SKIN (0/37) 
BY: Annie Sewell-Jennings (Auralissa@aol.com) 

DISCLAIMER: The characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are 
nothing more than puppets, and Chris Carter is the puppeteer. But 
ask yourself this, Mr. Carter who's pulling the strings now? 
Bwa ha ha! 

SUMMARY: In a world where Mulder and Scully have never met, fate 
intervenes and brings two worlds colliding in the city of 
Charleston, as a vicious murderer reigns and a storm approaches. 

CATEGORY: XAR (Mulder/Scully romance), Alternate Universe 

RATED: NC-17 (sexual situations and some graphic violence) 

SPOILERS: Through US6, many for the cancer arc and the Samantha 
arc. 

ARCHIVING NOTES: Please do not archive without permission 

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Well, this is certainly a first for me but I 
just wanted to say so much and the first chapter's author's notes 
were so damn long that I felt that they took away from the story 
itself. Of course, that's the last thing that I want to do. But I 
did want to explain a few things and disclaim a few things. 

First of all, the hurricane in this story is fictional, though it 
is loosely based on my tracking of Hurricane Floyd, even though 
Floyd made landfall in North Carolina rather than its original 
target of Edisto Island. This storm is based on the forecast 
track for Floyd, which scared the absolute shit out of everyone 
in this city. All of the information about the evacuation and the 
media invasion is true, btw. Of course, in this universe, Floyd 
never existed, but I did take some incidents from the storm and 
adapt them to this story (i.e. the traffic jam on I-26 and some 
of the radio statements). 

A few notes on hurricanes I am a bad weather junkie. I live for 
hurricane season. The one area of science that fascinates me is 
weather, particularly tropical cyclones. All of the information 
given here is true, such as the Saffir-Simpson Scale and the 
various components that propel a hurricane forward. If you would 
like more information on hurricanes, not to mention a really 
nifty computer tracker (I have one!), you can visit 
www.weather.com for the Weather Channel's information on 
hurricanes. Also, go read _Isaac's Storm_ by Erik Larson. It's a 
fascinating account of the Galveston hurricane of 1900. 

I do remember that "The X-Files" already did hurricanes "Agua 
Mala". But that episode made me *furious*. No one would be out 
driving around in a hurricane OR a tropical storm. They took it 
all so casually, and things like that irritate me. Never even 
MIND the fact that they were experiencing a tropical storm out of 
hurricane season... ::grumble grouse:: So I decided to ignore 
that episode and deny its existence. Hurricanes are dangerous, 
deadly, and destructive storms, and more often than not they are 
used as mere plot devices (i.e. the Sandra Bullock and Ben 
Affleck movie "Forces of Nature" nobody would have an OUTDOOR 
WEDDING while a hurricane came ashore!!!). I decided that in my 
story, my hurricane would be one real big bitch. <vbeg> 

Also, all of the geography of Charleston is pretty much true. I 
did place the Police Station downtown as well as the City Morgue, 
and these facilities are actually in North Charleston. I 
apologize to any citizens for it, but dammit, it really worked 
well in the story. <sheepish grin> And there really is a lemon- 
colored house on the Battery where Scully is supposed to live 
it's beautiful. One of my dream houses. 

I will take the time right now to disclaim the snippets of music 
that I injected into the story. The first is from Beth Orton, 
from her delicious song entitled "Sweetest Decline". I highly 
recommend any of her albums, though these songs are from her 
newest album, _Central Reservation_. The second is from Tori 
Amos's "Cloud on my Tongue", which is a personal favorite song of 
Tori's and can be found on either _To Venus and Back_ or _Under 
the Pink_. ? 

Finally, I would like to thank my tireless and delightful beta 
readers, Heather and Kristin, but particularly Heather for being 
the most supportive beta reader a girl could ever ask for you 
are an inspiration, girl. 

Now, without any further adieu, here's the story... 

