The cabin looked deserted through its grimy front window, leaves 
scattered all over the floor, dust covering everything. Nobody'd been 
inside the place for months, if not years.

It was *perfect.* A gift from Heaven.

She walked back to the car, tapping on the half-rolled-down window until 
Mulder's head jerked up. "We're here," she said. "Come on."

She remembered Jack keeping a key under the mat for emergencies, and 
relief surged through her as she saw that it was still there. She hadn't 
wanted to break a window if she could help it.

The place smelled as stale and musty as it looked, but she didn't care. 
This was escape, refuge. Someplace where she could set aside her fears 
for awhile.

It was a small cabin, with a kitchen, a tiny living room, larger bedroom 
and a bathroom no bigger than a closet. Hot and cold running water, no 
electricity. Still, it'd serve their needs for the few days they'd be 
there. She could ask for nothing more.

He swayed on his feet, grabbing the wall to steady himself. She took his 
hand, led him to the bedroom, to the queen-sized brass bed there. It had 
no linens on it, so she sat him down in a chair by the bedroom door and 
started pawing through closets. She found blue cotton sheets, pillow 
cases and a matching comforter and made up the bed in record time.

He was slouching forward in the chair when she came back over to him, 
eyes still hazed and glassy from the Valium. Without asking, she pulled 
off his shoes, then motioned for him to lift his arms to allow her to 
pull his shirt over his head. He didn't protest.

Tugging his hand, she finally got him out of the chair and pulled him 
over to the bed, where she unbuckled his belt, unzipped him and skinned 
down his jeans, nudging him to step out of them. Her throat went 
suddenly dry when she saw his lack of underwear. She wondered how she 
could have missed it before.

He lay down on the crisp, cool sheets with a blissful sigh, sinking 
contentedly into the mattress, his eyes floating shut.

Satisfied that he was finally settled, she trudged back down to the car 
and unloaded the groceries she'd picked up in town. Since it was half an 
hour down the mountain to the nearest store, she'd thought it prudent to 
stock up on the essentials. She didn't want to have to leave him alone 
unless absolutely necessary.

There was no refrigerator and only a wood-burning stove, so her 
provisions were spartan, to say the least -- Lipton's chicken noodle 
soup, bottled water, eggs, canned fruit and vegetables. She'd grabbed 
just about anything that could last two or three days without being 
refrigerated. Mulder would need plenty of liquids and simple sugars to 
keep his body fueled through whatever lay ahead.

But she couldn't let herself think about that right now. She had a house 
to clean up.

She swept the leaves out of the kitchen and living room and wiped most 
of the dust off the surfaces she figured they'd be using, but after that 
she gave up. With any luck, they wouldn't be here long enough to worry 
about the rest.

She collapsed in the bedroom chair when she was done, watching him, his 
features peaceful, child-like in sleep. Then he turned over, opening his 
eyes, smiling at her. "What're you doing all the way over there?" he 
asked, patting the edge of the bed.

She came over, only intending to sit, but he slid to the middle of the 
bed, pulling her down next to him, spooning her. She stiffened for a 
moment, remembering the times she'd slept with Jack in this bed, then 
finally gave herself permission to relax. That was another time, another 
life. Mulder was here and now.

"Feeling better?" she asked, rubbing her cheek against his, savoring the 
warm, stubbly feel of it.

"A little bit. Guess I really needed all that sleep."

"You hungry?"

"Yeah," he whispered, his mouth teasing her earlobe. "I am."

"Mulder..."

"C'mon, d'you really think making love's gonna kill me?"

"It's been known to happen."

"Can't think of a better way to go than in your arms."

A protest rose to her lips, but died stillborn when she felt his fingers 
tracing tiny circles on her belly, slowly moving up to do the same with 
her nipples. Her flesh grew tight, pebbled under his touch, a sweet, 
stabbing ache starting between her thighs.

He warmed her with his soft, wonderful hands, setting every fiber of her 
from shoulder to waist on fire, finally slipping his hands under the 
waistband of her jeans, unzipping her, sliding the heavy material from 
her legs, tossing it onto the floor along with her panties.

Then she felt his fingers touching her there, gently probing, checking 
to see if she was ready for him. Shifting, she parted her legs for him, 
making sure he got the message. She'd been ready from the moment he'd 
first started caressing her.

But when she tried to roll onto her back, he stopped her with one hand 
at her waist. "I don't want to move out of this position," he said, 
brushing soft, wet kisses to her ear, the nape of her neck. "You feel so 
good this way..."

She knew what he was going to do before he did it, but that didn't stop 
her from moaning when he slid his hands under her bottom, lifting her, 
entering her from behind, sinking into her so deeply she could feel him 
under her skin--

He was everywhere at once -- within her, around her, behind her, in 
front of her, his hands and mouth doing things that made her pulse spin 
out of control, the blood in her head rush and roar--

And it hit her like a freight train at full steam, her vision 
splintering as the world crashed, unfurled like a ribbon of brilliant 
white light around her.

His eyes staring down at her in concern were the first thing she was 
aware of when she finally came back to herself. "God, you had me 
scared," he breathed, relief evident in his expression. "For a second 
there I thought you'd checked out permanently."

She said nothing, just let herself be pulled into his arms, resting 
against his chest. He was starting to get warm again; a glance at the 
bedroom window told her evening was quickly drawing near. That was when 
his fever usually spiked highest.

"Thank you," he whispered, kissing her forehead.

"For what?" He gave her a look that made her blush. "Oh, well...I 
enjoyed it too. As if you couldn't tell."

"It's a very sweet memory."

"And the last two times weren't?"

"This just felt...I don't know, special. Stolen, outside of time. Makes 
it all the more precious."

She was going to reply, but something in his voice made her stop. A 
slow, bone-deep chill coursed through her blood as she realized what he 
really meant.

He thought this was going to be their last time together.

"Mulder, you'll be fine," she said, willing her voice to steadiness. 
"Just give it a couple days..."

"Look, I know I don't have the flu. And I know those shots you've been 
giving me aren't antibiotics. Antibiotics don't knock you on your ass 
for hours at a time, then fog your brain for hours after that."

"No, they don't," she said softly. He already knew; she might as well 
make a clean breast of it. "You've had long-term exposure to a powerful 
drug. I'm not sure exactly what it is, but it obviously has 
hallucinogenic as well as narcotic properties."

"How? How was I exposed?"

"Through your apartment's water supply. I got sick when you gave me that 
glass of water to drink, but since it was only one dosage, my body threw 
it off fairly quickly. You, on the other hand..."

"Have three months' worth to throw off."

"Yes," she said. "The shots I've been giving you are Valium. You need 
them for rest, and to ease you through the rough patches. Otherwise 
you'd be up all night ripping your insides apart with vomiting."

"How much do you have left?"

"Two vials."

"Will that be enough?"

She hesitated, not wanting to tell him. But if she owed him anything, 
she owed him honesty. "I don't know. Let's cross that one when we get to 
it, okay?"

"*If* we get to it."

She sat up, stroking his arm. "Why don't we get something to eat? My 
stomach's been grumbling for the last hour."

They got up, got dressed -- she was pleased to see that he didn't need 
her help this time -- and padded into the kitchen, where she made 
chicken noodle soup over the wood-burning stove. She handed him a bowl 
and he slurped it down with relish. Her heart leaped with hope; he 
hadn't touched anything but water for the last two days.

They went outside for a few minutes after finishing their supper, 
looking up into the sky, enjoying the deep blue twilight. He took her 
hand as they strolled along, and for a moment she let herself pretend 
they were just an ordinary couple on vacation, lost in the evening and 
each other.

He drew her close, dusting light, sweet kisses on her forehead, her 
cheeks, her throat, tipping her chin to drink more deeply of her, their 
mouths melting together, speaking silent vows.

Her heart was pounding by the time she finally made herself pull away, 
gaze up into his eyes.

He didn't need to say the words. Neither did she.

They both just knew.

"I'm...um, a little tired," she murmured. "That drive today took a lot 
out of me."

"S'okay. Let's go in."

They locked the cabin up tight and got ready for bed, putting another 
blanket on top of the comforter. It was still cold in the mountains at 
night, even this late in the spring.

She paused in the bathroom doorway, watching him undress, waiting for 
him to turn toward her. "Do you want a shot now?"

"No," he said. "Let's save it until I really need it."

"But you probably will need it sometime around midnight--"

"Then give it to me then."

"Mulder..."

"Look, I don't want to go to sleep right now. I want to enjoy being with 
you. I've slept long enough today, all right?"

"Okay, fine. Whatever you want."

They climbed into bed together, holding each other close, silent, 
relaxed. She thought he'd wanted to make love again, but now he seemed 
content to simply lie next to her, stroking her hair, her shoulder.

His skin was growing warmer under her own, but she couldn't bring 
herself to say anything. This moment was too precious. She didn't want 
to ruin it.

*   *   *

His fever spiked to one hundred five degrees sometime past three a.m.

She'd given him a shot at his request around eleven, but that had only 
knocked him out for a couple hours. He'd woken up screaming from a 
nightmare, convulsing, tearing at the sheets, nearly tumbling out of 
bed.

Now all he could do was lie there, lips dry and open, chest heaving, 
gasping for breath, tossing his head on the pillow. She'd been talking 
to him, trying to get him to talk to her, but he hadn't seemed aware of 
anything outside himself for a very long time.

She had to get him cooled off, and fast.

Dashing into the bathroom, she started ripping drawers and cabinets 
open, looking for the bottle of rubbing alcohol she remembered Jack 
using to clean a gash he'd gotten that day he'd been teaching her to 
fish. It was under the sink, right next to an old porcelain basin.

She rinsed out the basin, poured the whole bottle of alcohol into it, 
filling it the rest of the way with icy tap water. Grabbing a towel, she 
carried it and the basin back to the bedroom, kneeling down by his side 
of the bed, setting the basin on the floor, soaking the towel in it.

She started with his face, bathing him from forehead to chin, squeezing 
the towel, letting the cold liquid trickle onto his skin, then moved 
down his throat, her fingers trembling, barely touching the febrile, 
sluggish pulse beating there.

Oh, God, Jesus God and Mary, she knew she should never have given him 
that shot. She'd given him more than last time because he'd seemed to 
need it, because he'd asked her to, because she hadn't been able to 
stand seeing the pain in his eyes.

She didn't need a PDR to tell her she'd overdosed him. She should have 
known better, should never have let her emotions sweep aside her sense 
of good judgment. This was her fault, just like him getting shot in the 
first place. If anything happened to him...

If he died...

It was on her. All on her.

She resoaked the towel, rinsing him down from neck to waist, then sat 
back on her heels, staring at him. He lay utterly still now, his head 
lolling, limp, broken-looking on the pale blue pillowcase. She could 
feel the warmth shimmering off him even from inches away.

But he was starting to look cooler, just a little cooler. She lay her 
hand over his cheek, testing. Yes, he really was cooler, it wasn't her 
imagination--

Then her hand brushed his lips, and she froze.

No breath. Not even a whisper.

She pressed two fingers to his throat, to his carotid artery.

No pulse.

Tearing back the blankets, she straddled him, bunching both hands over 
his chest, starting CPR, pumping his heart so hard she was sure she 
could've pushed her fingers through his skin, his flesh and pulled it 
out--

But he didn't move, even when she reared up and pummeled him with both 
fists, screaming, whimpering her frustration, her despair--

No good, none of it. Too late.

And this time she wouldn't get a second chance.

She rolled off him, onto the floor, onto the rug next to the bed, 
curling up in a ball, staring, her eyes focused on nothing. After 
awhile, awareness returned and she got up, stumbling into the living 
room, gazing out the window. The sky was turning grey, with light golden 
streaks in the background.

The floor, the air was chilly, digging its pointy teeth into her feet, 
her skin, but she didn't care. She felt it, but she didn't care.

Her bag was sitting on the kitchen counter. Reaching for it, she dumped 
what was left in it out on the table. Her gun skittered across the wood, 
landing in her lap.

She wasn't numb this time. She hurt. She ached and burned like someone 
had just hacked off her arm with a dull knife, then plunged that same 
knife straight through her.

It would be so easy...so easy to just pick up that gun and put it in her 
mouth and make the pain go away, make it go away forever...

But she couldn't, not now, at least. She couldn't leave him lying in 
that bed and just walk away. She couldn't leave him there for someone 
else to find.

She pulled a fresh pair of jeans and a sweater from the pile on the 
table and put them on, then stepped outside. To her surprise, it 
actually felt warmer out in the open than in the house.

It was there, out behind the tiny woodshed a few feet beyond the cabin. 
Soft, loamy earth, a clearing nestled between two tall trees.

She would bury him there, right there.

She got a shovel from the woodshed and set to work. After nearly three 
hours she stopped, filthy and exhausted, and turned back to the cabin.

She hung back, standing in the middle of the living room, staring at the 
bedroom door. She didn't want to go back in, didn't want to see him 
lying motionless in the bed where they'd made love only yesterday. In 
the bed where she'd convinced herself he was going to be okay, that all 
he needed was a little more time...

God, she could still feel his soft breath on her ear, the nape of her 
neck, hear his voice whispering dark, erotic things to her when he 
touched her, hear him moan when she touched him--

Her eyes snapped open, her ears pricking to sudden alertness. She 
could've sworn she'd just heard something. A low, half-moaning, 
half-rustling sound.

It had come from the bedroom.

He was trying to sit up when she came in, wincing, rubbing a hand over 
his chest. "Christ, what happened? I feel like I've been hit by a 
truck."

She made it to the bed before her legs could give out on her, but just 
barely. Reaching out, she touched his arm, felt the warm moisture beaded 
there, that same moisture sheening him from forehead to waist.

"The fever's broken," she whispered.

"Yeah. I woke up a few minutes ago, but you weren't here."

"I...I had to go outside for awhile."

"Outside? This early in the morning?" He took her hand, turned it over 
in his own. "How'd you get so dirty?"

She swallowed hard, feeling light-headed, shaky all over. He was alive. 
She'd come that close to putting a bullet in her brain, she'd gone out 
to dig his grave, and he was alive. "God, Mulder, I thought you 
were...you weren't breathing, I couldn't find your pulse. I tried CPR, 
but nothing happened."

