* * * He woke to a strange smell. Bitter, acrid, like something was on fire. Cigarette smoke. "Congratulations," the old man said. "You passed." His eyes came open slowly, stinging from the smoky haze, trying to blink it away. He was in his own bed, he realized, feeling the solidity of the mattress under him. But he couldn't remember if he'd been brought here or had somehow made it back under his own steam. The old man was standing across the room, near the window. "What the fuck does that mean?" "Exactly what it sounds like," he said, taking another puff. "A test. I had to make certain you were your old self again. Surely you can understand why." "If you hadn't made Krycek shoot me, none of this would've been necessary at all." "Sometimes we all have to do things which are distasteful. And sometimes the distasteful actually becomes quite desirable, under the right circumstances." He smiled, dropping his cigarette to the floor, grinding it out with his toe. "But then, I don't think I need to tell you that, do I?" He didn't bother answering, just sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His brain felt like somebody'd run it through a blender. The light and the smoke made his eyes burn and water. Then he heard a familiar click and looked up to see the old man standing next to him, holding a gun out to him. His gun. "Take it," the old man said. "You've earned it." It felt good having it back, holding it in his hand, his fingers tracing every seam, trying to convince himself it was real. He felt like an amputee who'd just woken up to find that his missing limb had grown back overnight. "What do you want me to do?" The old man gave him a look, but said nothing. "You didn't give this back just because you like me. What's the deal?" "I have a job for you. Tonight." "The English guy? You want me to do him?" "You and Alex. Think you're up for it?" "Yeah. I'm up for it." God, he was getting that itchy feeling of anticipation already, just thinking about it. "Where is Alex anyway?" "Disposing of a problem. He'll be back shortly." He moved toward the door, paused there a moment. "You've done well, Fox. Your recovery's even amazed the doctor. But I've invested a good deal of time and money in that recovery, and I wouldn't want it to be wasted. Understood?" He nodded. "Good. Be ready by midnight." * * * It took her the better part of a Sunday afternoon to go through the ten boxes of books and papers from Mulder's side of their office. She sat back on her heels, blowing out a sigh that made the hair that had fallen into her eyes go flying up. God, she'd known he was a packrat, but this was ridiculous. And she hadn't even started on the stuff from his apartment yet. "How's it coming?" Mrs. Mulder asked from the doorway. "I'm not sure yet," she answered, laughing ruefully. "I may have to enlist the Library of Congress's help to get through all this." "Fox always did love his books." "Yeah, well...I don't." She picked up a magazine, glanced at it -- and blushed when she saw the cover photo. Definitely something from his leisure time reading list. She shoved it under a pile of news clippings, hoping fervently that Mrs. Mulder hadn't seen it. "I...um, should be done here in a few minutes. For today, anyway." "Take your time, please. I'm enjoying your company," Mrs. Mulder replied, then disappeared down the hallway. She stared at the piles of stuff encircling her, her eyes glazing over. Even if she took two weeks off there was no way she'd ever be able to read all this, much less read it and take notes. Well, she had to at least take a good stab at it. Reaching for the nearest stack, she threw it in an empty box and lugged it downstairs. "My goodness," Mrs. Mulder said, eyes widening when she saw it. "Would you mind if I took this home to look over?" she asked a bit sheepishly. "I'll bring it back as soon as possible." "Feel free to keep it as long as you need to. It's not like I'd ever make sense out of it anyway." She paused, looking out the living room window for a moment. "I appreciate your doing this. I think I'd rest a lot easier if I had a reason why. The Bureau certainly doesn't seem interested in pursuing the matter any further." She bit her lip, a pang of mingled anger and frustration sailing through her. Skinner had officially closed the investigation earlier that week; she'd hoped that Mrs. Mulder hadn't been told yet. "I did what I could to convince them, but the Bureau simply doesn't have the manpower to keep cases like these open indefinitely." "Oh, of course. It's just that...I suppose I knew in the back of my mind from the time Fox joined the Bureau that there was always the chance he'd be killed in the line of duty. But at least that way, his death would have some kind of meaning. The way it happened...it seems so damned pointless, wasteful, like his life was something to be thrown out with the trash. I wanted better than that for him." "So did I." God, she wanted to reach out, embrace the older woman, but she found that she couldn't. She felt powerless, impotent, enraged with herself for having nothing left to offer but empty empathy and the company line. Mulder did deserve better. There was no excuse good enough to refute that. She loaded the boxes -- she kicked herself into going upstairs and getting another one, telling Mrs. Mulder she'd be back in a week or so -- into her car and started the long drive from Greenwich back to D.C. Luckily, it was foggy and rainy enough that she had to spend all her time concentrating on the road instead of the jumbled thoughts whirling around in her mind. It was still light and relatively dry when she got home, so she went running, showered, and fixed herself a light supper before diving into the first box. The only thing she was sure of two hours later was that psychologists -- even Oxford-trained psychologists -- had even worse handwriting than medical doctors. She'd been through three of his notebooks and the words were starting to run together. Her eyes and brain ached. She stole a glance at her watch and sighed. Almost ten. Okay, so she'd get through this one and call it a night. She supposed she owed it to herself to get a decent night's sleep every once in a while. Her gaze drifted over the next few pages, halfway zoned-out. She wished there was something here that would stand out, grab her attention, tell her she was on the right track. Her finger skimmed, keeping her place, finally halting on what looked like a list of serial numbers at the bottom of the last page of the notebook. 040159GEM. 101361GEM. 012964GEM... And on it went, three relatively neat rows of numbers, all followed by the suffix "GEM." No other indication as to their origin or meaning. God, count on Mulder to make everything a puzzle. They could be vehicle identification numbers, winning lottery tickets, anything. Or nothing. Her gaze dipped down, to the very last line of the page. Scrawled there were three cramped words: get Gemini report. "Gemini." She rolled the word around on her tongue. The astrological sign? No, that was a little too obvious, even for Mulder. If it carried some other significance, she had no idea what it could be. It was probably another dead end he'd come across, some lead that hadn't panned out. She wasn't really surprised. He had no reason to tell her everything he researched in his spare time. God knew, he'd kept her in the dark plenty of times, even with cases they'd worked on together. She frowned, tapping her pen against the page. There was something about those numbers that bothered her, something she couldn't quite zero in on. She grabbed a blank notebook of her own, copied the numbers into it. 101361GEM. Her pen halted, traced over the number again and again, doodling as her mind mulled the possibilities. For some reason, she thought it might be a date. 10/13/61, she wrote directly beneath it. "Oh, my God," she breathed. "October 13th, 1961." Mulder's birthday. She slid to her knees on the floor, dumping out what was left in both boxes, going through it all painstakingly, page by page. Her watch was beeping midnight by the time she finally made herself stop. Nothing. No mention of this Gemini report or any other strange lists of numbers. If he'd even had the report, it must still be at his mother's house. She swore softly, climbing to her feet, kicking the nearest empty box. She'd have it if she'd only known what to look for today. Now she'd have to wait until next weekend to drive back up to Connecticut to look for it. Unless... The thought streaking through her mind shocked her. She'd never called in sick to work before, not when she really wasn't. She collapsed on the couch, picking up her notebook, glancing at the numbers she'd written there. Why was Mulder's birthdate incorporated into one of them? Was it some kind of code? If so, what the hell did it mean? Did it have something to do with all those files she and Mulder had discovered in that abandoned mine in West Virginia? She eyed the doorway to her bedroom with an impending sense of doom. No way would she be getting any sleep tonight. She might as well take an unscheduled day off and try to silence the tiny voices whispering in the back of her brain. The V.C.S. could survive one Monday without her. * * * Even standing out on the sidewalk, he could hear the music blaring so loud it made his ears ring. Krycek gestured for him to follow, led him into the alley around back. "I saw him go in about half an hour ago." "You sure he hasn't come out already?" "Yeah. He comes here two, three times a week, has a drink, goes into one of the back rooms for about an hour, then leaves. Same routine every time." "So what's my job? Find him, shadow him?" Krycek nodded. "There's a long hallway running down the row of rooms with a door at the end leading this way. Get him out here and I'll help take care of the rest." He grunted, one hand moving under his jacket, checking his gun, tucked under his belt at the small of his back. He would've liked it better if he'd been the one stationed in the alley, but that wasn't possible this time -- the element of surprise was crucial, or so the old man had said. The Englishman wasn't expecting to see him alive, would probably look right past him even if he did see him. Alex he'd spot in a hot minute. Krycek snapped a fresh clip into his own gun, cocking his head toward the street. "Showtime." He turned, heading for the end of the alley, pulling the collar of his jacket up to his ears. It was still damn cold for April. But the old fire was starting its familiar song in his blood, making his nerve endings tingle and vibrate. He felt raw, on edge. Strong and alive and powerful. Like nothing in this world could touch him. The door swung shut behind him, music wrapping around him like a thick, wet blanket. But after a few seconds his hearing adjusted and he grinned, recognizing the plaintive moan and wail of Hendrix's guitar. This stuff was made to be played loud. Well I stand up next to a mountain I chop it down with the edge of my hand... Well I pick up all the pieces and make an island Might even raise a little sand 'Cause I'm a voodoo child... The place was packed, a wall to wall meat market. He hadn't been in a joint like this since he'd been shot. He'd forgotten how much he used to like it -- zeroing in on his choice for the night, buying her a drink or two, maybe dancing a little, taking her home, screwing her to the mattress. He and Krycek would go out four, five nights a week, different women every night. AIDS didn't scare him. He knew he wasn't going to die of any damn disease. It didn't take him long to find his target -- there he was, the Englishman, down at the far end of the bar, talking to a tall, leggy blonde. He elbowed through the crowd, grabbed a vacant stool, ordered a beer, keeping his eyes trained on the mirror hanging behind the bar, giving him a perfect view of the whole area. Funny, but he wouldn't have thought this kind of place was the Englishman's style. A leather bar maybe, someplace as cold and perverted as he was, not a relatively normal pickup joint like this. The beer tasted good -- biting, ice cold. He needed it, he realized; his hands were starting to shake, and there was cold sweat slowly trickling down the back of his neck. All this waiting was making him anxious. He wanted it over with, and over with soon. A brunette in a spray-paint black minidress slid onto the stool beside him and opened her purse, pulling out a cigarette. She didn't light it, just shot him a glance, like she expected him to do it. He looked the other way, pointedly ignoring her. He was working. He didn't have time for this, not tonight. Besides, she looked a little too much like-- "Guess you're not in the mood for a date, huh?" she said. "Not really," he replied, hoping his curt tone would tell her to take a hike. No such luck. All she did was smile. "Then why'd you come here?" "Maybe I just wanted a drink." "Yeah? Then why didn't you go to that place down the street? You know, the one without any rooms in the back?" He looked at her, his gaze raking her up and down. "You a pro?" "Why?" she retorted. "You a cop?" He couldn't help smiling at that. "Do I look like a cop?" "No," she said, looking him straight in the eye. "You look like a really great fuck." That made him laugh, but he didn't have time to answer her. His prey was moving -- moving toward the hallway in back, along with the blonde. He followed. The hallway was dimly lit, all smoky-blue. He slipped in behind the Englishman with ease, pulling his gun, reaching for the Englishman's arm, grabbing it, slamming him up against the wall. The blonde teetered, fell, landing flat on her ass, shrieking her head off. But there was something strange about the sound of her voice. He looked down, saw that her wig had fallen off. Her real hair was brown and very short. As short as a man's. "Jesus," he muttered, aiming the gun, firing. The shrieking stopped. The Englishman jerked, tried to twist away, but Mulder ground the gun right into his kidneys. "You want to see your guts decorating this wall, keep it up." "Whatever he's paying you, I'll double it." "Nice try," he laughed, pulling him off the wall, shoving him down the hall. The gun's silencer had muffled the sound of the shot, but somebody was sure to come out of one of those rooms any minute. "Get going." The night air felt icy on his skin, banishing the last of his anxiety. Krycek was there, waiting, gun drawn, waving the Englishman out into the alley. The Englishman stopped, breath steaming from his mouth and nose, taking in his assailants, his gaze finally settling on Mulder. "So my esteemed colleague's got the FBI doing his dirty work for him now? Why am I not terribly surprised?" Mulder glanced at Krycek, then back at the Englishman. "FBI?" he echoed. "What the hell're you talking about?" "Oh, don't play coy here. We both know--" "This is bullshit," Krycek spat. "You gonna do him, Mulder, or am I?" He didn't move, just stared at the Englishman, at his cold, dead eyes. "Looks like it's up to me," Krycek said, coming forward, shoving the Englishman to his knees-- But he ducked at the last moment, twisting away, taking off for the end of the alley-- And Mulder took off after him, catching him easily, but not before the older man flailed out with one hand, raking his nails down the side of Mulder's neck, hard enough to take off skin, draw blood-- He heard the rage pouring hot and raw from his throat as he seized the Englishman, flung him to the ground, planting his foot square in the middle of his back, pinning him down. His gun felt like a living thing, pulsing in his hand, begging for release-- And he fired, seeing the bullet fly in eerie slow-motion, slamming into the base of the Englishman's skull-- And suddenly the smell hit him, the warm, thick gush of blood, red and metallic, reeking of life-- He looked down, saw it spattered on his hands, spreading slowly