***** 

SKIN: PROLOGUE 

***** 

"There are more worlds than the one you can hold in your hand." 
--Albert Hosteen, "The Sixth Extinction: Amor Fati" 

***** 

Somewhere off the coast of Africa 

***** 

Above the churning, steaming Atlantic, a single bolt of 
violent lightning flickered between two dark, malevolent clouds. 
Nothing more than a single bolt, one bright current of 
electricity and heat, simmering and sizzling against the dark 
cobalt sky. 

The clouds had started out as nothing more than a mass of 
molecules, a mixture of hot and cold energy above the smoldering 
summer grasslands. Above the myriad of tribes and prides, these 
differing energies flowed together and converged, forming one 
curious system of thunderstorms. Past the mountains, past the 
rivers, churning constantly toward the tempting heat of the 
Atlantic, the system traveled, gathering energy and organization 
as it moved toward its destination. 

Perhaps it was nothing more than a fluke; a massive cell of 
rain, wind, and electricity, traveling on a system of scientific 
fronts and lows that would die out as it lost energy. Or perhaps 
it was merely the beginning, nothing more than the embryo of a 
storm that would strengthen and intensify once it hit the hot 
waters of the Atlantic and pushed its way west. 

West, west, west... 

Perhaps it was chance that had created this storm. Perhaps 
it was science. Or perhaps it was fate, the lungs of karma 
breathing strength and life into the body of the growing storm. 
Perhaps destiny had a greater hold on life than science or 
meteorology could ever account for. 

And perhaps the same lungs were breathing life into the two 
strangers far away in the United States. Perhaps they were 
nothing more than masses of hot and cold energy, destined for 
convergence and convection upon their meeting. In another 
lifetime, under different circumstances, their union had created 
one of the most tumultuous storms ever known to mankind. Fire and 
ice, imagination and rationalism, all merging together and 
culminating into the darkest and most beautifully tragic of 
affairs. 

Beneath the swirling clouds, the waves began to kick into 
action, sending swells along the pristine African beaches. 
Immaculate white sands fluttered and danced like diamonds on the 
high winds. Like the sands of time. Sifting and turning, shifting 
and changing, making way for the strengthening of whatever 
powerful entity was developing on the horizon. 

Something was happening. Something was changing. Whether it 
was fate, destiny, or an act of God was irrelevant now. 

Because nothing could stop it now. 

***** 

(end of prologue) 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER ONE 

***** 

Hands. 

He was dreaming about hands. 

Slender, pale hands, deft and agile, with small fingers that 
looked capable and skilled. They were still and neat, folded 
carefully as though in prayer, unadorned and simple. Feminine 
hands. Only a woman would have hands this beautiful and sweet. 
They were the sort of hands that every woman should one day 
aspire to possess, and he could smell just the faintest hint of 
lemon-scented lotion. They were the sort of hands that he wanted 
sliding up and down his body, over his shoulders, down his back, 
over his skin... 

One slender hand slid over his, encasing his hand with hers, and 
he looked down at that hand. The white silk cuff of her blouse 
was a sweet contrast to her skin, and he noticed just the 
faintest pink scarring across her hand. It was either the result 
of scalding or freezing; he couldn't tell which, but there was a 
strong urge to lower his lips to her wounded skin and try to heal 
the injury with a kiss. 

A smooth alto voice drifted to his ears, and the voice was heaven 
and velvet wrapped together in one smooth stream of melody. And 
her words... "My work is here now, with you," she said softly, 
meaningfully. Her thumb caressed the back of his hand, smoothing 
over the skin with hers. "And if I quit now, they win." 

Slowly, he trailed his eyes up the lines of her sleek black suit, 
devouring the way that it clung to her slender body, and then - 

***** 

Delta Flight 432 From Washington to Charleston 
Descending into Charleston 
8:43 AM, August 14, 1999 

***** 

Startled out of slumber, he woke up alone and uncomfortable on 
the airplane. He didn't move a muscle, not even to open his eyes. 
It was as though he could still pretend that he was holding the 
woman's hand and hearing her voice. As if he wasn't on an 
airplane taking him to the miserably muggy city of Charleston to 
investigate a particularly gruesome serial killer. 

