for her office, hers and Mulder's. And stopped short, standing there, 
staring at the door -- sealed, taped and padlocked.

She supposed she shouldn't be so stunned. It was standard procedure, 
after all. But somehow none of it had seemed real until now, until she'd 
seen right in front of her the physical evidence of all she and Mulder 
had at stake. She turned and fled back up the stairs.

She didn't think she started breathing again until she stepped into the 
hospital elevator, pressing the button for Mulder's floor.

His room was half-dimmed when she entered, and for a moment she thought 
he must be asleep. Then he turned his head toward her. "Hi."

"Hi," she answered, trying to smile, not wanting him to see how the day 
had worn her down.

"I was starting to think you weren't coming back."

"I said I would, didn't I?"

He looked away, his expression turning sad, pensive. "My mother came 
today. She'd been visiting some friends on the Vineyard, didn't even 
find out what had happened till this afternoon. Hell of a thing to come 
home from a vacation to."

She sank down into the chair beside his bed, blinking her eyes against 
the dry grittiness that lived there, grateful for the relative darkness.

"I didn't know her. I couldn't remember her at all. I let her do all the 
talking, tried to agree with everything she said...but she knew 
something was wrong. It was all there in her eyes, in the way she 
hesitated before she kissed me good-bye. The son she loved and raised 
isn't here anymore. I don't know who is."

"I do. You're the same person you were on Friday night, Mulder. Your 
brain's just a little more scrambled than usual." That thought made the 
corners of her mouth quirk up. "Then again, the jury might still be out 
on that last part."

"Thanks. I think." He looked off into one of the darkened corners of the 
room for a moment or two, then back at her, patting the side of the bed. 
"C'mere."

She hesitated, then moved, sitting down on the edge of the warm 
mattress, very much aware of how close his thigh was to hers. Of how 
comforting his hand felt covering hers, his thumb softly sliding under 
her fingers, tracing featherlight patterns on her palm.

Her pulse was racing. She wondered if he could feel it.

"You look tired," he said. "Rough day?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me."

So she did, giving him a carefully edited version of the day's events, 
leaving out the details of what the search of her apartment had 
uncovered, as well as the more disturbing aspects of her interview with 
Skinner.

"I'm not worried, though," she said, hoping it sounded like she believed 
it. "They'll reopen our office as soon as the investigation is 
completed. I expect to be back at work by the end of the week."

"Good," he said softly, pausing a moment. "But I think we have something 
else to talk about."

"Mulder..."

"I've got a feeling this is something we've never talked about before. 
Am I right?"

She wanted to look at him, but she couldn't. Those eyes of his would see 
all the way down into her soul. "N-no...no, we haven't. I mean, 
we've...teased, flirted a little, but...to be honest, I never really 
thought you were interested. You always seemed so...consumed by your 
work."

"I must've been if I worked with you for three years and never made a 
move. That, or lobotomized. Or blind."

//Oh God oh God oh God let this be over with soon I can't stand it...//

"I had this really weird...dream or nightmare...maybe it was an 
out-of-body experience, I don't know, I think it was when they were 
trying to revive me in the emergency room...it was like I was floating 
in this room, this bright white place...and I could hear a voice...a 
woman's voice, calling out to me...and somewhere in the back of my mind 
I knew it was you..."

He gave her hand a squeeze, and she suddenly felt compelled to look up, 
into his intense hazel gaze.

"It was so nice, so warm, this floating feeling...I didn't want to let 
it go, to come back to where the pain was, but I did...and I think it 
must've been because I didn't want to leave you behind."

She felt as if she'd waded into a too-deep pool, and the water was 
closing over her head, crushing her, drowning her. "Mulder, I...I'm not 
ready for this. I'm sorry."

He looked crestfallen for a second or two, but managed to cover it. "I 
didn't mean to push."

"I know, it's just...the last week's been awful. I can't think straight, 
and I need to if I'm going to make any sense of this." She got to her 
feet, tried to smile. "We'll talk about it when you're better, okay? 
When you're home and rested."

"Okay," he said, pressing a soft kiss to her palm, then closing her 
fingers over it, as if he were entrusting her to keep that small part of 
him safe.

Her breath stopped in her throat, and she tugged her hand away, her skin 
feeling instantly scalded.

"See you tomorrow?"

She looked back at him as she reached the door, as her fingers closed 
over the latch, her initial urge to run from the room now replaced by a 
desire to lie down next to him, wrap her arms around him and hold him 
and chase his nightmares away.

"Of course," she answered. "First thing, I promise."

*   *   *

Her apartment wasn't exactly a disaster area, but even if she hadn't 
known about the search, it was readily apparent that someone other than 
herself had been there today. Magazines dangled off the edge of her 
coffee table, picture frames hung at a slightly crooked angle, and the 
furniture was all just a hair out of place.

She let her purse and briefcase slide to the kitchen table and sighed. 
Screw it. She wasn't in any mood to straighten the place up tonight.

What she really needed was a long soak in the tub, a hot cup of tea,
and a talk with her mother. God, she hadn't called her in days. She 
didn't even know what had happened to Mulder.

The bath first, though. She needed to wash the day away.

Padding into the bedroom, she flicked on the overhead light--

And stopped short, her gaze drawn to her bedside table, pulled away from 
the wall, still slightly turned to its side. She moved closer, her 
fingertips finding, tracing the faint outline where the bug had been 
attached.

And she dropped onto the edge of the bed, awash in instant nausea. How 
long had it been there? How long had those bastards who'd shot Mulder 
been listening to her? How long had it taken them to get the information 
they needed? A day? A week? A month?

They'd used her -- not only to get to him, but to cast a stain on her 
own reputation. Skinner wouldn't be able to keep the details of the 
investigation under wraps, not forever, anyway. She knew exactly what 
everyone would be gossiping about around the watercooler in a few days.

She shivered, feeling suddenly clammy. Dirty. Inside and out. As if 
she'd been physically violated.

She couldn't stay here. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

Pulling down her suitcase, she stuffed enough clothes and toiletries 
inside to last four or five days, shoved it in the trunk of her car and 
started driving. She found a nice but relatively inexpensive hotel 
halfway between the hospital and work, and checked in.

She hadn't realized how ravenous she was until she spied the 
room-service menu on the table. She ordered a caesar salad, grilled 
chicken breast with mixed vegetables and iced tea, then hopped into the 
shower.

She scrubbed herself so hard she felt like she'd taken off two layers of 
skin, but when she emerged she was feeling marginally human again. 
Slipping into her nightgown and robe, she flicked on the TV and waited 
for her food.

She didn't allow herself to think again until she'd slipped beneath the 
covers and turned out the light.

And her thoughts kept coming back to her conversation with Mulder that 
afternoon, mulling it over, trying to filter it through her exhausted 
brain.

But it was all quite simple, what he'd said. Though he hadn't spoken the 
words outright -- she supposed he wouldn't be Mulder if he ever did 
anything the way everybody else did -- his meaning was clear.

He was in love with her.

And, she realized with a sharp, heart-searing pang, she was in love with 
him. She had been for a long time.

So why did she also feel this profound, aching sense of emptiness and 
loss?

Chances were, they wouldn't be working together anymore anyway, so there 
would be no further conflict on that score...

And there lay the crux of it. She wanted to love him and go on working 
with him. Mulder was the best partner she'd ever had. Their work 
together on the X-Files had never failed to stretch and challenge her, 
both in ability and belief. She wasn't ready to give that up. She didn't 
think she ever would be.

She stared at her travel alarm clock, watching the little green second 
hand until her eyelids began to feel heavy. She drifted off to sleep 
thinking of his fingers entwined with hers, and the intense warmth of 
his eyes.

*   *   *

There was a bird chirping somewhere, shrill and insistent. All the way 
across the room.

Not a bird. Her cell phone.

She opened one eye, caught sight of the clock. Two-ten a.m.

Scully dragged herself up with a groan, staggering over to her jacket, 
still draped over the chair she'd sat in to eat her dinner, somehow 
finding the offending object in the inside breast pocket.

She fumbled around until she found the lamp, squeezed her eyes 
half-closed against the sudden glare, and punched the answer button. 
"Scully."

"This is Skinner, Agent Scully. I tried your home number, but you didn't 
answer."

"I'm not at home. What is it?"

She sensed he wanted to question her further on that account, but for 
some reason he restrained himself. "I'm at the hospital. I think you'd 
better get here right away."

"Why? Is Mulder--"

"Just get over here." Click.

She was dressed and in her car in five minutes flat, and at the hospital 
ten minutes later. Her stomach started twisting into knots the second 
she saw Skinner standing in the hallway, his face as pale as the 
hospital walls. "What's happened?"

"There was a bullet fragment that they somehow missed Friday night. It 
moved into his lung. They took him back into surgery to try to remove 
it."

"And that's where he is now?"

"No." To her surprise, he took her gently by the elbow, steering her 
away from the door to Mulder's room. "They weren't successful. He went 
into cardiac arrest and died on the table half an hour ago. I'm sorry."

She saw his lips move, heard the words leave his mouth, but her brain 
refused to process them. "But...that's not possible. I spoke with his 
surgeon...he said Mulder would be fine...there must be some mistake..."

"There's no mistake, Agent Scully. I was here when it happened. I tried 
to get ahold of you earlier, but--"

She pushed past him, moving toward Mulder's room, shoving open the 
door--

And found an empty, neatly-made bed where she'd left him lying that 
afternoon.

//No no no Jesus no this can't be happening if I just close my eyes and 
open them again he'll be here yes I know he'll be here--//

She closed her eyes, and opened them again. And he still wasn't there.

She did it again. And again.

Strange, but in all the hours she'd logged in hospitals, she'd never 
noticed how white they got their sheets, so incredibly snowy-white they 
almost blinded...

But he still wasn't there.

//He's gone it's true he's gone oh God oh God ohhhh God...//

The room swam before her eyes, its wobbly image permanently imprinting 
itself on her brain. "Where is he now?" she asked, her voice coming out 
small, raw-sounding.

"In the hospital morgue, until we can have the autopsy done."

She backed out of the room, her knees turning rubbery. The wall was the 
only thing holding her up. "I want it."

"I'm sorry?"

"The autopsy. I want to do it."

She supposed she should have felt a tiny pang of triumph at the sight of 
the assistant director struck momentarily speechless, but somehow the 
emotion managed to elude her. "I...I'm afraid that won't be possible."

"Why?"

"You know why, Agent Scully. I can't allow a potential conflict to cloud 
the remainder of this investigation."

"Fine," she snapped, anger centering her, giving her back her 
equilibrium. "Then I'll go over your head, as high up as I have to, but 
I will do this autopsy. Nobody's going to cheat me of the last thing I 
can do for him."

And she started walking, all the way to the elevator, all the way down 
to her car. It must have rained while she was inside, she thought idly, 
catching a tiny cold droplet on her fingertip as she opened her car 
door, carrying it to her lips, tasting it, sweet and clean as 
wildflowers...

Strange...he was gone, yet she could still sense, still feel. Even with 
half her heart torn out, she could still function.

It shouldn't have been possible. But then, she'd seen plenty of things 
that shouldn't have been possible over the past three years.

She slid into her seat, closed the door, closed her eyes. Then she 
pulled her cell phone from her pocket, punched in a number.

"H'lo?" a sleep-thickened voice answered.

"Mom...it's Dana."

"Dana?" There was a tiny pause. "Where are you, honey?"

"At Georgetown Med Center. Could...could I come over? I need to talk..." 
A hot pain shot up the bridge of her nose, pooling behind her eyes. No, 
she wasn't going to lose it, she couldn't lose it, not now, not on the 
phone with her mother...