across the pavement, creeping toward his shoes... "C'mon, Mulder." It was Krycek, but he sounded funny -- muffled, distant. "We're done." But he didn't move. He couldn't. It was too beautiful. He didn't want to stop looking at it. "What's the hell's wrong with you? We gotta get out of here!" Krycek's hand on his shoulder jolted him abruptly from his trance. With a shaky nod, he followed Krycek out onto the street, back to the car parked three blocks down, back to the apartment. Krycek headed straight for the phone as soon as they got there, punching a number. Mulder went to the kitchen, got himself some water. From the few brief snippets of the conversation that he could hear, Mulder knew he had to be talking to the old man. "What'd you tell him?" Mulder asked when Krycek finally appeared in the kitchen doorway. "That everything went off fine." He laughed. "We got him, didn't we?" "Yeah. Yeah, we got him." He waited until Krycek sat down before he said anything else. "So when were you planning to tell me?" "Tell you what?" "That you're FBI." Now it was Krycek's turn to laugh. "Oh, that's good, Mulder. And when did you think I joined up -- when we were both on death row?" "Anything's possible," he said, drawing his gun. "Look, the old bastard was just messing with your head -- he would've said anything to save his miserable skin--" "Yeah, and you clammed him up but fast. I'm wondering why." "For shit's sake, Mulder...if I was FBI, why the hell would I be living in a rathole like this, huh? Why would I have done what we did this afternoon--" "Shut up," he snapped, standing up, leveling the gun in Krycek's face. "You just shut up about that." "Why? Because you got off on it? On the blood, the power?" Krycek shot back. "We're the same, Mulder. We do it because we like it, and because the old man pays us. We're exactly the same. Like brothers." Fifteen years of memories reeled through his mind, fifteen years of knowing there was only one other person he could count on, one man he could trust. It couldn't end, not here, not now. He had to believe Alex. He wanted to believe... He lowered the gun, laid it down on the table, dropped back into his chair, exhaustion finally washing over him. He sipped his water, dragging in deep breaths, trying to clear his brain. He rubbed gingerly at his neck; the scratches there were starting to sting. "Better put something on that," Krycek said, rising, going into the living room. He heard the front door open, then close a few seconds later. He poured out the rest of his water, trudged down the hallway to the bathroom, wetting a washcloth, taking it into the bedroom with him, lying down, laying it on his torn skin. The coolness of it burned and soothed at the same time. Just like when the redhead touched him in his dreams. * * * She found it at the bottom the fifth pile of papers she went through, still sealed in a plain brown manila envelope. "GEM" was written in the top right hand corner in blue pen. She turned it over in her hand, tracing her fingertips along its rough surface. Mulder might very well have been shot for this, and it looked like he hadn't even read it. The irony made her heart ache. Tucking it into her briefcase, she made her way downstairs. Mrs. Mulder smiled at her from the living room couch. "Find your glasses?" "Yes," she replied, forcing a smile, patting her purse. "Right where I thought I'd left them." Her conscience gave her pangs at the lie, but at seven o'clock this morning she'd been a little too woozy to think of a better reason to drive back up on such short notice. "Well, it's too bad you had to miss work, but then you probably couldn't have gotten much done without your eyes." She laughed, made a quick excuse about having to try to make it in to the office for at least a few hours, and got on the interstate. She pulled off about at the first sign of a coffee shop, her stomach finally rumbling a loud, acidic protest at being fed nothing but tea and Ritz crackers sometime around dawn. //Besides, I'll never be able to keep my mind on the road with that damn report sitting here in my case. I might as well skim it a little, ease the curiosity factor.// She went inside, slid into a booth, staring at cholesterol-laden menu. They didn't call these places greasy spoons for nothing. She ordered coffee, two eggs over easy with bacon and whole-wheat toast -- she had to at least give a token nod to healthy eating -- and pulled the envelope from her bag, slitting it open with her thumbnail. A sheaf of paper-clipped papers fell into her lap. "The Gemini Project," she read softly from the top sheet. "A study in the chemistry of memory." So far, so good. Sounded right up Mulder's alley. "Dr. Allan Hargraves, University of California, Los Angeles, 1954." She recognized the name. Allan Hargraves had been one of the most promising voices in neurobiochemical research in the last half-century; his findings had helped in the development of new drugs for the treatment of a wide range of mental illnesses, including schizophrenia and manic depression. But his career had been cut tragically short by a fatal plane crash in 1956. This report she was holding now was probably one of the last pieces he'd ever published. Strange, but she'd never even heard of it before. For the next hour she sat and read, brow knit in concentration, picking at her food. Finally, she set it aside, folding her hands on the table, thinking. Dr. Hargraves certainly lived up to his reputation. This report was a brilliant, if unorthodox, piece of work, presenting the theory that many mental illnesses were due to an imbalance in brain chemistry. That much was accepted now, she conceded; high serotonin levels were often found in the spinal fluid of patients with psychotic disorders and depressive, even suicidal, tendencies. Mental illnesses were like a foreign code written in that neurochemistry, Dr. Hargraves had postulated. But by breaking down that code, altering it -- rewriting it in a new, stronger language -- most known forms of mental illness could eventually be eradicated. Or so Dr. Hargraves thought. But for all its brilliance, there was something about the theory that bothered her. It sounded a little too detached, clinical -- like resurrecting a crashed computer rather than treating a patient. Sometimes it was impossible to effect that resurrection without turning the machine off and rebuilding the contents of its hard disk from scratch. And there lay the problem -- this treatment would not only eradicate the illness, but probably wreak severe damage on the memory centers of the patient's brain, and, by extension, on the patient's existing personality. The technology didn't exist, even today, to alter an individual's brain chemistry so radically without disastrous results. A fascinating idea, she admitted, but totally unworkable-- Her cell phone chirped, and she dug in her jacket pocket for it. "Scully." "Agent Scully, this is Janet. I tried getting in touch with you at home, but there was no answer. I hope you're feeling better?" Oh, God, it was her administrative assistant. "Um...yes, I am," she replied, remembering she was supposed to be sick. "But I'll probably be stuck here at the doctor's for most of the day. Is something wrong?" "Well, we've had a possible break in the Cartagnia case. There's a new body. NYPD's flying it in this evening. And since Agent Stone's out in the field, there's really nobody else in the unit available to do the autopsy. So Agent Colton asked me to call and see if you think you'll be in tomorrow." She sighed, rubbing her forehead with two fingers. This case was Tom Colton's baby; he'd never forgive her if she didn't haul her butt down to the office for this one, even if she was on a respirator. "Tell Agent Colton I'll be there with bells on, okay?" "Okay. See you tomorrow." She hung up, stared at the report spread out on the table for a minute, then picked up the sheaf of papers, shoving them back in the envelope. She got up, paid her check and trudged out to her car, all the while feeling very disgusted with herself. The whole trip had been a complete waste of time. If there were any clues as to the whys and wherefores of Mulder's shooting, they certainly weren't in that damn report. Her mother was right. She had to stop grasping at straws. It was past time she faced facts-- //Face facts? You mean give up, don't you?// It did no good for her to go on obsessing like this. She needed to get on with her life, make new friends, start going out again-- //Mulder didn't give up on you, did he -- and you were missing three months. Your mother gave up, even bought you a fucking headstone...and she's the one you're listening to...// "Stop it!" she half-gasped, half-shrieked, gripping the steering wheel so hard she thought she'd snap her fingers in half. "Stop it...goddamn it, shut up..." She was shaking so bad she had to pull over to the side of the road, wait for her heart to stop racing. She couldn't think about this anymore, not today. She was tired, so damn tired, all the way down to her bones. She'd go home, crawl into bed, turn her electric blanket up to six, and sleep until tomorrow morning. She'd feel better then. More like herself. That is, if she didn't wake up around two or three a.m. and lie there until the sun came up, thinking about him. * * * //she was smiling at him holding her hand out to him saying it's all right don't worry everything will be all right-- //and he went to her wrapped his arms around her God she felt so good so soft and warm her red hair smelled just like summer rain and wildflowers-- //and she was lying under him cradling him in her arms between her thighs and he was in her moving hot and deep and slow and sweet-- //and she was gasping clutching at him arching her back digging her heels into his thighs and he could feel her tightening around him gripping him inside and out like she never wanted to let him go and he never wanted her to-- //and God Jesus God her eyes deepened to the color of midnight in July when she came-- //and he dipped down touching his mouth to hers-- //and the taste spurted onto his tongue all warm and coppery-- //and he looked down and he saw the blood on her face streaming from her cut lip and the look in her eyes the blank dead look in her eyes--// And he woke up screaming, hanging half off the bed, pulse pounding in his ears, stomach churning acid. Scrambling to his feet, lurching into the bathroom, he flung up the toilet seat and puked his guts out. He leaned over the sink when he was done, propped himself up on his elbows while he splashed cool water on his face, rinsed the sour taste from his mouth. But the sight of his face in the mirror sent the vomit rising in the back of his throat again. This time he choked it down. God, what he wouldn't give to spin the clock back a day, to let Cathy walk out of here, alive and untouched. What he wouldn't give to spin it back even further, back to the time he couldn't remember, back to the time he'd met *her*... He went back to his room, plopped down on the edge of the bed, chuckling hollowly. He wasn't even sure she was real. For all he knew, his mind had conjured her up out of nothing while he'd lain here half-delirious, recovering from Krycek's bullet. Jesus, this was too fucking rich. He was falling in love with a woman who probably didn't even exist outside of his jack-off fantasies. And even that temporary solace had been taken away, swallowed up by the horror. He'd had it all turned around before. His dreams of her were his escape, the only thing that could touch him, remind him he was still human. It was the rest of his life that was the nightmare. And there was no way out. * * * She stared down at the body lying on the autopsy table, her scalpel poised in mid-air. She'd seen this man before, had a conversation with him. Last year, at Mulder's father's funeral. He'd told her someone close to her, someone she trusted, would try to kill her-- And Melissa had ended up dead in her place. She put down the scalpel, her fingers gripping the edges of the table until the metal threatened to cut through her surgical gloves. She looked down at the body again, this time with a sense of detachment that surprised her. Whoever had killed this man had done the world a favor. But she wasn't here to pass that judgment. She had a job to do, and Tom Colton was waiting for her report. And he wasn't going to like what it said, she thought a few hours later, zipping the body back into its bag. She headed upstairs to her office to give her tape to Janet for transcription, a sense of foreboding creeping into her bones. Her intercom buzzed at exactly two minutes to five. "It's him," Janet said, her tone half-resigned, half-apologetic. "You want me to say you've left already?" "No, he'll just call me at home. Put him through." There was a moment or two of silence, then a voice exploded into her ear. "I just got your report. Do you mind if I ask where the hell you come off saying this has nothing to do with the Cartagnia case?" "Because I don't believe it does. Granted, the shooter's style is remarkably similar to a standard mob hit, but I don't think this one belongs to the Cartagnia family -- they'd never be so sloppy as to just leave the body lying out in some alley behind a bar. And if you'll wait for hair and fiber to come back from the lab, I believe my theory will be borne out--" "Damn it, Dana, this wasn't what I wanted to hear, and you know it! Christ, I've worked my ass off on this case, and now I'm back at fucking square one." She pulled the receiver away from her ear, stared at it in utter amazement. Tom had often behaved like an insensitive jerk, but this was taking it beyond the limit. "What do you want me to do, Tom? Manufacture evidence where there is none, just to get you another bump up the ladder? You know I can't do that." She heard him sigh, could almost envision him rubbing the space between his eyes. "Look...I'm sorry, I didn't mean to blow up at you like that. But I was really counting on this one cinching it. I want to get that bastard Cartagnia so bad I can taste it." "And you may still, if Pendrell finds something I missed. I got skin and blood from under the victim's fingernails, so if it is Cartagnia, you'll know tomorrow morning." "But you don't think it will be, do you? I'm still not certain I understand why you feel this way." She hesitated, not sure whether she should tell him. "To be honest, I'm working off intuition here. All I know is I took one look at that body and I just knew something wasn't right..." "Dana, are you trying to say you've got a *feeling* about this?" He sounded so absolutely flabbergasted she had to smile. "Something wrong with that?" "No, of course not...I...uh, just never thought I'd see the day when you'd let that five-gigabyte brain of yours be overruled by intuition. It's kind of a difficult concept to absorb." "Thanks, Tom," she retorted dryly. "You just made my week." They talked for a few minutes more, going over the agenda for the department meeting the next day, then hung up. She eyeballed her watch and decided to call it a night. She still had plenty of work to take with her anyway. So she sat on the couch, papers spread out on the coffee table, eating a Budget Gourmet dinner, sipping Diet Coke and wondering why her conversation with Colton was still prickling at the back of her mind. His comment comparing her brain to a computer still irritated the hell out of her. Was that really the way he saw her -- as some frigidly efficient machine, an automaton who cut up dead bodies, gathered evidence from them without giving a single thought to what these people had been in life, what their deaths had meant to those they'd left behind? Was that the way everybody down at the Bureau saw her? Oh, she'd overheard a few of them -- men, mostly -- calling her the "Ice Queen" behind her back. It had hurt, but she'd forced herself to