But he knew that it was just a fantasy, and so Mulder grudgingly 
opened up his eyes, and all that he saw were the clouds. 

The plane tilted gracefully as it cut through the sky, slicing 
through the cerulean color like a knife. His hair fell across his 
face in a sweep of brown bangs, and one absent, careless hand 
swept the hair off of his brow. He made a mental note to get a 
haircut, but he was smart enough to know that he would forget the 
reminder in a matter of days. As the case progressed and consumed 
him like a tumor, eating his mind from the inside out, until he 
was nothing more than a rotted wasteland... 

A shudder quaked through his body at his abysmal thoughts. He was 
already beginning to get morbid and he hadn't even begun a 
profile. Perhaps these dreary thoughts were merely leftovers from 
the last case, the one involving the child pornographer who had a 
penchant for slaughtering his underage actors during the credits. 
The screams of the dying children still haunted his dreams, and 
the worst of it was that their hideous deaths were forever 
captured on celluloid film. 

His hands passed over his eyes as he leaned his face against the 
airplane's window, and Mulder paused for a moment. Hands. The 
dream that he had just woken from was still fresh in his mind, 
and he looked at his own large, brown hands in curiosity. The 
slender white fingers that had been threaded through his had been 
so incredibly soft and supple, skilled and nimble. They were 
undoubtedly feminine in their shape and size, but there was a 
confidence and strength that none of his former romantic 
interests had ever possessed. These were the hands of a capable 
woman, a woman who was self-assured and stronger than steel or 
metal. 

Instantly, he missed them. 

A tinny voice resounded through the cabin of the large Delta 
airplane as the captain began announcing their destination. 
Mulder didn't need to pay attention to the captain's words; he 
already knew everything he needed to know about the historic city 
of Charleston. The Civil War had originated there, the NAACP was 
boycotting the entire state due to old Southern stubbornness, and 
it was constantly facing threats from tropical and the 
liberal political group. And it was hot. Humid, hot, and 
historic. 

And it was currently being plagued by a particularly twisted 
serial killer. 

Mulder looked down at the open file spread out on the tray. Large 
color photographs of the victims stared back up at them, their 
wide, startled eyes forever frozen by death and the vicious 
candidness of the camera lens. Their eyes were always open, 
always pleading, always broken, just like their bodies. 

Their skinless bodies. 

All of the bodies had been discovered on beaches and riverbanks, 
scattered around the city like human driftwood, and all of them 
had been skinned. The skin had been removed with the precision of 
a surgeon, according to the pathologist's detailed reports. There 
was no surface evidence and no leads, not to mention any 
connections between any of the victims. Well, any connections but 
one. They were all holding various positions at law offices 
downtown. Some were secretaries, some were lawyers, and some were 
simply runners. But it was still the law. 

And it was the only start that they had. 

A hand covered up the files that he had been looking at, and 
Mulder looked up, startled. Agent Brentwood had covered up the 
file photographs and was quickly replacing them in their 
requisite manila folder. "We're landing," he explained quietly, 
"and there are civilians nearby." Brentwood met Mulder's eye with 
his own dark blue ones. "No one needs to see these, particularly 
the residents returning home." 

Understanding, Mulder nodded and helped Brentwood replace the 
photos and reports. He shouldn't have been looking at them on the 
plane in the first place, and he really shouldn't have fallen 
asleep with them displayed on the flight tray. It was 
irresponsible of him, and if Patterson had seen them, he would 
have reamed Mulder's ass for a good hour or so. Any excuse to 
ream Mulder's ass was a good one in Patterson's book. 

He certainly appreciated Brentwood's assistance now. Brentwood 
was a capable older agent, quiet and shadowed at the age of 
forty-two. He had been with Behavioral Sciences since the 
beginning, ever since it had been founded in controversy and 
darkness. Mulder often looked at Roy Brentwood's haunted visage 
and saw his own future if he didn't escape: broken, anguished, 
and utterly destroyed. A slave to the serial killers and the 
demons of profiling. It was what Patterson had made of Brentwood 
and now what Patterson was trying to make of Mulder. 