"Sweetie, it's almost three a.m. What's wrong? Are you okay?"

She couldn't do it. She couldn't hold it in any longer. "No...I...I'm 
not okay..." Stinging wetness poured down her cheeks, clogging her nose, 
choking off her air. "He's gone, Mom...Mulder's dead, and it's my fault. 
He's dead because of me."


*   *   *

She couldn't get warm. Even wrapped in her mother's thick flannel 
nightgown and robe, she still felt cold all the way to the bone.

She couldn't even remember how she'd gotten to her mother's house. One 
moment she'd been sobbing her eyes out in her car in the hospital 
parking lot, the next she'd found herself sitting at Mom's kitchen 
table, a steaming mug being pressed into her hands.

But two cups of tea later, the shaking still wouldn't stop. Mom had been 
talking to her softly, patiently for the past few minutes, but she had 
no idea what she'd said. She couldn't focus, couldn't concentrate on 
anything.

A tiny corner of her mind recognized, acknowledged the classic symptoms 
of shock. The rest of her refused to care.

"Dana..?"

A warm hand closed over hers, gently squeezing her fingers. Not 
Mulder's. This hand was small, fine-boned...nothing like Mulder's.

"Talk to me, honey. I know you're in there."

She blinked, trying to clear the blurriness from her eyes, her 
surroundings finally beginning to show their edges.

"What happened, Dana? Tell me."

"Mom..." Her voice sounded like it belonged to someone else; she'd never 
heard such a thick, scratchy noise from her own throat. "I don't think I 
can..."

"Sure you can. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

Then she felt tender fingers smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear, 
touching her cheek. And she was suddenly nine years old again, and the 
world was so big and terrifying and Mom was the only thing between her 
and it, the only safe haven left to her...

And she told her. Everything.

Her mother said nothing for the longest time after she'd finished, 
simply looked straight ahead, her chin resting on her hand. "Oh, honey, 
I had no idea..."

"Neither did I until...well, it doesn't matter now, does it?"

"What I meant was that I had no idea the two of you hadn't discovered 
how you felt about each other. And of course it matters. You can't 
disregard your own emotions."

She couldn't think of any reply to that.

"I suppose I should have said something a long time ago," her mother 
said, her voice whisper-soft, "but I didn't think it was my place to 
speak for Fox. God, what a thing to regret--"

"Mom, what are you talking about?"

"You should have seen him, honey, during the time when you were...gone. 
He was so lost without you, his eyes looked so wild and desperate...when 
the time came execute your living will, to turn off your life 
support...Missy and I were afraid he might actually try to take his own 
life."

//Oh sweet Jesus oh God she can't be saying what I think she's 
saying...//

"I knew then that he loved you...and when you woke up in that hospital 
bed and looked up at him, I knew you loved him too."

"Mom..." She was going to start crying again if this kept up. She hated 
crying, hated how small and weak it made her feel.

"Why didn't you tell him, sweetheart?"

"I couldn't. I was afraid."

"Of what?"

"That if our relationship...progressed, things would change between us. 
I didn't want anything to change."

"Are you sure that's the only reason?"

"I don't understand..."

"From what you've told me, Fox isn't...wasn't exactly a predictable man 
even in the best of times. Being with him wouldn't be like being with 
any other man. You wouldn't be in control in that kind of relationship, 
and I think...I think that's what you're really trying to say."

Anger spurted through her veins, but ran its course quickly. As much as 
she loathed admitting it, her mother was right; control had everything 
to do with it. She'd lost control only once before in her adult life -- 
during her affair with Jack Willis.

He'd been exactly the kind of man she should never have gotten involved 
with -- intense, driven, a co-worker, for God's sake. Yet she hadn't 
been able to help herself. She'd plunged in headfirst, danced too close 
to the flame and had gotten herself well and truly burned.

She'd sworn then never to let her heart overrule her head again, 
especially where it might place her career in jeopardy. And it really 
hadn't been all that hard keeping her vow...

Until that day almost three years ago when she'd walked into that office 
in the basement, and realized how easy it would be to let herself lose 
control again. And how much she wanted to...

But she hadn't. She'd held herself firmly in check, ignored all the 
temptation he'd thrown her way, told herself he didn't mean it, that he 
was only teasing, trying to get under her skin.

She'd turned denial into an art form. Jesus, if she'd only let the 
scales drop from her eyes...if she'd only made herself see what was 
really there, even for a minute or two...

"...but you can't go on blaming yourself, honey. There's no way you 
could have known."

"Wh-what?"

"About what they planted in your apartment. You can't let yourself feel 
responsible."

"No. There's no excuse. I should have known, Mom. I should have realized 
something wasn't right."

"What, are you suddenly supposed to be psychic? How could anyone expect 
you to--"

"I'm a Federal agent. How much faith do you think my superiors will have 
in me now when I couldn't even figure out my own home was bugged?" She 
paused a moment, lowering her voice. "Mom, do you understand how all 
this looks, to Skinner, to the rest of the Bureau? It looks like Mulder 
and I were...having an affair and...and...they somehow used that as a 
way to get to him."

"'They?'" her mother said softly.

"They. Him. Whoever pulled the trigger."

Neither of them spoke for the longest time, the only sound in the room 
the slow, ponderous ticking of the clock on the kitchen wall. She 
glanced up, staring out the window above the sink, dimly aware that the 
sky was turning hazy grey.

"You should try to get some sleep, honey."

"I can't. There's a meeting at nine. I have to be there."

"It's still early," her mother said, giving her hand a squeeze. "Come 
on. I'll wake you at seven-thirty. That should give you enough time to 
get ready."

She lay down in her bed in the room she and Melissa had shared, felt her 
mother draw the fluffy down comforter over her shoulders, place a gentle 
kiss on her cheek. Rolling onto her back, she stared up at the ceiling, 
bits and pieces from the past three years reeling through her mind, like 
a videotape on an endless loop...

God, it was so tempting to just lie here all day, to pull the covers 
over her head and stay here, drowsy, lost in her memories...

She wasn't crying anymore, she realized. Her eyes still burned from the 
tears she'd already shed, but she no longer felt as if they would 
overwhelm her again. On the contrary, she felt strangely calm, composed. 
In control.

Mom was right. She needed to get some sleep. The next few days would be 
hellish, and she had to make herself equal to the challenge. She had 
things to do. Things only she could do.

There was someone she had to call as soon as she woke up. The only 
person she could think of who might be able to help her.

*   *   *

She wasn't surprised to receive a terse call from Skinner, requesting 
her presence in his office before the nine o'clock meeting. In fact, 
she'd been expecting it.

Skinner looked mad enough to bite her head off. But she'd been expecting 
that too.

"I received a call from Senator Matheson's office an hour ago," he said, 
his lips set into an even tighter, grimmer line than usual. "I assume 
you know why."

"Yes, sir," she replied calmly, evenly.

"Mulder's body will be brought here from the hospital no later than 
noon. You've been assigned the autopsy. I expect a complete report on my 
desk within twenty-four hours. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"Let me make this clear as well: I want this procedure done by the 
numbers. If anything's missed, I'll have you hauled up in front of a 
review board so fast you won't even see your skid marks on the carpet."

"Nothing will be missed, sir. I will treat this like any other case--"

"Don't insult my intelligence, Agent Scully," he snapped. "Just get me 
the report."

She squirmed through the rest of the morning, the staff conference 
revealing nothing but dead ends -- no identifiable prints, no usable 
hair and fiber, nothing remarkable in the ballistics findings.

Skinner's look as she left the room said it all -- the remainder of the 
investigation was now resting squarely on her shoulders, and God help 
her if she screwed it up.

God help her.

The body was delivered to the Bureau morgue at eleven-fifteen. Her 
fingers felt so numb and clumsy it took her twice as long as it normally 
did to wash up and put on her pale green scrubs.

She hesitated outside the autopsy room, anxiety pumping in her veins, 
making her pulse and breathing rapid. She dragged in several deep, 
cleansing breaths, then reached for the door latch.

They hadn't taken him out of the body bag. It lay there on the table, 
dark and shiny in the lamp's harsh white glare.

She moved toward the table, pulling her mini-cassette recorder from her 
pocket, sliding in a tape, fast-forwarding it. Anything to put off 
touching that bag, even for a few seconds.

//Unzip it, Dana...come on, get it over with...you can't back out of 
this now...//

She stared down at the bag, at the outline of the body within the bag, 
and reached for the zipper.

Inside lay the body of a muscular, thirtyish black man.

Her first thought was that it was somebody's idea of a joke -- a sick, 
ghoulish joke. Or that she'd somehow wandered into the wrong autopsy 
room. But no, the medical chart on the opposite table indicated that she 
was exactly where she should be.

It was Mulder's body that wasn't.

She checked the other two autopsy rooms, found them both dark and empty.

Reaching for her cell phone, she punched in Skinner's extension, waited 
for his assistant to patch her through. "It's not him."

"What?"

"The hospital sent us the wrong body."

"Are you sure?"

She glanced down at the body on the table. "Very."

A pause, short and strangled. "I'll call the hospital administrator 
right now."

He was hanging up the phone as his assistant ushered her into his 
office. He waved her to a chair, his expression murderous. "They said 
one of their morgue attendants must've mixed up the toe tags. The body 
you got is some gangland stabbing victim."

"So where's Mulder? Do they even know?"

"There were several bodies -- bodies of indigent patients -- that were 
scheduled to be shipped out to a private mortuary for cremation and 
interment in potter's field this morning. They think Mulder's body must 
have been among them."

"They think? Are...are you telling me they can't find him?"

"Yes."

She closed her eyes, exhaling a slow, ragged breath. "You know, Mulder 
would probably find this all very funny, but somehow I can't see it." 
Despite that, she heard a dry chuckle escaping her lips. "We've got 
nothing."

"I'll wait for the final reports from ballistics and materials analysis, 
but I don't expect them to turn up anything new."

She trudged downstairs, changed back into her clothes and headed to the 
hotel. She packed her suitcase, checked out and drove back to her 
mother's. The idea of returning to her own apartment still repulsed her. 
She wasn't sure she would ever shake the feeling.

She showered, changed into a sweatshirt and jeans and sat down to a 
dinner that tasted like straw and ashes.

Everything felt...wrong. She felt wrong, broken inside, out of joint, 
incapable of experiencing the sense of grief and loss that had 
overwhelmed her the night before.

It was too strange. She should be mourning him more now than ever, 
especially since it appeared that his killers would never be found, 
especially since they had no evidence, no body...

"Oh, my God," she breathed. "They didn't lose the body. There was no 
body to lose."

Her mother's eyes snapped up, locking on hers across the kitchen table. 
"Honey, what are you--"

"He's not dead, Mom."

"But...how can you know that?"

"Because if he was, I'd feel like there was this huge hole blown through 
me, the way I did last night. Because if his heart had stopped beating, 
if his brain had ceased to function, I'd know. I'd feel it."

"You're starting to sound like Melissa."

For some reason that remark struck a deep chord. "Maybe I am," she said 
slowly. "Missy was always so intuitive...maybe that's something I need 
from her now. God knows, clinical detachment's gotten me absolutely 
nowhere."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I don't even know if I can do anything."

"But what about--"

"Mom, I've got no hard proof. All I've got is this feeling, and that 
won't be good enough for Skinner."

"You have to try, honey. For Fox's sake."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do," she said, shaking her head. "I can't believe 
this. I can't believe I'm actually going to go to Skinner and ask him 
to keep the investigation open on the strength of a feeling." She 
laughed, actually laughed aloud. "Oh, Mom...Mulder would be proud of 
me."