He nodded, his hand covering his chest again. "So that's why..."

"Yes. I...I'm still at a loss to explain it, other than the fact that I 
probably gave you too much Valium last night. You must've lapsed into a 
coma. The fever breaking's what brought you out of it."

"I was in a coma, and you couldn't tell?"

"Well, I could have if I'd had a stethoscope. But there's only so much I 
can do without the proper tools."

"Hey, lighten up, okay?" he grinned. "Believe me, I'm ecstatic to be 
still among the living. How it happened doesn't really matter."

The basin was still sitting on the floor by the bed and she picked it 
up, soaking and wringing out the towel, bathing the perspiration from 
his body. Dark purplish-yellow marks were already blooming on his chest 
where she'd pounded him with her fists.

He caught hold of her hand as she wiped down his shoulder. "I remember," 
he said softly. "I remember everything, Scully."

A fine bolt of startlement sliced through her at the sound of her name. 
She'd gotten used to him not calling her anything at all.

"Everything?" she repeated weakly.

"Yeah."

"Us working together..."

"And you finding me in New York, and the motel, and here. All of it."

She drew in a slow, trembly breath, pulling her hand back to lay in her 
lap. "Are you sorry?"

"No. Are you?"

"No! Of course not."

"Then why are we suddenly acting so awkward with each other?"

"Would you...I mean, do you want...oh, God, I can't say this--"

"If you're trying to ask if I want to continue, the answer's yes. 
Absolutely yes." Pushing himself up, he smiled, giving her that intense 
hazel gaze that turned every bone in her body to water. "Not to change 
the subject, but what've we got for breakfast? I'm starving."

She cleaned herself up, then fixed him eggs and soup and opened a can of 
peaches and he still wanted more. She hadn't seen anyone eat so much 
since her brothers were in high school. By the time he was finished, 
their stash of groceries was almost entirely depleted.

"I was planning for this to last us two or three days," she sighed, 
eyeing the counterful of empty cans, eggshells and soup boxes.

"Sorry."

"S'okay. Since you're feeling better I guess we can drive down to town 
later on for lunch. But I think we need to get you some new clothes 
first. Otherwise I doubt there's a restaurant that will let us in."

They drove down the mountain a couple hours later, the midday sun 
blazing overhead, and headed straight for the nearest thing to a men's 
shop -- a mercantile with jeans, underwear and t-shirts stacked in the 
back of the store. They bought two pairs of jeans, four t-shirts and a 
couple packages of briefs. He changed into his new things in the 
dressing room, then they moved on down the street to the coffee shop.

He ordered a salad and roast beef sandwich and iced tea and scarfed it 
all down while she was in the ladies' room. She sipped her solitary 
coffee, laughing softly when he asked to see the dessert menu.

He shot her a half-hurt, half-teasing glance. "Hey, a guy's gotta keep 
up his strength with you around."

"Sure. No problem," she said, leaning her elbow on the table, her chin 
in her palm. "I'm just constantly amazed by you. In every way."

"And that's a good thing?"

"A very good thing."

She waited for him to finish his meal and slouch back in his seat before 
she said anything more. "So, where to now?"

"I don't know. Where do you want to go?"

"Where I want to go and where we're going are two totally different 
things. Let's not confuse the issue, Mulder. Some doors are closed to us 
now."

He nodded, tracing a pattern on his grimy paper placemat with his 
thumbnail. "Guess that means going back to D.C.'s out of the question. 
Any other ideas?"

She hesitated, mulling her thoughts. "Los Angeles."

"Why there?"

"That's where your...um, Cancerman said Allan Hargraves had gone. He'd 
have all the answers I couldn't give you." She stared down into her 
coffee cup, playing with its handle. "That is, if you want the answers."

"What do you think I want?"

"If it were me...I don't know, Mulder. I don't think I'd want to know. I 
don't think I could face having my whole life blown out of the water 
like that. But you...I think you have to know. I think you need to."

"You know me pretty well, don't you?"

"As well as you'll let me, I suppose."

A strange, slightly pained look flitted across his features, then was 
gone. "All right," he said finally. "L.A. it is."

"But in a couple of days, okay? You're still in the recovery process. So 
am I, for that matter."

"Better make it another week, then," he said when they got up to pay 
their check. "What I was planning to do with you tonight'll probably put 
us both in the hospital."

They stopped off for more groceries before heading back up to the cabin, 
this time stocking up heavily on everything. Apprehension pricked her 
when she saw how much the bill was, but she forked it over without 
comment. They had to eat.

He came up behind her as she was putting the last of their provisions 
away, his arms sliding around her waist. "You know, I'm kind of glad 
this happened when it did. If it'd happened a couple years ago, I don't 
think we would've gotten much work done."

She relaxed against him, resting her head on his shoulder. She'd been 
afraid that if his memory returned, he'd regret this new turn in their 
relationship. But now she wasn't sure whether to be relieved or dismayed 
by how enthusiastically he wanted it, wanted her.

It was what she'd told herself she wanted for the past three months. So 
why was she having misgivings now?

His kisses down the side of her throat soon swept her doubts away like 
old cobwebs. With a tug of his hand, she let him lead her to the 
bedroom.

They made long, slow, heartbreakingly tender love until the sunlight 
through the bedroom window had paled to watery yellow slashes.

Two more days, maybe three more, until their idyll here was over. Until 
the rest of the world came crashing back in.

Her mother was right. No matter how much time they had, it wasn't 
enough.

*   *   *

They left the cabin behind three days later, swinging up through
Virginia, then taking the interstate into Tennessee. The weather turned
hot and sticky their second day out, and rather than waste gas by
turning on the air conditioner, they rolled the windows all the way
down, letting the warm wind blow through their hair. He pulled her over
next to him, one arm around her, one wrist guiding the wheel. She
smiled, feeling suddenly like a teenager out on a date.

They'd done a lot of talking since his recovery, and it had become clear
that his memory hadn't returned completely. He remembered everything
that had happened since he'd woken up in the apartment in New York. His
cognitive abilities and accumulated knowledge also seemed to be intact.

But so were his memories of Samantha and her abduction, of his parents,
his childhood on the Vineyard. He claimed to have no recollection of
what his mother had told her, of his father's abuse, or of the alleged
experiments his father had let Allan Hargraves perform on him. Either
his mind had blanked it out, or he just wasn't ready to talk about it
yet.

She suspected the latter, but she wasn't about to force it. He'd tell
her when the time was right.

She had no clear theory as to why his memory had suddenly returned.
Maybe the coma had provided a necessary shock to his brain as well as
his body. Maybe part of the drug's purpose was to keep his mind clouded.
That would certainly explain why he'd gone through such agony
withdrawing from it.

He remembered everything about the last three years, too, as well as his
early years with the Bureau, in Violent Crimes. So at least she didn't
have to explain their past relationship to him anymore.

Their past relationship...God, it seemed like a hundred years ago that
they'd been working together, partners, watching each other's backs,
always there for each other, always careful never to acknowledge the way
they really felt, for fear that doing so would change things between
them, ruin everything.

That had been her fear, at least. The same fear she'd confided to her
mother the night she thought he'd died in the hospital. Well, things had
changed between them now, irrevocably, irretrievably. And nothing had
been ruined.

Had it?

No, of course it hadn't. They still talked, still told each other
everything. As much as they felt comfortable with, anyway.

They were heading into uncharted territory. Sensations, emotions were
still new between them. She'd lost her physical virginity at nineteen,
but every time with Mulder felt like the first. She'd cared deeply for
Jack during their year together, had even had herself halfway convinced
that she was in love with him, but that relationship bore no resemblance
to this one. Compared to Mulder, everything else paled.

But if he shared or even sensed her qualms, he certainly gave no outward
sign of it. In fact, he seemed happier than she'd ever seen him in the
entire three years they'd known each other, cracking jokes all the time,
teasing her. Just like the old Mulder, only more so.

She wasn't sure whether she should feel flattered or disconcerted that
she was having this kind of effect on him.

Then again, maybe she shouldn't take it so personally. Maybe the
prospect of regular sex every night was enough to turn any guy into a
grinning idiot.

He turned off at the next exit without asking her, swinging into the
parking lot of a tiny Mom-and-Dad grocery store. They went inside,
bought sandwiches, sodas and chips, then got back in the car, driving on
until they saw a green, relatively cool-looking spot near a silver strip
of water. He glanced at her, waiting for her approval.

"Looks good," she answered. "Let's stop."

He parked the car in the ample shade of a tall tree, then opened the
trunk, pulling out one of the blankets they'd brought with them from the
cabin, following her down to the water's edge, spreading the cloth out
on the ground.

They sat and ate in silence, savoring the breeze blowing softly across
the water, blessed relief feathering their moist skin. She pulled her
hair up off the back of her neck, rummaging in her pocket for a clip,
pinning it into a loose twist.

"Wish I could do that," he said, shaking his own hair back, swiping at a
few strands that wouldn't stay. "Next place we get to, you're gonna have
to buy some scissors and cut this for me. It's driving me crazy."

She smiled, rolling onto her stomach beside him, tweaking a stray lock.
"You sure? I'm getting used to it long. Makes you look like a bad boy."

She'd never seen anybody so stunned -- for a grand total of about five
seconds. Then, laughing, he grabbed her around the waist, pulling her on
top of him. "Is that what you want me to be?"

"Sounds good for a start."

"God, who'd believe it -- the cool, unflappable Dr. Dana Scully,
harboring such a wild fantasy. What else're you hiding from me under
than deceptively prim exterior?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised."

"After the bombshell you just dropped, not a chance."

"Is that a *challenge* I hear?"

"Yeah. Shock me. I dare you."

She couldn't not rise to bait like that. Sitting back, her thighs
straddling his, she reached into the waistband of her jeans and pulled
her white cotton t-shirt over her head. Then, looking him right in the
eye, she unfastened the front closure of her bra, letting it hang open
for a tantalizing second or two, then peeled it from her sweaty skin.

He said nothing, just stared up at her, at her breasts, into her eyes,
his lips parting.

"Looks like you lose," she whispered, closing her eyes, throwing her
head back, raising up her arms, arching her back as she stretched,
extending herself up into the breeze's path. It was perfect, just enough
to make her nipples draw up into tight little rosebuds.

And that wasn't the only thing getting tight. She could feel him, her
crotch pressed to his through two layers of rough denim, and the
sensation sent a ripple of something incredible radiating through her,
something exhilarating, empowering.

He wanted her as much as she did him, right here, right now. She could
do anything she'd ever wanted, everything she'd imagined in her deepest
dreams, and he would let her. Without question.

Sudden apprehension nagged, and her glance darted toward the car, under
the tree, blocking the view of any possible passersby. She wondered if
he'd parked it there for just that reason.

She leaned down, stretching out flat on top of him, her face hovering a
scant inch above his, dipping down, stopping just before their mouths
touched, close enough to taste his breath. He didn't move, just looked
up at her, waiting. Waiting for her.

She kissed the smooth line of his chin, his throat, yanked up his shirt
to work her way down his chest, smiling at his whimper of frustration,
knowing he'd wanted her mouth on his, deliberately denying him that
pleasure. He squirmed, reaching for her, trying to bring her back up to
him.

She grabbed his wrists, pinning them to the ground on either side of his
head. "Relax. Let me do the work for once."

"I'm gonna get you for this..."

Laughing, she licked a long squiggly line down to his belly, pausing at
the waistband of his jeans for an interminable moment, playing with his
fly button--

And the next thing she knew, she was flipped over on her back on the
blanket, his mouth coming down hard, tongue thrusting between her lips--

And she pushed him up and away, too stunned and angry to say anything.

"Sorry," he said, grinning, "but you were taking too long."

He tried to kiss her again, but she stopped him with a hard punch to the
chest, right where she'd bruised him the other day.

"Ow!" he cried, falling off her, onto the other side of the blanket.
"What the hell was that for?"

She scrambled up, off the blanket, grabbing her discarded bra and
t-shirt, marching toward the car, shaking with fury. She was just
pulling the shirt back over her head when she heard him come up behind
her.

"Would you mind telling me what I did?" he said.

She gaped at him, then laughed softly, bitterly. She didn't know why she
was so surprised that he didn't get it. God knew, it wouldn't be the
first time. "Exactly what I didn't want you to do."

"Since when is wanting to kiss you a crime?"

"That's not the point, and you know it. I wanted to make love to you
this time, and you just couldn't let me. You just couldn't give up your
precious control." Opening the car door, she got in, slamming it behind
her.

He came up, kneeling down, fingers hooked over the window rim. "I
thought we were making love to each other. I thought that's what we
always did. What, are you telling me I've been wrong all this time?"

"It's just like when we were working together -- whenever I disagreed
with you, whenever you felt you didn't have the upper hand, you'd start
acting like a jerk. Just like now. You don't give a damn what I want, do
you?"

"Scully, I never said--"

"You didn't have to."

That shut him up, but only for a second or two. "Okay, I'm sorry. I
didn't mean to upset you," he said, his tone apologetic, genuinely
sincere. "Next time we make love, I'll do whatever you want. Even if it
kills me," he added, grinning.

She nodded, but said nothing more until after he'd gone back to gather
up the blanket, then got back in the car. "Mulder, you know...sex isn't
really the issue here. You're not the senior partner in this
relationship anymore. I don't have to follow your lead, and frankly, I
don't want to all the time. I think we need to learn a little give and
take."

He thought about it awhile, then nodded. "Sounds fair to me. Want to get
going?"

Not exactly the answer she'd been hoping for, but it'd have to do for
now. "Sure. Fine. Whatever."

They drove on until evening, stopping at a motel just off the
interstate. She was so tired she didn't even feel like eating, just hit
the shower while he trudged down to the motel coffee shop to get
something for himself.

She got a surprise when she peeled off her panties, though -- a long,
slow trickle of red running down her legs. Glancing at her panties, she
saw they were soaked through, as was the crotch of her jeans. She'd felt
it, but thought she'd just been perspiring. It had never occurred to
her--

But it should have. She'd lost count of how many times they'd had sex
over the past week and a half, neither of them giving a thought to
protection. She sank down on the toilet seat, her legs suddenly
unsteady. They'd gotten lucky. *Incredibly* lucky.