shrug it off. The Bureau was a boy's club, after all, and if they let a few girls play, it'd better be the ones who could take the punches. So she'd hardened her heart, schooled herself to a cool, impassive demeanor, put on invisible armor along with her suit every morning, hoping it would work. And it had, apparently. With everybody but Mulder. She'd never been able to hide from him. The phone rang, shattering her reverie. With a sigh, she got up to answer it. "Hello?" "Agent Scully? This is Agent Pendrell. Sorry to call you so late." She glanced at her watch. Nearly nine. "You're still at the lab? And I thought I was a workaholic." "Yeah, well, Agent Colton didn't give me much choice. He wanted this blood and tissue breakdown processed tonight." He paused, and she didn't quite get why. "Was there something?" "I, uh...think you could say that. Would you" -- he cleared his throat -- "mind if I brought it by for you to see?" "Here? Tonight? I mean...um, can't it wait until tomorrow morning? I was planning on being in early." "This is definitely something you should see before Agent Colton. In fact, I'm not even sure he should see it at all." Something in his tone sent a blade of pure ice twisting through her. "All right. Come over now." She gave him the address and directions, then sat down to wait. She jumped at the sound of his knock, bolting for the door, ushering him in. "What have you got?" she asked curtly, reaching for the manila file folder he was holding. "The victim's name was David Howard Morrell, born Great Britain, mid-1930's. He and his parents emigrated to the U.S. a couple years before WWII broke out, became naturalized citizens soon after. Apparently he held a key position with the State Department until his retirement in 1980." Off her look, he added, "I got all that from the database when I ran his prints." She flipped through the pages of test results, scanning quickly, frowning. "I don't see anything here on the blood and tissue analysis." He took the folder back from her, turned all the way to the end, pulling out a sealed clear evidence envelope containing two transparencies. He opened the envelope, handed the transparencies to her. It was the DNA breakdown of the skin and blood she'd found under the victim's fingernails. It had to be. She held the transparencies up to the light, side by side, then one on top of the other. An exact match. "Not Cartagnia?" she half-whispered, looking to him for confirmation. He shook his head grimly. "This" -- he indicated the first transparency -- "is the shooter's DNA. And this" -- pointing at the second one now -- "belongs to Agent Fox Mulder." Some small part of her had known what he was going to say before he said it, but that still didn't keep her vision from blurring, her head from spinning. She felt sick and relieved and elated all at once. He was alive. She had her proof, right here in her hand. "Does anyone else know about this?" she asked. "No, of course not. I told you--" "Is there any reason they have to?" "Well, Colton's going to be wondering where the results are if I don't give them to him with the rest of the report." "Think you can stall him? Even for a day, a few hours?" He hesitated, then nodded. "I'll tell him the lab equipment screwed up, and we have to run the blood and tissue again. He'll believe that." "Good," she replied, reluctantly handing the transparencies back to him, steering him toward the door. "Thanks, Pendrell. I really owe you for this one." He looked like he wanted to say something, but she shut the door before he could get it out. She drifted back into the living room, paralyzed, numb, still absorbing. Mulder was alive. Somewhere in this world his heart was still beating, his brain still functioning-- And he'd killed a man, horribly, brutally, in some filthy alley in New York City. Is that where he was now? Only an hour plane ride away all this time, and she'd never had a damn clue. And a lot of good the knowledge did her, even now. What the hell was she going to do, hop the next shuttle, rent a car and cruise the streets until she found him? New York was huge. A man could lose himself there and never be found unless he wanted to be. Well, she'd just have to hope that's what he wanted. Because she wasn't going to throw in the towel now, not when she was so close. She padded into the kitchen, yanked open a drawer, rummaging through it until she found a roll of masking tape. Then she went to the window facing toward the street, tearing off two strips of tape, pasting them to the glass in the shape of an X. It was all she could think to do. Hopefully, the man who'd been Mulder's informant for the past year still kept an eye on the apartment. God knew, there'd been several times since she'd moved in when she'd felt sure someone was watching her. She stepped away from the window, suddenly very cold, shivering all over. She brought her hands up to her mouth, blowing warm breath into them; they felt like two chunks of ice. She went to the kitchen, brewed herself a mug of tea, wrapping her fingers around it, sipping at it more for the heat than the taste. Then she perched on the edge of the couch, her gaze fixed on the front door, on the sliver of light leaking under it. Somehow she knew she was in for a long wait. * * * It was the sunlight that woke her up, streaming in the window, all bright and golden. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, defeat slumping her shoulders. Nothing. She'd stayed on this damn couch all night, and nothing. She dragged in a breath and let it out as a sigh, glancing at her watch. Almost seven. She'd better get going. Maybe if she took another look at Morrell's body, maybe she could find something new, anything to point her in the right direction. It was all she had right now. She showered, pulling on her robe, padding into the kitchen for some coffee. Her stomach rumbled, but she didn't bother with food -- she could never eat anything this early in the morning. Then she saw it -- a tiny square of white paper, stuck under the front door. She picked it up with shaky fingers, slid into a chair at the kitchen table, and unfolded it. Ten words, printed neatly in blue pen. "John Doe #14. Wayland State Psychiatric Hospital. Wayland, West Virginia." Spreading the paper out on the table, she smoothed its creases with both hands, staring at it, anxiety and anticipation roiling in her mind and belly. Her coffee was stone cold by the time she got up to look for her road map of West Virginia. * * * She pulled up in front of the building, got out of her car, and walked slowly, deliberately up to the front steps. It was a converted nineteenth-century mansion, very neat and clean, very Victorian. It looked like a pleasant cage, she supposed, as cages went. The charge nurse stared at her like she had two heads when she asked to see John Doe #14. "He's been here twenty years, and you're the first visitor he's ever had," she said, suspicion narrowing her eyes. "Mind if I ask why?" "Government business," Scully replied, flashing her badge. "May I see his chart, please?" "I'll need to get permission from the administrator before--" "I'm a medical doctor. And I already have the proper clearance." She pulled a sheet of paper from her notebook and slid it across the counter, saying a silent, fervent prayer that Langly, Byers and Frohike hadn't screwed up her fake security pass. Apparently not, for the nurse forked over a thick, ragged file folder without further ado, then led her down the hallway. "You ask me, you made this trip for nothing. If the guy says five words a week, it's a banner week." She flipped through the file quickly, absorbing as much as she could in the time it took to get to the patient's room. Thirty-nine years old, a ward of the court from the age of fifteen, when he was admitted following a complete psychotic break, attributed to a drug overdose. No known family. Every possible treatment attempted, with no appreciable change in his condition. They stopped outside a locked door with a tiny window cut in the center, and the nurse opened it with her key. "You want an orderly in there with you?" "Is he violent?" "No, but he can get a little agitated sometimes. I'll call Danny down here if it'll make you more comfortable." She shook her head, handing back the file. "That's all right. I doubt I'll be that long." Especially since she hadn't a damned clue what she was doing here in the first place. "I'll wait out here till you're ready to go, then." The room was small, white and bare, with only a cot, a chair and a tiny table. Sunlight poured through the uncurtained window, bright and utterly colorless, as washed-out as the walls, floor and ceiling. A figure sat huddled in the center of the cot, knees drawn up to his chest, rocking rhythmically back and forth, eyes open but totally blank. He wore pale blue pajamas and black wool socks, but nothing else. His hair was dark and stubbly, shaved almost down to his scalp. "Hi," she said softly, pulling out the chair. "Do you mind if I sit?" He didn't answer, so she took it as a yes. "My name's Dana Scully. I'm a doctor." His rocking slowed slightly, and she thought he might be looking at her from the corner of one brown, drug-dulled eye. She supposed it was progress of a sort. "A...friend sent me here to see you. Maybe he thought you could tell me something, I don't know. I don't even know what I should be asking you. Maybe if I just sit here with you I'll absorb it through osmosis." She knew she had to be rambling, but she didn't know what else to do. She had to figure out some way to make him talk. "I have another friend...he's been gone a long time, but he always had this gift for getting people to open up, tell him just about anything...I wish I'd paid more attention to how he did it." He was resting his chin on his knees now, looking right at her, his eyes as gentle and limpid as a five-year-old's. "You're pretty," he said, then ducked his head, his cheeks pinkening. To her surprise, she found his sweet innocence touching. "Thank you," she replied. "A lot prettier than the nurses. An' I 'member a lot of nurses," he added, staring down at his fingernails. "Can you remember how long you've been here?" He was silent for a moment, then shrugged. "Long time..." She was going at this all wrong, she realized. He wouldn't have any concept of time in here, not with all the drugs they'd been giving him. She got up, went to the window, looking out. "It's a really nice day. Do you ever go outside, walk around on the grass?" "Sometimes...they let me go out on my birthday. It was warm." "When was your birthday?" "Last week, I think..." Last week. The middle of April. Her mind spun back, freezing on a recent memory, on the list of numbers she'd read in Mulder's notebook. She could've sworn she'd seen one for April 12, 1957. And that was John Doe #14's birthday. She'd skimmed over it when she'd read his file. She went to the door, opened it, stepping out into the hallway. "Could I see that chart again, please?" she asked, pulling it out of the nurse's hand before the other woman even had a chance to answer. Turning all the way to the back, she found the man's admittance records-- And there it was, near the bottom of the page, a faded, blurry photocopy of the admitting physician's signature. She didn't recognize the name, but she did the handwriting. The same handwriting she'd seen in Mulder's surgical notes from the time he'd been shot. His eyes locked on her like a pair of lasers when she came back into the room, sat down once more, hugging the file to her chest. "I need for you to tell me something, if you can," she said softly. "Do you remember when you came here for the first time...do you remember the doctor who treated you then?" He just stared at her, then wagged his head, looking away. "Please try, John. It's very important." "That's...not my name." Her breath caught. "You remember what your name is?" He nodded. "Would you tell me?" "It's a weird name. People used to look at me funny when I told them..." "I promise I won't." He looked at her, smiling his sweet little-boy smile. "My name's Fox. Fox Mulder." * * * She drove seventy-five miles an hour all the way home, where she slapped the masking tape back on her window and sat down on the couch to wait again, fuming, furious and frightened out of her mind. The phone finally rang sometime around midnight. She snatched it up on the first ring. "I hear West Virginia's lovely this time of year." It was him. Mulder's informant. She'd recognize that voice anywhere -- low, silky and warm as a mausoleum in the middle of December. "What kind of sick joke are you playing, you bastard--" "No joke at all, Agent Scully. I would've thought you'd figured that out by now." "Figured what out? I don't even know why I'm talking to you." The line crackled with silence for a moment. "There's a park two blocks down from your apartment building, three blocks over. Be there in half an hour." "Look, I am through chasing all over hell and back--" "Half an hour." *Click.* She stared at the receiver in her hand, then hung it up and went to get her jacket. The crisp night air stung her skin, making the hair on the back of her neck prickle. At least, that's the reason she gave herself as she entered the deserted park, heading for a bench near a tiny duckpond. Not five minutes later he appeared, sitting down next to her. He looked the same as the last time she'd seen him -- tall, black, elegant, dressed simply, in dark slacks, shoes and trench coat. "Glad you could make it," he said. "What did you drag me all the way out here to tell me?" "You've got most of the pieces to the puzzle, Agent Scully. I'm surprised you haven't tried putting them together yet." "It would help if I knew where to start." He chuckled, looking out over the pond. "I was having a conversation with a friend the other day, and we started talking about an argument we'd had a month ago. But I remembered him starting it, and he remembered I had. Strange, funny thing, memory. How it molds our perceptions, our emotions...makes us who and what we are. Allan Hargraves knew that all too well." She suppressed a shiver. "I'm still waiting." "The papers you found among Mulder's effects are only the barest edge of the iceberg, Agent Scully. The Gemini Project became reality, thanks to certain parties who saw the potential in it. You spoke with one result of that project today." "The man who claimed to be Fox Mulder?" He nodded. "You're lying." "Am I?" "Allan Hargraves died in 1956. Somehow I doubt he was up to performing experimental procedures on someone born in the next year." "You really do believe everything you read, don't you?" he said, fishing in his inside jacket pocket, pulling out a small, faded snapshot, handing it to her. It was an old picture, a group shot of several men, most of whom looked to be in their late thirties, early forties. She recognized at least three of them. The first was Mulder's father. The second was the one Mulder had called Cancerman. The third was the surgeon she'd spoken with when Mulder had been shot. Allan Hargraves. At least twenty years younger in the photo, but definitely the same man. Only he hadn't been using that name when she'd talked to him. "He didn't die in 1956, Agent Scully. He went underground. He'd found a new sponsor for his work, you see. A sponsor who'd let him do what was necessary, with no questions asked. A sponsor who found him new test subjects whenever the need presented itself. And in the early years of the project, the need arose frequently. You don't want to know how many other John Does there are rotting away in mental hospitals because of what Allan Hargraves did to them." "What did he do to them?" "Stole their memories. Rewired their brains. Remade them." "How?" "That I can't say." "I see. You can make the accusations, but you can't back them up with concrete evidence. Yet you still expect me to