And every time that Mulder fell asleep and thus into another 
nightmare, he felt that Patterson was succeeding. It was becoming 
more and more difficult to distinguish reality from dark fantasy, 
and the line between madness and sanity was blurring more and 
more with every case. Mulder was starting to become scared of 
himself, of the demons that were eating away at his own persona 
and replacing his personality with their own demented quirks. 

The aforementioned Patterson turned around in his seat to look at 
his two prized agents: the seasoned warrior and the buckling 
protegee. "I've arranged a rental car for us," he said 
emotionlessly. "We'll go down to the police station and meet with 
the Chief of Police before reporting to the morgue to attend the 
autopsy." 

Mulder cleared his throat, swiping again at his overgrown bangs. 
"Do you have a police report on the victim?" he asked, emulating 
the same voice as his mentor. 

Patterson shook his head. "All that I know was that it was a 
black woman in her early twenties, discovered on the banks of the 
Ashley River. After the autopsy, I'll meet the two of you at the 
crime scene. It's already been dusted and examined, and they've 
come up with nothing so far." He snorted. "Tells you something 
about the thoroughness of the local law enforcement, doesn't it." 

Brentwood folded his hands in his lap, the myriad of scars and 
wrinkles creasing together in his skin. "Agent Mulder and I will 
go over the scene again, sir," he said complacently and softly. 
Mulder hated the sound of Brentwood's gentle voice; it was the 
voice of a man who had once had a spirit. It was a voice that 
Mulder was afraid of developing. Monotonous, emotionless, and 
uncaring. 

He already had the monotone down pat. 

The plane dipped again, and Mulder briefly clutched the armrests 
with his hands, grimacing as the plane began to land in 
Charleston. He hated landing, dreaded it not only for the 
physical aspects but for the emotional ones Landing meant 
embarking on yet another case and watching another tragedy begin 
to unfold. His stomach turned somersaults, and he turned his face 
to the window, watching the earth swoop closer and closer. 
Highways and automobiles whirred past him along with the greenery 
of trees and grass. The bright sunlight of the Carolinas 
penetrated the glass and made him wince. Patterson chuckled at 
Mulder's uncomfortable state, and it was a brutal laugh. 

"After all these years, you're still a pussy when it comes to 
flying," he commented before turning around and fastening his 
seatbelt. The mocking laughter continued as sweat beaded on 
Mulder's brow, and Brentwood silently put Mulder's tray in the 
upright position as the plane made a landing in Charleston. 

Another case had begun. 

***** 

She was cold. 

Desperately cold. The kind of cold that was more severe than a 
simply physical cold. It penetrated her emotional defenses, 
freezing every thought and icing over every defense. She was 
helpless against it, surrounded by it, encased in liquid cold. 
God, she could even taste it on her tongue, and it tasted like 
ice and acid. It clung to her eyelashes and sank underneath her 
skin, as she drifted away from her body and thus life itself. She 
had no memories, no thoughts of her own, only the knowledge that 
she had lost a final time and that there would be no rematch. 

Then the ice broke. 

Hands pulled her from the cold and covered her body, touching her 
skin and encasing her with the warmth of compassion and concern. 
Frantic fingers explored her body with an adorable desperation, 
and she wanted to reciprocate the passion behind the gesture. 
Wanted to reach beyond the cold to assure her rescuer that she 
was all right. But the cold had robbed her of her strength and of 
her clarity, so that all she could do was lie naked on the cold 
ground, vulnerable and utterly helpless. 

Clothing covered her, large and already warmed by another human 
being's skin. A hushed, husky male voice started whispering to 
her, words that were soothing in the fright that the man was 
experiencing. All of this concern, all because of her. "It's 
gonna be okay," the deep-voiced man whispered. "I promise you, 
it's gonna be all right. I'm here now, it's okay." 