*   *   *

"Agent Scully."

She whirled around in the bullpen hallway to see who had called after 
her. "Agent Pendrell."

The materials analysis tech beckoned her from the doorway of his lab. "I 
just found something I think you should see."

"Well, I was..." she gestured toward Skinner's office, but something in 
Pendrell's expression made her drop her hand, follow him inside the lab.

"I've been working on the videos from the Chinese restaurant's security 
camera," he said, waving her over to a TV monitor near the far wall. 
"Most of the footage from the night in question had awful resolution, 
but luckily I was able to scan it onto laserdisc, digitize it, break it 
down frame by frame."

"And?"

"Take a look."

Pendrell flicked a button on the remote control he was holding, and the 
monitor filled with Mulder's image moving quickly past the camera, 
followed by interminable seconds of dead air. He touched another button, 
and the image jumped forward.

Scully's breath caught as the door flew open, two men dressed in black 
entering, the first swinging his arm up to the camera, firing--

The screen dissolved to snow.

"Is that all?"

"Wait," Pendrell said, hitting another button on the remote.

And the image reversed, frame by frame, until the shooter's profile came 
into grainy, soft-focus view. Pendrell made a few more adjustments, 
centering the frame, sharpening its resolution, blowing it up until it 
filled the entire screen.

She stared at it, thinking there had to be something wrong with her 
vision, that she couldn't be seeing what she thought she was seeing--

Alex Krycek.

"Can you get me a hard copy of that?" she asked, her voice barely above 
a whisper.

"No problem."

Holding it in her hand, on paper, made it finally begin to feel real. 
"What did Skinner say when you showed him this?"

"I haven't. I'd just finished optimizing the disc when I saw you walk 
by." He glanced from her face to the paper and back again. "That guy 
looks little familiar. You know who he is?"

"I hope so," she replied, heading for the door. "Thanks."

"He's been waiting for you," Skinner's assistant said, her expression 
tight, anxious.

Scully didn't even stop to acknowledge her, just pushed through the door 
to Skinner's office, slapped the paper onto his desk. "Pendrell just 
gave me this."

Skinner fingered the paper, studying it in silence. "From the security 
camera video?"

"Yes."

He sighed, pushing the paper away. "It still proves nothing."

"How can you say that? This man attacked you just a few months ago, and 
you know what Mulder suspected him of--"

"Mulder's suspicions were never proven. Alex Krycek's been missing for 
over a year. If you've got any idea where to find him, you're welcome to 
let me know."

The words she'd rehearsed in her head all last night leaped to her 
tongue, then hung there, suspended, frozen. She couldn't say it. She 
couldn't tell Skinner she sensed that Mulder was still alive -- it would 
sound too insane, especially coming from her. And the last thing she 
needed right now was to lose her credibility in Skinner's eyes. She 
slumped in her chair, defeat threatening to wrap her in its leaden arms. 
"Without a body, we don't have conclusive proof that Mulder's really 
dead."

"I saw them wheel him out of that operating room, Agent Scully.  And we 
have a signed death certificate."

Frustration set her teeth on edge; she had to struggle to keep her voice 
level. "You can't close the investigation yet."

"And I can't justify keeping it open much longer without any new leads." 
He paused, drumming his fingers on the blotter, pulling off his glasses. 
"I'm putting you on one week's paid leave, pending reassignment."

"I'd prefer to keep on working, sir. I need to--"

"There's nothing for you to work on, Agent Scully. Word filtered down to 
me this morning. The X-Files are being closed. Permanently."

//Well, it's not like you weren't expecting it, Dana.//

"I see," she said numbly. "I don't suppose...they'd let me petition to 
keep the project open...let me work on it alone."

His look told her the answer to that question. "You're one of my best 
people, Scully. I need you sharp and focused and rested, and you are 
none of those things right now. Go home and get that rest. If any new 
developments arise, I promise I'll let you know."

She made her way out of Skinner's office, down the hall, feeling adrift, 
rudderless.

No Mulder. No work. Nothing to put her back up against.

She drove to her apartment and parked outside, staring blankly out the 
window, her hand frozen on her car's door latch.

But she couldn't get out. She couldn't go in.

And she wouldn't be going in ever again -- except to pack up her things 
and get them into a moving van.

Maybe this week off wouldn't be so unproductive after all. She'd start 
looking for a new place tomorrow.

She didn't want to think about anything after that.

*   *   *

He gazed down at the figure lying motionless on the bed, and lit another 
cigarette. "What's the prognosis, Doctor?"

The other man rubbed a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. 
"Physically, he should be fine, though I think recovery'll take longer 
than expected. He's strong, but that second surgery was rough on him."

"Regrettable, but necessary," he said, taking another puff. "And 
mentally?"

"I don't know." The doctor lowered himself into a chair on the opposite 
side of the bedroom, taking off his glasses, massaging his eyes. "His 
brain's like a crashed hard drive -- some memories completely erased, 
some there, but only partially so. I'm not certain I can do anything for 
him in that regard."

"Fine, then. Rinse him out. We'll start over from scratch."

The doctor stared at him for an endless moment. "I've never attempted a 
complete wipe. I don't even know if it's possible."

"Then I suppose you'll have to find out, won't you?"

"He's the last one left. And I am not about to have his death 
or...anything else on my conscience."

"This project was your brainchild, Doctor. We supported you over the 
years, when no one else would. It's a little bit late in the game to 
decide you don't have the stomach for it." Dropping the cigarette, he 
crushed it under his heel. "Get to work, Doctor. And keep him sedated 
until you're finished."

*   *   *

She'd forgotten how exhausting apartment-hunting was. By Friday she'd 
seen at least a dozen places, none of them right -- either too small, 
too large, too expensive, too far away from work...

Well, there was really no great rush. If something didn't turn up by the 
end of her leave time, she'd give her landlord notice, move her 
furniture into a storage unit, and stay on with her mother for awhile. 
Mom had already said she wouldn't mind and, much to her own surprise, 
Scully realized she found the notion of moving back home oddly 
comforting. It would be nice coming home to better company than her TV 
or yet another case file for a change.

She was getting dressed for another hunting spree Saturday morning when 
she heard her mother's soft rap on the bedroom door. "Dana, there's 
someone downstairs for you. Your boss."

"Did he say what he wanted?" she asked, pulling her sweater over her 
head, opening the door.

"No. And I didn't ask."

She slipped on her shoes, ran a quick comb through her hair and bounded 
down the stairs two at a time, finding Skinner in the living room. He 
was dressed casually, in slacks and sweater; the sight took her somewhat 
aback for a moment or two.

"My assistant told me I might find you here," he said. "I hope I'm not 
intruding..?"

"Not at all, sir. Please..." she indicated the couch, sat down on it a 
discreet distance away from him. "Is there some news regarding the 
investigation?"

"No, I'm afraid not. This is about something else entirely." He leaned 
forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You've received two offers 
for new assignments. Naturally, Quantico is more than eager to have you 
back. But the Violent Crimes Section is also quite interested. In fact, 
they want you to head up their new forensics unit."

She stared back at him, stunned. Either offer by itself would be well 
worth killing for, but two, and at the same time... "I...I don't know 
what to say. This is all a bit overwhelming."

"I had the feeling it would be. That's why I decided to come in person 
to tell you."

Her mind boggled, awhirl in confusion. The time she'd spent at Quantico 
had been good for her, a great learning experience, but the thought of 
returning there now left her feeling strangely empty and unmoved.

But the V.C.S...after what had happened with Tom Colton on the Tooms 
case, she would never have thought in a million years that the V.C.S. 
would make her an offer. Especially since she'd been Mulder's partner, 
and he was pretty much a pariah in their eyes.

But he'd been their fair-haired boy once, and there were times when he'd 
spoken of his years with them with what had almost sounded like 
affection. His work with them had made an impact that could be felt 
throughout the entire Bureau even now. If she couldn't work on the 
X-Files, the V.C.S. might just be the next best thing.

And it would also give her first crack at any new evidence that might 
come to light regarding Mulder's shooting. She tried to convince herself 
that that was of secondary importance -- and for a few fleeting moments, 
she almost succeeded.

"You don't have to give me an answer now," Skinner said, rising. "I just 
wanted to make you aware of your options."

"It's all right, I've already made my decision. Tell Violent Crimes I'd 
be happy to accept their offer."

Skinner's left eyebrow arched. "Not Quantico?"

"I've done all I can do there. I want to stay in the field."

To her relief, he accepted her explanation at face value. "I'll tell 
them, then."

She walked him to the front door, ushered him out, stood in the doorway 
watching him walk to his car at the curb, felt the sun shining down on 
her face. Soft and warm, like Mulder's lips brushing her palm.

For the first time in days, she felt grounded. She had a purpose again, 
a goal. And that in itself felt good.

*   *   *

"Have you finished yet?"

The doctor nodded, glancing up from the man lying on his back in bed, 
his bandaged chest slowly rising and falling. "I've done as much as I 
can, considering his condition."

"But the scenario we discussed has been implemented?"

"The implants seem to have taken, but I can't be completely sure of that 
until he regains consciousness. However, there is one thing I think you 
should be aware of."

He put a fresh cigarette between his lips, reached in his pocket for his 
lighter. "Which is?"

"He's thirty-five years old. There are certain thought patterns, core 
memories which are set, imprinted in a person by this age. Patterns and 
memories which cannot be altered or erased, though they can be repressed 
into the subconscious. Hopefully that is what's happened here."

"Hopefully?" he repeated, his tone dripping scorn. "What are you saying? 
That the implants may not work after all? We might as well terminate 
this project now and have done with it, if that's the probable outcome."

"There is always a chance they won't work, but I don't believe that will 
be the case here. This subject has always proven quite...pliant, 
malleable. If he does happen to remember something, it will probably 
come out as broken dream fragments he won't make any sense of. Or some 
crazy childhood incident no one would ever believe."

He smiled, exhaling smoke through his nose. "Excellent."

"However, he will always be Fox Mulder. Core identity was established 
with the first implants years ago and cannot be changed."

He paused, looking down at the bed, at the man lying there, pondering 
the exquisite irony of it all, the bittersweet satisfaction of seeing 
fifty years' work finally come to fruition. "He'll wake soon?"

The doctor nodded. "I've stopped administering the sedative, so he 
should regain consciousness naturally within the next few hours."

"Well, there's no reason we need to stay for that, is there?" he said, 
turning to leave, gesturing for the doctor to follow.

He stopped in the living room, right in front of the the couch, where 
another, younger man sat, lazily flicking channels with the TV remote.

The younger man gave him a look, then stood, hands shoved in his jeans 
pockets, saying nothing, awaiting his orders.

"Keep close watch over him. Let me know if anything unusual happens. You 
know what to look for?"

"Yeah."

"The doctor will return in a day or so to check him." With that, he and 
the doctor moved toward the front door. "And remember -- under no 
circumstances are you to drink from the tap in this apartment."

"But what do I do if he asks me about--"

"You know the scenario. Play along with it. Understood?"

"Sure," Alex Krycek replied with a feral smile. "No problem."

*   *   *

His vision cleared slowly, as if he were moving up through deep water, 
reaching for the light shimmering at the surface--

And the room slammed into sharp, glaring focus, making him roll to his 
side, force his face down into the pillow until the angry red glow 
behind his eyelids subsided to something bearable.

//Jesus...feels like there's a fucking nuclear explosion in my head...//

He slitted his eyes open, letting illumination in a little at a time, 
his surroundings gradually becoming visible.

It was a small, clean room, with plain off-white walls, green drapes, 
brown furniture. Other than the pair of jeans flung over a chair and his 
wallet and watch on the bedside table, there were no personal belongings 
in view. Nothing remarkable. Nothing he'd have any trouble leaving 
behind if he had to.