She heard him come in a minute or two later. "Mulder," she called
through the door, "could you come here a second?"

"You okay?" he asked when she opened it a crack.

"Yeah, I...um, just need you to go to the drug store for me."

"Sure. What do you need?"

"Some Tampax."

He stared at her, realization finally dawning. "*Oh.*"

"Are you okay with that, or do you want me to go?"

"No...no, you're...I mean, you're in no condition to--" He stopped,
rubbing a hand over his face. "I've...um, never bought this sort of
thing before. You're gonna have to tell me what to get."

"Regular tampons'll be fine. Ask somebody in the store if you get
stuck."

"Are you kidding?"

She almost didn't get the door shut in time to keep him from seeing her
burst out in a fit of giggles.

She found the box of tampons sitting on the edge of the sink when she
got out of the shower, and him waiting for her in the bedroom when she
finally emerged from the bathroom. "Thanks, Mulder," she said. "It was
really sweet of you to do that for me."

"That's not the only thing I did," he replied, holding up a pair of
scissors. "I know you like it long, but you gotta get it out of my eyes.
I draw the line at wearing a baseball cap backwards."

"Okay," she smiled. "Go stick your head under the faucet for a second
and bring a towel and my comb with you. I can't cut it dry."

She trimmed the front and took about an inch and a half off all around,
regretting it but knowing it'd make him more comfortable. He'd be a lot
cooler without all that hair hanging down the back of his neck.

She put the scissors and comb down on the bedside table when she was
done, her glance caught by a purple and silver box laying there.

Condoms.

He saw her staring at them. "That okay with you?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yeah, it's, um...a good idea. Thanks. I'm glad one of us
was finally thinking."

"I brought you a sandwich," he said, nodding toward the table by the
window. "Figured you'd get hungry sooner or later."

She was, she realized, not enough to make her stomach rumble, but enough
to give it pangs. He'd brought her a turkey sandwich with all the
trimmings, some chips, and two bottles of beer. Well, at least the
sandwich and chips were for her.

She drank one of the beers herself with her dinner, handing him the last
one when she came over to the bed to lie down next to him. He was
looking at a map of the Tennessee-Kentucky area, reviewing their route.

"How many miles today?" she asked.

"'Bout five hundred. We're making pretty good time." After a few minutes
he set the map aside, putting his arm around her, pulling her close. "I
don't think there's anybody coming after us. I've been watching the road
for the last two days, and there's no sign we're being tailed. Either we
lost them somewhere along the line, or..."

"They were never following us in the first place. And you're wondering
why."

"Wouldn't you? I mean, I'm kinda insulted. According to you, I'm their
prize guinea pig. Why would they let me get away so easily?"

"I don't know, but let's not question good luck right now, okay? I'm not
up to mulling all the possibilities tonight."

"But..."

"Shhh. Come on, Mulder, I'm tired."

She fell asleep with his arms still around her and the TV casting an
eerie blue glow over both of them.

*   *   *

The car blew a rod somewhere outside Chicago. They left it by the side
of the road and walked five miles to the nearest suburb.

And that wasn't their only problem. When she opened her wallet to pay
for their lunch, she saw two twenty dollar bills. Forty dollars. They'd
had over two hundred when they'd left Pine Barren. "Mulder, how much
money do you have?"

He rummaged through his pockets, coming up with another eight and some
change.

"I think we're in trouble," she said, showing him what she had.

"Guess it's time to break out the big guns." Fishing in his pocket
again, he pulled out a Visa card.

"Mulder, you're dead, remember? That card won't work. Your mother closed
all your accounts months ago." She stared into her plate, sighing.
"We'll have to use mine."

They found an ATM and she withdrew the daily maximum from her checking
and savings accounts, three hundred from each. She had over two thousand
in her checking and five in savings, but she'd have to go into a bank to
take it out, and that was too chancy. Still, she wondered if she'd be
able to withdraw anything tomorrow. She was surprised her accounts
hadn't been frozen already.

"What now, partner?" he asked when she flashed her wallet at him,
showing him she'd gotten the money.

"Well, I guess we can get to L.A. just as easily on a plane as in a car.
If we're going to give my credit card a workout, we may as well go for
broke."

"I like the way your mind works."

They caught a cab to O'Hare Airport and bought two tickets to Los
Angeles on the two-thirty flight. Her credit card went through without a
hitch.

They got off the plane just after seven that night. Mulder wrinkled his
nose at the sight of the smoggy California sky, but didn't say anything
until they'd rented another car -- at a different agency than the one
where she'd rented the car they'd ditched earlier in the day.

"Let's drive up through the hills, look at the ocean," he suggested,
taking the keys. "I'm not ready to look for a place to stay yet."

Neither was she, she realized. Maybe she was still wired from the
flight. She never could sleep on planes. "Sounds good to me."

The sun loomed blood-red and dying over the mountains as they got on the
Pacific Coast Highway, heading toward Malibu. The sea glinted at her,
silver, then blue-green and choppy, like it couldn't make up its mind.
It seemed to go on forever, extending all the way to the horizon.

He pulled off on the shoulder of the road a few miles up, getting out,
not waiting to see if she was coming too. Hands stuffed in his pockets,
he gazed out at the ocean, his expression closed, unreadable. She hadn't
seen him like this in a long time.

He didn't react when she came up beside him, rubbing his shoulder. "I
don't think I'll ever be able to look at the ocean without thinking of
my father. He spent more time at sea when I was growing up than with us.
I don't know how my mother stood it. Guess people'll do whatever they
have to for love."

"Will they?"

"I will."

He looked at her then, half-smiling, leaning in for a kiss. "You already
have. You've given up everything for me. I hope you don't regret it
someday."

"If I had it all to do again, I wouldn't change a thing."

"It's still not too late. You can go back. You've still got your family,
maybe you can even convince the Bureau to reinstate you--"

"No. I'm right where I want to be. For today and tomorrow and every day
I see down the line."

He took her hand and they walked back to the car together, watching the
sun start to disappear behind the thin black line in the distance. He
turned, opening the door for her--

And froze, staring off into the hills, transfixed by what he saw there.
He murmured something she couldn't make out.

"Mulder, what's the matter? Are you okay?"

The sound of her voice seemed to bring him out of it, and he got back in
the car, started it, pulled back out onto the road. This time he headed
into the hills, ignoring her pleas for an explanation. Finally she just
sat back and waited. They'd get there eventually.

They drove around in circles for almost an hour, through streets and
streets of houses, up cul-de-sacs that led nowhere, finally stopping in
front of what looked like a WWII bomb site. If there had ever been a
house here, all trace of it was gone now. The ground was burned black
and brown and red, like an advertisement for scorched earth.

He started to get out, but she grabbed hold of his arm. "Mulder, what
are you doing? There's nothing here. It's just a hole in the ground."

For a second he looked like he was going to shake her off and get out
any-way, but then he just fell back in his seat, letting out a sound
halfway between a laugh and a sob. "Yeah," he said thickly. "You're
right. You're always right. Just a fucking hole in the ground."

And he pulled back out into the street, tearing down the hill at
seventy-five miles an hour, turning on the radio, turning it up until it
nearly split her eardrums.

I tell you how I feel but you don't care
I say tell me the truth, but you don't dare
You say love is a hell you cannot bear
And I say give me mine back and then go there -- for all I care

I got my feet on the ground and I don't go to sleep to dream
You got your head in the clouds and you're not at all what you
      seem...

He didn't stop until they hit town traffic, and even then he was jetting
in between other cars, almost getting sideswiped a few times.

That was it. She'd had enough. When they finally stopped at a traffic
light, she switched off the radio, snatching the keys out of the
ignition.

It got his attention, at least. "Hey, what the hell're you--"

"You're going to pull in at the first hotel we get to and let me out. At
this point I don't give a damn if you come with me or not."

The light turned green, and the cars behind them started honking.
"Deal?" she said, holding the keys out of his reach.

He nodded, took the keys from her, driving on. The next hotel was four
blocks up. He turned in, parked and got out with her. She was actually a
little bit surprised that he did.

Her credit card got them better accommodations than they'd become used
to over the last week -- this time the bed was king-sized, and the
bathtub looked big enough for both of them to stretch out in at the same
time. How fortunate, she thought acidly, since as far as she was
concerned, that's where he'd be sleeping tonight.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed when she came back into the
bedroom, a sheepish look on his face. "Look, I'm sorry about what
happened. I don't know what got into me."

"Neither do I," she replied, sitting down beside him. "Everything was
fine one minute, and the next you're driving like a crazy man. You
could've gotten us killed, Mulder. You got pretty close to the edge of
that highway a few times."

"I'm sorry I scared you. It won't happen again."

"It's not myself I'm scared for," she said, lying back on the bed,
pulling him down next to her. "You want to talk about it?"

"Not yet, okay? I'm still processing it myself."

His eyes looked so sad, so pained it hurt her inside. "Okay. I'll be
here whenever you're ready."

The corners of his mouth quirked up, and he kissed her softly. "I know
what I'm ready for now." Rolling on top of her, he started tugging at
her t-shirt, his hands sliding beneath it, palming her breasts, his
mouth on hers, teasing her lips open.

She pushed him away gently, breaking the kiss. "Come on, you know we
can't. I'm still off limits for the next couple of days."

"So that means we can't play a little anyway?"

She groaned, feeling that familiar stabbing ache down between her
thighs. Only he could make her want him at a time like this. Well, if
push came to shove, she could use her hands and mouth on him. At least
one of them would get some satisfaction out of this.

She let him pull her shirt over her head, gasping as she felt his mouth
close over one nipple, sucking softly, gently, his tongue doing things
that never failed to drive her crazy, flicking, laving, swirling over
her skin. Then she felt his fingers at the waistband of her jeans,
easing down the zipper--

And she jerked back, trying to wriggle away, but he held onto her with a
grip of iron. "Come on, Mulder, stop it. I'm still bleeding--"

"I don't care."

"I do. We'll get blood all over!"

"No, we won't. I'll be careful. I won't hurt you."

God, the way he was looking at her, so full of love and naked desire,
threatened to rip her heart apart. Whatever he needed, she would give
him.

"All right," she murmured, "but let's be safe this time."

He knew exactly what she meant; with a quick kiss, he got up and went
into the bathroom. She took the opportunity to remove her jeans, then
her tampon, disposing of it in a trash can by the door before he came
back with the box of condoms and a towel. Easing her up, he slid the
towel under her.

"My turn," she said, inching up his shirt, kissing every millimeter of
skin as she bared it, finally working her way up to his mouth. He
shrugged the rest of the way out of it himself, taking hold of her hand,
moving it down.

"Feel what you do to me," he whispered. "Feel how crazy you make me..."

She felt it, right there beneath her hand, through his jeans; she
couldn't get him unzipped fast enough. His flesh sprang free, into her
palm, steel encased in velvet, painfully swollen, ready for her.
Reaching for the silver and purple box, she slit it open with her
thumbnail, pulling out a single shiny packet, tearing it open.

The sound he made when she rolled it on him was the sweetest declaration
of love she'd ever heard, making her laugh with the sheer delight of it.
And so did he, coming on top of her, his hands under her, holding her
for his first thrust--

She started coming the instant he was all the way inside her, filling
her to overflowing, moving in her, rocking her slowly, instinctively
knowing this was how she wanted it--

Her muscles milking him sent him right over the edge, and he gave one
last, incredibly deep push into her, gasping, moaning deeply, finally
going still.

The next thing she was aware of was him lying next to her, head resting
on her belly. He seemed to like doing that, she thought, smiling lazily,
tousling his hair. He looked so relaxed now, so happy, all remnants of
the evening's previous events pushed aside.

Plenty of time to deal with that later. Now was for love, for enjoying
each other.

"Sorry," he said softly, looking up at her. "I didn't mean to be so
quick. You deserve better than some cheap wham-bam."

"Do I look unsatisfied to you?"

"Well, no, but.."

"So don't worry about it. And it wasn't cheap, it was incredible. If
that's your idea of a wham-bam, I'll take one every day."

"I'll see if I can fit you into my schedule."

They lay there together for a long time, touching, kissing, staring at
the cream-colored ceiling. She giggled when she felt his mouth inching
down her belly, the stubble on his chin tickling the inside of one
thigh. "You can't do that now, so you might as well stop it."

"Who says I can't?" She jumped as his fingers brushed her clitoris,
almost making her come again. "Jesus, you smell so damned good...I could
drink you down like wine..."

Something in his voice sent a jagged bolt of fear shooting through her,
his words suddenly taking on a disturbing new spin. Sitting up abruptly,
she pushed him away.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Why did you say that?"

"Because I felt like it. Why?"

"Mulder, did you hear yourself? I mean, it sounded like you wanted
to..." She trailed off, nausea welling in her stomach. God, she couldn't
even bring herself to think it, much less say it. "You're scaring me."

"What, because of what I said?" His expression was sincerely, totally
bewildered. He really didn't know what she was talking about.

Maybe she didn't either. Maybe she was reading too much into this. So he
had a few kinks; she should have suspected as much from his interest in
skin magazines and adult videos. What was she going to do, kick him out
of her bed, end their affair right here and now?

No. She loved this man to desperation, to distraction. If he had unusual
tastes, she'd simply have to learn to accommodate them. "Forget it.
Guess I'm still a little edgy from that plane ride."

"Never seemed to bother you before."

She shrugged, forcing a smile. "I think I'll take a shower, then we can
go grab some dinner, okay?"

"Sure."

She was already in the bathroom before she remembered she needed a fresh
tampon, and they weren't in her bag; she must have left the box in the
bedroom. Sighing, she went back in.

Mulder was sitting on the edge of the bed, turned profile toward her,
staring at his hand. His fingers were red, streaked with her blood.

And she froze, watching in sick, paralyzed horror as he carried his hand
to his mouth, licking the blood away, a look of pure, utter ecstasy on
his face.