And it was. His hands traveled over her face, trembling digits 
stroking her hair and nose before his fingers fumbled over her 
lips. "I wish I could have kissed you," that despairing tenor 
rumbled, and she felt an incredible urge to kiss him. She had no 
memory of his face, no memory of him, but there was a need inside 
of her to feel his mouth on hers. To consume his breath and hold 
it inside of her, like she could inhale his strength and use it 
for herself. 

But instead she exhaled one last breath and was cast out among 
the stars... 

***** 

Residence of Dana Scully 
Charleston, South Carolina 
9:00 AM, August 14, 1999 

***** 

Sunlight streamed in through the large French doors, sending the 
linen curtains billowing on sunlight and luminous summer breezes. 
The scent of lemon and saltwater permeated the air, and there was 
a beautiful symphony of wind chimes and Atlantic waves from 
outside. One slender calico cat purred contentedly on the painted 
wood of the white balcony, stretching underneath the sunlight 
while her multicolored fur shimmered like velvet tiger's eye. 

The cat continued to sit out in the sun for a few more moments 
before she decided that she was hungry. She trotted in from the 
balcony and into the bedroom, where her young mistress lay 
trapped in slumber. 

Tangled in the fine sheets of the queen-sized bed was a slender, 
scantily clad woman. Everything was white, from the bedcovers to 
the panty and camisole set that the woman wore, except for a 
startling splash of mussed red hair that was spilled over the 
pillows like liquid cinnamon. Her small white hands were folded 
neatly under the pillow, fingers twitching in her REM sleep. One 
slender, shapely leg was strewn across the bed in a haphazard yet 
appealing fashion, showing off the subtle sensuality of the 
slumbering woman. 

Gracefully, the cat jumped up onto the bed and pawed the young 
woman's hair with her declawed little feet. The woman flinched in 
her slumber briefly, but fell back into sleep again. Undaunted, 
the calico nudged the redhead's nose with hers, then licked the 
woman's cheek. Groaning, the woman finally woke up, mumbling a 
name that she didn't understand and then instantly forgot. 

Slowly, she sat up in bed, wiping her wet cheek before smoothing 
out her sleep-mussed hair. "Ugh," she muttered to herself, and 
then she opened up her eyes to look down at her feline alarm 
clock. 

Dana Scully grinned wryly. "Hungry, Duchess?" she asked, and 
Duchess meowed in affirmation, butting her head against Scully's 
wrist demandingly. Scully groaned again, combing out her short, 
efficient hair with her fingertips before grabbing the thin linen 
robe hanging from the bedpost. "All right, all right already. 
Give me a minute." The calico fiend trotted away, her tail 
twitching proudly behind her as she left the room so that her 
mistress could get dressed. 

Slipping her arms through the billowing robe, Scully loosely 
belted the thin material and padded barefoot up the steps. The 
August breeze ruffled her disarrayed red hair into a cloud of 
crimson as she stepped out onto her widow's walk, and she 
absently attempted to tuck the hair behind her ear. Sunlight 
poured down on her in canary-tinted pillars, and she sighed as it 
hit her shoulders and face. This was the smell of Charleston; 
this was the essence of this coastal city. 

This was what she loved about it. 

The view from atop her antique house was glorious in the 
brightness of the August morning. Charleston Harbor glimmered and 
shone beneath the veil of spring-colored willow trees, the waves 
rolling in jewel-tinted wheels of water. The barrier islands were 
apparent in the distance, protecting the city from the threat of 
hurricanes or invaders and thus hiding it from the rest of the 
world. Charleston was an isolated city, covered in secrecy and 
Spanish moss and wrapped in lush history. 

Closing her eyes, Scully leaned against the railing of her pretty 
white widow's walk, absorbing the heat into her skin in an 
attempt to banish the lingering cold of her dream. 

She shuddered at its sudden memory. The terror of it was thick 
inside of her system, pumping through her veins in liters of 
liquid blizzard. The reality of the dream had been the most 
frightful part of it, the cloistering feeling that this was more 
memory than fantasy. And the only point of solace in that 
nightmare had been the stranger's hands fluttering over her face 
and body as he dressed her in his clothes. 