Pain shot its jagged arrows through him when he tried to raise himself 
up on his left elbow, and he slumped back onto his pillows, gasping. 
Then he looked down, saw the bandages on his chest, rubbed his hand 
gingerly over where the ache was centered, halfway between his heart and 
left shoulder.

He tried flexing the fingers of his left hand, felt them move stiffly 
but without discomfort, then tried the same thing with his elbow. But 
when he got to the left shoulder joint, the pain kicked in again, hard, 
sending ghostly patterns whirling behind his eyes. Rolling onto his 
right side, he somehow maneuvered himself into a sitting position, swung 
his legs over the side of the bed, held onto the bedside table until he 
managed to pull himself to his feet. Luckily, there didn't seem to be 
anything wrong with his legs.

He could see a bathroom a few steps away, just outside the bedroom door, 
and made it there by sheer strength of will, his legs suddenly turning 
rubbery after about three steps. Flicking the light on, he glimpsed the 
toilet, realized his bladder was ready to burst.

Stripping off his boxers -- the only thing he had on -- he propped 
himself up against the wall with his one good arm, gratefully relieving 
himself.

Then he grabbed ahold of the edge of the sink, staring into the mirror.

Blood-veined eyes gazed back at him from a face covered in thick 
stubble. His hair stuck up in haphazard tufts, his lips cracked, dry...

God, he was thirsty. He twisted on the cold water, swallowed two 
handfuls without even tasting it, splashed more on his face.

He felt a little better then, but only a little. He dragged in a couple 
of deep breaths, wincing at the searing stab it sent tearing through his 
chest, his nose wrinkling at his first real whiff of himself.

//Women aren't exactly gonna be lining up for a date with you, pal...//

Staggering to the shower, he climbed in, turned on the hot water, 
adjusting it until the temperature hovered a bare degree below scalding. 
He stood under the spray until the water turned lukewarm and his skin 
felt so tight he thought it might split open.

His bandages got soaked but the tape still pulled when he tugged it off, 
making his breath hiss out through his teeth. He traced his fingertips 
over and around the silver-dollar-sized wound, relieved to find it clean 
and dry, with no apparent sign of infection. At least whoever'd patched 
him up this time had known what the fuck he was doing.

He finished toweling off as best he could with one hand, then shaved. 
Lifting up his left arm still hurt like hell. Christ, his whole body was 
a pain factory -- head pounding, arm aching. And trying to take more 
than a shallow breath made his chest feel like there was a fucking rhino 
kneeling on it.

He found aspirin, fresh gauze and tape in the mirrored cabinet over the 
sink, swallowed four of the tablets, chased them down with water, then 
started rebandaging himself--

//*flash*//

//he was standing in a room a bright white room all by himself no not 
all by himself there was someone else someone standing in the shadows 
standing in the doorway saying his name raising his arm his hand lifting 
up his gun firing his gun--//

Slumping forward, he caught himself on the sink with one elbow, agony 
lancing him, jolting him back to reality. He raked a hand over his face, 
felt it come away coated with chill perspiration.

He slapped tape on his new bandage, lurched back to the bedroom, grabbed 
the jeans hanging on the chair, somehow managed to pull them on. 
Riffling through the dresser near the bed, he found a plain white 
t-shirt, worked his left arm into it, dragged it over his head, flopped 
down on the bed, shaking, sweating, exhausted.

Then he heard something -- a noise far down the hall -- and sat straight 
up, this time ignoring his body's discomfort. Pure instinct kicking in, 
he jerked open the bedside table's one drawer, rummaging through it, 
looking for his gun--

Nothing.

Nothing in the dresser either, except more clothes--

And a leather belt, hidden under a pile of underwear. Crude, but it'd do 
the job.

He crept slowly down the darkened hallway, into the empty living room. 
The TV was on, though for some reason its volume was turned all the way 
down. Plates and beer cans and newspapers covered the table in front of 
the couch, spilling onto the floor.

There was a light on in the kitchen; he could smell the odor of frying 
beef hanging thick and greasy in the air, hear plate and fork making 
contact. His stomach rumbled.

Flattening himself against the wall, he inched up to the door, sensed 
rather than saw shadowy movement from the table to the sink, heard 
dishes clanking on stainless steel, then the sound of running water--

And he lunged, stretching the belt between both hands, slinging it 
around the man at the sink's throat, dragging him over to the far wall, 
slamming him against it.

Krycek gasped, sputtered, somehow managing to work two fingers under the 
belt. "What...the fuck're...you doing--"

"You oughta know. You shot me, you son of a bitch." He tightened his 
grip, the sight of Krycek squirming and thrashing sending a gelid sense 
of satisfaction pumping through his veins.

"Had to...the old man didn't...give me a choice..."

"Nice try."

"'S'true, man...you gotta believe me..."

He wanted to give the belt one more jerk to finish the job, but hot 
knives of pain stabbed his arm, pulsing down into his chest. Dark 
blotches danced before his eyes and he fell back, losing his grip on the 
belt.

Krycek stared at him, eyes wild, rubbing his throat, sucking in air. 
"Fifteen years, man...we've been like brothers...you know I'd never sell 
you out..."

"Do I?" Pushing Krycek flat on his stomach against the wall, he grabbed 
the gun the other man kept tucked under his waistband at the small of 
his back.

"Just let me tell you what happened--"

"Maybe I will. Then again, maybe I'll let you eat a piece of this 
first," he hissed, shoving the gun in Krycek's face.

"Jesus, they really did a number on you..."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Let me go and I'll tell you."

He didn't let him go.

"C'mon, man...you got the gun. I'm not going anywhere."

He weighed his options for a second or two, then stepped back, waving 
Krycek over to the kitchen table. "Sit down. Keep your hands on the 
table where I can see them."

Krycek sat down, put his hands flat on the table, still breathing hard.

He slid into the other chair, keeping the gun trained on Krycek. "You 
wanted to talk. So start talking."

"One of the old man's cronies tried to recruit me. Said he wanted to 
even out the balance of power in the consortium. I told him no, but 
somehow the old man found out. He said I'd disappointed him, made him 
doubt my loyalty."

"So?"

"So I asked him what I could do to prove it. He said I had to kill you."

For some odd reason, he wasn't surprised. "Looks like you fell a little 
short of the mark."

"He wanted me to shoot you in the head."

"And I'm supposed to be grateful you didn't?" Jesus, but he was getting 
thirsty again. His mouth tasted like a fucking desert. "Lame story, 
Alex. I've read better in the Sunday funnies."

"It's the truth."

"Yeah, right."

"You think I give two shits about their stupid power plays? I didn't ask 
for any of this. The old man knows I'd never cross him, neither would 
you. We both owe him too much."

It was getting unbearable, this dryness in his mouth and throat. He 
rose, moving slowly toward the sink, keeping his bead on Krycek as he 
picked up a glass from the sideboard, turned on the faucet to fill it, 
gulped it down. "And what exactly do we owe him, Alex?"

"Shit, Mulder, you know as well as I do--"

"Why don't you tell me anyway?"

"You still don't trust me?"

"I don't even know if you are who you appear to be."

Krycek laughed, incredulity written plainly on his face. "You want to 
cut me, see if I bleed green?"

"Maybe later," he replied, sitting back down before the pressure 
building up in his chest could make his knees buckle. He felt hot and 
prickly all over, like somebody had just dusted his skin with itching 
powder. "How'd we get here? How'd we end up working for the old man?"

Krycek licked his lips, his hands clenching and unclenching on the 
table. "We were kids when we hooked up, eighteen or nineteen. Did 
small-time jobs, robbing laundromats, liquor stores, stuff like that. 
When pickings were good, they were good. When they weren't...we ate out 
of garbage cans, slept in doorways."

He remembered. God, he could still smell the stench of urine and rotting 
food in those cold, filthy alleys. Thought he'd gotten it out of his 
system a long time ago. "So how'd we end up here?"

"It was a couple days before Christmas, and we were starving. So we saw 
this mom-and-dad convenience store, decided to hit it. Only problem was, 
Dad had a thirty-eight special under the counter. I shot him, we took 
off, but the cops grabbed us before we'd gone two blocks."

"Then what?"

"The guy died. They charged us with murder one, special circumstances. 
Trial, conviction, death row. We were there nine years."

He remembered that too. Remembered the first time he was attacked in the 
showers, remembered cornering the bastard who'd done it and plunging a 
homemade knife in his ear. Remembered the four months he'd spent in 
solitary for it. Easiest time he'd ever done.

"You went to the chamber a week before I did," Krycek continued. "I 
remember walking down the hallway, the guards strapping me into the 
chair, putting the hood over my head. I heard the door slam shut, the 
pellets dropping..." He paused, exhaling. "Then I woke up."

"And the old man was there. And he told you you were a dead man, but if 
you wanted to live, he'd give you that chance. And you've done whatever 
he's told you to do ever since."

"Yeah," Krycek replied. "You believe me now?"

God, he needed another shower; fresh sweat was breaking out all over his 
body, acidic and foul-smelling. Dizziness almost overwhelmed him as he 
stood up, handed Krycek his gun. "Yeah. I believe you." He turned, 
moving toward the door, stumbling against the jamb when a wave of nausea 
crashed over him.

"C'mon, I'll help you--"

But he jerked back the instant he felt Krycek's hand on his arm. "Get 
the hell away from me. I can do my own walking."

"Hey, I was just trying--"

"If you want to help, clean up that fucking mess you left in the living 
room."

"Yeah. Sure. Whatever you want."

He wouldn't have thought it possible, but this shower felt even better 
than the last one, loosening the knots in his muscles, making the pain 
in his arm and chest almost bearable. Maybe the aspirin was finally 
starting to kick in. He dried off, went back to the bedroom, flopped 
down on the bed, closed his eyes.

The room spun, even in the dark. His heart felt like there was a hand 
closing over it, squeezing extra beats out of it. He forced himself to 
breathe as deeply as he could, willing his pulse to slow.

Alex had been telling the truth, as far as it went. But he still had the 
uneasy feeling there was something he was holding back, probably on the 
old man's orders.

He wasn't worried, though. He'd find out what it was. Sooner or later, 
Alex would get a few too many beers in him and tell all. The old man 
knew that. Hell, the twisted bastard was probably banking on it.

But there was no need to rush. He had all the time in the world. They 
couldn't kill him. Nobody could.

He was already a dead man.


*   *   *

No matter how late she got in, her mother was always waiting up for her, 
ready to talk about their respective days. It made her feel like a 
teenager sneaking in after a date -- a little bit guilty, but at the 
same time comforted there was somebody who cared enough to do it.

The past month had been a combination of exhausting and exhilarating. 
Her new position with Violent Crimes had kept her on the move from the 
day she started; she hadn't spent more than a couple waking hours a day 
at home, and that even included weekends.

//Almost as hectic as when I was working with Mul--//

No, she wouldn't let herself make that comparison. If she did, she'd 
feel like a traitor.

Skinner had let her back into hers and Mulder's office the day she'd 
returned from her leave, but only to pack up her things -- and with 
Skinner himself keeping a gimlet eye trained on her. She hadn't been 
allowed to touch Mulder's things at all, or even go over to his side of 
the office, which had still been taped off. His papers would be boxed up 
and shipped to his mother later, or so Skinner had told her.

So she'd taken her own files home, spent every spare minute she could 
scrounge poring over them, looking for any possible clue that might shed 
new light on the investigation. But so far, she'd come up with 
absolutely nothing.