She backed away, into the bathroom, closing the door, locking it.

God, no, this couldn't be happening. She'd thought they'd gotten through
the worst, that his memory coming back was the turning point for them.
But it wasn't that easy. It was never that easy.

Whatever they'd done to him, it was far from over.

And this time she had no idea how to help him.

*   *   *

She was staring down into her plate, avoiding his gaze, avoiding him.

She hadn't looked him in the eye since last night. She'd come out of the
bathroom looking pale as new snow and picked at her dinner when they
went out, despite the fact that she'd seemed hungry earlier.

Then when they'd come back she'd climbed into bed and turned toward the
wall, effectively letting him know she didn't want to be bothered.

And she'd said barely twenty words to him since they got up this
morning.

"You okay?" he asked finally, glancing at their breakfast check.

"Yeah, fine," she answered a bit too quickly. "Why?"

"I don't know, you've been acting funny since last night. You still
freaking out over what I said?"

"I didn't freak out, I was just...startled, that's all. I thought we'd
gone over this already."

"So why are you still upset?"

"I'm *not.*"

"Could've fooled me."

She sighed, rubbing the space between her eyes. "Could we please change
the subject?"

She was using that tone again -- brittle, snappish, the one that told
him he'd best back off. "Okay, fine. So where are we going today?  I
assume you've given it some thought?"

She rummaged in her bag, pulling out a notepad. "Allan Hargraves taught
at UCLA for over five years. Maybe somebody there will be able to give
us a lead."

"Isn't that kind of a long shot? Anybody who worked with Hargraves would
be in their sixties or seventies by now. They're probably all either
retired or dead."

"Well, if you've got a better idea, let's hear it."

He stared at her, into her half-averted eyes, clear, deep blue.
Something shone there in them, something he'd at first taken for anger,
then saw was something else entirely. He'd seen it before, not long ago,
in Cathy's eyes.

Apprehension. Anxiety.

*Fear.*

She was afraid. Afraid to look at him. Afraid to touch him, or let him
touch her. She'd tugged her hand away when he'd reached for it across
the table.

He waited until they reached the car before pulling her close to him.
She tried to wriggle away, but he backed her up against the car,
blocking her only means of escape. She could barely suppress a shudder
when he stroked her cheek, tipping her chin upward.

"Could we please put whatever went wrong yesterday behind us?" he asked.
"You know I'd sooner shoot myself than hurt you."

"Mulder, don't talk like that..."

"You do know that, don't you?"

She closed her eyes a moment, swallowing hard, finally returning his
gaze. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears, now more pained-looking than
fearful. "I know. But I just get so scared sometimes--"

"You think you're the only one? I've been fucking terrified ever since
we left New York."

"Well, you sure do a good job covering it up."

"Guess I got too preoccupied with almost dying. Next time I'll be sure
to let you know in advance."

She smiled in spite of herself, her arms wrapping around his waist,
resting her head on his chest, tucked right under his chin.

God, she really had no idea how precious she was to him, how happy she
made him, how aware he was of how much she loved him. She'd cared for
him when he was at the death's brink, felt his pain and fever of
withdrawal even more deeply than he had himself.

She didn't know that he'd walked out behind the cabin the day after he'd
recovered, that he'd seen the mound of rust-brown earth there between
the two trees, the shovel laying on the ground beside it.

She'd dug his grave with her own hands, and he'd nearly laid her in hers
last night, almost driven her off the edge of a fucking cliff.

She hadn't wanted to make love last night either, but she'd given in to
make him happy, even after he'd conveniently forgotten his promise to
let her take the lead next time.

She'd been right a couple days ago -- all he cared about was himself,
his own pleasure. He might've gotten her pregnant, for Chrissakes.
Another of his burdens for her to shoulder. It was only by purest chance
that he hadn't.

He didn't deserve her. No other woman would have put up with all the
bullshit and emotional baggage he carried around with him. Every night
when he went to sleep he half-expected her to be gone the next morning,
and every morning he opened his eyes to find her still there.

And every day he wondered how much longer she would stay.

"I hope there won't be a next time," he added, kissing the top of her
head, stroking her hair. "You've been through hell enough."

She pressed her lips to his throat, looking up at him. "So, where to
now? UCLA?"

"I love the smell of academia in the morning."

He couldn't help noticing an actual bounce in her step when she came out
of the administration building an hour later, waving a copy of the
faculty roster.

"You're not going to believe this," she said, flipping it open to the
biochemistry department, pointing. "Margaret Hargraves, M.D., department
chair."

"His widow?"

"Daughter. And her office is two buildings down."

The office was empty, but the door didn't appear to be locked, so they
started to go in to wait.

"May I help you?" came a voice from a few steps down the hallway. A
tall, dark-haired woman in her early to mid-forties approached,
frowning, obviously preoccupied with the pile of books she was carrying.
"I'm afraid office hours aren't until this afternoon."

"Dr. Hargraves?" he asked.

"Yes."

"We're not students. We'd just like to talk to you."

Her green eyes darted between the two of them. "You'll have to make an
appointment. I'm very busy right now with finals."

"It's about your father."

Her mouth fell open slightly, her eyes widening. "My father died forty
years ago. What could you possibly want to know about him?"

"*Gemini.*"

She swayed against the wall, going as white as its coat of paint. "Come
in," she said, opening the door, flicking on the light.

It was more cubbyhole than office, every shelf and surface packed and
stacked with books and papers. Reminded him of his old office down in
the Bureau basement. One glance at Scully told him she was thinking the
same thing.

Dr. Hargraves set down her books, dropped into a chair, not bothering to
offer them a seat. There wasn't anyplace to sit anyway. "What do you
want?"

They fell into their old routine like they'd done it only yesterday, him
cuing her with a nod to take the lead as he circled the desk, glancing
at the nearest bookshelf, his gaze caught by something sticking up
between two books.

A blurry Polaroid snapshot. It looked fairly recent, no more than a year
old. Margaret Hargraves with a man. An older man with salt-and-pepper
hair. He palmed it, folding it in half, slipping it into his pocket.

"We were wondering if you could tell us where we might find your
father," Scully said.

The professor let out a bitter chuckle. "In Queen of Heaven cemetery,
where's he's been since I was six. Who are you, anyway? What are you
doing here?"

"We have reason to believe he's still alive."

"Well, that's one more reason than either I or my mother have. If this
is a joke, it's a sick one. Get the hell out of my office."

"Really?" he replied, swinging around. "Then why'd you look like you
were going to have a heart attack when we mentioned him?"

"And Gemini," Scully added.

"The neurology department has all my father's papers on Gemini in their
archive. Go ask them your questions." When they didn't move, she reached
for the phone. "Leave, or I'm calling security."

"C'mon, let's go. There's no point," he said softly, taking Scully's
elbow, steering her out the door. "Well, she'd never win a poker-face
contest," he said once they were halfway down the stairs.

"That's for sure. How much do you think she knows?"

"At least this much," he said, pulling out the snapshot, smoothing the
crease he'd put in it with his thumb. "That's the doctor Cancerman had
treating my bullet wound."

"It's the surgeon I spoke with when you were in the hospital. And the
man in the photo with your father and Cancerman. It's him, Mulder. Allan
Hargraves. It has to be."

They remained silent until they got back to the car, started back to the
hotel.

"She's scared to death, Mulder," she said finally. "I don't think we can
expect any cooperation, even if we wait a day or so for the shock to
wear off."

"Which is why we're going to keep an eye on her, see if she leads us
anywhere."

"We?"

"Okay, fine, if you'd rather not..."

"I didn't say that, but -- wait a minute." She looked at him, lips
parted, incredulous. "Did I hear you right? Are you suggesting we pull a
stakeout on Margaret Hargraves?"

To his surprise, she actually sounded enthusiastic, excited. "Bad food,
pine-scented air freshener, non-stop baseball on the radio. Just like
old times."

She shook her head, smiling. "You're impossible."

"I'll toast you with root beer every night. How 'bout it?"

"Sure, why not. It's not like I'll be having any fun in that hotel room
by myself."

He took her hand, kissing the palm. "Thanks. I'm touched."

"Only in the head."

Their eyes locked, and suddenly her smile faded, memories of the past
week and a half leeching the humor out of the moment for both of them.

Glancing out the window, she watched the high-rises fly by until they
finally pulled back into the hotel parking lot.
                              
*   *   *

She chewed the last bite of her dinner, shifting in her car seat,
staring straight ahead, mulling. Something was making her stomach churn,
and she didn't think it was the sandwich she'd just choked down.

She had a bad feeling about this, sitting out here in the dark in front
of Margaret Hargraves's house. They'd been doing it for the last two
nights, without a single sign that they'd been seen, or even suspected.
That in itself was strange, considering how upset the professor had been
when they'd left her office the other day.

But now that she'd had a chance to think about it, it all seemed
strange, even weird -- their trip to L.A., finding Margaret Hargraves
the very next day. Easy. Too easy...

She felt his hand on hers, looked over at him. "I'm gonna try to catch a
few z's, okay?" he said, reaching under his seat to adjust it backward.

She stifled a sigh. "Why don't we just go back to the hotel? Nothing's
going to happen tonight if it hasn't already."

Her glance followed his to the clock on the dashboard. One-thirty a.m.
"Let's give it another hour or two, okay? At least until she turns the
lights out in there. She must be having tons of fun correcting those
exam papers."

"Okay. Get some sleep if you can."

He seemed to drop off almost instantly, his features relaxing into that
sleepy-little-boy expression that turned her insides to jelly.

They hadn't spoken anymore about what'd happened the night they arrived
in L.A., either the frantic car ride through the Malibu hills or their
lovemaking session at the hotel; apparently he thought their
conversation in the hotel parking lot the other morning had resolved
everything.

But it hadn't, not for her, at least. Whenever she remembered the way
he'd looked at her blood glistening on his hand, like it was the most
beautiful thing he'd ever seen, she couldn't stop her shuddering.

She'd tried to push it out of her mind, like everything else she hadn't
wanted to think about over the last three months, but this time her
brain wouldn't obey her. He was the man she loved, and seeing him like
that had repulsed her. And no matter how hard she tried, she simply
couldn't get past that.

She wondered if he'd sensed her new reticence toward him. He must have,
she supposed, because he hadn't tried to initiate sex since that night.
He'd held and kissed her when they lay in bed together, but nothing
else. Maybe he was too tired from their all-nighters here. Maybe he was
just honoring his promise of a few days ago to let her make the first
move. But every time she tried, she froze.

God, the look on his face...she'd never seen anything like it before,
and prayed she never would again...eerie, zoned-out, almost like he was
dreaming with his eyes open, in some kind of trance.

And she wasn't sure whether to be more or less frightened by the fact
that he seemed to have no memory of it. Just as he seemed to have no
memory of his father's abuse or Allan Hargraves's experiments. Maybe he
wasn't repressing. Maybe those memories had been erased by whatever
Hargraves had done to him. Maybe he'd suffer from blackouts like the
other night for the rest of his life.

Maybe he'd never recover what he'd lost. Maybe the best he could hope
for was to put his life back together as best he could and go on from
there.

She lay her head back against her seat cushion, sighing, a slow throb
starting over her right eye. All these maybes were driving her crazy.
Too many questions, and she had the feeling there would be no clear-cut
answers for most of them...

She jerked awake at the abrupt sound of a car engine gunning, opening
her eyes just in time to see a late-model blue Honda backing out of
Margaret Hargraves's driveway, tearing off down the street.

"Mulder, c'mon, wake up," she said, jostling his shoulder. "She's
leaving."

His eyes snapped open immediately and he started the car, following as
close behind as he could with their lights off. As soon as they hit
Wilshire he flicked them on, staying a discreet two cars back from
Margaret Hargraves's vehicle, sticking to her like cold pizza on a
plate. Finally she turned off down in Santa Monica, heading into another
residential area.

She stopped in front of a small adobe house with one light shining
faintly in a back window, got out and sprinted to the front door.

He pulled over to the curb on the other side of the street, drumming his
fingertips on the wheel, finally cutting the lights and engine,
shrugging as he glanced at her. "Might as well sit tight, see what
happens."

A sharp cracking noise split the air, then another, and the light in the
back of the adobe house flickered out.

"Shit," he muttered, tearing open the car door. He was across the street
in five loping strides, she following close behind. "Me first," he said
when they reached the front door.

On her nod they kicked it in, guns extended, sweeping the darkened
living room. Nothing but books, newspapers and furniture.

She pulled her flashlight from her jacket pocket, flicking it on, its
beam scouring the path in front of both of them.

The kitchen was empty too, which left only the back room--

With two bodies lying on the floor. Allan and Margaret Hargraves.

She didn't have to kneel down and take their pulses to know they were
dead. The blood pooling around both their heads was clue enough.

God, no...he'd come so far, they'd come so far together, and all for
nothing. It couldn't end like this. But it had.

Just as she'd feared. No answers. No resolution.

Mulder knelt down by Allan Hargraves's body, staring at it, hand resting
on the floor, centimeters away from the blood creeping slowly across the
hard wood. He dragged his fingers through the blood, holding them up,
watching them glint black-red in the beam of her flashlight, raising
them to his parted lips--

"Mulder, what's the matter with you? What are you doing?"

He blinked, his vision seeming to unhaze at the sound of her voice,
looking at her, then at his hand, then at the bodies lying on the floor
around them, then back at her, his expression horrified, disbelieving--

And then his gaze shifted, to the door leading from the back room out
into the yard beyond. To the two men standing there, less than two feet
away from her.

Cancerman, and Mulder's informant.

She brought up her gun, aiming it at the black man, but his foot was
already hurtling toward her hand, knocking her weapon across the room.
She felt an arm seizing her, dragging her up, tightening around her
neck, almost cutting off her air.

"Stay where you are, Mulder," she heard him say, his voice booming in
her ear, "or I won't hesitate to cash in this little insurance policy."

Mulder's gaze flicked to her, then to his own gun, laying on the floor
near his knee. Then to Cancerman. "This was all a setup, wasn't it? No
wonder we found Hargraves's daughter so easily."