"I wish I could have kissed you," Scully murmured aloud, 
repeating her foreign savior's words. But her self-assured alto 
voice couldn't breathe life into the words in the same way that 
the tattered tenor had. 

It had been a strange dream. Very strange indeed. 

The telephone started to ring shrilly from inside and Scully 
sighed. Another day had begun. Bowing her head, she abandoned her 
vantage point at the widow's walk to enter her bedroom again, 
locating the cordless phone and answering it in standard fashion. 
"Scully," she said. 

A soft, sotto chuckle rumbled across the phone line, softly 
tinted with the rich flavor of a British purr. "You're going to 
be late for work, Scully," the classy English voice murmured. 

Scully smiled dryly, resting the phone in the crook of her neck. 
"What's up, Lia?" 

Dr. Ophelia Brown sighed on the other end of the phone. "I 
thought that I should be the first to tell you that they've 
discovered another body," she answered in a fatigued tone of 
voice. "Our lovely local media covered the story from the crime 
scene, where they were in their best capacity to interfere with 
the investigation. More handiwork of the Southern Skinner." 

Scully frowned. "The Southern Skinner?" 

Lia chuckled dryly. "Oh, didn't you hear? That's the nickname 
that the _Post and Courier_ have given him. Pretty sexy, huh?" 

Scully rolled her eyes as she walked downstairs. Duchess found 
her in the hallway and tangled her lithe body through Scully's 
ankles as her mistress walked toward the kitchen. "You're sick, 
Lia," Scully said, and the burn specialist sighed in return. 

"Thank you." 

While Scully poured dried cat food into Duchess's plastic bowl, 
she listened as Lia described the revolting state of the 
victim's body. "Judging from the press release, it's pretty 
nasty, Scully," she said. "The saltwater must have corroded all 
of the internal organs; they look pickled by now. Just like the 
last one, I'm afraid. They're going to have to identify this one 
with dental records. Again." 

Wincing, Scully shifted the phone from one shoulder to the other 
as she reached into her sparse freezer and procured a canister of 
coffee beans. "You could have spared me the gritty details until 
I got to the morgue," she said, and Lia's frustrated breath 
was the equivalent of a dismissal. 

"You're a seasoned coroner, Scully," Rachael said. "You can 
handle the disgusting stuff." Her voice lowered viciously. "I did 
enjoy seeing Jill Miller blanche at the sight of the body at the 
crime scene I hate that reporter. Bloody little snot." 

Scully started to grind the coffee beans as Lia continued on with 
her colorful diatribe. "In any case, I figure that you have about 
a half an hour to get your tight little Yankee butt down to the 
autopsy bay," the British doctor said wryly. "Oh, and there's 
something else going on that you probably should know about. 
Police Chief Greenberg has called in the FBI to work on the 
case." 

Surprised, Scully arched her eyebrows. "The FBI?" 

"Not only that, but a special unit of the FBI," Lia said. 
"The Behavioral Sciences Unit has sent a team down to 
investigate. Including a profiler." 

Scully flinched. The last thing that she wanted to do was perform 
an autopsy with onlookers, especially onlookers from the Federal 
Bureau of Investigation. The FBI was a particularly sore point 
with her, especially nowadays when she was growing tired of her 
job and of her relationship with the devious South. She didn't 
want to have to confront her past choices now, not when there was 
nothing she could do about them. Her life had been plotted out 
and now she would have to follow its course. 

It was far too late for her to join the FBI now. 

"Great," Scully muttered into the phone, brushing the coffee 
grinds into the filter. "Any other good news for me today?" 

"Actually, yes," Lia said. "Have you turned on the Weather 
Channel yet?" 

Scully frowned. "No, not yet. Should I?" 

An excited note made its way into Lia's usually monotonous voice. 
"Only if you're interested in taking a look at the latest 
tropical depression." 