And even with her new contacts in the V.C.S., she could find no trace of 
Alex Krycek's whereabouts. Apparently he'd crawled into a crack in the 
wall last year and only slunk out every now and then to shoot FBI 
agents--

"Earth to Dana."

She looked up a touch sheepishly, realizing she must have been staring 
into the depths of her coffee mug. "Sorry, Mom. Just zoning out again, I 
guess."

"You should go to bed, honey. Before those bags under your eyes turn 
into steamer trunks."

She chuckled, stealing a glance at the kitchen clock. Only nine thirty. 
"Not yet. If I go this early, I'll just wake up around three or four and 
never get back to sleep."

"So that's what I heard last night. For a while there I thought we had 
king-sized mice in the walls."

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay. I was awake anyway. I haven't slept a night straight through 
since...well, since we lost your father."

She looked down, studying her fingernails, her mother's serene, intent 
gaze suddenly too uncomfortable to bear. "Do you have dreams, Mom? About 
Dad?"

"All the time."

"And are they...I mean..."

"About the good times we had? The years we didn't have?"

She nodded.

"I wish I could tell you it gets easier, sweetheart."

She tried to summon up a reply, but the words wouldn't come. All she 
could do was blink away the telltale sting behind her eyes.

The phone's ring split the silence. Her mother got up to answer it. 
"Hello? Yes, she is. One moment." She wrapped her fingers around the 
mouthpiece. "It's for you, honey. It's Mrs. Mulder."

Panic plunged its jagged blade in her for a split-second, but she forced 
herself to shake it off, get to her feet, reach for the phone. "Mrs. 
Mulder? How...um, nice to hear from you."

"How are you, Ms. Scully? Well, I hope." Her tone was warm, sincere.

"Yes, fine. Work is good."

//Why the hell did I say that? Brilliant, Dana, just brilliant...//

"Yes, well...I was over at Fox's apartment earlier today. I have to have 
his things packed up and ready to move out by Saturday, and I came 
across a few books that I think are yours. I was wondering if you'd like 
to have them back."

//Oh, God, not this. Not now.//

"Ms. Scully?"

"Um...yes. Yes, I would like them back."

"All right. I'll bring them by over the weekend. Is there a time that 
will be more convenient for you?"

Suddenly her brain unfroze, kicking into high gear. "Oh, please don't go 
to that trouble. I'd be glad to come by and pick them up myself."

"Well, that's...very kind of you to offer. And I must admit, I'd enjoy 
the opportunity to speak with you again."

"Saturday morning, then? Ten or eleven?"

"I'll be looking forward to it."

She hung up, her hand lingering on the receiver, finally letting the 
weariness lurking behind her eyes take full hold of her. Murmuring good 
night to her mother, she trudged upstairs to bed, slid under the covers, 
turned out the light.

Maybe there was something in Mulder's apartment that could help her, 
give her some hard evidence, anything to keep the investigation open. 
She couldn't give up. Mulder hadn't given up on her when she'd 
disappeared, even when it seemed everyone else had.

Somewhere out there he was waiting for her, depending on her.

She had to keep believing that.

*   *   *

//it was hot and dark Christ it felt like the inside of an oven but 
outside he could hear the wind howling whipping against the sides of the 
shelter making the walls rattle--

//and she was standing there red-haired petite blue eyes holding a gun 
on him and he was screaming at her to put it down but she wouldn't she 
said he had to understand but he didn't he didn't understand any of it 
at all--

//and she said Mulder you may not be who you are--//

And he sat bolt upright, trembling, his scream lodged stillborn in his 
throat. It took him a few seconds to register that he was lying on the 
couch, an old movie playing on the TV.

He swung his legs over the side of the couch, rubbing his eyes, blinking 
away the bleariness there. Reaching for the glass of water he'd left on 
the table, he downed the last of it, bathing his parched tongue.

*Crash.*

James Arness was busting through a door on the TV, roaring and 
shrieking, taking a swipe at Kenneth Tobey, the Arctic wind wailing in 
the background--

He grabbed the remote and punched it, relief washing over him as the 
screen went black. Christ, no wonder he'd been having weird dreams, 
watching crap like that. Like anybody'd believe giant carnivorous 
carrots from outer space really existed anyway.

A key twisted in the front door lock, and Krycek came in, pulled off his 
jacket, threw it over the back of another chair. "I'd say you looked 
like shit, but that'd be an insult to shit."

"I love you too," he grunted, slumping down, resting his head on the 
back of the couch.

"Jesus, Mulder, don't you ever fall asleep in bed? That's what they're 
for, y'know. Among other things," he added with a snicker.

"You sleep where you want, I'll sleep where I want."

"Yeah, well...since we're on the subject, you really should've come with 
me tonight. I met this incredible blonde--"

"Save it, Alex. I'm not in the mood."

"No shit," he retorted, sinking down in the chair he'd hung his jacket 
on. "What the hell's wrong with you anyway? You never used to pass up a 
chance to go bar-crawling."

"Guess the magic's gone. Getting shot by your partner'll do that to 
you."

Krycek's grin faded. "I thought we'd gotten past that."

"I'd still feel a lot better about the situation if I had my gun back."

"I told you, the old man took it. He doesn't want you to have it--"

"Until I'm fully recovered. Bullshit," he snorted, sitting up, wincing 
as he did so, his back muscles stiff and sore from lying on the too-soft 
cushions. "I'm starting to wonder if it's really your loyalty he was 
worried about."

"Maybe you should ask him."

"Yeah, right. Like he'd give me a straight answer."

"Look, the old man's consortium buddies think you're history. He wants 
them to keep on thinking that for awhile."

"Figures. I knew there had to be a good reason for him keeping me 
stashed in this fucking rathole. Which of the other cold-blooded 
bastards does he want whacked this time?"

"The English guy -- Markham, Morrell, whatever the hell his name is. 
He's the one who tried to recruit me."

He shivered involuntarily, remembering a chance meeting he'd had with 
the man, the slimy way the old queer had looked him up and down. "When 
the time comes, count me in," he said, getting up, heading down the hall 
to the bedroom without waiting for Krycek's reply.

He stripped, taking care not to move his left arm any more than he had 
to. Christ, it still felt like he was wrenching his shoulder from its 
socket whenever he tried lifting the arm over his head. The old man'd 
never put him back to work in this piss-poor condition.

The old man's doctor made the exact same assessment the next afternoon. 
"The tissue's healed as much as it's going to under the circumstances. 
You'll need physical therapy if you want full use of that arm again."

He had to bite back a bitter chortle. He couldn't count the number of 
times he'd been shot or stabbed or beaten in his life, yet he'd always 
managed to recover with no problem. It was just too fucking ironic.

//Congratulations, Alex...you're a better shot than I gave you credit 
for.//

"That's it," he muttered. "End of the ride."

"I can arrange for a therapist to come here two or three times a week," 
the doctor continued. "Your...um, employer's already given his 
approval."

"Did he?"

"He was quite insistent about it, in fact. Said you were far too 
valuable an operative to lose."

Cold, practical. Just like the old man. "How long will it take?"

"Depends on you. Work hard, and you should be good as new in two or 
three months."

"Months? Christ, I'm going stir-crazy here already--"

"All the more reason, I'd think, for you to get started." The doctor 
rose, stood motionless by the couch, waiting for an answer.

He couldn't stand it -- not the pain, that was negligible -- but the 
weakness in his body, the way it had betrayed him. He hadn't felt like 
this since he was a kid, beaten on by his father for any old excuse, 
vowing mutely that once he was strong enough to fight back, nobody'd 
ever hurt him again and get away with it. And they hadn't, not for the 
last twenty-five years, at least.

"All right," he said finally. "Send someone."

*   *   *

Scully's heart nearly stopped when she saw the door to Mulder's 
apartment slightly ajar. Then she heard voices inside, the shuffle of 
the movers lifting and carrying, and she relaxed a little.

But only a little. Her fingers closed over the cold brass of the 
doorknob, and for the fiftieth time that day she wondered what in the 
world had possessed her to come here. Mrs. Mulder was waiting for her on 
the other side of the door, and she had absolutely no idea what to say 
to her.

//You can still back out...just turn around and get back on that 
elevator, call her later and say you were called in to work 
unexpectedly. She'll believe that.//

Then the door swung open and the movers emerged, wheeling hand-trucks 
stacked high with cardboard boxes. She barely stepped back in time to 
avoid getting flattened.

"Ms. Scully?" She heard the voice, soft and low-pitched, before she saw 
the older woman appear in the doorway, brushing back a stray lock of 
gray hair. She was dressed comfortably in blouse and slacks, but looked 
worn down, her eyes puffy, slightly red. "I'm so glad you could make 
it," she said, coming forward, her hand extended.

Scully pasted on a smile, wondering if her reluctance showed as much as 
she suspected it did, or if Mrs. Mulder's comment was simply mere 
coincidence. "You look busy."

"Yes, but fortunately this is the last of it. The real work was in 
boxing it all up. I'm almost done with the clothing, though," she added, 
gesturing for Scully to come in.

All the furniture with the exception of the kitchen table and chairs was 
already gone. The walls looked stark and bare, the morning sun pouring 
through the curtainless windows, glaring off the white paint. She 
stopped in the middle of the living room, her throat tight and dry, her 
hand clutching her purse's shoulder strap, feeling it bite into her 
palm. For a second or two she couldn't help thinking--

"Looks like he never lived here, doesn't it?" Mrs. Mulder said softly, 
meeting her gaze straight on.

"Yes," she managed to get out. "H-how did you know I was--"

"You have a very expressive face. Fox even mentioned it to me once. He 
said he could always tell what you were feeling, if something was 
bothering you."

"He spoke about me?"

"Every time I saw him, or talked with him on the phone. He always called 
you by your last name, but it didn't take me long to realize you were a 
woman."

She turned, spying her books on the kitchen table, going over, opening 
one, running her fingers along her bookplate on the inside flyleaf. 
"Thank you for calling me about these. To be honest, I'd forgotten he 
still had them."

"No trouble," the older woman said. "I was wondering, though, if there's 
something of Fox's that you'd like to take for yourself, as a keepsake. 
I still have some of his personal things here."

Heat flushed her cheeks, and she wished now more than ever that she'd 
never come. This was too intimate, too private to let anyone see, much 
less Mrs. Mulder. The woman had an uncanny talent for making her feel 
vulnerable, defenseless. "Oh...no. I couldn't."

"Then will you at least sit a few minutes and have a cup of tea with me? 
I have to admit, I'm in need of a break."

"But what about the movers?"

"Oh, they won't be back for at least another hour. I've got them booked 
for the whole day, so there's no need to rush."

So they sat, drinking hot Earl Grey from a pair of chipped mugs, sharing 
words and silence. To Scully's surprise, she found herself actually 
beginning to unwind, drawn in by Mrs. Mulder's quiet, gentle manner.

"Would you mind if I ask...what was he like as a boy?" she ventured 
shyly. "I mean, before...what happened when he was twelve."

Mrs. Mulder flinched slightly, growing pale. "Fox told you about that?"

"Yes."

"All of it?"

"Well, yes. I didn't get the impression he was keeping anything 
purposely hidden from me."

Mrs. Mulder's fingers tightened around her mug, and she cast her gaze 
downward. "I had no idea you and Fox were so...close."

"Not that close, Mrs. Mulder. Not in the way you're thinking, at least."

"Well, he must have had an inordinate amount of trust in you to tell you 
about..." She trailed off, wiping at her eyes.

"It must have been terrible."

"Yes," the older woman said thickly. "It was."

"Muld...Fox never lost hope, you know. Even last year, when he thought 
you'd found Samantha again--"

"That woman was not my daughter."