"You responded to the stimuli we provided you flawlessly, Fox," he
rasped. "Just as Allan said you would. You truly are his crowning
achievement."

"Too bad you didn't let him live to see it."

"It's unfortunate that he regretted creating you, and had to pay the
price for it. Even more unfortunate for Margaret. She had nothing to do
with the project, but when she finally puzzled out your connection to
it, she became a liability we couldn't abide. No loose ends."

"Is that what I am now?"

"Not at all. You are still of immeasurable value to us. Agent Scully, on
the other hand, is not and never will be, I'm afraid."

She heard a click, feeling the unmistakable cold steel outline of a gun
muzzle pressed under her chin.

"Stand up slowly," Cancerman ordered. "Kick your gun over here."

"Kiss my ass."

"Do it or she dies now instead of five minutes from now."

Mulder looked like he wanted to spit in the old man's face, but he rose,
nudging his gun across the floor with the toe of his right foot. "If you
think I'm going to cooperate with you after you kill her, dream on. I'm
through being your fucking lab rat."

"You seem to be suffering from the delusion that you have a choice, Fox.
Believe me, you don't. You never have."

"So my whole life's been a lie? Is that what you expect me to believe?"

No answer.

"You're a liar. Why should I believe a liar?"

"What you believe or don't believe is immaterial. The experiments will
go on." Nodding at Mulder's informant, he said, "finish it. Now."

She felt him moving the gun, sliding it down beneath her breast, her
ribs, felt the imprint of its muzzle there, sensed the slow squeeze of
the trigger--

Saw Mulder reaching behind him, into the waistband of his jeans, drawing
a gun--

Krycek's gun. He'd had it with him all the time.

"Let her go. Now," he said, aiming it right in Cancerman's face.

"You can't be serious."

"Let her go and I'll come with you. I'll do whatever you want."

"Mulder, no..." she said, her voice thin, choked by Mulder's informant's
arm still pulled across her throat. But if he heard her, he gave no
sign.

"You'll do whatever we want whether we let her go or not."

Mulder stared at Cancerman for a long moment, then chuckled bitterly,
bringing up his gun, aiming it right behind his own ear. "Okay, fine.
Play it like that if you want. But if he pulls that trigger, so do I,
and you never get what's in my head. End of your fucking experiments."

Cancerman just stood there. Then his gaze flicked toward Mulder's
informant. "Do it."

And suddenly the gun wasn't cutting into her side anymore, it was aiming
at Mulder, firing--

She cried out as Mulder hit the floor with a sick thud, falling sideways
into the puddle of Allan Hargraves's blood.

But it wasn't a bullet sticking out of his chest. It was a tranquilizer
dart.

She felt a searing sting below her ribs, felt her limbs turn to lead,
felt herself sliding, falling to the floor, felt the air going out of
her as she crashed into hard wood, and everything went pitch black.

*   *   *

Her skull felt like it had been run over by eighteen-wheeler, throbbing,
singing in agony. She tried sitting up, but her hair stuck to the floor.

Bile rose in her throat when she saw why. Half her head was coated in
blood. Margaret Hargraves's blood. She'd rolled over next to the body
after she'd fallen.

Taking hold of her hair, she peeled it off the floor as gently as she
could, grimacing as a few strands pulled, tore, her fingers coming away
sticky with half-congealed blood. She was coated all the way down to her
right shoulder, her jacket and t-shirt soaked through.

She shook her head, forcing her vision to refocus by sheer strength of
will. Something still stung her side, and she looked down, seeing the
dart Mulder's informant had fired into her. Its tip had bitten a
half-inch into her flesh; it took her two hard, stabbing tugs to get it
out.

A soft moan made her glance up, seeing Mulder still lying on his side
between Allan and Margaret Hargraves's bodies, just beginning to stir.
She was next to him in a second, taking hold of his shoulders, helping
him sit up, pulling the dart from his chest. He was even more
gore-spattered than she was, one whole side of his body tacky with it.

He looked at her, seeming to recognize her, staring at the scene around
them, not saying anything. She got up, darted into the kitchen, coming
back with a pair of dampened towels, starting with him, wiping him down
as best she could, then doing the same with herself.

But he still didn't say anything, just looked straight ahead into empty
space, his mouth hanging slightly open.

"You okay, Mulder?" she asked finally, tipping up his chin, forcing him
to look at her. "Talk to me."

"Scully...?"

Relief swept over her, tempered by an equal amount of anxiety. He was in
deep shock, and not from the tranquilizer. Everything he'd been through
in the past three months had just smacked into him like a wall of
concrete.

"We're going to go now, okay?" she said, trying to sound reassuring,
trying to smile. "I'll help you up, then we're going to walk back out to
the car. Think you can do that?"

"Yeah, okay..."

He stood up like a newborn foal, wobbly, weak, leaning heavily on her.
She left him standing by himself for a few seconds to scoop up their
guns, then put his arm around her shoulder and led him out of the house,
across the street, back to the car. Opening the passenger's side door,
she helped him in, belted him in.

She drove back to the hotel in a daze, mustering all her waning
concentration just to keep the car on the road. Her head still felt like
someone had used it for a basketball, but she couldn't let herself give
in to the pain, not now. Mulder needed her.

The sky was just starting to turn grey with dawn when she pulled into
the hotel parking lot. Somehow she managed to get him back to their room
without attracting any attention; the halls were mercifully deserted at
this hour.

She didn't realize what a mess she was until she saw herself reflected
in the mirror across from the bed. One whole side of her head was matted
with dried blood, her cheek and neck still smeared with it despite her
earlier clean-up efforts. Her jacket and t-shirt were ruined.

But her entire body turned to ice when she finally got a good look at
him in full light. He looked like he'd been wading through an abbatoir.
Wallowing in blood.

Taking his arm, she led him to the bathroom, stripping first him, then
herself down, turning on the shower until steam hazed the air hot and
thick, then pushing him under the spray, stepping in after him. He let
her hold him there, let her run a washcloth over his face, his arms, his
chest without protest, like an infant being bathed by its mother. He
didn't even make a sound when she lathered his hair. Red rivulets poured
down his body, swirling thick and coppery-smelling down the drain, the
water finally running clear.

She finished washing herself, then flicked off the water and got out. He
followed without any prompting from her, blinking against the steam's
sting, seeming more aware of his surroundings. He let her start drying
him, then took the towel and did the rest himself.

She was just finishing drying herself when she felt him come up behind
her, his arms wrapping around her waist, his mouth pressed to her
throat. She stiffened, then suddenly realized it wasn't a sexual
overture; she could feel his rough, stubbled cheek against hers,
streaked with warm, salty moisture that hadn't come from the shower.

He was holding her for the simple comfort of it, and to celebrate the
fact that they were still alive.

With another kiss to her throat, he disappeared into the bedroom,
allowing her privacy to get dressed.

He was sitting on the bed hanging up the phone when she came back in. He
was wearing a clean new pair of jeans and nothing else. "I ordered some
breakfast. Figured we could use it."

"Yeah. Good idea."

They didn't talk anymore until after their food arrived. He'd ordered
hot tea for her, which she used to wash down two aspirin, but she made
sure he drank some of it too. He needed to get warm all the way through
to counteract the aftereffects of the shock he'd been through. He still
wasn't himself yet.

He pulled her back on the pillows with him when they were finished
eating, burying his face in her hair. She kissed his forehead, stroking
the soft skin on the back of his neck, gasping when her fingers came
away dotted with blood. "Mulder, sit up. I need to look at something."

Something inside her already knew what she was going to see, and there
it was -- a tiny incision an inch or so below his hairline. She had one
in exactly the same place.

"What is it?" he asked, twisting around to look at her.

"I think I just figured out why they let us live." Her mouth suddenly
dry, she reached over for another sip of tea. "They put one of those
chips in your neck, Mulder. Just like the one I found in my neck a few
months ago."

"The one Pendrell said could've been used to record impulses from the
cerebral cortex?"

She nodded. "They've been recording, monitoring your thoughts all this
time."

"Jesus fucking Christ..." he muttered, rubbing a hand through his hair.
"No wonder they didn't bother coming after us. They knew where we were
every step of the way. All they had to do was reel us in whenever they
wanted to."

She closed her eyes, waiting for a sudden wave of nausea to pass.
Finding Mulder, escaping with him, his recovery from the drug...all of
it had been pre-planned, all part of Cancerman's little mind-game. The
experiment. He'd played her like some green rookie, and she'd let him.

Did she regret it? No. Even if she'd known, her only alternative
would've been to leave Mulder where he was, and she could never have
done that. The past two weeks had been heaven and hell, but she still
wouldn't change a day, a moment. Every one had been a gift.
"They're not done with us, Mulder," she whispered finally. "They left us
alive for a reason."

He picked up her wallet from the bedside table, riffling through it,
pulling out some cash, handing her the rest. "They're done with you.
Call the airline and book the earliest flight back to D.C. You're out of
this as of now."

She stared at him, stunned. "I'm not leaving you."

"I'm not offering it as a choice. Either you make the call or I will."

"Who the hell are you to tell me what to do--"

"The man who almost got you fucking killed last night," he snapped.
"This is it. The *end.* I can't take any more blood on my hands.
Especially not yours."

His words sent ice flashing through her, making her gasp. Her shock must
have been evident in her expression, because he looked at her for a long
time, then looked away, down at his hands, his jaw tightening.

"What happened, Mulder?" she asked. "At Allan Hargraves's house, when
you were kneeling down by his body, you put your hand in his blood..."

"You don't want to go there, Scully. Trust me on this one."

"I have to. If you're going to push me away, I want to know why."

He slumped over, elbows propped on his knees, head hanging down. "Do you
remember back before I was shot...the fight we had in the office?"

"How could I forget? I played it over and over in my head for three
months."

"You remember where we'd been a couple days before it happened?"

"Yeah. Los Angeles." All of a sudden, something clicked. "And you were
acting like you couldn't stand being here. Like you couldn't wait to
leave."

"That's the reason I was coming over to your place that night. To tell
you why."

She waited for him to go on, but he didn't. "Tell me now."

He swallowed hard, still looking down, avoiding her gaze. "It was during
the three months you were...gone. I got called out to L.A. on a case,
investigated it alone. I shouldn't have gone, though...I was strung out,
no sleep in days, feeling like shit warmed over. But I went. I had to
work. It was either that or go crazy."

"Was this the vampire case? The one up in Malibu?"

"Yeah," he said thickly. "The one in Malibu."

The scene of their wild car ride. It still didn't make sense, but she
could feel something coming, something he desperately needed to tell
her. "I...um, read your report on that case. It was in the filing
cabinet down in our office."

"This part wasn't in it." Getting up, he shoved his hands in his
pockets. "I went back to Kristen Kilar's house after the police left. I
spent the night with her."

Jealousy jetted through her, but she quickly tamped it down. She had no
right to feel this way about any liaisons he'd had in the past. "Mulder,
I'm not going to be angry or upset because you...for God's sake, it
happened over a year ago."

"I'm not finished." He pulled a chair out from the table near the wall,
slouched back in it, rubbing at his lower lip. "Kristen was into
some...strange stuff. Bloodsports, she called them. She showed me what
she meant when we..." He trailed off, finally looking at her. Right at
her. "It felt...weird, but incredible at the same time. It repulsed me
and it fascinated me and it scared me. And I was glad she died in that
fire, because if she hadn't, I would've wanted to see her again."

Her brain went numb, trying to absorb what he'd just said. There it was,
hanging out there in the air between them. The one thing he'd been
afraid to tell her until now.

It was nothing. A meaningless fling in a reckless, vulnerable moment. It
didn't matter, didn't make a difference between them. It was just
another memory they'd taken, twisted to suit their own sick purposes, to
manipulate him into doing whatever they'd wanted from him.

"I wanted to tell you before anything happened between us," he said. "I
wanted to give you a choice, let you know what you were getting into.
Looks like you got doubly screwed over in that regard."

"Nobody screwed me over, Mulder, literally or otherwise. I walked into
this with my eyes wide open. And I'd do it again."

"How can you say that? How can I not turn your stomach after what I
just--"

"That woman caught you in a time of weakness, and you did something you
regret, like we all have at one time or another. It's not like it's ever
going to happen again."

"God, you still don't understand..."

"Then make me understand," she said, coming over to him, kneeling down
in front of him, taking both his hands into hers. "I want to know all of
it."

He closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing. "Do you know what I was
dreaming about that night at Pine Barren? The night I woke up
screaming?"

The night he'd awoken in the throes of a hundred and five degree fever.
The night he'd almost died. "Tell me."

"I dreamed that we were making love, and it was beautiful and you were
beautiful...and I looked down at you and there was blood on your face
and your eyes...God, the look in your eyes, all cold and dead...I killed
you. I killed you while we were making love."

"Mulder, it was a nightmare. It's not real. It's never going to
happen--"

"How can you be sure of that? They've fucked with my mind so much I
don't even know who I am anymore."

"You've never been anything but sweet and gentle with me. I'm not
afraid." It was true, she realized. She'd been afraid before, last
night, the other night, but not now. Now she wondered how she ever could
have been.

"I am."

"You're the man I love. That's all that matters to me."

Her words hit him hard; she could see his eyes welling with fresh pain.
"You can't let it matter. Pack your bag and go to the airport. I want
you to." He pushed his way out of the chair, past her, going over to the
bedside table, to the phone. "Are you going to call, or am I?"

She scrambled to her feet, facing him down. "Damn it, Mulder, I'm tired
of you trying to protect me. I can take care of myself!"

"And I'm tired of you trying to pretend nothing's wrong. I killed a man
in cold blood, I raped that girl--"

"While you were brainwashed, drugged out of your mind. You had no idea
what you were doing. You weren't responsible."

"I was responsible. I *am* responsible."

He'd turned away from her, but she slid her hand onto his shoulder,
feeling his muscles bunch under her touch. For a moment she thought he
might try to shake her off, but he didn't. "Mulder, we can't change
what's happened in the past. All we can do is build the best possible
future for ourselves. And I can't imagine mine without you."