believe you." "I assume you remember a case you and Mulder investigated early on in your partnership -- the Budahas case? According to your own report, Mulder was caught in the act of trespassing on Ellis Air Force Base and taken into custody, yet after he was released he told you he remembered nothing of what'd happened when he was there, that they'd somehow removed the memory, sucked it out of his mind. If they can do that with one memory, what makes you think they can't wipe the whole slate clean, replace it with any set of memories they choose?" She remembered the time he was speaking of, remembered watching Mulder walking out through the base's front gate, weaving on his feet like a drunken man. And then his utter confusion as to where he was, what he was doing there... She'd told herself that he was suffering from hysterical amnesia, that sooner or later his memory of the incident would return. But as far as she knew, it never had. At least, Mulder'd never told her it had. But that still didn't mean what this man was telling her was the truth. "What you're suggesting is not medically possible," she said. "I'm not suggesting anything -- I'm saying it outright. They've been taking Mulder, altering his memories ever since he was a child. With his father's express blessing, I might add. Nothing in his life is what he thought it was." A bone-deep chill twisted through her as she flashed back to her conversation with Mrs. Mulder in Mulder's apartment, remembering what the older woman had told her about the summer vacation Mulder had taken with his father in 1973 and everything that had flowed downstream from that. No UFO's. No aliens. No Samantha. Parents who weren't really his parents. Everything Mulder'd ever believed in, gone. All of it an illusion. A manufactured illusion. "Let's say for the sake of argument that I buy into this story of yours," she said finally. "If Dr. Hargraves's experiments turned that man I met today into a drooling mental case, then how did Mulder's mind survive relatively intact? Why was he spared and none of the others?" "Bill Mulder lost access to him after he and his wife divorced. The experiments were...interrupted." "So why resume them now, after all this time?" "Mulder had the Gemini report. He would have uncovered the truth eventually. They couldn't let that happen. So they staged the restaurant shooting, figuring it would either kill him or put them in a position where they could bring him in with little risk of compromise." Silence fell as she tried to digest everything he'd told her. He got up, walked down toward the pond, standing there, waiting. After a few seconds, she followed. "You know where he is, don't you?" she asked. He said nothing in reply. "Answer me." "And what good would it do even if I did know? You can't get him back, Agent Scully. He's descended so far into darkness he can't see the surface anymore. Leave it alone." "Then why the hell did you bother coming when I called you? Why are you standing here talking to me now?" "You were asking too many questions, getting too close. You had to be warned." "Why?" she retorted with a derisive laugh. "Even if I discovered something, they could just suck it out of my brain, right?" "Don't think they haven't already done that. There's still three months out of your life you can't remember, isn't there?" He was trying to throw her off-balance, and he nearly succeeded. "Where is he?" "David Morrell's death was no accident, but then I'm sure you've already surmised that. It was a cold-blooded, premeditated act." "I won't be losing any sleep over it. Tell me." He studied her for long moments, his eyes flinty, black as ink. "The body of a young woman identified as Catherine Lynn Thomas was found lying in an alley behind a nightclub in Manhattan's Lower East Side two nights ago. Jaw broken, death from a gunshot wound at the base of the skull. Brutally raped by two men. This is all catalogued on the Bureau's violent crimes database, if you want confirmation." She saw his lips move, heard the words leave his mouth, but her mind refused to accept what he was implying. Such things were simply not within the realm of possibility. "Alex Krycek was one of her assailants. Mulder was the other. Of course, you won't find that on the database." "Or anywhere else, since it is patently not true." "You still don't get it, do you? The man you knew as Fox Mulder is dead. And there is no hope for resurrection." She reached very calmly under her jacket and drew her gun. "You tell me where he is or I'll shoot you where you stand, you son-of-a-bitch. I don't care if we are out in the open." "You can't help him, Agent Scully. Even if you do find him, he won't remember you." She altered her gun's aim a hair, squeezing off a shot that bit the ground not ten centimeters from his right foot. "The next one'll be more to the center, and much higher." Satisfaction rippled through her when she saw the fear flickering in his cold, dark eyes. * * * She saw him from a distance, coming down the front stairs of an old, run-down brownstone, Krycek following close on his heels. Shivering, she shifted in her rental car's cramped driver seat, her hand poised on the door latch, watching in the rearview mirror as both men crossed the street a few yards past her, headed down the next block. She knew where they were going -- the same place they'd gone the last two nights. Waiting a minute or so for them to get a discreet distance ahead, she climbed out of the car and followed. The evening breeze was sleek and sharp as a butcher knife, freezing her legs even through her heavy coat, but at least it jolted her back to alertness. She'd barely slept since she'd arrived in New York two days ago, wouldn't even have bothered getting a hotel room if not for the need to shower and change every now and then. She'd been eating street-vendor food for so long the car was starting to smell like a falafel cart. She hung back, waiting for them to go into the bar, but when she reached the door herself, she hesitated. But she'd mulled the various possibilities in her mind a dozen times over, and this was the only way. He hadn't left the apartment at all during the day. And though she'd given serious consideration to just going up and knocking on his door, something in her cringed at actually doing it. She didn't think she'd be able to stand it if he looked straight at her with those deep hazel eyes and registered absolutely no recognition at all. It wasn't because of what his informant had told her about that woman found dead in the alley. That had nothing to do with it-- The door swung open, almost hitting her in the face as a pair of giggly patrons emerged. Now or never. She pressed her fingers against the cold glass and pushed her way in. It was so crowded she could barely inch her way forward, the air smoky and hot, searing her nostrils when she inhaled. Between the music and the rumble of about three hundred raised voices, her eardrums were starting to palpitate. She hadn't been in a place like this since college. She'd forgotten how much she didn't miss it. She nudged her way over to the bar, ordered a soda, took a sip. Its cloying sweetness coated her tongue, almost making her gag. She pushed it away, sliding onto an empty stool, shrugging her coat off her shoulders. She somewhat nervously adjusted the top of the dress she'd bought in a boutique that afternoon after making the decision to come here, warm air tickling the triangle of skin bared by the garment's low neckline, raising goosebumps. She didn't know what had possessed her to buy it -- short, black and form-fitting definitely wasn't her style. But one of her sensible suits would've made her stand out too much in this kind of crowd, and tonight that was something she didn't need. Better to blend in. Her gaze made a slow, careful circuit of the room, trying to penetrate the dense sea of bodies swirling and flailing under the dance floor's ice-blue strobelights. She finally glimpsed him, sitting at a postage-stamp-sized table a few yards away from the bar, hunched over a beer. She watched as he carried the bottle to his lips, gulped down a mouthful, grimacing as he swallowed. The strobe caught him in momentary profile, startling her. She'd seen that bleak expression on his face before, back when the Bureau had broken up their partnership, reassigned him to mind-numbing phone surveillance... God, yes, she knew that look. Miserable. Tormented. Haunted. He wasn't drinking for enjoyment. He was drinking to get drunk. To escape. Krycek sat nearby, absorbed in close conversation with the same blonde woman she'd seen him leave the bar with the previous evening. With any luck, he'd do the same tonight. As if on cue, he leaned over, said something to Mulder, then got up, drifting off toward the bar's entrance, his and the blonde's arms around each other's waists. He sat there motionless for the longest time, seemingly unaware of anything going on around him, then took a final pull on his beer and rose, coming over to the bar, gesturing to the bartender for another. Her breath nearly stopped when she saw him in full light for the first time. His hair was longer now, shaggy, spilling over his forehead, brushing the collar of his brown leather jacket. Light stubble covered his face. His jacket was unzipped, revealing a light grey t-shirt tucked into faded, knee-scuffed jeans. She'd never seen anything so wonderful. He looked...alive. Gorgeous. Like Christmas and Easter and a thousand birthdays rolled into one-- And at that precise moment, he looked up, all the way across the bar. Right into her eyes. She froze, not even sure if her heart was still beating, watching him watch her, watching the rapid rise and fall of his chest, watching him start to move in her direction, pushing roughly through the crowd-- He stopped not two feet in front of her, his hand reaching out to grip the edge of the bar, looking at her as if he expected her to dissolve in a puff of smoke any second. "It's okay, Mulder," she said, so softly she wasn't certain he'd heard her. "It's me." He slid his hand along the bar's sleek, dark wood until his fingers brushed hers. "Jesus," he breathed. "You're real. You're flesh and blood." "Yes." "I...I thought I'd made you up in my head..." "I'm real, Mulder. And I'm here." He reached over, touching, caressing her cheek with the back of his hand. Her mouth sought out his palm, pressing a kiss there, tasting the salty warmth of his skin. Even in the bar's muted light, she saw his eyes dilate, turn to soft green. He drew closer, and she felt his hands sliding around her waist, lifting her from the stool. She couldn't help leaning heavily against him, wrapping her arms around his neck-- And he started to sway, moving to the music's slow, liquid throb, taking her with him. She could feel his lips grazing her forehead, her eyelids, soft and moist and warm... Love is blindness I don't want to see Won't you wrap the night around me Take my heart Love is blindness... Breathing him in, she savored his clean, heated scent, resting her cheek against the silky patch of skin at the hollow of his throat, feeling the insistent tremor of his pulse beating there, awakening an answering rhythm in hers. He was holding her so gently, almost reverently, as if she were made of bone china and he was afraid he'd break her-- //the alley was filthy garbage everywhere blood everywhere seeping into the pavement and a body lying there limp broken dead-- //a woman's body--// She shook her head, clearing it of the horrifying image. No, she wouldn't let herself think that. It wasn't true. It couldn't be. This was Mulder. She knew him. He wasn't capable of such an act. Love is drowning in a deep well All the secrets and no one to tell Take the money honey Blindness... He tipped up her chin so that their eyes met. "You okay?" She nodded. "You want to get out of here?" A chill shot through her, but she tamped it down. She had to get him somewhere she could talk to him, and this crowded place definitely wasn't it. "Yeah," she said. "Let's go." He grabbed her hand and held onto it all the way out of the bar, then down and across the chilly streets to the apartment. Unlocking the door, he steered her past the couch, out of the living room, into the kitchen. There was a light on over the sink, faint and eerie and golden, but he made no move to turn on the lamp over the kitchen table, just slipped off his jacket, hanging it over the back of a chair. She did the same with her coat. His t-shirt was sleeveless, revealing slender yet muscular arms. Much more muscular than she recalled. Her surprise must have been evident in her expression, for he took it as a cue to come closer, grinning. "See something you like?" "You've been...um, working out." "Yeah, well...it helps the time go by faster." Her mouth already felt like a desert, and the intensity of his gaze wasn't helping at all. "I could use something to drink, if you don't mind." "Oh. Sure." He stepped over to the fridge, pulled it open. "All I got is beer and some iced tea I made a couple days ago." "Water's fine." He filled her a glass from the tap, handed it to her. She drank down half of it in one long swallow, wrinkling her nose at its sweet, semi-metallic taste. Oh, well, at least it was wet. He reached for her hand as soon as she put the glass down on the table, wrapping her fingers around his, his thumb caressing her palm. "Look, I know this is going to sound weird, but...I had an accident a few months ago, and there're a few things I can't remember. Like your name and where we met." It was just like before, when he'd woken up in the hospital. He knew her, but not the specifics. "You used to call me Scully." "Your parents must've been really pissed off at you to give you a name like that. Believe me, I know." "Dana's my first name. But you only called me that a few times." "Why?" "It's...complicated." God, how was she going to explain this? It was like trying to tell a blind man what color the sky was. "We worked together for almost three years. I was your partner." His eyes widened and he rubbed at his lower lip, chuckling grimly. "I can't imagine somebody who looks like you doing what I do. And I've never worked with a woman, period." "I know it sounds a little insane, but you have to hear me out." "I'm listening." "You were shot about three months ago, right?" "Right. But how'd you know that?" Hands on his hips, he moved back a step or two, but was still standing in her space, staring at her. A warm flush was creeping under her skin, shooting up her spine, making her dizzy. It felt disconcerting yet weirdly pleasant at the same time. "You...disappeared from Georgetown Med Center not long after it happened. I've been looking for you ever since." "I've never been to Georgetown, much less the med center. I woke up in this apartment three months ago. I've been here all this time." Anger, and something else, something chill and brutal, flickered in his eyes for a moment, freezing her to her marrow. But in the next second, it was gone. "Mulder, you have to believe me. Try to remember--" "I remember this," he said, drawing her into his arms, his expression now tender, gentle, the way it had been when they were dancing. "I've been dreaming about it since I was shot." A tiny voice inside told her if she pulled back he'd let her go, but she didn't move. Her head was spinning now, her knees suddenly dissolving to water. "We...weren't like this before..." "You trying to tell me dreams lie?" Then his mouth came down on hers, and there were no more barriers. Threading her fingers in his hair, she parted her lips eagerly for him, fire shooting through her veins as she felt his tongue darting inside, warm wet velvet entwining with hers. His hands were like silk sliding up her back, pulling her closer, enfolding her in his body's heat. She was trembling when he finally let her catch her breath, her vision momentarily blurred. "This feels...really dangerous..." "Do you want me to stop?" God, oh God, he was giving her that intense hazel gaze again. He looked like he was going to die if she said yes. She knew she would. "No. I don't want you to stop." He kissed her again, and she suddenly felt as if she were plunging into the ocean, more than willing to let herself drown. She felt something solid hitting the back of her thighs, and somewhere in the dim recesses of her mind realized it had to be the table. He lifted her up, balancing her on the edge, spreading her thighs with a nudge of his knee, pulling her legs up around his waist. He was hard already; she could feel his erection rubbing her belly through his jeans and her dress. Their mouths still locked together, she snaked one hand downward, unzipping him, caressing, stroking his rigid length-- He jerked back, his breath coming hard and quick, his expression desperate. "I want you so damn much...but I can't..." "Can't what?" "If you keep touching me like that, I'm gonna embarrass myself." She took her hand away, reaching up to touch his cheek, run her fingertips along the line of his jaw. "Shhh, it's okay...I want to make you happy." "But I want to make you happy first..." "So who's stopping you?" she said with a smile. He tried tugging her dress over her head, but the row of buttons halfway down the back made that impossible. Snorting his frustration, he thrust one hand under the tight black material, finding the waistband of her panties, pulling hard, tearing the wispy cotton away-- And then he was in her, pushing forward relentlessly, stretching and filling her, sweet pressure thrumming through her as he started moving slowly, giving her all of him, the sensation verging almost on pain. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on, their mouths meeting, devouring, his tongue imitating the thrusting of his shaft between her thighs. His hands were everywhere, gently, urgently kneading her breasts, cupping her bottom, holding her for even deeper, faster strokes... It was hot and furious and primal, physical yet mind-shattering at the same time, the way he was touching her, like her pleasure was the only thing that mattered to him. Any second now she'd either split apart or go up in flames... She heard soft cries, and in the next moment realized it was both of them, clutching, convulsing, collapsing sweaty and spent in each other's arms. She felt his fingers tangling in her hair, his breath warm, rapid on her cheek, his chest heaving. Then her vision finally cleared, and she looked up, into his eyes-- And just past his shoulder, to the kitchen doorway. Where Krycek stood, watching. "Congratulations, Mulder," he said, a smirk spreading across his face. "You just fucked a Federal agent." * * * At least he had the presence of mind to rezip his pants before whirling around, rage pumping in his veins. "How long have you been there?" "Long enough. Nice show, by the way," Krycek replied, stepping from the doorway. "You got a gift for picking the noisy ones. Think she'll moan like that when I'm giving it to her?" His glance shifting, he added, "What's the matter, baby? Didn't Mulder tell you we share *everything*?" Mulder heard a soft gasp and looked back to where she was, still leaning against the table, gripping its edge with one hand, like she was afraid she'd fall if she let go. Her eyes had a dazed, disoriented cast to them, the glazed-over look of someone half-drunk. But she hadn't looked that way in the bar, when they'd been dancing-- Then he saw Alex reaching out, one hand poised to stroke her cheek, and something in him snapped. "Not this time, you sick bastard," he snarled, shoving Krycek so hard he went bouncing off the wall. Alex glared at him for long silent seconds, massaging the shoulder that had made contact with hard wood. "She's FBI. She's been tailing us for two days." "Yeah? So why the hell didn't you tell me?" "Because the old man'd have my balls on a string around his neck if I tried." He cocked his head in the direction of the doorway. "Bring her. He's waiting." She gazed at him numbly but made no protest as he took reluctant hold of her arm and followed Krycek into the living room. She slumped against him, wobbling, unsteady on her feet. The sight of the old man gave her a visible start, clearing some of the haze in her eyes, shaking loose her confusion. But not because she was surprised to see him-- No, she didn't look surprised at all. She looked like she'd been expecting it. So did the old man. "Good evening, Agent Scully," he said, lighting a cigarette. "I was wondering when you'd be paying us a visit. You look a bit unwell. Fox, let her sit down. I think the couch would be appropriate." He stared at the old man, then moved toward the couch, let go of her arm, and stepped away as quickly as he could. She was sitting near the far end of the couch, he realized, the exact same spot where he'd-- He looked away, at the old man, waiting. "Agent Scully and I have a few things to discuss. Alex, take Fox back into the kitchen. I'll call when I want you." "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me--" "And don't forget to take his gun, Alex." "Right," Krycek said, drawing his own gun, waving Mulder toward the kitchen. "Let's go." But he couldn't move. All he could do was stare at her. But she wasn't staring at him. She was staring down at her hands in her lap, like she couldn't stomach the sight of him. FBI. She'd been trying to trap him, probably intending to use him to get close to the old man and his consortium cronies. His fantasy girl was a fucking Federal agent. Literally. Now all those dreams of her holding a gun on him started to make sense. "Funny, I didn't know the Bureau hired whores," he spat. "Next time I'll let you suck my cock. Might as well make you work for your pay." Her back and shoulders went stiff, but she still didn't look at him, or show any other reaction. "C'mon, Mulder," Krycek said, tugging his arm. He shook him off, turned, and went back into the kitchen. Krycek shut the door behind them, flicking on the light, moving to the table, searching her coat until he found her gun. "I knew she didn't have room to hide this in that skimpy thing she was wearing," he smirked. "Gotta hand it to her, though -- the lady's dedicated to her work." "Just shut your goddamned mouth, okay?" "Aw, what's the matter, Mulder? Got your feelings bruised 'cause she only wanted you for your body?" He held out his hand. "Don't make me beg." He bent down, tugging his gun from his ankle holster, handing it over. "Sit down," Krycek said, nudging a chair out from the table with the toe of his boot. "When the old man's finished with her, I'm gonna have a little fun. Ask me nice and I'll even let you watch." "Fuck you, Alex." "That's what I'm counting on." Kicking out a chair for himself, he sat down, laying his gun on the table, muzzle pointed toward Mulder. "Kinda petite, isn't she? Bet she's tight as a virgin." Krycek's words stirred remembered sensations in him. Sensations he didn't want to remember. The warm, silky skin on her inner thighs, that tiny little gasp she made when he entered her, the way their bodies fit together so damn perfectly-- "Guess you're not gonna tell me, huh?" A glare was his only reply. Krycek grinned. "Okay, Mulder, keep your little secret. I'll be finding out for myself soon enough anyway." He kicked back, putting his feet up on the table. "I've always wondered if she was a natural redhead. Maybe that's the first thing I'll check." He sat in silence, mulling Krycek's last remark. Something about it hung in the back of his mind, nagging. Finally he realized what it was. "How long did you know she was following us?" "I told you. Two days, at least." "What tipped you off?" "I saw her parked outside. She moved the car every couple hours, but that's standard procedure." He sat up straight, raking a hand through his hair. "Shit, you can stick me under a headstone the day I can't spot a Fed a mile away in this fucking town." "Yeah, but why were you so sure she was a Fed? She could've been a cop, or just somebody new in the neighborhood." Wariness flickered in Krycek's eyes for a split-second, and Mulder knew he had him. "You already knew who she was the minute you saw her, didn't you? The old man sure did. He called her by name." "Look, I wanted to tell you, but the old man--" "How do you know her? Where've you seen her before?" No answer. Mulder's glance flicked down and over to where the gun rested on the table. Krycek picked it up, lazily aiming it at him. "Don't try it, Mulder. I'd put one through your forehead right now if I didn't think the old man'd skin me alive for doing it before he gives his say-so." "Guess this means our partnership's on the rocks." "Oh, c'mon -- you didn't really think the old man was gonna keep you around now that he's caught you consorting with the enemy?" he laughed. "Don't worry, I'll let you have a farewell taste of her for old times' sake before I blow both your heads off." "No thanks. I'm through taking your sloppy seconds." "Your choice," Krycek shrugged. But it wasn't his choice, he realized. It hadn't been for a long time. Everything that had happened since he'd woken up in this apartment felt...wrong. Twisted. Like somebody else's life. Like a life that shouldn't be happening at all. * * * Her head felt like someone was holding it underwater, yet strangely enough she could still breathe-- But the air had become liquid fire, invading her lungs, searing every nerve ending-- She slumped over, head in her hands, desperately trying to concentrate, dimly recognizing the sound of a door shutting-- And she could hear his voice in her mind, echoing, reverberating, thick with anger, hurt, disgust-- Calling her a *whore.* She forced herself to sit up straight, meet the gaze of the man across the room from her. The old man, Krycek had called him. The air was cloudy with foul-smelling smoke; it took all her will to keep from vomiting. "What have you done to him?" "Only what should have been finished years ago," he replied. "Why?" "To see what's possible." He took a long last drag, then pitched his cigarette out a nearby open window. "And because we can." "And it doesn't matter how many lives, how many minds you throw on the scrap heap in the process?" "We know so little of the human mind, Ms. Scully. But one thing we do know is this: control a man's memories and you control what he does, what he feels, who he is. It's the key to everything." "But how is that possible? There are no drugs in existence that could effect the kind of changes in brain chemistry--" He put up his hand, making her stop. "I'm afraid those questions are beyond my limited expertise. Dr. Hargraves could answer them, but unfortunately he's already returned to Los Angeles." A frigid pang of nausea radiated up from her belly, but she refused to let him have the satisfaction of seeing it weaken her. Wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue, she wished she had thought to bring that glass of water with her from the kitchen. Los Angeles...so that was where Hargraves was now. But he hadn't let that information slip casually. He just didn't care about maintaining a deception where there was no need. He didn't intend to let her live. "Maybe you can alter a man's memories," she said, "but you can't completely obliterate everything he was." The corners of his mouth curled up. "You think so?" He flicked on the TV and the VCR atop it, then hit the play button. "Let's see if this changes your opinion." An image flashed onscreen in harsh, grainy color. This room. The same couch she was sitting on now. A woman pushed flat on her back on the couch, legs spread. A man on top of her, hips pumping-- Krycek. And another man, his face offscreen, gripping both of her wrists with one hand, her jaw with the other-- There was no sound, but somehow that only heightened the obscenity. It was like watching surgery being performed with bare hands and no anesthetic. Too stunned and horrified even to flinch, she stared wide-eyed at the screen as Krycek finally finished with her, got up-- And Mulder moved between the woman's legs, mounting her, thrusting inside her. God, Jesus God, if she closed her eyes she could still feel his hands all over her body, the way his touch had driven her out of her mind only a few minutes ago... The warm stickiness he'd left between her own thighs. A sour, bitter taste rose in her throat, but she choked it down, hugging her arms around her abdomen, feeling suddenly as if the floor had just dropped out from under her. There were certain truths she had always held sacred, immutable. The sun would always rise in the east and set in the west. The phone would always ring right after she got in the shower. Mulder would always be Mulder. Now nothing sacred would hold. He flicked another button on the VCR, and the image froze. "Alex," he said, voice raised, "bring him in here." The kitchen door opened and the two men moved into the room, Krycek still holding his gun on Mulder. Mulder stopped dead, his gaze riveted on the screen, darting to the old man, then to her. She could see the muscles in his shoulders and neck bunch with tension, his jaw tightening. "Give him his gun back, Alex." Krycek hesitated a millisecond, then did as he was ordered. Mulder took it, looked at it with narrowed eyes, fingers flexing around the dark metal, hefting the weight of it. "The events of this evening have called your loyalty into question, Fox," the old man said. "You're an invaluable operative, and I would deeply regret losing you. But if our association is to continue, I will need assurance of that loyalty." He nodded at Krycek, who strode to the couch, grabbing her by the arm, yanking her roughly to her feet. "I think you know what assurance I require." "Yeah. I know," Mulder said, raising the gun, aiming it right in her face. His expression was cold, impassive, his pupils black and bottomless. The face of a stranger. "Mulder, you have to listen to me." Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears, ragged, desperate. "What they've told you, what they've made you believe, it's all a lie--" "Shoot her," the old man rasped. "Do it now. That's an order." "You're an FBI agent, like me. You hold a doctorate in psychology from Oxford. You worked for the Violent Crimes Section, profiling serial killers--" "Kill her, Fox. Put a bullet in this lying little bitch." "--until you came across an old discarded project called the X-Files. That's what we've been working on for almost three years. You and me." He looked at her, eyes deep and fathomless. And kept looking. "They've tried to make you into something else, but I know better. The man I worked with, the man who--" she stopped, willing her voice not to crack "--made love to me is kind and gentle and decent. But right now you're not who you are." He started, blinked, lips parting, fingers wavering on the gun. Then he fired. Krycek slumped, fell, hitting the couch with a heavy, sick-sounding thump, a perfectly round hole in the center of his forehead. The cushions underneath him grew a very slow, very dark red. "Good enough?" Mulder said, turning, facing the old man. "Did I pass your little test this time?" But if what had just happened shocked or horrified him, the old man gave no outward sign. "Not the solution I was expecting, but acceptable nonetheless. It'll be difficult replacing him, though." "But not impossible." "No. Not impossible." Reaching into his coat, he pulled out another cigarette, lit it. "We still have another problem to take care of, however," he added, nodding at her. "I want her." His words went straight through her, a hot chill lodging in her belly. The old man's eyebrows lifted. "Surely you realize she can't be allowed--" "Yeah, I realize. But you owe me a reward after all the bullshit you've just put me through." "Fair enough," he replied after barely a second's consideration. "Twenty-four hours. Do whatever you want with her tonight and tomorrow, but I want her dead by this time tomorrow night." "Fine." "I'll be back tomorrow to make sure of it," he said, heading for the door, opening it, disappearing into the hallway outside. Mulder turned, his glance caught by the TV screen, by the image still flickering there. Punching a button on the VCR, he yanked out the tape and opened up its casing, ripping the tape off the reel inside, hurling it to the floor. The black plastic cracked, splintered, tiny pieces of it scattering all over the carpet. Then he looked at her, moving toward her, slowly, deliberately, tucking the gun into the waistband of his jeans. She gasped when he reached out, touching her cheek with his fingertips, drawing them up to trace her ear, down her throat-- And he leaned down until she could feel his breath warm and tingly on her skin, his lips hovering close to her ear-- And she felt suddenly, violently dizzy again, dizzy and sick all the way down to her soul. "You got a car?" he whispered. She looked up at him, every inch of her going numb. "Y-yes." He pushed her away, stooping down to where Krycek's body lay on the couch, picking up Krycek's own gun that had fallen to the floor, riffling through the dead man's jacket until he found yet another gun. Her gun. He checked to make sure a clip was still in it, then held it out to her. "Go get your coat," he said. "We're getting out of here." * * * He got on the first interstate he hit after exiting Manhattan, and started driving south. He didn't know where he was going, and he didn't care. He just wanted to put as much distance as possible between him and New York. He didn't even know how long they'd been on the road; he'd left his watch back in the apartment and the car's digital clock kept flashing a neon green "12:00" over and over. A bright golden sliver of sun had just peeked over the rim of a hill bearing to the east, making his eyes sting and water. Warmth bathed the pavement, pouring through the windshield, onto his face and hands. He hadn't gone out in the sun much lately, he realized. It felt good. He looked over to where she sat next to him, slumped down in her seat, head resting against the back of it, dozing. Her pale skin was finally beginning to lose some of the sickly greenish cast she'd had when they'd started out; he'd had to pull over twice in the first two hours for her to throw up. He supposed it wasn't all that surprising that he inspired such revulsion in her. Even a woman with her training didn't fuck murderers and rapists every day. He drove on until the sun hung directly overhead and the road's relentless glare started giving him highway hypnosis. Turning off at the next sign, he found a tiny but clean-looking motel and pulled in the parking lot. She was just opening her eyes when he came back from the office with the key. "I need some sleep" was all he said as he moved the car over to the parking spot in front of their room, then got out, heading for the door. "I have a bag in the trunk," she said. "You've got the key." She was putting on a brave front, doing her best to sound steely and unflappable, but he couldn't miss her tremulous undertone, the nervous way she kept brushing a stray lock of hair back from her face. He went to the trunk, opened it, took out her bag, carried it to the door, ignoring her attempts to take it from him. Unlocking the door, he let her go in first, felt her back stiffening as he touched her there, guiding her through the doorway. She stopped short about three feet in, staring at the walls, at the furniture. At the one double bed in the middle of the room. "You want to go somewhere else?" he asked. She sighed, shook her head, dumping her bag on the ugly grey bureau against the far right wall, dropping into a chair. "One place is as good as another, I suppose." He pulled his shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor, sank down on the bed, stretched out, covering his eyes with the back of one hand. He was just beginning to drift off when he realized she hadn't made a sound in minutes. She was still sitting in the chair, staring at him. "What's the matter?" he asked. "I'd...um, like to take a shower." "Go ahead. You don't need my permission." She gave him a look he couldn't figure out, then got up, went over to her bag, pulled out some toiletries and a terrycloth robe, and disappeared into the bathroom. She'd left the door slightly ajar; he saw a finger-wide slash of light dancing on the wall across from the bed, heard when she turned on the water, pulled back the curtain once, then twice. God, he could almost imagine the spray misting her silky skin, warm water sluicing down her breasts and belly, between her-- He flipped over on his side, facing toward the window, punching the pillow. Shit. He should've kept driving. Being in close quarters with her was too damned tempting. He closed his eyes, but when he opened them again he wasn't even sure he'd slept at all. But the light from the window had shifted, coming in from a lower angle. He could still hear the soft patter of water hitting tile. Water, and something else. Something low and muffled and desperate. He got up, went to the bathroom door, pushed it open. Condensation coated his fingertips, completely fogging the mirror. The air's humidity was so thick it felt like he was trying to breathe soup. He could see her through the clear curtain, a dark blotch huddled in one corner. Then he realized what the sound he'd heard was. She didn't move when he pulled the curtain back, didn't show any reaction at all. She was turned away from him, face and hands pressed to the tile, standing half out of the shower's spray, the water hitting her in the small of her back. Her entire body shook with the force of her sobbing. His body tightened at the sight of her, but he pushed the reaction aside. The water was only lukewarm now, and getting colder by the second. He had to get her out of there before she froze. "C'mon," he said, reaching out, touching her arm as gently as he could, "I think you're clean enough now." She jerked back, then turned, tears spilling down her face, mixing with the droplets of shower water beaded there. "Don't, please...I don't want to..." Jesus, she thought he'd come in here to...*Jesus.* "I'm not going to hurt you." "Then go away...leave me alone..." "And let you catch pneumonia?" "I don't care." "I do." "Yeah, I guess if I'm dead I can't suck your cock." If she'd been holding a knife, she couldn't have cut him deeper. "I'm sorry I said that. I was mad and hurting. I didn't think." "No," she whispered, "you didn't." "Look, you want to get dressed and walk out of here, go ahead. I won't try to stop you." She laughed softly, grimly. "I gave you your gun back, didn't I?" She gazed at him, her expression softening by slow degrees. This time when he touched her, taking her hand, she didn't pull back. He helped her out of the shower, flicked off the water, then turned back to her. She stood there shivering, dripping onto the floor, making no move to dry herself. His eyes lingered on her lips, her breasts, both flushed rosy-moist from the shower. He'd never seen her breasts bared before, not outside his fantasies. They were perfectly soft, perfectly round, all pink ivory-colored, even more beautiful and womanly than he'd imagined. His palms itched to cup them, his fingertips to tease her upturned nipples into tiny rigid peaks. She teetered, grabbing hold of the edge of the sink to steady herself. "You okay?" he asked. "Just a little dizzy. Guess I did stay in there too long." He went to the tiny window above the toilet, opening it a sliver to let out the steam still hazing the air. "Better?" She nodded, dark, wet strands of hair swinging into her eyes. He could see gooseflesh popping up on every inch of her. Grabbing a towel, he draped it over her shoulders, started rubbing it through her hair. She gave a surprised little gasp, but didn't try to stop him. He squeezed most of the excess water from her hair, then started on her shoulders and arms, running the rough cloth over her skin with brisk, efficient strokes, keeping the towel wrapped around his hands. It was torturous enough this way, without his skin making actual contact with hers, without letting his fingertips trace every smooth curve and indentation. She swayed, falling back against him, her shoulders hitting him mid-chest. He could feel his jeans growing wet in patches, her bottom pressing insistently against his crotch. Leaving the towel around her, he turned and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. He sat down in the same chair she'd sat in earlier, rubbing his hands over his face. All he'd wanted was to take care of her, but his dick had developed an agenda of its own. He wondered if she'd felt how hard she'd made him in a matter of seconds. He eyed the door, almost getting up to go back in. No. If he did that, they'd end up fucking on the floor or on the edge of the sink. She didn't deserve to be treated so cheaply. She came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, relief washing over him when he saw she was wearing her terrycloth robe. She went over to the bed, pulled back the covers and slid under them, propping herself up on a pillow, drawing her knees up to her chin. "Where are we?" she asked, still sounding a little groggy. "About nine, ten hours out of New York. As to what state...outside of the state of confusion, you got me." She smiled softly, accepting his non-answer. "What're you doing over there? I thought you were tired." He slouched down, resting his head on the back of the chair, balancing his heels on the foot of the bed. A stone slab might've been more comfortable, but he didn't see how. "I'll be okay here." "Mulder, you don't have to--" "Yeah," he laughed, "I do." She looked at him for a long time, almost like she was trying to memorize him. "I almost gave up, Mulder. Everybody said you were dead, and I was the only one who believed differently. But after awhile...I was starting to wonder if I was losing my mind. Even my mother thought I was becoming obsessed. Guess now I know how you used to feel most of the time." "I wish I knew what you were talking about." Sighing, she swept her still-damp hair back from her face. "It's a very long story, and I'm not sure I can cover it all now." "You'll have to tell me sometime. I'd rather have it be sooner than later." She looked down, studying her fingernails. "Okay," she said finally. "I'll tell you what I know, but it won't begin to answer all your questions. God knows, I've still got about a thousand of my own." The sun coming through the curtains had faded to a faint glow by the time she finished. He sat staring at her, trying to read her expression. For some reason, he desperately needed to know what she was feeling. He had no idea what he felt yet. None of what she'd told him had had a chance to sink in. It felt right, though -- a part of his life he'd always known was missing. The part that kept coming back to him in his dreams, just as she had... "You don't believe me," she murmured. "I don't think you could or would lie to me. I don't even think it'd be possible for somebody to make up a story like that. But it's just so..." "Unbelievable?" He nodded. "Well, I know it's no consolation, but we've seen stuff as weird or weirder than that over the past three years." He slouched forward, elbows on his knees. "I can't get used to you talking about things we've done together, things I can't remember. It's like it all happened to somebody else, but inside I know it really did happen to me. I mean, if you say it did--" "I know. Just stop thinking about it for now, okay? It'll drive you crazy if you let it," she said. "There is something I was hoping you could tell me, though..." "What?" "How did you know me? When you saw me in the bar, it just seemed so...immediate--" "Like no time had passed at all." "Yeah," she said softly. "You mentioned dreams, but I thought..." That was one subject he didn't want or need to get into with her right now. "All I know is that when I saw you, there was...God, I can't describe it. It was like this buzz, this emotional resonance. I looked at you, and I just knew." "I just knew..." she repeated with a quiet laugh. "What, did I say something funny?" She nodded, throwing the covers back, getting up, coming toward him, hand extended. "I'll tell you about it later. Come to bed." He stared at her hand, then looked away. "I can't." "Why?" "For Chrissakes, you know why. You saw it right there on that fucking TV--" "Hey," she whispered, kneeling down before him, cupping his chin, "it's still going to take me a little while to sort all this out, but I know I can't blame you for what's happened. You weren't responsible for what they made you believe, what they made you do." "That girl's dead. How do you know I didn't kill her?" She paled, but managed to get back her composure quickly. "Because if you had, you would have killed me back at the apartment instead of bringing me with you. You would never have said I could leave whenever I wanted to. And you certainly wouldn't have given back my gun." Her palm's heat was sinking slowly into his skin, his blood, her body's proximity starting to work its magic on him. "I...don't understand how you can still want me after--" She slipped one finger over his lips. "I don't feel like talking anymore right now." Standing up, she took his hand, gently tugging on it. What was left of his resistence went flying away like a scrap of paper in the wind. Following her to the bed, he let her draw him down beside her. "You said we were never...together like this when we were partners..." "No. Never." "So...last night in the kitchen was our first time?" She nodded. "Oh, Jesus..." "It's okay," she smiled. "As I recall, I wasn't complaining too much." He stroked her cheek, leaning in for a kiss. She tasted, smelled sweet and clean, like fresh rainwater. "You deserve to have your whole body kissed...hours of foreplay..." "Well, here's your chance," she replied, shooting him a witchily sexy look. "I want you to know...I'll never hurt you," he said softly. "I'll never do anything you don't want." "Mulder..." "What?" "Shut up and make love to me." He started with her lips, teasing them open, his tongue darting inside to duel with hers. One hand wandered downward, to the belt of her robe, undoing the knot, sliding underneath to trace the soft underside of one breast with his fingertips, slowly trailing up to her nipple. She shivered, gave a tiny moan at the exact same second he felt the warm flesh begin to pucker and contract. Peeling back the terrycloth, he bent down, bathing her velvety tip with his tongue, then blowing gently, watching in rapt fascination as her desire for him blossomed right before his eyes. He could feel her fingers in his hair, her body shifting beneath him. "Mulder...God, that feels..." "Beautiful," he murmured, looking up at her. "You're beautiful. Like a rose opening for the sun." She smiled drowsily, her eyes heavy-lidded, relaxed. Trusting. She trusted him. Believed in him. *Loved* him. The realization shot through him like an electric shock. This woman loved him. Loved him enough to spend three months looking for him, to risk her life getting him out of that black abyss he'd been wallowing in. Enough to accept him, all of him, without question. Even the dark side. The side he still couldn't accept. She deserved all the love he could give back to her, for as long as he could give it. The only way he could give it, right here, right now... Tomorrow felt like a year away, next week an eternity. His mouth traced a warm, wet path down to her belly, his fingers pushing aside more of the robe as he went. She tried to sit up and wriggle out of it, but he stilled her with a touch. "I feel like a kid at Christmas. Let me unwrap