"I know. But even when it turned out not to be her, when most people 
would have given up, he became more determined than ever to find out 
what really happened--"

"Dear God," Mrs. Mulder gasped, one hand flying up to cover her mouth. 
"You don't understand, do you? You don't understand any of it at all."

The haunted, anguished look in the older woman's eyes sent a liquid 
chill shooting through her. "What don't I understand?"

Mrs. Mulder folded her hands as if praying, pressing her lips to her 
steepled fingers. "I don't have a daughter, Ms. Scully. Fox is my only 
child. Samantha does not exist."

The words echoed in her ears, sinking slowly into her brain like pebbles 
cast in a still pond. "But...how can that be? His memories of her were 
so vivid--"

"His memories were false. Constructs of an emotionally disturbed mind. 
That's what all the doctors said, anyway." She closed her eyes, 
breathing deeply. "I should start at the beginning, I suppose, if any of 
this is to make sense. Bill and I...we were married several years, but I 
could never become pregnant. We tried adoption, and ended up on waiting 
lists for...I don't know, a very long time. I started believing we would 
never have a child, but then one of Bill's associates in the State 
Department pulled a few strings, helped arrange for a private adoption. 
And Fox became our son." Her lips curved upward slightly at the memory. 
"Things were wonderful for the first few years. But Bill's work started 
keeping him away from home for sometimes weeks at a stretch, and...well, 
our marriage and his relationship with Fox began to suffer greatly. Even 
when he did manage to come home for a few days, he was cold, distant. It 
progressed to the point where he would barely speak to us at all. But I 
stayed...kept telling myself that he needed us, that he was just going 
through a rough patch at work, that things would get better between us 
in time. God, if I'd only listened to my heart instead of my head..."

"What happened?" Scully prompted softly.

"It was summer, 1973. Bill had had...well, I called it a breakdown, he 
called it exhaustion. Either way, he was forced to take time off from 
work, the whole summer, in fact. By mid-July he was feeling like himself 
again, and he asked me if he could take Fox and go up to our summer 
house in Rhode Island for a week, just the two of them. I was 
overjoyed...I thought this would be the beginning of a reconciliation 
between them. But it turned out to be anything but that, I saw as soon 
as they got back. Bill had become as uncommunicative as ever, and 
Fox...he'd always been such a happy boy, always laughing, cracking 
jokes, but as soon as they returned from the trip I could see the change 
in him -- sullen and belligerent one minute, completely withdrawn the 
next. He'd stay in his bedroom for hours...I could hear him through the 
door, muttering to himself, but I couldn't make out what he was saying. 
Then one day I went in and he was lying on the bed, in the fetal 
position, whimpering piteously. I couldn't rouse him, so I packed him up 
in the car as best I could and took him to the doctor."

Silence followed, while Mrs. Mulder took a sip of her tea, swallowed, 
lifted a trembling hand to her cheek.

"Our pediatrician took one look at him and referred me to a 
psychiatrist. Bill didn't want me to take him, but for once I wasn't in 
any mood to cater to his wishes. The psychiatrist was an older woman, 
very gentle. She won Fox's trust and mine immediately. But after two 
sessions, she asked permission to hypnotize him, said there was 
something he was repressing, something that needed to come out. I didn't 
know what else to do, so I said yes. God help me, I said yes..."

Scully couldn't help but start blinking herself at the sight of fresh 
tears welling in the older woman's eyes. Her heart felt like a hot lance 
had just skewered it. She eyed her watch, hoping fervently that the 
movers wouldn't return within the next few minutes.

"The hypnosis revealed that Bill had abused him...done horrible, 
unspeakable things to him, both physically and mentally. It had probably 
been going on for years...years, and I hadn't a clue, until this trip 
finally brought everything to the surface. I took Fox over to my 
mother's, then I went home to confront Bill. He denied everything, of 
course, but by then I was past the point of reason. I screamed myself 
hoarse, called him every filthy name I could think of, then I marched 
upstairs, packed my things and Fox's and left. Two days later I filed 
for divorce and custody. Bill didn't bother to contest either one. As 
far as I know, he and Fox had no contact whatsoever for well over ten 
years, at least until after Fox returned from Oxford."

Scully sat up straight, the solid feel of the chair beneath and behind 
her the only thing that grounded her in reality. Any minute she expected 
to see pink elephants come dancing out of the woodwork.

Cold fingers wrapped around her windpipe, squeezing tight. And she was 
suddenly very frightened, more frightened than she'd ever been in her 
life. Because everything Mrs. Mulder had just said made sense. Too damn 
much sense.

It certainly explained Mulder's problematic relationship with his 
family, why even visits and phone calls to his mother were such an 
ordeal for him. Why he'd immersed himself in his work, avoiding all 
opportunity to cultivate other relationships.

It also explained Samantha -- the sister he couldn't save, whom he'd 
been forced to watch taken away while he stood by, paralyzed by fear. 
Samantha was Mulder, or at least the part of him that had been helpless 
to stop his father's abuse.

He'd invented her as a way to disassociate himself from the pain he 
couldn't allow himself to feel, events that had wounded him, scarred him 
so deeply and irrevocably he couldn't even face the fact that they had 
happened.

So it hadn't happened -- not to Fox Mulder, but to a sister who had 
never existed. And she hadn't been molested or beaten, just abducted. 
And her abductor wasn't her own father, but a bunch of faceless, 
nameless grey aliens.

Disassociation, substitution, transference. So classic it could have 
come straight off the pages of a psychology textbook.

"I...don't know what to say," she murmured, fingering her mug. "But I 
appreciate your telling me. I know it must have been painful for you to 
relive it all again."

To her surprise, Mrs. Mulder reached across the table, placing her own 
hand over Scully's. "Thank you for listening. By just doing that, you've 
helped me more than you can know."

A knock sounded at the front door, and Mrs. Mulder rose to let the 
movers back in.

"Well, I'd better get back to work," the older woman said, coming back 
over to the table. "I still have the bedroom closet to do."

"I'd be happy to help."

Mrs. Mulder smiled. "I think I'd like that."

It felt so strange, handling the clothes she'd seen him wear at work, 
running her fingers over fabric that had touched his skin. She folded 
each shirt, each pair of pants with care, placing them in the box with a 
final caress, as if bidding farewell to old friends.

She had to chuckle, though, when the next hanger she pulled out held his 
New York Knicks t-shirt. The thing was so ripped and ragged she was 
amazed it could even stay on a hanger. It still smelled like him, musky 
and warm.

She looked up, right into Mrs. Mulder's intent gaze. "Um...would you 
mind if I took this?"

"Not at all. I think Fox would want you to have it."

They finished in another two hours, sighing their exhaustion as the 
movers wheeled out their last loads of boxes. Afternoon sunlight slanted 
through the living room windows, casting amber-gold patches on the wall 
and floor. In all the time she'd spent here, she'd never noticed how 
pleasant it was during the day. Mulder'd always kept the blinds closed.

Funny, but she only realized just now how many times she'd been here 
when he wasn't. In fact, she'd probably spent more time in this 
apartment than he had.

She turned at the feel of a hand touching her arm.

"I suppose it's time to go," Mrs. Mulder said softly. "Again, I can't 
thank you enough for coming, Ms. Scul--"

"Dana, please. After today, I feel I know you as well as my own family."

Mrs. Mulder looked slightly startled for a moment, then pleased. "I'm 
Catherine."

She couldn't help smiling. "That's my middle name. Only I spell it with 
a 'K.'"

"Something else we have in common, it seems."

She gathered up her books and the t-shirt, followed Mrs. Mulder out into 
the hallway, down toward the elevator. Then a question she had been 
meaning to ask all day popped into her head. "A.D. Skinner told me Fox's 
books and papers from the office were going to be sent over to you. 
Would you let me go through them sometime soon?"

"Of course, as soon as I receive them. But do you mind if I ask why?"

The look on her face must have said it all, for Mrs. Mulder went 
suddenly pale.

"I'm not even sure if I'll find anything, Mrs. Mulder. All I do know 
right now is that I can't let the Bureau close the investigation yet. At 
this point, I'm grasping at straws, looking for any possible leads. In 
fact, if you don't mind, I'd like to go through his personal things 
too."

"I'm more than willing to do anything you think will help."

She stood at the curb, watching Mrs. Mulder's car pull away, a strange 
feeling settling over her, half-apprehension, half-dread, all numbing. 
The warm spring sunshine barely had the power to touch her.

She turned, stared back at Mulder's apartment building, committing every 
brick, every crack in the paint to memory. When she walked away from 
here, a chapter in her life would close.

Then she saw it -- a sign in the window of the building's foyer, 
advertising an apartment for rent. Apartment 42.

It was seventy-five dollars a month less than she was paying for her own 
apartment.

She started back up the stairs, into the foyer, heading straight for the 
manager's office.

*    *    *

"Come on, you can do it. Just five more and we're done. Lift."

Gritting his teeth against the burning, tearing pull in his arm and 
shoulder, he lifted the five-pound weight slowly, steadily, each 
millimeter an agony. Once, twice, three times, four--

Five. "Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered, slumping over, dropping the 
weight to the floor, taking perverse pleasure in hearing it hit with a 
hollow thump. "You're killing me."

"That's what you said last week. And two days ago, if I remember right," 
she said, opening her bag, taking out lotion and a towel. "At least this 
time you didn't say it until the end of the session. Guess I should take 
that as a sign of improvement."

A choice reply jumped to his lips, but died as he looked up, his gaze 
sweeping her up and down and back again. Petite, brunette, pretty face, 
nice tits. The old man sure knew how to pick 'em.

Well, at least he hadn't sent a man. He didn't think he could've stood 
another guy touching him the way she had, massaging and manipulating his 
injured muscles, making them move even when he was so sore and stiff, 
the slightest pressure felt like he was being stabbed with hot knives.

"On the couch, please," she said briskly, opening the bottle of lotion, 
pouring some into her hands.

He did as she asked without protest, lying face down, closing his eyes. 
Her hands felt good on him, cool and surprisingly strong for a woman of 
her slight size. She worked slowly and efficiently, kneading the knots 
from his neck and shoulders, moving lower, down to the small of his 
back. He sighed, drowsy, drifting.

She leaned closer, and he could feel her soft warm breath on his skin, 
her breast grazing his arm. He groaned, his sense of relaxation draining 
away, growing painfully, instantly hard.

He dug his fingernails into the couch cushions, waiting for her to 
finish, fighting the urge to pull her down under him, tear off her pants 
and his and thrust deep inside her. God, he'd bet anything she was hot 
as an August day, tighter than a fist--

"Done," she said, straightening, reaching for the towel to wipe her 
hands.

He turned onto his side at the same time, grabbing her wrist, his eyes 
locking on hers. Her gaze dipped lower, widening. She froze.

He stared up at her for a few endless seconds, then let her go.

She backed away, now looking more anxious than fearful, picking up her 
bag, shoving her things inside it, zipping it up. He made no move toward 
her, simply sat up, looking at her. But that only seemed to make her 
more uneasy.

"I...I never get personally involved with my clients," she said finally. 
"Nothing against you, it's just bad business."

He had to bite back a laugh. The poor bitch had no idea. The old man 
would never let her live past her usefulness -- that would be the 
definition of bad business. "Yeah, well...I can see how that would be a 
problem. Especially in your case."

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

"Just that you're attractive woman, and I'm attracted. And I bet I'm not 
the first one of your clients to feel that way."

She looked away, her cheeks bright pink. "I'd be lying if I said I 
wasn't flattered, but it's not going to happen. Sorry."