"Neither can I. But I'm going to have to," he said softly, facing her.
"You're a medical doctor, Scully, but you'll never work as one again as
long as you're with me. What are you going to do, wait tables, work
behind some store counter to support me? We'll be on the run constantly,
always glancing over our shoulders. That's no life for you."

"It's the life I choose," she replied, her hands slipping around his
neck, resting her forehead just under his chin, her lips pressed against
the hollow of his throat. "Ask me again in an hour or tonight or
tomorrow and I'll say the same thing."

She could feel his deep breath, the slow thump of his heart, his hands
on her back, pulling her close. "I couldn't live with myself if anything
happened to you," he whispered.

She almost told him what they both wanted to hear, that nothing was
going to happen to her, that nothing would ever happen. But she couldn't
bring herself to say the words. It would be a lie, and she didn't want
lies between them. She loved him, respected him too much for that. "I
know," she replied.

"I'd die for you."

She had an instant flash of him holding Krycek's gun to his head, poised
to pull the trigger. He'd wanted to do it. She'd seen it in his eyes. At
that moment, he'd actually wanted to end his own life. "Don't say that,
Mulder. Don't ever say that..."

"It's the truth," he said, chuckling softly. "All those years I looked
for the truth...I didn't have a damn clue, did I? I spent my whole life
looking for truth in a bed of lies. When the real truth's right here.
You."

She looked up at him, startled, unable to speak.

"You won't go, will you?" he asked, half-smiling, though the expression
didn't reach his eyes. They still shone with pain and something else,
something she'd never seen there before. "You won't get on that plane,
no matter what I say."

"Not a chance."

He bent down, kissing her gently. "Why'd I even bother asking?"

They fell back onto the bed, touching, bodies moving together, bringing
each other mind-spinning pleasure.

She lay beside him later in sweet, hazy afterglow, watching him sleep,
her heart aching. There was something she had to do, a possibility she'd
kept dismissing for the past two weeks, yet had always known somewhere
in the back of her mind that eventually it would have to come down to
this. Now she could put it off no longer.

She got dressed, slipped out of the room, down the hallway, taking the
elevator to the hotel lobby, heading straight for the pay phones,
dialing a Washington, D.C. number.

"Assistant Director Skinner's office."

"This is Agent Dana Scully. I need to speak with him."

The line clicked in five seconds later. "Skinner."

"It's me, sir."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," she replied. "Mulder's with me."

"So it's true, then."

"Yes."

"There's a warrant out for his arrest, but I'm sure you've already
surmised that. Pendrell had no choice but to bring me the DNA evidence
from the Morrell shooting. And I have a videotape here as well."

"I see."

"There's one out on you as well," he said, "for aiding and abetting. You
were seen quite clearly together on the security cameras at O'Hare and
LAX, and it was obvious you weren't with him unwillingly."

She couldn't think of any answer to that.

"Do you want to turn yourselves in?"

"No."

"Then why are you calling?"

It was bad, but no worse than she'd expected. Still, she wondered if she
dared. Skinner had put himself on the line for them before, but this was
pushing it.

"I need a favor, sir," she said finally. "I need your help."

*   *   *

He was sitting there in the coffee shop when she walked in early the
next morning, two booths down. She walked over, sat down, folding her
arms on the table. "Thank you for coming, sir. I appreciate it."

He rubbed at his eyes, reddened, bleary-looking. "Let me make one thing
clear. I'm not here in my official capacity, which should give you some
measure of relief, especially after what you told me on the phone. But
if you think you're going to jerk me around, think again. I don't suffer
being played gladly."

"That was never my intention, sir."

They said nothing more to each other until the waitress swung by, taking
their orders for coffee, pouring them two steaming cups.

"Where's Mulder?" Skinner asked finally.

"Sleeping." She'd left word with the front desk to flash the message
light on their phone when Skinner came in. It had flashed half an hour
ago. Five a.m.

"Does he know about this?"

"No."

"You think that's wise?"

"I'll tell him later. By then it won't matter anymore."
He pushed himself back against the booth cushions, looking at her long
and hard. "There's nothing I can say to make you reconsider?"

"No. Nothing." She glanced out the window, at the lightening sky, then
back at him.

"You're a good agent, Scully. Mulder too. Losing both of you like
this...it's a blow. Your presence will be missed. Is missed."

"Thank you, sir. But it's not like we've got much of an alternative."

"You do. I'll pull any strings I have to to get the charges dropped, get
you reinstated..."

"I'm not coming back, sir. I can't, not without Mulder. And I think we
both know how impossible that is." She stared down into her coffee,
watching the cream spiraling all white and spidery in its center. "How
soon do you think you can get in touch with him?"

"I've already paged him. He should be returning my call anytime."

"You'll let me know, then?" she asked, sliding to the edge of the booth.
Mulder would be waking up soon. She had to get back to the room before
he did.

"As soon as I do."

She got up, sprinted back to the room, relieved to find the light still
out, Mulder still snoring softly when she came back in. She sat down in
the chair near the door, staring into the dark. God, she hoped she was
doing the right thing.

It was right, it had to be. It was the only thing she could think to do.
The only thing that might turn the tide for them.

She just prayed he wouldn't hate her for it.

*   *   *

She got the call an hour and a half later, while Mulder was still in the
shower. She drummed her fingers on the edge of the bedside table while
she waited for him to come out, her nerves working overtime.

He wrinkled his nose when she said she wanted to go to the coffee shop
for breakfast again, then just shrugged and took her hand, grinning as
they walked down the hall to the elevator.

They sat in the same booth she'd sat in earlier with Skinner, and she
made sure she sat facing the door. When the time came, she intended to
be prepared.

She didn't have long to wait. She knew who he was the instant he walked
in, even though she'd never met or even seen him before. Tall, gaunt,
dark-haired, late forties. Eyes that had seen everything. Face
deep-lined and craggy, as if experience had engraved itself in flesh.
Still, she sensed kindness, decency, compassion in this face. The face
of a friend. An ally.

Mulder froze, jaw dropping when he finally saw the man sidling up to
their table. "Frank Black? What the hell're you doing in L.A.?"

"Just passing through on business. Mind if I sit?"

He slid over, shock still written fresh and large on his features. "It's
been a long time, Frank. At least four years."

"Five. Violent Crimes suffered quite a loss when you left."

He paled, a new thought suddenly occurring. "You here to bring me in?"

"No," Black replied. "I don't even work for the Bureau anymore. I left
months ago."

"Well, you'll...um, forgive the observation, but this doesn't feel like
a coincidence."

"It isn't." Turning to her, he stretched one hand across the table.
"Dana Scully, right? Your reputation precedes you."

For some reason, his remark made her smile. "I don't think I want to
know what that means."

"Nothing you need worry about." To her surprise, she actually saw a
flash of warmth in the man's dark, intense eyes. "An old contact at the
Bureau filled me in on your situation. I'm here to offer my help."

It took a few seconds for that to sink in, but when it did, Mulder's
glance bounced to her, then back to Black. She could see his jaw going
tight, a flicker of anger behind his eyes that sent nausea curling in
her stomach. "You might want to rethink that, Frank. We're not exactly
on good terms with the law enforcement community right now."

"I'm currently working with an organization called the Millennium Group.
We're not a law enforcement agency, though we do work closely with them
at times. I think the kind of work we do would interest you. Someone
with your profiling talents would be a great asset to us, as would a
pathologist of our own on staff. I'm not making this offer out of pity
or altruism, Mulder. We need people like you. And we're more than
willing to go out on a limb to get you, if that's what it takes."

"Yeah, well, be ready to hit the ground with a crash. You've got no idea
what you're getting into here."

"But I do. I know exactly what's happened to both of you."

It was true, she realized. Skinner'd told him everything -- well,
everything she'd told him, at least. And Black had come anyway.

Black sat back, studying her intently. Somehow she sensed he knew how
much this had cost her, how much it was tearing her up inside even now.
"We can offer you protection -- identity changes, relocation. Our base
of operations is Seattle, but we have agents in all the major cities.
Within reason, you can live wherever you'd like."

Mulder stared out the window, finally looking back at him, chuckling
ruefully. "This just sounds a little too good to be true."

"It isn't. You'll work for it, believe me. Maybe even harder than you
ever did at the Bureau." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a plain
white card, scribbled on it. "Here's the number of the hotel where I'll
be staying until tomorrow morning, as well as my cell number. Give me a
call when you make your decision."

Mulder didn't look at her again until Black was up from their table and
out the door. Then he just stared at her, the look on his face like
storm clouds before a hurricane.

"You bitch," he muttered, his voice flat, toneless. "You fucking bitch."
And he was out of the booth and halfway to the door, not even looking to
see if she was following.

But she was, running to keep up with him, taking the stairs up to their
room when he let the elevator doors close on her. She hit the room about
ten seconds after he did, catching the door just in time to keep it from
smacking her in the face.

He didn't turn to face her when she came in, even though she knew he
must have heard her. He just stood there, hands on his hips, shoulders
heaving with deep breaths.

"Mulder, you have to understand--"

"Oh, I understand, all right. You called Skinner. You went behind my
back and called Skinner."

"How could you know..?"

"Come on, Scully, how stupid do you think I am? We both know who Black's
Bureau contact is. He and Skinner were partners fifteen years ago."

"Mulder, I had to. There was nothing else I could do."

He swung around at that, coming toward her, stopping so close she could
feel his breath warm on her face. "What the hell were you thinking?
Didn't it ever occur to you that he could have just as easily had us
carted away in cuffs and leg shackles? He still could."

"Skinner would never do that, and you know it. Not after all the times
he's pulled your ass out of the fire."

"Yeah, well, there are limits to everything, and I think we may have
just reached ours." Sighing, he dropped onto the edge of the bed.
"Skinner took a bullet for Black a long time ago. It's a debt Black's
always felt he could never repay. That's the only reason he's here."

"Not the only reason," she said, sitting down next to him. "Skinner
believes in your innocence, so does Black. I could tell by the way he
talked."

"I'm not innocent, Scully," he said, laughing grimly. "Not by any
stretch of the imagination."

"All right...they believe in your blamelessness, then..."

"Not that either."

"They want to help. Let them."

"I don't think I can. I don't think they can."

She couldn't stand it -- the pain in his eyes, in the way he sat,
shoulders slumped, like five tons were resting on them. "Mulder, you're
going to have to learn to forgive yourself for what's happened. You'll
go crazy if you don't."

"You mean I haven't already?" He looked up finally, reaching over to
stroke her cheek. "I'm sorry about what I called you. But I don't think
I can do this."

"Not even for me?"

He didn't say anything right away, just stared down at his hands again.
"You sure this is what you want?"

"It's a chance, Mulder. New life, new city, new work. Good work. I've
got a feeling this could be the best thing we ever do. Even better than
the X-Files."

"Okay," he whispered, kissing her softly. "For you." Fumbling in his
pocket, he pulled out Black's card, picked up the phone and dialed.
"Frank, it's Mulder. We need to talk."

Black appeared at their door twenty minutes later. "Good news?"

"We're going to take you up on your offer," Mulder said, offering Black
a chair, "but I want a few things straight first."

"Let's hear it."

"Scully and I work together, and only together, or no deal." She gasped
a little when she heard this, but voiced no other protest. She supposed
she should have realized he'd ask for such a consideration.

"I don't foresee any problems with that. I've got a couple other people
I'll have to run it past, though."

"Fine. I also want you to get with Skinner, see that any criminal
charges against Scully are dropped."

"I don't know if I can--"

"It's not a negotiable point. Come through or I walk right now."

That was it. She couldn't sit still anymore, not for this. "Mulder, stop
it. You can't make him do the impossible."

"And I want you to arrange for our new identities as husband and wife."

All the breath suddenly went rushing out of her lungs, her heart
freezing in her chest. He couldn't have said what she thought he just
said. He just couldn't.

Black's eyes widened. "Anything else?"

"No, I think that'll cover it," Mulder replied, half-smiling.

"Looks like my work's stamped out in concrete," Black said, rising. "I
should be able to give you an answer by tonight. Will that be
acceptable?"

"Sounds good to me."

Her heart still hadn't restarted even when Mulder turned back to her
after seeing Black out the door. "Mulder, you didn't really mean that,
did you?"

"What do you think?" he replied, kneeling down before her, looking at
her for long, silent moments.

It was all there, right there in his eyes, those intense hazel eyes that
could see all the way down into her soul. Everything she'd ever wanted,
ever dreamed of. More than she'd ever let herself hope for. She felt
something warm  and wet on her face, reached up to wipe it away.

"If we're going to do this, we may as well do it right," he said, taking
her hand, lacing their fingers together. "I want us to be married,
Scully. Will you?"

"Mulder...I don't know what to say..."

"Say yes. Please."

She stared down at their clasped hands, their wrists pressed together,
felt his pulse beating there, strong, jerky, nervous. God, he wasn't
sure, she realized. He wasn't sure she'd accept him.

"Yes," she whispered. "I want it too. I want us to be together."

He kissed her then, long, slow and sweet, pushing her gently back onto
the bed. "Want a preview of the honeymoon?"

"Isn't that what we've been doing for the last two weeks?"

He groaned, then laughed, kissing her again. "Let's leave out the
near-death experience this time, okay?"

"Hmmm...guess that means there's only so much fun we can have."

"Scully..."

"What?"

"Shut up and make love to me."

*   *   *

She leaned against the porch railing and closed her eyes, listening to
the soft patter of rain on the roof, sipping her coffee. The air
feathered her skin, breezy but not biting. Hard to believe Thanksgiving
had been only last week.

Hard to believe they were married eight months tomorrow. The time had
gone by so fast, what with moving and getting settled in their new jobs.
Still, it felt good. For the first time she could remember, everything
felt good. Right. Complete.

They'd come back to Seattle with Frank the day after Mulder had proposed
to her, and were married the following Sunday in a tiny Roman Catholic
chapel downtown. She'd been so incredibly touched that Mulder had cared
enough to arrange for them to be married in her own faith.

She wasn't quite sure how he'd arranged for their marriage license and
certificate to be in their real names, but somehow he or Frank had.
Apparently the Millennium Group had friends in intriguing places.