Immediately, Scully abandoned her coffee machine for the small 
television set that was positioned in her breakfast nook, 
flipping on the power and switching to the Weather Channel. Storm 
Watch was on, and Dr. John Hope was standing in front of the blue 
screen, pointing at a rotating mass of clouds near the Wayward 
Islands. "I'll be damned," Scully muttered. "That busy hurricane 
season that they were predicting is starting to kick in. I'm 
impressed; I personally thought that Dr. Hope had finally lost 
it." 

"He always did look senile, didn't he?" Lia mused. She then 
muttered a curse. "Damn. Scully, I have to run. I have to make 
rounds on my Special Burns unit and then prepare a speech for my 
team. Best of luck at the morgue." 

"Bye," Scully murmured, transfixed by the motion of the storm 
churning out in the Atlantic. 

Scully pressed the "end" button on the telephone and set it down 
on the kitchen counter. She turned away from the television set 
as Dr. Hope gave out the statistics to the storm and returned to 
making her coffee, glancing at the clock on the wall as she did 
so. "Tropical Depression number 3 is positioned at 28.3 N and 
73.2 W, and is moving due west at 8 mph. The pressure has dropped 
to 989 millibars, so we are expecting some strengthening as this 
depression gets itself better organized. This is definitely a 
storm that we should keep an eye on, but it won't present a 
threat for a while to come." 

With that, Scully turned off the television set and moved 
upstairs to get a shower. 

As she pulled off her panties and camisole, Scully realized that 
she couldn't keep her mind off of her earlier dream. In spite of 
the rising temperatures, the cold still clung to her skin. It was 
bizarre, the way that she couldn't shake this simple, 
uncomplicated nightmare. But in retrospect, it wasn't really a 
nightmare. Certainly it had some terrifying aspects to it, such 
as that relentless cold, but there was something genuinely 
comforting about it. Something very tranquil and reassuring. And 
she could pinpoint just which part of the dream that was - the 
stranger's hands. 

Gently, her own hands smoothed her hair down, trying to generate 
the same compassion that the male hands had possessed in her 
dream, but it was pointless. Eventually, she just felt silly, 
trying to recreate the hands of a man that didn't even exist. 
"You're losing it, Scully," she muttered to herself, tucking her 
hair behind her ears as she stepped into the shower. 

The hot water hit her naked body forcefully but soothingly, and 
Scully sighed, exhaling into the shower. Liquid warmth flowed 
over her body in waves of refreshing heat, flooding over her bare 
skin like fluid fingers. The memory of her cold, brutal nightmare 
seemed to drop from her body as the shower continued, and she 
sighed into it. The warmth was relieving as it poured over her 

(like the melting emerald ice as he shattered the cocoon) 

body, small fingertips touching her like a million 

(frantic fingers covered her body in a desperate attempt to give 
her warmth) 

caresses. Frustrated, Scully bent her head to her feet, watching 
the clear water swirl through her toes before it emptied into her 
drain. Clear water. Not water the color of liquid jade, but 
clear, safe water. There was nothing dirty or unholy about this 
water. She was safe in this shower, safe from the cold ice that 
had encased her, safe from the myriad of possibilities 
contradictory to her science that lay in the implications of that 
ice, and safe from the Antarctic... 

"Wait." 

Her own voice stilled the whir of words moving through her mind. 
It had been the strangest feeling, the feeling that she had been 
remembering things, even when these were events that had never 
happened to her. Shaking her head, she continued on with her 
shower, blocking any possible thoughts from her mind as she 
lathered melon-scented shampoo into the fine strands of her hair. 
Scully had never been near Antarctica; she was an average woman 
living an average life in Charleston, South Carolina. And as much 
as she might resent that normalcy, it did eradicate all 
possibilities of her ever being in her dreamed situation. 

While washing the shampoo out of her hair, she washed the 
memories of her dreams out, too. There were more important things 
to think about now, like the autopsy and the "Southern Skinner". 
Her personal issues didn't belong. 