"Sure. Fine. Whatever," he snorted, flopping back on the couch. He 
wasn't in the mood to expend any more energy on her if it wasn't going 
to get him anywhere. He grabbed the remote, flicked on the TV, barely 
registering the sound of the door shutting behind her.

He stared at the screen, flipping channels, not finding anything that 
held his attention for more than five or ten seconds. His eyelids 
drooped, and he let himself drift, floating in the dreamy feel of it, 
surrounded by a soft white light that grew gradually brighter, 
enveloping him...

//and he felt so light weightless hovering on the ceiling in an 
unfamiliar room all chrome and cold steel with these bright lights so 
bright it almost blinded and he looked down and saw himself lying on a 
table blood all over his chest--

//but he didn't hurt couldn't feel anything at all just cold so cold 
cold as death--

//and they were working on him opening up his chest but he still 
couldn't feel anything massaging his heart that's what it looked like 
anyway but it didn't hurt looked like it should hurt like hell so why 
didn't it--

//and the monitor beeped and beeped droning on and on flatline--//

And he came awake with a sharp, sudden intake of breath, thrashing at 
the hand shaking his shoulder.

"Hey, take it easy. It's me," Krycek said, backing away a step, both 
hands upraised. "You okay?"

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, waiting for his pulse to stop roaring in 
his head. "Yeah...give me a minute."

"Jesus, that must've been some nightmare. You just about took my fucking 
head off."

His only response was to haul himself off the couch and into the kitchen 
for some water.

Krycek followed, standing in the doorway. "Guess I missed Cathy, huh?"

"Who?"

"Your little therapist. Shit, Mulder, she's been coming here two weeks 
and you don't even know her name?"

He pulled out a chair, sat down at the table, chugging back half his 
glass of water. Jesus, he felt like he hadn't had anything liquid in 
days. "Didn't seem important at the time."

"I'll bet," Krycek laughed. "So how was she?"

He shot Krycek a look.

"You mean you haven't fucked her yet?"

"Anybody ever tell you you're a pig, Alex?"

"Yeah, but I'm a charming pig," he said, sitting down on the opposite 
side of the table. "What's the matter, Mulder -- she a dyke or are you 
just losing your touch?"

He remembered the look he'd seen in her pretty blue eyes -- apprehension 
tempered with barely-concealed hunger. For that brief second or two 
she'd wanted exactly the same thing he had. If he'd tried, he could've 
overpowered her easily, even with his bad arm.

Maybe next time he wouldn't back off without a fight. "She's not a 
dyke," he said.

Krycek let out a long whistle. "Just biding your time, huh?"

"Something like that."

"Yeah, well, remember to save a piece for me."

"You couldn't get that lucky," he retorted, getting up, setting his 
glass in the sink, heading down the hallway to the shower.

He was feeling a lot better the last few days, he realized as he toweled 
off and padded naked into his room, closing the door behind him. The 
low-grade fever he'd been running since the shooting had finally abated, 
and along with it the persistent hot, itchy sensation just under his 
skin. And despite all his bitching and moaning, he had to admit the 
therapy was doing its work; his arm felt much stronger now than it had 
two weeks ago. Yeah, everything was returning to normal...

Except for the dreams. They came every night now, every fucking time he 
dozed off, so vivid they didn't even seem like dreams at all, more like 
scenes from life, but Jesus, one strange life...

//she was floating out a window this little girl and he was screaming 
her name and reaching out for her but he couldn't move or do anything 
and when he heard the high terrified sound of his own voice he realized 
he was a kid too--//

And he'd dreamed of getting shot over and over, almost dying and waking 
up in a hospital bed -- several different hospital beds -- and every 
time he'd opened his eyes, she was there...

The redhead who'd been pointing a gun at him in one of his other dreams. 
The one who'd told him that she had no choice, that he had to 
understand--

//Mulder you may not be who you are.//

Just what the hell did that mean? That he wasn't himself? What a fucking 
revelation. He hadn't felt like himself for over a month.

He yanked back the covers, rolled into bed, letting out a slow, grateful 
sigh as his skin touched the cool sheets, his muscles settling into the 
mattress. His right eye twitched, the persistent throb above it 
beginning to subside.

The redhead...he kept coming back to her. He couldn't shake the feeling 
that he knew her from somewhere. The little girl too--

Christ, he had to stop this, and stop it now, or he'd drive himself out 
of his fucking mind. Sometimes a dream was just a dream. Nothing deep 
and dark and mysterious. Just a dream.

He tried to drift, tried to make his mind a blank, but it wasn't 
happening. Jesus, were a few hours of peace too much to ask?

All he wanted was sleep, without dreams. Just tonight. Just this once...

His eyes fluttered open and he saw her, standing at the foot of the bed. 
The redhead. Wearing a slim black skirt and cream-colored blouse. Her 
hair fell forward, brushing her cheeks like a curtain of silky flame. 
The tip of her tongue darted out, moistening pouty, coral-colored lips.

Jesus, he was getting hard again, hard enough to cut glass. His hand 
drifted downward, grasping his cock, stroking...

She was unbuttoning her blouse slowly, teasing him, pulling the filmy 
material from the waistband of her skirt, letting it swing open, 
revealing delicate, flawless ivory skin. With her next breath it was 
falling from her shoulders, her hands sliding down to the front closure 
of her bra, lingering there as she lifted her head, looking him straight 
in the eye.

His pulse jackhammered, his breath coming in rapid, labored gusts. He 
wanted to climax, and at the same time he didn't. This was too damn good 
to end...

Her nipples were the exact same color as her lips, stiffening at her 
fingertips' touch. She moaned, lifting, kneading her tits, full and 
round, two perfect handfuls. Then her hands moved down, around to the 
back of her waist, undoing her skirt, letting it slide from her hips to 
the floor. She was bare underneath. No slip, no panties, just naked skin 
and a thick cluster of dark auburn curls...

Her fingers slid between her thighs, opening herself, searching, 
finding, her head thrown back, soft cries escaping her parted lips...

And he came with her, a scream torn raw from his throat, spurting hot 
and sticky all over his hands and belly.

He couldn't even move for what seemed like half an hour. Then he sat up, 
reached for the bath towel he'd dropped on the floor, somehow managing 
to clean himself up.

A heavy numbness settled over him as he lay back, weighing down his 
limbs, clouding his brain. It felt good. He didn't want to start 
thinking again. He didn't want anything except...

His eyes drifted slowly closed, and he slept. Without dreams.

*   *   *

"Dana, we have to talk."

She heard her mother's voice but didn't turn away from her task, pulling 
open another drawer, scooping out its contents, dropping the wrinkled 
clothing into a suitcase on the floor. "C'mon, Mom, you know I can't do 
this now. I have to finish packing."

"Right this second?"

"As close to it as possible. I could only get today off to get this 
done."

Fingers closed firmly over her wrist, tugging her down to sit on the 
edge of the bed.

"Mom, I told you I don't have time for this!"

"Be quiet," her mother said, sitting down beside her. "Just this once, 
you're going to listen to me. This is a bad idea, Dana. A terrible idea. 
I think you should reconsider this move."

"I can't. I've already given up my apartment, put money down on this new 
one--"

"On Fox's apartment, you mean. Why don't you say it, get it out in the 
open?"

She hadn't wanted to start a fight, but the steely challenge in her 
mother's tone raised her hackles. "All right, on Mulder's apartment. 
There, I've said it. Are you happy now?"

"No, I am not happy, Dana," her mother said softly. "Not seeing you like 
this. It's been long enough that I thought you'd at least be starting to 
get over your grief, but all I can see are its claws digging their way 
deeper into you. You work yourself to exhaustion every day, then you 
stay up half the night reading and pacing. You're making yourself sick."

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror right across from the bed, 
and quickly averted her gaze. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not. Have you taken a good look at yourself lately? Your 
clothes hang on you, your skin has no color. You're acting like 
a...a..."

"Like what?" she cut in acidly. "A grieving widow?"

Hollow silence.

"Dana, this can't go on," her mother said finally. "Do you honestly 
think Fox would want you to mourn him until you're in your own grave?"

"I'm not mourning him. He's alive. He has to be..."

"Honey, it's been two months. If that were the case, don't you think he 
would've turned up somewhere, even if he couldn't remember who he was?" 
She felt something warm covering her hand, dimly realized it was her 
mother's fingers. "I know it hurts, but you have to let him go."

A cold, gnawing sensation pulsed slowly in the pit of her belly, 
radiating outward, every fiber of her suddenly heavy, useless. A tiny 
voice at the back of her brain whispered its name to her.

Despair. Hopelessness.

//No...//

She wouldn't let herself give in to it. If she did, she might as well 
put her gun in her mouth and pull the trigger.

"If you hadn't been there when Dad had his heart attack...if you hadn't 
been at his side when he died, would you believe he was gone? Would you 
just take someone else's word for it, with no further proof demanded?" 
She swiped angrily at a strand of hair that had fallen in her eyes. 
"Maybe that's good enough for you, Mom, but not me. Show me his body, 
let me cut him open and pull his heart out and see with my own eyes that 
it's not beating and never will again, then I'll believe he's dead. Not 
before that. Never before that."

"Honey, I know this is hard...probably more so for you, because what you 
and Fox felt for each other was left unresolved. But this has gone way 
beyond love, Dana. You took the job with Violent Crimes because Fox once 
worked with them -- oh, don't bother denying it, we both know it's the 
truth -- and now you're moving into his apartment. I've never seen you 
so obsessed. I'm frightened for you." She dipped into the pocket of her 
sweater and tugged out a white card, pressing it into her daughter's 
palm.

She looked at it, blinking away the blurriness that had somehow crept 
into her vision. Anger flashed through her veins when she saw what was 
written there, its elegant black lettering taunting her. "I don't need a 
damn psychiatrist," she snapped, crushing the card and tossing it to the 
floor, jumping up, opening another drawer, yanking out more clothes.

"Well, you need help from somebody, and you don't seem to want it from 
me."

There it was -- that tone again, the same one her mother'd used when she 
was a teenager, the 'I know what's best for you' tone. It rubbed her 
nerves raw. "Maybe I just want to be left alone to make my own decisions 
about my own life without having to listen to all your sanctimonious 
bullshit." A bitter laugh suddenly spurted from her lips. "God, how did 
Mulder put up with me for so long? I used to sound just like you."

Pain flashed in her mother's eyes, flickered across her face for several 
moments, then she rose slowly, moved toward the door, silent, her back 
ramrod straight.

"Mom, I'm sorry," she said, regret instantly sweeping her, lodging in 
her throat. "I...I don't know what made me say that. I didn't mean to 
hurt you. But I need to make this move. And if you can't support my 
decision, at least respect it enough not to stand in my way."

"All right," her mother murmured. "But only if you do something for me. 
Go see Dr. Harmon. Two sessions, that's all I ask. She saved my sanity 
the year after your father died."

"I...I'll think about it. That's all I can promise right now."

"Fair enough, I suppose." She hesitated, then came forward, enfolding 
her daughter in her arms. "You'll get through this, honey. I know it 
doesn't seem possible now, but it is." Her voice caught, and she reached 
over, smoothing a lock of auburn hair back. "Your father and I had 
thirty years together, and it wasn't enough. No matter how long you 
have, it's never enough."

Her eyes, her soul burned, but the release of tears felt far out of 
reach. She couldn't allow it, not here, not now. Maybe not ever.

She had to remain in control. Cool, calm, focused. It was the only 
comfort left to her.

*   *   *

He couldn't get her out of his mind. She was driving him fucking crazy.