William and Katherine Miller. Their new names. Plain, utterly ordinary,
nondescript. Pretty damned hard to forget, though even now she sometimes
came close to tripping up in public and calling him Mulder.

But she still called him that in private, and he still called her
Scully. She'd bet they were the only married couple in the world who
called each other by their last names, but when they lay together in
those dark early morning hours, it seemed more intimate than a thousand
kisses, soft and secret.

They'd decided to remain in Seattle for the time being, finding a house
for rent only a few blocks away from where Frank and his family lived.
It was cozy but spacious enough for the two of them, with three bedrooms
upstairs, two of which they'd converted into offices, a good sized
bathroom, the kitchen and living room downstairs. And a porch. A back
porch. Her favorite spot in the whole house. Her place.

Sometimes she'd come out here and just stand and watch the rain like she
was doing now, and sometimes she'd bring a chair and a book and sit and
enjoy the quiet. It had been so long since she'd had any quiet in her
life, she intended to savor every moment of it.

Some days were not so quiet. Some days reminded her too much of the time
she and Mulder had worked on the X-Files, traveling all over, seeing the
insides of their respective apartments maybe once a week.

Some days were draining, mind-numbing in their sheer horror, more than
rivaling any day they'd spent on the job with the Bureau. But it was all
worthwhile, the work, the people they worked with. Mulder was happier
now, she could sense it. For the first time she could remember his
theories were given serious consideration, instead of being ridiculed,
dismissed out of hand. The Group was definitely more broadminded, less
concerned with structure and protocol than the Bureau; Mulder had
finally found his niche here. And to her surprise, so had she.

Everything seemed fine. Was fine, she amended silently. He still had
nightmares, but they were growing more infrequent as time wore on. And
to her infinite relief, he hadn't had one of those weird, trance-like
blackouts since the chip was removed from his neck. Apparently the thing
had been some sort of control device as well as a thought recorder. That
was her theory, at least. She had no idea what his was, if any. He still
didn't want to talk about it.

There were a lot of things they hadn't talked about, but maybe it was
better that way. Better to just take each day as it came, get on with
living their lives. Everything else would take care of itself in time.

She heard the phone's distant ring, but didn't move to answer it. Mulder
was in his office, and it was probably for him anyway.

The screen door snicked open behind her a few minutes later. She didn't
have to turn around to know he was there. His arms went around her waist
and she relaxed against him, his lips close to her ear, bestowing a
light kiss.

"That was Peter Watts," he whispered. "They've got a job for us."

"Where?"

"Phoenix. Our flight leaves in two hours."

Two hours. Barely enough time to pack and get to the airport. Sighing,
she said, "okay. Guess we'd better get ready."

"You don't want to go, do you?"

"It's not...well, it would be nice if we didn't have to go jetting out
of here every few days."

"If you want to take some time off, I can ask Watts."

"I can ask Watts too. You don't need to do everything for me."

"Scully, all I meant was--"

She turned in the circle of his arms, facing him, one finger placed over
his mouth. "I know what you meant, and it's okay. I guess I can't cure
you of all your bad habits."

"Wanting to make sure you're happy is a bad habit?"

She almost said something, but stopped herself in time. All he wanted
was to show her how much he loved her, but sometimes she found his
attentiveness a little smothering. But whenever she pointed it out to
him, he acted hurt, defensive. Better not to mention it at all. It
didn't matter that much anyway. She put her cheek against his, stroking
his hair. He was wearing it short again, though not as short as when
he'd been with the Bureau. She liked the way it curled softly against
his ears and collar. "Let's go pack. Phoenix awaits."

The flight was uneventful, even boring. They'd never been to Phoenix
before, not even during their time with the Bureau, she realized, gazing
out the plane window at the city sprawled beneath them. The Group had
always taken great care in screening their prospective assignments,
never sending them anywhere they might be recognized. Unfortunately,
that left out quite a few other cities. San Francisco, Los Angeles. D.C.

She could never go there again. She couldn't call anyone there except
for Skinner, and even then it had been agreed that Frank would have to
make initial contact with him. Anything else was still too dangerous.

She hadn't spoken with her mother in over eight months. Mom didn't know
she and Mulder were married. She probably didn't even think they were
still alive. Maybe someday, in two years or three or five, it would
finally be safe. Maybe someday she'd be able to pick up the phone and
ease her mother's mind. Someday. But not now.

Mulder's cell phone rang when they were standing at the car rental
counter. He answered it, made a few monosyllabic replies, then hung up.

"They've already taken the body to the medical examiner's office. I'll
drop you there and go out to the crime scene by myself."

"Are you sure? I don't mind coming with you."

"Yeah, I'm sure," he said tightly, opening the car door, climbing in.
"Might as well get this over with as quickly as we can."

"Mulder, there's no need to rush on my account. We owe the Group a good
job on this."

"I know." Sighing, he rubbed at his eyes, started the car. "Guess I
didn't realize how much I really don't want this assignment either. I
think I'll feel a lot better once we're home again."

They didn't talk anymore on the short ride to the coroner's office,
though his sweet grin at her goodbye kiss gave her heart a lift.

The coroner's assistant showed her into the scrub room, where she washed
up, changing into a pale green smock. The body was lying on the metal
table, still in its shiny black bag when she entered the autopsy room.
For one brief moment she flashed back to almost a year ago, to the time
she'd walked into another autopsy room in the Hoover Building basement,
expecting to see Mulder lying there cold and dead and unmoving, his
heart and mind silenced forever.

No point in dwelling on that, she thought, reaching for the zipper. What
was in the past should stay there.

The smell stung her nostrils like ammonia, thick, pungent, metallic.
Then she saw the wounds, crude gouges crusted over with blood and skin
fluids, all over the victim's arms, legs, torso, and face.

The face of a child. A little girl.

She sucked in a deep breath, looking away for a moment. God, the poor
thing couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve years old.

She swallowed hard, peeling back the rest of the bag, acid churning in
the pit of her belly. She and Mulder had seen some fairly horrific
things in their work together, and she'd thought that and her medical
training had prepared her for anything. But even she had a problem
stomaching such unspeakable violence toward a child. Something inside
her wanted to find whoever'd done this and nail him up to a wall.
Without anesthetic.

She was almost finished when the door banged open and Mulder came
storming in, throwing a sheaf of papers onto the side table. "This whole
fucking trip was for nothing," he spat. "Jesus Christ, I can't believe
it!"

"Believe what?"

"We got a confession. It was her father," he said, dropping into a
chair, slouching forward, elbows on his knees, mouth pressed to his
fists. "Her fucking father did this to her."

"Oh, my God..." she breathed, the depth of her own shock surprising her.
This was beyond horror, beyond crime. It was abomination.

"He'd been abusing her for years, but last night he went a little too
far. Was cause of death strangulation?"

"Yeah." Her gaze lingered on the bruises encircling the victim's throat,
the hematoma on her left cheek, right next to the symbol carved in her
skin. "But why would he..."

"What?"

"Come here a minute."

He hesitated, then got up, coming over to the table. The sight of the
body hit him hard, making him flinch. "If you're wondering about the
marks, they're pentagrams. The bastard saw some tabloid show about
Satanic cults in Texas and thought he'd make this look similar, divert
suspicion away from himself. That's why they called us out here.
*Jesus.*"

She gave the body a long last look, then pulled the bag up around it,
rezipping it. "Just give me a minute to finish dictating my notes, then
we'll go, okay?"

He nodded, sitting back down, burying his face in his hands.

It was dark by the time they finally trudged back out to the car, the
air brisk and stinging. Hard to believe they were in the middle of the
desert.

"Why don't we just grab dinner and a hotel," he suggested, stifling a
yawn. "We'll fly home first thing tomorrow, I promise. But right now I
can barely keep my eyes open."

"Yeah, okay. Sounds good."

They ate at a quiet Tex-Mex place a few blocks down, then checked into a
Sheraton near the airport. Mulder pulled off his shoes and suit jacket
and did a backflop onto the bed, letting out a relieved groan. "God, I
feel like I could sleep a whole fucking week..."

"Well, I'll let you get started while I take a shower, then."

"Mmmm...okay, fine..."

The bathroom almost blinded her when she flicked on the light switch,
all white tile with shiny chrome highlights. Stripping gratefully, she
turned on the water as hot as she could get it and stepped under the
spray. If there was ever a day she needed to wash away, it was this one.

She suddenly felt a whoosh of cooler air and turned around to see Mulder
climbing in after her, throwing his head back, letting the water sluice
over him. "I thought you were tired."

"Changed my mind," he muttered, coming up behind her, his arms going
around her waist, his hands moving upward, flicking her nipples with his
thumbs. They pebbled, tightened instantly, as they always did whenever
he touched her; it had become reflex, her body's learned response.

They stood there a long time, her back pressed to his front, skin
sliding slick and sensuous, a familiar warmth pooling between her
thighs, curling deep in her belly. She could feel his erection rubbing
her, teasing her at the small of her back, the crevice of her bottom.

He turned her around to face him, pushing her against the smooth tile,
lifting her, pulling her legs up around his waist--

And he was inside her in one deep stroke, burying himself in her, his
face against her throat, her shoulder, gasping, groaning--

All she could do was wrap her arms around him and hold on, riding it out
with him, stroking his back as he pounded into her, wild, desperate,
hard and fast--

Too hard, too fast. Her final swirl of impending orgasm flickered and
died, a moan of disappointment floating to her lips--

And his mouth suddenly closed over hers, his tongue thrusting inside,
invading, grinding--

He shoved himself into her again, once, twice, so deep she thought he'd
tear her apart, groaning low in his throat--

And he stopped moving, leaning into her, his breath hot and rapid,
burning her skin. Then, with a quick kiss, he withdrew from her and was
gone, leaving her alone in the shower.

She didn't know how long it was before she finally made herself move
again, but the water was getting chilly. She felt something warm and
crawly between her thighs, realized with a sudden shock that it was his
semen. He hadn't worn a condom this time.

She flicked off the water, stepping back out into the steamy room, anger
twisting its way through her, dying a quick death. It wasn't all his
fault; they'd packed in such a hurry today she'd probably forgotten to
put some in her overnight case.

Still, he could've shown a little more consideration. He'd never treated
her like that during sex before. She couldn't understand it.

He was sitting at the table across the room when she came out of the
bathroom, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, hunched over his laptop. He
didn't glance up from the screen even when she pulled out a chair, sat
down across from him. "Mulder, why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Come on, you don't need me to spell it out for you."

"What, did they suddenly declare it against the law for me to make love
to my wife?"

"You can call it making love, but I don't. It was as if...I don't know,
as if you'd turned into somebody else. I didn't like it." He still
wasn't looking at her; she was starting to get irritated. "Look, I know
some women enjoy rough sex, but I don't."

His head finally snapped up. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. I'm just trying to tell you something I thought you already
knew, but apparently--"

"I've got a report to finish here. Could we talk about this some other
time? I'm not in the mood for deep relationship stuff right now."

She stared back at him, hoping all her stunned, hurt anger showed in her
expression. "Fine. Finish your damn report. I'm going to bed."

The stony silence between them continued all the way home on the plane
the next day. She was never more grateful in her life than when she
stepped through the front door, letting her suitcase slide to the floor.
Home again, hopefully to stay a few days, at least.
Maybe it'd even be enough time for the hell they'd just been through to
fade into the background.

But it appeared she'd have to be the one to make the first move. He
didn't say anything after he came through the door, just picked up both
their suitcases and took them upstairs. Sighing, she went to the
kitchen, putting on a pot of coffee, listening to his faint footsteps in
the room above her. After a few minutes she couldn't hear anything; he
must've gone into his office to work.

Leaving the coffee to perk, she went up to change into casual clothes
and wash her face. It was such a relief to rinse the grime of travel off
her. Her skin felt so dry and tight it hurt.

But she felt tight all over, she realized, padding downstairs in her
slippers. Inside and out. She didn't like being angry with Mulder,
didn't like holding all her feelings in. He was her husband. She wanted
to be able to tell him anything, everything. She wanted there to be
nothing hidden, no walls between them. But there were walls, and she had
no idea how to begin breaking them down.

The message light on their answering machine flashed once, twice, three,
four times. For a moment she was sorely tempted to let it go until she'd
had a chance to relax, then sighed and reached for a notepad. They might
be important.

One message from their landlord about the repairs to the carport, one
from Frank, two from Watts. She frowned; Watts didn't usually call more
than once, even if it was urgent, and his tone sounded a bit strange,
upset. That wasn't like him at all.

She dialed his number, got his machine, left a return message. If it was
really that crucial, he'd call back.

She was just punching in Frank's number when a knock came at the door.
She could see a tall dark figure through the beveled window and knew
immediately who it was.

"Frank," she said with a genuine smile, "talk about coincidence. I was
just trying to call you."

"Is Mulder here?" he asked abruptly.

"Yeah, he's upstairs. You need to talk to him?"

"I think I need to talk to you first."

The look on his face sent a chill dancing down her spine, and she
ushered him into the kitchen. Mulder wouldn't hear them in there. "How
did you even know we were home? We just got in a few minutes ago."

"I was driving by, saw your car," he replied, refusing her offer of
coffee with a gesture. "Watts asked me to come over. He had a rather
disturbing phone call from Phoenix P.D. last night."

"About?"

"You mean you don't already know?"

"Know what?"

"There was a problem with Mulder at the crime scene yesterday. He took a
swing at one of the police detectives."

"What? *Why*?"

"Apparently because the guy called him Bill."

It was on the end of her tongue to ask if he was kidding, but she had
never known Frank Black to joke about anything. "I...I didn't go out to
the crime scene with him, Frank. I mean, I knew this case had him pretty
shaken up, but...he never mentioned the incident to me. Not a word."

"Maybe I should talk to him now. Before Watts does."

They went upstairs, padding down the hall to Mulder's office. But the
door was closed, locked from the inside. "Mulder, Frank's here. He needs
to see you."

No answer.

"Come on, Mulder, open the door," she said. "This isn't funny."

"...leave me alone...I'm busy..."

But he didn't sound busy. He sounded muffled, thick-voiced, desperate,
like he'd been crying. Like he was still crying.