my present." "When do I get to unwrap mine?" she murmured, eyeing his jeans. He was already painfully stiff, but her hungry expression almost made him burst through his zipper. Sliding off the bed, he shucked his jeans in record time, kicking them into the corner, lying down beside her again, stifling her tiny moan of protest with a kiss. "Sorry...but if I let you do that, this'll be over before it's started." "Not fair..." "See if you say that in a couple minutes." With that, he flipped back the last flap of terrycloth covering the lower half of her body, gently slipping his hand down between her legs, into her moist, silky heat. His fingers alternately teased and stroked, her hips slowly writhing, then arching off the mattress as he discovered her most sensitive spot. Moving down, he held her thighs apart with both hands, replacing his fingers with his tongue. She tasted as sweet as the shade of her hair, taffy mingled with cinnamon. He felt her hand drift down, fingers weaving in his hair as he licked and lapped and bathed her softness, guiding him to a tender, urgent rhythm, her breath coming short and ragged-- And she exploded into his mouth, all hot, spicy musk, yelping her ecstasy, holding back nothing. It took a few minutes before her eyes refocused. She looked down at him, his head now resting on her belly, and blushed. "Nothing like that's ever happened to me before." "You mean what I did, or what you did?" He wouldn't have thought it possible, but her face got even redder. "What you did...and, obviously, what I did in response." A sharp pang sailed through him, and he pressed a soft kiss to her belly, slowly moving up, kissing a trail between her breasts, up the curve of her throat to her ear, then her mouth. Her lips parted, welcoming him, eagerly tasting her own taste still clinging to his lips and tongue, her thighs wrapping around him as he shifted, settled between them. "Now," she whispered, "please..." He was nestled right where he needed to be; he gave a tiny push, letting just the tip of him enter her, then withdrew. Another thrust, this time a little deeper, withdrawing again. She groaned, digging her fingernails into his back, burying her face in the hollow of his throat. "Just do it...come on...put me out of my misery..." It was all he needed to hear. Sliding both hands beneath her, he impaled her with one long, slow thrust, both of them crying out their joy. He closed his eyes, giving himself over to pure sensation, feeling her engulf him, grip him like a fist, her breath so soft and warm and desperate on his throat, his shoulder-- They moved together, hot and slow and wet and deep, their bodies melding in an effortless rhythm-- And then he felt it, a tiny winglike flutter at her center, radiating outward, her muscles contracting around him-- Moaning, whimpering, she clung to him, back arching, orgasm taking her-- And his followed like an undammed flood, surging upward from the base of his spine, ripping, tearing him open from the inside out. They lay together afterward, arms and legs still tangled, both too exhausted to breathe, much less move. Finally he made the supreme sacrifice and pulled the covers over them once he saw her shivering. She snuggled up to his side, then frowned, reaching over, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead. "You're hot." "You're kidding, right?" he laughed. "No, really, you feel a little feverish--" "Maybe you're just cold." "Not that cold," she retorted with a smile. "Guess that makes two of us." "Mulder..." "Go to sleep," he said, shifting so that they spooned, his front nestling against her back, his cheek against her shoulder. "We'll argue about it later." * * * Harsh, white fluorescent light shone through the window when she opened her eyes. Blinking groggily, she reached for the bedside table lamp, then for her watch. Twenty minutes to nine. As if in reply, her stomach growled, reminding her rather insistently that she hadn't put anything in it all day. Well, even if this was the back end of nowhere, there had to be someplace they could get something to eat. Right now even McDonald's sounded good. "C'mon, Mulder," she said, shaking his shoulder, "up and at 'em. I'm starving." He groaned, his eyes fluttering half-open, closing again. "Turn the light out." "Unh-uh. You owe me dinner." One hand flew up, covering his eyes. "It hurts. Turn it off." Something in his voice told her he wasn't just complaining for the sake of it, and when she glanced at him, she was sure he wasn't. His skin was ashen under his two-day stubble, hot to the touch. "What's wrong?" he mumbled. "Looks like whatever bug I had yesterday, you've got today," she sighed. "I'm sorry, Mulder. I didn't mean to--" "Hey, don't worry about it. At least now you can't say you never gave me anything." She chuckled, smoothing back a lock of his hair. "You feel like going out for food, or shall I bring you back something?" He tried pushing himself up from his pillows, but it was a lost cause. "Some soup sounds good, if you can find it. And iced tea." "Okay," she said, getting up, rummaging in her bag for her jeans and a sweater, heading for the bathroom. He looked even paler when she came out a minute or two later; her heart lurched when she saw him try to sit up. He was shaking all over. "Hey, take it easy. Don't kill yourself before you even get out of bed." "Jesus, I feel like crap. What the hell did you give me?" She sat down by him, rubbing his shoulder. "I don't know, but it seems to run its course quickly. You'll probably be fine by this time tomorrow." "Hooray for me tonight." "Look, grab a shower and a shave while I'm gone. That in itself should make you feel better." He shot her a glance as she got up, pulling some money from her coat pocket, scooping the car keys from the bedside table. "Is it my imagination, or are you trying to tell me something?" "For once, Mulder, it's not your imagination." Luck was with her, for she found a coffee shop three blocks down the road, with a late-night pharmacy right across the street. She ordered vegetable-beef soup and iced tea for Mulder, a chicken sandwich and coffee for herself, then ducked into the pharmacy for aspirin and some generic cold-and-flu medicine. Might as well be prepared for the worst, she supposed. He looked scrubbed and smooth-faced when she got back, but that was about the only improvement she could see. Still, he managed to stagger to the table by the window and choke down a few spoonfuls of soup before pushing it away. "You must be feeling terrible if you can't eat," she said, shaking out two aspirin. "Take these. They'll help keep your fever down." "Okay, doc," he replied, slugging them back with the last of his iced tea. Her surprise must have shown on her face, because he groaned. "What the hell did I say this time?" "I'm a medical doctor. It must've been something else you remembered subconsciously." Hauling himself out of the chair, he moved back to bed, flopping down on it with a relieved grunt. "God, I wish we didn't have to get out of here tomorrow." She was tempted to suggest they stay another day, but good sense stopped her. They had to keep moving, keep ahead of whoever was coming after them. Even this brief respite was probably stretching their luck too far. She pulled an oversized t-shirt out of her bag and was just about to go in the bathroom to change when she stopped herself. There was no reason for false modesty between them any longer. Stripping off her sweater and jeans, she had just tugged the t-shirt over her head when she heard a strangled sound from his direction. "What's wrong?" "You," he replied, pointing at the V-shaped patch of skin exposed by the t-shirt's neckline. "How'd that happen?" Looking down, she saw deep pinkish-red marks blotching her skin, trailing all the way down between her breasts. "Three guesses." "Oh, God," he breathed. "I didn't mean to do that." "It's okay," she said, kneeling beside him on the mattress, trying to laugh, trying to ease his mind. "They don't hurt. I don't even remember them hurting when it happened." "They sure look like they hurt." He traced one of the marks with his fingertips. "I'm sorry." "Mulder, this is not your fault. I've got the redhead's curse -- skin like tissue paper. The marks'll be gone by tomorrow morning." "Yeah, well...let's hope this fucking flu or whatever it is follows suit. Otherwise it's gonna be a real long trip for both of us." "Where are we going? Back to D.C.?" He looked at her, shaking his head. "Hell if I know. I'll think about it in the morning. C'mere," he said, taking her wrist, tugging her down to lie next to him. Funny, but she would have thought doing this, being so casually intimate with him after three years of a working together would feel strange, foreign. But it didn't. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. Almost like it was meant to be, destined for them from the beginning. She closed her eyes, listening to the slow, muffled thump of his heart in his chest, wishing time could freeze, that she could capture this moment in a bottle and keep it with her forever. His skin still felt warm, uncomfortably so. Reaching up, she put her hand on his forehead, trying to gauge his temperature. She could've kicked herself for not buying a thermometer at that pharmacy while she was out. "Think I'll live?" he mumbled. "I think we both need sleep if we're going to hit the road again tomorrow. Come on, under the covers." "Too hot for that..." "Doctor's orders." His eyes drifted shut as soon as she pulled the sheet and blanket over him, dozing deeply, his breathing shallow and raspy. She sat there looking at him for a long time, touching his hand, his shoulder every now and then as if to keep convincing herself that he was real. He was real. Flesh and blood. She'd found him. They were together. She didn't want to think about how much longer it would last. Right now was miracle enough. * * * He wasn't there when she woke up. Her heart almost skidded to a halt before she spied the bathroom light splashed across the far wall. The door yawned half-open. She pushed it in the rest of the way, stopping dead at the sight of him sprawled on his knees over the toilet, hanging onto it with both hands. He barely had a chance to glance up at her before another spasm wracked him, his whole body bunching and heaving. Darting to the sink, she wetted down a towel, kneeling to wipe his face when he finally stopped. His skin felt hot enough to singe her fingers on contact. "When did this start?" she asked. "'Bout...um, two hours ago, off and on." "Why didn't you wake me?" He smiled shakily. "I wanted to, but I was too busy driving the porcelain bus." She cast a furtive look into the toilet bowl, but jerked herself back immediately, her nostrils assaulted by the sour tang of bile. Bile, and something else. She made herself look again, turning to ice at the streaks of red she saw clinging to the curved sides of the bowl. "Open your mouth," she ordered tersely, tightly. "What?" "Don't argue with me, Mulder, just do it." She looked, but she couldn't see much of anything. God, what she wouldn't give for a penlight. "You must've torn a couple capillaries in your throat," she said finally. "Come on, let's get you back to bed." "I...um, think I'd better stay right here..." "Mulder, you're just dry-heaving. There's nothing left in your stomach to bring up. If you keep doing this, you're really going to hurt yourself." He hung his head, pushed some hair out of his face, then nodded. Between his staggering and her holding him up, they finally made it back to the bedroom, where she helped him to lie down as gently as she could. "Stay here and rest. I'll be right back," she said. Throwing on her jeans and sweater, she dashed outside, found the nearest vending machine, plunked in three quarters for a can of 7-Up. Sometimes Mom's home remedies worked best. She prayed this was one of those times. The soda appeared to settle his stomach, but did nothing for his fever. She pressed a hand to his cheek for the umpteenth time, biting her lip. His temperature had to be at least one hundred degrees. But that didn't stop him from trying to get up. "We're not going anywhere today," she said, gently but firmly making him lie back down. "You're in no shape to travel, even if I do the driving." "Gotta keep moving...can't let 'em catch up..." He was starting to toss his head on the pillow, his skin now one shade darker than its dingy off-white case. Panic seized her by the throat, coursing through her in a blinding jolt, and she ran to the bathroom, turned on the water in the sink until it ran icy, soaking a washcloth in it. God, Jesus God, she couldn't understand it. She'd thought they'd had the same thing, yet he was much sicker than she'd been. If his fever didn't ease by this evening, she'd have to take him to the hospital-- No, she couldn't. She couldn't take him anywhere he'd have to identify himself. Far too dangerous. She wrung out the cloth, watching the excess water swirling down the drain, her mind suddenly swirling, spinning back-- Back to two nights ago, in the kitchen. Back to that glass of water Mulder had given her-- That funny-tasting, sweet, metallic water. She hadn't startedfeeling sick until after she'd drunk that water. Half a glass of it. "Oh, my God," she whispered. "They've been poisoning him. Just like last year..." But of course, he would have no memory of that, of the time she'd found the dialysis filter in his apartment's water tank. She'd suspected LSD or dopamine then. God only knew what they'd been using this time. Well, whatever it was, potent was its middle name. She'd drunk half a glass and nearly overdosed. He'd been ingesting it for three months. That kind of prolonged exposure could easily lead to addiction. He didn't have the flu. He was in withdrawal. And it was going to get worse before it got better. She knelt on the bed beside him, laying the wet washcloth on his head. His eyes were closed now, his lips slightly parted, letting out labored, wheezy breaths. He'd sleep for awhile, then it would start all over again. She knew the drill, and it wasn't pretty. By tonight he'd be convulsing, hallucinating, vomiting up more bile and blood. Maybe if she gave him a mild sedative, it might be enough take the edge off. Enough, at least, for him to make it through this without tearing himself up too badly. Grabbing the keys, she hopped in the car and floored it back to the pharmacy, where she wrote out a prescription for three vials of liquid Valium and a box of insulin syringes. A nervous pang went through her when she had to flash her medical license, but she tamped it down. She couldn't think about the possible risks right now. Mulder needed this. She added a digital thermometer to her order, then tried not to choke as the clerk rang it all up and quoted her the price. Almost a hundred and seventy-five dollars. She ripped open her wallet when she got back to the car, counting what she had left. Two hundred eighty-seven dollars and thirty cents. Driving back to the motel, she dashed into the office, paid for another night with some of her precious cash, and requested no maid service. The manager stared at her, then shrugged and took her money. Mulder was still sleeping, so she went through his jean pockets. One hundred forty-eight dollars and fifty-two cents. Not even five hundred dollars between them. And at the rate they were going, it'd disappear fast. Of course, she still had her credit cards and her ATM card, but using them would leave a rather obvious paper trail. And they'd still have to hold aside some cash for food and gas while they were on the road. But on the road to where? He wasn't even sure where he wanted to go, and neither was she. What were they going to do -- just keep driving until they ran out of money or got caught or killed or... He moaned, turned over, opened his eyes. She went over, sat down