Literally. He'd rubbed fresh callouses on his hands from jacking off to 
visions of her every night. Last night he'd even imagined that she'd 
climbed on top of him, that red hair of hers spilling over his chest 
like a goddamned fire shower, and rode him until they both--

He pulled a t-shirt out of the drawer, yanking it over his head so 
viciously it almost ripped, tucking it inside his jeans--

Christ, he was turning into a walking hard-on.

He trudged back into the bathroom, stripped, turned on the cold water in 
the shower and got in, teeth rattling as the icy spray splashed his 
skin.

For the third time that day. And it wasn't even noon yet.

He dried off, feeling frozen but finally clear-headed. Now if he could 
stay that way for more than five minutes.

He heard a noise down the hall, and realized it was someone knocking on 
the door. Scooping up his wristwatch, he saw that it was eleven-thirty.

Time for his therapy session. And Cathy.

Just what he needed -- a living, breathing woman parading her body 
around in front of him.

It wasn't as torturous as he'd thought it would be, though -- as long as 
he kept his mind on the exercises and resisted the temptation to admire 
the way her tits looked encased in that grey leotard.

But there really wasn't that much for him to keep his mind on -- he 
could do the weights in his sleep now, with only a slight pulling in his 
shoulder, but no real pain to speak of. And with her stooping down to 
inspect his every movement, wispy locks of dark hair escaping her 
ponytail, her presence was becoming a little hard to ignore.

"That's enough," she said, reaching to take the weight still in his 
hand. But when their fingers collided, she jerked her hand back.

"Take it easy," he said. "I haven't bitten anybody in years. Not on 
purpose, anyway."

She snatched the weight out of his hand, then turned to pack it away in 
her bag. "There's really no reason for me to come back. I've done as 
much as I can. There'll still be some stiffness, but that'll work itself 
out with regular exercise."

Her choice of words conjured up a very hot, very sweaty image in his 
mind. All of a sudden his shoulder wasn't the only thing that was 
feeling stiff. "No kidding?" he laughed.

She obviously got his meaning, for she hesitated in what she was doing, 
but didn't turn around, didn't rise to the bait.

He rose, coming up behind her, putting both hands on her shoulders, 
stroking, caressing. He heard her soft, sharp intake of breath at the 
first contact of his skin on hers, felt her tremble under his touch.

"I already told you, I don't do this," she whispered. "Not with 
clients."

He leaned down, his lips close to her ear. "Didn't you just tell me I'm 
not your client anymore?"

"Yes, but..."

His hands slid upward, loosely encircling her throat, his thumbs rubbing 
the sides of her neck. "Give in. You'll like it."

"I'd like it a lot better if I didn't feel like you're trying to choke 
me."

He gritted his teeth, fighting the impulse to throw her down on the 
couch and shove himself into her. It didn't matter much even if he did; 
sometime tonight or tomorrow somebody'd find her in an alley somewhere 
with her neck broken or the back of her head blown off.

He didn't know why it mattered that this be consensual, but it did.

Dropping his hands, he stepped back, moving silently away from her, down 
the hallway to his room. He'd just stripped off his shirt when he heard 
a sound from the doorway, and turned around.

She was standing there, looking at him, the silence between them 
thickening. Then her hands went to the straps of her leotard, peeling it 
down, baring her breasts to him.

They were small and creamy-white and his mouth went dry as he imagined 
how they'd feel with his hands on them, rolling the nipples between his 
fingertips, turning them into hard little pebbles. Too bad she didn't 
have red hair to go with those blue eyes--

Christ, the fantasy wouldn't leave him alone, even when he had a 
flesh-and-blood woman right here in front of him. Okay, so she wasn't 
who he really wanted, but she'd do.

He came close to her, tipping her chin upward so that she had no choice 
but to meet his gaze, leaning down to touch his lips to hers--

"No," she said, pulling back, looking away. "You can do anything else 
you want, but not that."

He stared at her, mingled anger and disbelief finally forcing a dry 
chuckle from him. "Go on, get the hell out of here," he said. "I don't 
need a pity fuck."

"Does it look like I'm taking pity on you?"

No, it didn't, he realized, looking at her, at the wary expression in 
her eyes, the white lines of tightness around her mouth.

She looked anxious...anxious and scared. Scared to death.

Jesus, she knew. She knew what was going to happen to her.

And she wanted him to help her. So badly she was willing to open her 
legs for him to make sure of it. Well, he wasn't about to put his ass on 
the line for a piece of hers. Never had, never would.

But there was no reason she had to know that.

He pushed her onto the bed, and followed her down.

*   *   *
                
He rolled off her as soon as he was done, lay there on his back for a 
few seconds, then got up, pulled his jeans on and went into the kitchen 
for a glass of water. He didn't want to talk to her, or even look at 
her.

She probably didn't want to talk to him either. He'd been rough and 
quick. No consideration, no finesse at all. From the blank, stony look 
on her face when he'd been on top of her, he doubted she'd felt much of 
anything.

Well, what the hell had she expected? She knew what he was, who he was. 
Hearts and flowers weren't exactly his style.

The water flooded his mouth and throat, seeming to burn all the way down 
to his stomach, pooling its hollow ache there. He needed to eat 
something.

He heard a noise out in the living room and moved to the kitchen 
doorway, leaned against it. She was already dressed and fumbling with 
her bag, and she jumped when she saw him, her expression like a fawn 
caught in a speeding semi's headlights.

"Guess this means I shouldn't bother asking for a second date?"

For a moment she looked like she was going to say something, but 
obviously she'd figured out there was no point.

"Get out. Now," he said flatly, coming toward her. "Get on the first 
plane to anywhere and disappear. If you're lucky, the old man might not 
find you. In a few months, he might even stop looking for you."

"But...can't you--"

"No, I can't, and I won't. And I never said I would."

She didn't even try arguing with that.

Then there was the crunch and twist of a key in the front door lock, and 
Krycek sauntered in. He had the loose, bleary-eyed look that told Mulder 
he'd been out cruising bars again. His glance darted from Cathy to 
Mulder and back again.

"Hi, kids. Sorry if I'm interrupting," he smirked, tossing his jacket 
over the back of a chair. "Leaving so soon, Cath? Guess Mulder's lost 
that lovin' feeling, huh?"

She was trembling now, so much she almost stumbled trying to get to the 
door.

But Krycek beat her to it, pushing the door closed, blocking the way 
with his body. "Why doncha stay awhile? I could show you a better time 
than Mulder any day of the week."

"I...I can't--"

"Oh, I think you can," he said, stroking her cheek with one finger. 
"Just for me this time...how 'bout it, baby?"

"Let me pass. Please."

Krycek stared at her, smile fading, eyes going cold and hard. "You 
little cunt," he ground out finally. "You can't wait to spread 'em for 
him, but *I'm* not good enough?" Grabbing her arm, he dragged her to the 
couch, pushed her down.

An electric jolt skidded up Mulder's spine at the sight of what Krycek 
was doing to her, but he shook it off, its wake leaving him dizzy, 
nauseous. "Let her go," he said, reaching for the other man's arm. "I 
mean it, Alex."

"No way. She's mine."

"For Christ's sake, you've got women falling all over you every time you 
go out. You don't need her."

"Yeah, but I *want* her. Right here and right now," he said savagely, 
shaking off Mulder's grasp. "What's the matter, partner -- you jealous?" 
He spat out a caustic chortle. "Maybe the real question's who're you 
jealous of -- me or her?"

Sudden rage turned his blood to acid, and he seized the neck of Krycek's 
t-shirt, dragging him off her, pulling back to smash him in the jaw. 
"You sick son-of-a-bitch--"

"Go on, do it. Hit me," he goaded. "Bet you get off on that more than 
you did on her."

Black spots danced in front of his eyes, making him blink. God, he 
wanted to do it so bad...wanted to feel the old familiar crunch of 
flesh and bone, the surge of power right there in his hands, the way it 
used to feel when he held a gun, fired a gun--

"What's the matter, Mulder?" Krycek jeered. "Lost your nerve? Or maybe 
you're afraid I'll hit you back, mess up your pretty face?"

//Christ, he's grinning like some smug...almost like he--

//Like he wants me to hit him. Like it'd prove he's stronger.//

He let go of Krycek's shirt, fell back, his arm dropping to his side, 
dragging in deep, cleansing breaths.

He'd almost done it. If anybody knew where his hot buttons were and how 
to push them, it was Krycek. Well, Alex'd be sucking flames in hell 
before he'd let him have the satisfaction of seeing him lose it. He 
wasn't worth the trouble.

His gaze traveled to the couch, to the woman lying there, meeting his 
glance straight on, begging him with her silence.

She wasn't worth it either. She was dead already anyway.

Krycek pulled his knife from its sheath on his belt, grabbing a handful 
of her leotard, slicing through it, peeling it away from her body, 
baring her from tit to crotch. He yanked the last shreds of it from her 
thighs, opened his pants, and climbed on top of her.

Mulder watched, not moving, not wanting to, the terror written on her 
face sending exhilaration pounding its hot pulse in his head, spurting 
through his veins. This was what he'd wanted earlier -- to ram himself 
so far inside her he could forget everything else, lose himself in 
oblivion's mindless rhythm...

She started screaming when Krycek entered her, beating her fists against 
his chest. He tried to grab hold of her wrists, but she twisted one hand 
free, raking her nails across his cheek.

"Fucking bitch!" he yelped, backhanding her so hard blood spurted from 
her lip. He held onto her wrist with one hand, wiped at his face with 
the other, hissing out a breath as it came away coated with his own 
blood. "C'mon, Mulder, get over here and hold her for me."

He still didn't move.

She kept flailing at Krycek with her one free hand, wailing and 
whimpering, her voice thin and raw.

Krycek stared at him. "You want the whole building to hear her? Get your 
ass over here!"

He felt like he was walking through water but somehow he made it to the 
couch, one hand getting ahold of her wrists, pinning them up over her 
head, the other clamping down hard on her mouth. Her teeth scraped his 
palm, caught a tender piece of flesh, but he squeezed her jaw until he 
could feel the bones grind, then pop, and she let go.

She stared up at him, blue eyes huge with fear and agony.

Krycek moved on top of her, pumping and grinding in rapid momentum, 
finally thrusting hard one last time. After a minute or so he pulled out 
of her, stood up, rezipped his jeans. "Your turn."

Christ, there was a bonfire in his spine, searing every fiber of him, 
inside and out. His dick had been hard as a rock from the second he'd 
taken hold of her wrists and jaw. He could've snapped her pretty neck so 
easily, anytime he wanted. He still could.

He moved to the opposite end of the couch, settling between her splayed 
thighs. The soft, clammy feel of her skin made him shiver.

But she wasn't moving, or making a sound. Her head lolled to one side, 
jaw slack, her eyes open but glassy, unfocused. The rapid flutter of the 
pulse in her throat was the only thing that told him she was still 
alive. Blood oozed from her split lip, a viscous line smeared all the 
way down to her chin.

It was all over the palm of his hand too. He stared at it, sniffed at it 
like a dog, its tangy smell thick in his nostrils...

And he licked it from his skin, tasting salt and coppery-warmth, letting 
it wash over his tongue, down his throat...

He felt like a god, taking life itself into his mouth, his body. He 
wanted more. And it didn't matter what he had to do to get it. Nothing 
mattered anymore. Nothing but this...

He pushed into her, gasping as she enveloped him, hot and tight and 
slick with Krycek's semen and his own. But she still wasn't moving, 
wasn't even acting like she knew he was there...

He closed his eyes and saw a veil of red...red like the redhead's 
hair... red like blood, like a nuclear explosion going off in his head, 
burning up his brain...

And he thrust and thrust and thrust harder and deeper and faster until 
the red behind his eyes cracked, shattered into black--

And he saw and heard and felt and knew no more.