Then she heard a tell-tale click. A nine-millimeter click.

Her eyes locked on Frank's for a second, and she darted into the
bedroom, yanking open the drawer where they kept their guns when they
weren't on assignment. Mulder's was missing.

Frank looked down into the drawer, then back at her. "Where's the key to
his office?"

"He's got the only one in there with him."

"I'd better call Catherine," he said, reaching for the phone.

She arrived five minutes later, long auburn curls flowing behind her as
she took the stairs two at a time, listening intently to what Frank told
her, heading right for Mulder's office door. "Mulder, it's Catherine
Black. What're you doing in there?"

"Nothing..." His voice was thin, raspy now, worn away by sobbing.

"Well, Frank and Dana are here with me, and they're a little concerned
about you. We'd all feel better if you'd open the door."

"...don't want to..."

"Why don't you want to?"

"Gotta finish it...gotta do it now...before I lose my nerve..."

Catherine's gaze flicked to Frank, then to her, then back to the door.
"What do you have to finish, Mulder? Can you tell me?"

"Gotta make her free...she can't stay with me...I'm destroying it all
for her...ruining everything..."

"Who're you talking about? Dana?"

"Yeah..."

"But I don't think Dana feels that way," Catherine said, shooting her a
pointed glance, waving her over. "She doesn't think you're destroying it
all for her. Do you, Dana?"

"Of course I don't," she replied, coming up to the door, standing right
next to Catherine, pressing her hands against the wood, as if willing
him to feel her presence through it. "Mulder, open the door. I want to
talk to you."

"...I hurt you...Jesus, all I ever do is hurt you...can't let myself do
it again...have to end the hurting, end it now..."

God, he was talking about Phoenix. About them together in the shower.
"You didn't hurt me, Mulder," she whispered softly, desperately, her
own voice almost gone. "You could never hurt me. I know that. I've
always known that. You love me too much. So show me how much. Open the
door."

No answer.

Then she heard a soft sob, and the sound of him getting up out of his
chair. Then the knob rattled, the door finally swinging inward.

He was standing there, just standing there staring into empty space,
mouth hanging slightly open, gun dangling from his right hand. She
reached over, took it from him with no problem, her fingers barely
brushing his.

Then he looked at her, right at her, and collapsed back into the chair,
his arm going around her waist, pulling her close, burying his face
against her belly. He started to shake, and she knew he was crying
again, though he made no sound. There was no sound left in him.

"It's okay," she whispered, stroking his hair, handing his gun to Frank.
"Everything's going to be okay..." It was a lie, but this time she
didn't care. It was a lie he needed to hear.

They finally got him calmed down enough to come downstairs, where he sat
in the living room alone with Catherine, talking softly.

She and Frank sat at the kitchen table over cold coffee, waiting.

Finally Catherine came in, concern lining her forehead. "He's taking a
nap on the couch," she said, sitting down next to Frank. "But he's still
very confused. He talked to me about Phoenix, but I'm not sure he really
understands what happened there. He keeps making references to the
murder victim, then to another little girl he calls Samantha, but I get
the feeling he thinks they're the same person."

"Maybe in his mind, they are," Frank said, glancing at Catherine, then
back at her. "Maybe he's finally remembering."

"Remembering what?" Catherine asked. "I don't understand."

Between she and Frank, they filled her in as quickly and concisely as
they could. Finally Catherine sat back with a deep sigh, rubbing her
eyes. "No wonder he lost it when that cop called him Bill. His father's
name. The abuse, the experiments. It's all coming back to him."

"He's been trying to remember for a long time. This trip to Phoenix was
just the catalyst," Frank added.

"He needs to remember the rest of it, Dana," Catherine said softly. "If
he doesn't, what happened today will most probably happen again. And
next time there might not be anyone here to talk him out of it."

She closed her eyes, sucking in a shaky breath. She knew exactly what
Catherine meant. Regression hypnotherapy. Taking him back to the time of
the abuse, the experiments, making him relive it all. Finally finding
out the truth of what had happened to him as a child.

"Can you do it?" she asked Catherine. "Can you take him through?"

"I'm not trained in regression techniques, but I know several reputable
therapists who are. I'd be glad to contact one for you."

"How soon?"

"I'll see if I can get someone to come here tonight. Will that be okay?"

She nodded numbly, sipping at her cup, feeling the liquid slither down
her throat, pooling in her stomach, cold and acid. "Yeah. That'll be
fine."

Catherine stayed the rest of the afternoon, while Frank went home to fix
dinner for their daughter Jordan, promising to get a babysitter and be
back in time for the session that evening.

She went up to the bedroom, lay down on the bed, the bed she and Mulder
shared as husband and wife, drawing her knees up to her chest. She
didn't want this evening to come. She was afraid. But not for Mulder.
For herself.

She wasn't sure she was ready to hear the truth.

*   *   *

The hypnotherapist was a small woman in her mid-fifties, with iron-gray
hair and a gentle, reassuring voice. Scully felt herself starting to
relax after a few minutes in her presence. Maybe this wouldn't be such
an awful experience after all.

Mulder seemed more dazed than nervous, a distant look in his eyes as he
sat down on the couch in the light-dimmed living room, hands folded
loosely in his lap. His head fell forward slightly, eyelids  drooping as
the therapist spoke to him in a quiet, steady tone, easing him into a
deep trance.

"I want you to go back, Fox," she murmured, leaning forward so he could
hear her more clearly, "I want you to go back a long time, to a time
from your childhood, the summer of 1973. July. The summer your father
took you away on vacation. Can you remember?"

Scully gasped when his head suddenly jerked up, like a puppet whose
strings were being yanked too hard, though his eyes remained
half-closed. She would've jumped up to go to him if not for the gentle
feel of Catherine's hand closing over hers, calming her without words.

"...I...want to remember...want to so bad..." he whispered.

"There will be barriers, Fox," the therapist said. "I'll help you past
them. But you have to help me. You have to try."

"...it hurts...hurts to remember..."

"Your father took you away. Where did he take you?"

"...we, um...got in the car...it was Sunday morning...he told me, told
Mom we were going to Rhode Island...but he wasn't going the right
way...I said something about it and he...he hit me..." His voice
cracked, broke for a moment. But only a moment. "...he told me to shut
up, so I did...we drove a long time...until we got to this house, this
big house with a gate out in front...we drove in and got out..."

He sounded different now, smaller, lighter. Like he was changing.
Changing back into that frightened twelve-year-old boy. It was working,
she realized, relief and anxiety mingling, warring for dominance inside
her. The hypnosis was working. He was remembering.

"Then what happened?"

"...he took me into the house, all the way to the back...to this huge
white room...this bright white place...and there were other men there,
one man I recognized, one of Dad's friends, used to come to the house
all the time...always had a cigarette in his mouth..."

"Did you see anyone else you recognized? Anyone who looked familiar to
you?"

"...there was another man, wearing a white coat, a doctor's coat, and he
was over in a corner standing next to this table, this flat
table...and...and he stepped back and I saw her...I saw my
sister...Samantha...but I...don't know how she got here...she was at
home with Mom when we left..." He shook his head, one hand coming up to
rub back his hair. "...I don't want to do this anymore...it hurts..."

"We're almost there, Fox. Come on, come the rest of the way with me. I
know you can do it. Tell me what happened next."

"...they had her strapped down to the table...she was crying, so
scared... and when she saw me she started crying even more, calling to
me, saying 'Fox, Fox, help me, they're hurting me, they're hurting me so
bad'...I tried to go to her, help her...but I couldn't...my father was
holding me back...I twisted around, bit him on the hand...and his blood,
I tasted his blood...like a mouthful of new pennies..." His voice
caught, almost turning into a sob. "...I hurt him, and I was glad I hurt
him...I wanted to do it again..."

Scully hung her head, staring at her hand, still clasped in Catherine's.
She couldn't watch, couldn't listen to this anymore. She wanted it over,
forgotten. She couldn't bear seeing him in such pain, hated herself for
bringing this on him. All he'd ever had in his life was pain. No more.
Not because of her.

"Tell me the rest, Fox," the therapist said. "We're almost at the end
now."

"...the doctor...he had this long needle and he stuck it in her arm...in
Samantha's arm...and...and she started screaming...screaming like it was
burning her...and then she stopped screaming but her eyes...her eyes
were still open, but she...she wasn't there anymore...I thought she was
dead and I started crying...and my father slapped me and dragged me over
to this other table and they...they strapped me down and the doctor came
over and he stuck the needle in my arm...and it...God, it hurt so
bad...like acid in my veins, eating away my brain...and I couldn't
remember anything...nothing but what the doctor told me, what they
wanted me to remember..." He moaned, letting his head loll back against
the couch cushions. "...that's all...I can't talk anymore...so tired..."

"It's all right, Fox. We're done," the therapist said. "I'm going to
bring you out now, and when you wake up, you'll remember everything you
told us. But it'll be just another memory. It can't and won't hurt you."

She wasn't sure what she would see when he opened his eyes again,
looking straight across the room. Right at her. "Scully," he murmured,
holding out his hand. She was at his side two seconds later, her wet
face buried in the hollow of his throat, kissing him, feeling his arms
go around her, looking up into his eyes.

Those stormy, intense hazel eyes, now calm and gentle. Released from
agony, from turmoil. Finally at peace.

"It happened," he said. "It all really happened...to her and to me..."

"Yes," she replied, not knowing what else to say. Maybe there was
nothing else.

"I wasn't sure until now. I wasn't sure of anything until now..."

She didn't know how long they stayed there on the couch, but when she
looked up next Frank and Catherine and the therapist were gone, and the
clock on the far wall read twenty minutes to midnight. Rising, she led
him upstairs without a word, up to their bedroom.

They lay together, holding each other in sweet silence for a long time
before he spoke again.

"My mother lied to you," he whispered. "I can't believe it...that she'd
be a willing part of this..."

"Maybe she wasn't willing. Maybe they took Samantha's memory from her,
just like they took my memories of my abduction from me. We can't be
sure."

"Samantha's out there somewhere, Scully. She's alive, she has to be,
maybe even locked up in some mental hospital. And she's probably got no
more idea what's happened to her than I did."

"You want to find her?"

"I have to try. I owe her that much."

She wasn't the least bit surprised. He'd been searching for her so long,
he couldn't stop now. And she wasn't about to try to dissuade him. She
knew better than that. "I'm with you, Mulder. Wherever you want to go,
for as long as it takes to get there."

She heard his throaty chuckle, felt his fingers touching, stroking her
hair. "How'd I get lucky enough to find you?"

"Not luck. A miracle. Just like me finding you."

"Yeah," he whispered, kissing her softly, deeply, "a miracle."

Rolling onto his back, he pulled her along with him, letting her
straddle him, lie flat on top of him, tugging her up a little so that
her breasts hovered above his mouth, flicking at her nipples with the
tip of his tongue. She moaned, throwing her head back, seeing him grin
up at her, happy for her pleasure. She could feel his erection rising,
trapped between them, and she rotated her hips slowly, sinuously,
rubbing her belly against him, giving him a taste of his own torture.

"I give up," he groaned, letting his hands drop, falling back against
the pillow. "Do your worst. I'm too tired to stop you tonight anyway."

"Hmmm...feels like at least one part of you's not too tired."

"Scully..."

She laughed in delight, gazing down at him, right into his eyes. She
knew what he meant; she always did, but tonight was something special.
Something she'd wanted for months. A gift, cherished, secret, intimate.
A gift he was no longer afraid to give her.

He lay perfectly still as she rained soft kisses on his face, his mouth,
his throat, tracing a languid, wet line all the way down to his chest.
Her hips lifted up slightly as she did so, and he gasped as the cool air
wafted over his erection, as she took him in her hand, touching,
caressing, stroking.

She'd wanted to prolong this as much as she could, but the pained look
on his face, his rapid, jerky breathing told her he wasn't going to
last. It aroused her even more, knowing he wanted her so much he could
barely control himself, yet at the same time trusted her enough to give
that control over into her hands.

She reached over into the bedside table for a shiny silver packet and
gently rolled the condom on him, her heart skipping at his slow hiss of
breath. Then she shifted backward, lifting herself up, guiding him into
her, both of them moaning as she sank down on him, taking him as far
within her as he would go. God, he felt so good, filling her, stretching
her, making her whole again...

She felt his hands at her breasts, her back, steadying her, showing her
how he wanted her, how much he wanted her...

They moved together, slow like honey, liquid and golden, the tiny
ripples of pleasure inside her growing gradually stronger, deeper,
pulling, pulsating all the way to her core--

And he grabbed hold of her waist with both hands, plunging upward one
last time, finishing it for both of them at once.

She rolled off him, onto her side, his arm enveloping her, pulling her
close against his own moist skin.

It felt like the first time. Their first time with no secrets between
them, known or unknown.

Everything was new again, fresh, untouched. Days, years stretched out in
front of them. Time for work.

Time for love. Time to be together.

For the first time in nearly a year, she had no doubts. No fears.
Everything was going to be okay.

And this time she actually believed it.
                              
*   *   *

He could see her through the screen door. She was out on the porch
again, sipping coffee, watching the rain.

She looked relaxed. Happy. Of course, the two weeks they'd taken off had
probably helped. Anything to put that beautiful smile back on her face
and keep it there. He hoped he was up to the job.

He went out to her, wrapping both arms around her from behind. It had
become second nature to him, holding her like this, burying his face in
her hair's cinnamon satin, reveling in her light, sweet scent, the silky
feel of her skin.

"Sometimes I wonder..."

"What?" she prompted.

"If this isn't all part of it. The experiment."

"Mulder, you can't let yourself think like that."

"I know. But some days I wake up and wonder if this is the day it all
ends. If any of this is really real."

"I'm real, Mulder. And I'm here," she said, taking his hand, entwining
their fingers. "And I'm not going anywhere."

"Guess that's your way of saying my imagination's working overtime
again, huh?"

"Something like that."

He could hear the smile in her voice; it warmed him better than a
thousand candles. "Sometimes I feel different, though. Like now."

"How do you feel now?"

"Like I'm home," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear, her throat.
"Like I'm finally home."

--END--

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