on the edge of the bed, taking his hand. His pulse thrummed rapid and thready under heated skin. "How do you feel?" she asked. "Like somebody just drop-kicked me for a field goal," he muttered, both corners of his mouth quirking up. "Sorry. This can't be much fun for you." "Don't worry about me, Mulder. I'm fine." "I'm not. I've been lying here dreaming about all the things I'd be doing with you if my head wasn't pounding so much." "Want some more aspirin?" "Yeah." She got him some water, then helped him sit up to take the pills. "Water tastes funny," he said, grimacing. She almost said something, but stopped herself just in time. Better to wait till this was all over. It would serve no purpose to upset him with what she suspected now. He handed the glass back, his arm looping around her waist, pulling her onto the pillows with him, resting his head on her belly. She tousled his hair slowly, absently, feeling his breath soft and warm on her midriff where her sweater had hiked up. With his eyes half-closed he looked like a sleepy little boy, all drowsy innocence. Hard to believe this was the same man who'd made her body sing with ecstasy only a few hours before. Then again, maybe not. She recalled the way he'd looked when he'd loved her, the child-like delight in his eyes at her every response, how he'd made sure he'd satisfied her needs before his own. She'd never had a man love her with such sweet tenderness before. She hadn't even had to tell him what she wanted -- he'd seemed to know already, instinctively. It was almost as if they'd found a way to communicate without words, through touch and taste and pure sensation. But they'd always had that ability, she suddenly realized. Even when they'd worked together, half the time they could finish one another's sentences. She could tell what he was thinking and feeling from a single look. They'd been lovers for the past three years. She just hadn't figured it out until now. "God, this sucks," he mumbled. "In bed with you and I can't do a damn thing about it. Guess I should be careful what I wish for." "Keep on wishing. It'll come true as soon as you're better." "Yeah, well...I hate to break this to you, but there's a certain part of me that doesn't know the rest of me's sick." He shifted, and she could feel his erection rubbing against her thigh. They both groaned in unison, his eyes meeting hers. For one endless, tantalizing moment, she was sorely tempted. Then common sense reared its ugly head. "Mulder, we shouldn't..." "I know," he replied, softly kissing her belly. "I just wanted to show you how much I want you, even now." She tried to focus on how silky and fine his hair felt under her fingers instead of the way her heart was beating, hard and fast, like it would split in half any second. Maybe she was worrying over nothing. He seemed better now; maybe he'd breeze through this without a hitch. Maybe he wouldn't even need the Valium at all. Maybe by tomorrow morning he'd be good as new. "Rest, okay?" she whispered, bending down, her lips touching his forehead. "'Kay..." His breathing shallowed, steadied, his stubbled chin tickling her midriff. But his skin still felt warm. Too warm. She cradled him close, staring out the curtained window, watching the day seep away by slow degrees. * * * He was dying. His fever was one hundred and three point seven. It had spiked two and a half degrees since six that morning. Two and a half degrees in two hours. She'd had to give him some of the Valium around midnight to help him sleep, but she hadn't told him that. He thought it was an antibiotic, and she was content to let him go on thinking that. But now she wondered if the shot had been such a good idea. It seemed only to have made him more sluggish and disoriented, but she didn't dare try anything else. If a relatively mild drug like Valium reacted like this with whatever was already in his system, she wasn't about to take a chance with something stronger. He was already in enough agony. He was lying on his side, knees drawn up to his chest, shaking so hard she couldn't hold him anymore. Just getting the thermometer under his tongue had been an ordeal. The cold compresses were doing no good; it took only a few minutes before his body heat leeched all the coolness from the cloth. She kept trying to get him to drink, but he'd been shivering so much he hadn't been able to choke anything down for the couple of hours. She had to do something to ease his fever. If it climbed even one degree higher, he'd run the risk of brain damage. Or worse. She dashed into the bathroom, scooping up the ice bucket near the sink, then sprinted across the parking lot to the ice machine. Filling up the bucket, she brought it back to the room and dumped its contents into the sink. Then she grabbed a towel, spread it out flat, and began filling it with ice. She made up two packs, one large, one small, then carried them into the bedroom. He didn't speak, didn't move, didn't do anything to indicate that he even knew she was there. His eyes were closed, his mouth half-open, his chest slowly rising and falling. He was still alive, and it was up to her to keep him that way. She took the smaller towel and laid it on his forehead, smooshing the pillow down to hold it in place, then placed the other bundle on his chest and tucked the flat sheet over and under him until it pulled tight. At this point she didn't give a damn if the bedding got wet. It took only a few minutes for damp patches to show on the sheet, thin rivulets to start trickling down his cheeks, his neck. He started thrashing, hands pushing, clawing at the sheet, almost tearing off the towels-- She moved to straddle him, her legs landing on either side of his, grabbing his arms, trying to hold him down, make him lie still-- And his eyes snapped open, staring up into hers-- And he collapsed, the breath sailing out of his lungs with a soft whoosh. "What're you trying to do...freeze me for next week's dinner?" She bowed her head, relief sweeping through her like a hurricane. "God, Mulder...I thought I was going to lose you. I was afraid I already had." His hand slid up, stroking her throat, curling around the back of her head, bringing her mouth down softly on his. "You're the best medicine around...they oughta bottle you, but I don't want to share." She smiled, resting her cheek momentarily on his. He felt cooler, but not enough to ease her mind completely. Shivering, she sat up, icy water starting to seep through her sweater, pulling the cold packs off him, tossing them to the floor with a squishy plop. But when she tried to move off him, his hands flew to her waist, holding her fast. "Mulder...I must be crushing you..." "Are you kidding? You weigh about as much as a speck of dust--" "Let me go." He grinned softly, weakly. "Make me." "I could." "I'm waiting." "Hmmmm...let's see, I think I left my gun right over there in the bedside table..." "You're gonna have to do better than that. I know an empty threat when I hear it." "Oh, really?" she retorted, her fingers sweeping down to his left shoulder, tracing a scar roughly indented in the flesh there. "I'm the one who gave you this." Startlement flickered behind his eyes, his mouth falling open. "Why?" "Because you were going to kill Krycek. I had to stop you." This time he couldn't even get out a monosyllabic reply. "You thought he killed your father," she continued, knowing he'd probably want her to, "but if you'd killed Krycek, there would've been no way to prove you hadn't killed your father yourself. So I did what I thought was right at the time." He gazed up at her, his eyes still fever-bright, the look on his face tell-ing her he was processing what she'd just told him. "I, um...bet you were kicking yourself for that one a couple nights ago." "Not really," she replied quietly. "I mean, I regret causing you pain, but I never regretted stopping you from killing. If I hadn't, I would've lost you over a year ago." Smiling, she reached down, gently removing his hands, lifting herself off him, sliding onto the comforter by his side. It was chilly and damp, but she hardly noticed. "And now that we know what we're like together, I don't think that would've been a good thing, do you?" His only response was to take her hand and carry it to his lips. She sighed, biting her lip, glancing toward the window. She could see the maid's cart parked in front of another room across the way. In maybe half an hour she'd be knocking on their door. They had to leave; she'd felt it in the pit of her stomach since last night. They'd already raised enough suspicion with their request for no maid service the day before -- another such request would most certainly prompt the manager to investigate in person. "Mulder, I'm going to have to ask you for a big favor." "What?" "I need you to get dressed and walk out to the car like nothing's wrong." "But...I thought you said we were staying here until--" "Just be quiet and listen to me, okay? I'm still not sure exactly where we are, but this is a small town -- a small *Southern* town. And we're outsiders who've been shacked up in a motel room doing God knows what. That's bound to attract some notice." "But they've got no reason to suspect anything." "We've been here two days, Mulder. That's way too long. It's my fault, I should've had you get in that car with me yesterday, but I thought you'd be better today. We can't risk staying any longer. Any lead time we had's been eaten up by now." Her argument sank in slowly, and he nodded, the clouded look in his eyes starting to fade. "Okay," he said, shifting, trying to lift himself up. "I'll give it my best shot." It took a few minutes, but he finally managed to sit up, sliding his legs over the edge of the bed. But the effort made him slump over, elbows resting on his knees, breathing hard through his mouth. It tore her heart to see him like this, but she had to be strong, had to get him in his clothes, in the car before the maid got to their room. "C'mon," she said softly, wrapping her hand around his arm, helping him to his feet, "I'll give you another shot once we're away from here, if you want it. It'll help you sleep through most of the trip." He wobbled, teetered, would have fallen on his face if she hadn't been shoring him up. "I, um...think I need to use the bathroom, okay?" "That's fine. I rinsed out your t-shirt in the sink, it's hanging over the shower rail." She hesitated, uncertain whether she should let go of him. "Um...do you need help, or..." "If you want to hold my dick while I go, that's fine with me," he said with a grin. She glared at him, pushing his shoulder. "Get in there." "Yes, doctor. Anything you say, doctor..." He ducked inside a scant second before a very damp and heavy pillow thumped into the bathroom door. She listened for a minute or two, expecting to hear him fall, but to her relief, nothing happened. Snatching her bag, she started stuffing her things and his into it until it was full to bursting. That done, she turned to the bedside table, pulled open the drawer, finding a phone book, Bible and an ashtray with a pack of matches inside. Her breath hissed out in triumph when she saw the name of the motel stamped on the matchbook. The Breezyday Inn, Allport, North Carolina. Progress at last. The local map on the back cover of the phone book seemed to indicate they were about a hundred miles south of the Raleigh/Durham area. "Okay," she whispered, "so where to now?" They couldn't return to D.C., not until their present situation changed. She didn't even know why she'd asked him about it before; it was probably just her homesickness surfacing. She couldn't expose her mother, her family to the danger she'd be in if she came back now. And she couldn't go to the Bureau on this one, either. There had to be more than one copy of that video, and she'd bet her last dollar it was sitting on Skinner's desk or winging its way there right now. Of course, that didn't even take into consideration the fact that she'd been away without leave for almost a week. In all likelihood she no longer had a job to go back to. And even if she did, she wouldn't go back to it without Mulder at her side. So it looked like both their Bureau careers were smelling about as fresh as a month-old corpse. A pang of regret sailed through her, but she swiftly shuffled it aside. No time. She had to think of a place for them to hole up for a few days, at least until Mulder was well again. Too bad they couldn't drive up to his father's house on the Vineyard, but that was way too risky... And then it hit her. Jack Willis's cabin at Pine Barren. It lay further north, about a hundred and fifty miles from D.C., but she felt sure no one would think to look for them there. And the location was remote enough that Mulder could recuperate in relative quiet and privacy. She only hoped it hadn't been sold after Jack's death, but somehow she didn't think it had. At any rate, she really didn't have many more options open to her, unless they just found another motel in another town in another state and stayed there one night, then moved on again the next day. No. Mulder needed someplace he could rest. And it was her job to get him there. He stumbled out of the bathroom after about ten minutes, looking worn but more alert than he had since yesterday, wearing his jeans and grey sleeveless t-shirt. She'd have to stop somewhere along the way to buy him a couple changes of clothing; the t-shirt she could keep washing out in the sink, but the jeans looked like they could stand up in a corner by themselves. "Ready?" she asked, hoping she sounded more cheery than she felt. "As much as I'll ever be. Let's go." She picked up the soggy towels and deposited them in the bathroom sink and checked the room one final time before putting the key on the bedside table, then shutting the door. He ambled down the steps to the car, one hand up, trying to shield his eyes from the sun. He was doing his best to cover for anyone else who might be watching, but she could see how much the bright light was hurting him. They pulled out of the parking lot, headed for the nearest interstate. Then, after driving about twenty miles, she pulled off and into a gas station. "Might as well fill up now," she said, in answer to the look he shot her. "We've only got a quarter tank left." He nodded, slumping down in his seat, looking absolutely miserable. She stuck the pump in the gas tank and switched it on, then went into the mini-mart attached to the station and paid for fifteen dollars' worth of unleaded. Then something on the counter caught her eye, something black and sleek-looking. Sunglasses. Cheap sunglasses. Three dollars a pair. She bought two pair. The look he gave her when she handed them to him was so grateful, she thought it would shatter her heart. "Um...would you mind giving me that shot now? I really think I'm gonna need it." "Sure," she replied, pulling behind the station, reaching in the back seat for her bag, rummaging through it until she found a fresh vial and syringe. "Hold out your arm," she said, drawing the proper dosage into the syringe, then shooting the excess air from the end of the needle. She found a vein with no trouble at all, pierced it cleanly, injected the Valium, then gently withdrew the needle, folding back his elbow to seal the puncture. "Okay now?" "Yeah. Thanks," he mumbled. She sat there watching him until his features finally eased, relaxed, his head resting on the back of the seat. His breathing was so soft now she could barely hear it, but she took that as a good sign. She pointed herself at the northbound interstate, glancing at her watch. A little after nine. With any luck, they'd hit Pine Barren by mid-afternoon, if she didn't get lost somewhere along the way. She'd have to snag a map of the Virginia-Maryland-D.C. area when she stopped for gas next time. "Hang on, Mulder," she murmured, rubbing his shoulder. "We're almost there." * * *