So Scully finished showering up, not thinking twice about 
Antarctica or the mysterious tenor voice that had comforted her. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER TWO 

***** 

Charleston County Police Headquarters 
Charleston, South Carolina 
10:20 AM, August 14, 1999 

***** 

The police station was located in the heart of Charleston in a 
large, sprawling structure that was both beautiful and efficient. 
It combined both modern and historic elements to create a very 
active, pretty police station that was more distinct than most of 
the others that Mulder had witnessed in his time. Certainly, it 
had that classic musty smell and dim, ominous lighting that 
seemed to be a staple in all police stations, but the stained 
glass windows and marble pillars gave it a more friendly, 
accessible feel. 

Groaning, Mulder reached for his necktie, loosening it slightly 
from around his neck. The heat was oppressive and almost 
tangible. It felt like some sort of virus, sinking through his 
skin and claiming his body. "Of course, a serial killer has to 
start in August," Mulder muttered grumpily as he followed 
Patterson and Brentwood to the sheriff's office. Brentwood tossed 
him a look of detached sympathy, but it wasn't really genuine. 
The older agent didn't put very much heart into any of his life 
nowadays, and Mulder felt the same apathy sinking through his 
bones. 

It was like this case. Five years ago, he might have gone home 
and found images of skinned women lying everywhere, haunting his 
dreams as well as his days. But now, they were merely a fact of 
life that he had to deal with. People died. People were murdered. 
And he was supposed to bring them justice. It was a routine, 
losing himself in the darkness of the demons that had killed him. 
And now it was becoming more and more difficult to pull himself 
back out. 

He was beginning to wonder if he even wanted to return in the 
first place. 

Inside the police station, there was a crowd of officers and 
secretaries, all bustling about in efforts to rally officers and 
keep the hungry media at bay. Federal agents littered the place, 
probably sent from the field office in Columbia, though Mulder 
recognized a few fibs from the Washington Headquarters. Their 
entrance into the building was mostly unnoticed, though Patterson 
and Mulder attracted a few unwelcome stares due to their 
notoriety in the Bureau history. 

One tall black man approached them wearing a tailored navy blue 
suit and a conservative tie. "Agents?" he asked, and the three 
Washingtonians turned their heads to the man who had approached 
them. He smiled pleasantly at them, a grin breaking out to 
display a row of straight white teeth. "My name's Brett Townsend. 
I'm the Assistant to the Police Chief, Rueben Greenberg. The 
Chief will be out in a little while to discuss the details of the 
case with you, but he's currently tied up in a press conference." 

Patterson leaned forward and extended his hand to the young 
Townsend. "Thank you, Mr. Townsend," he said. "I'm Agent 
Patterson, and this is Agent Mulder and Agent Brentwood." The 
agents took their turns shaking hands with Townsend, who then 
directed them into a closed-off area of the headquarters. Harsh 
fluorescent lighting beamed down on them, proving that even 
though the exterior might seem unique, the insides were typical. 
The police station was always the victim of underfunding. 

After everyone was seated, Townsend spoke. "This case is proving 
to be a very large problem," he said, his voice smooth but 
serious. "And it's getting worse every day. I'm not just talking 
about the murders themselves, but the problem with the media." Of 
course. No one cared as much about the case as they did about the 
press. " Chief Greenberg is a very popular man in Charleston 
County, which is very progressive. It has not always been 
possible for a black man in this position to be popular in the 
Old South. We have to handle this case with kid gloves, which is 
why the local police enforcement was reluctant to bring in the 
Behavioral Sciences Unit. The last thing we want is for this case 
to be sensationalized by the media." 

Patterson nodded understandingly. "What you want is for this case 
to be wrapped up swiftly, neatly, and quietly," he said. "And you 
don't want the public to be upset by the presence of FBI 
profilers." Relieved, Townsend stood up and smiled again, the 
pleasant smile of a man who had done his job correctly. A spark 
of mischief lit up Mulder's system for a moment. He had gained 
his bad reputation in the Bureau for his spontaneity and his 
unorthodox methods of investigation - it would be interesting to 
see how Townsend reacted to having Fox Mulder work on a case. 

Townsend left the room for a moment, and Patterson turned sternly 
to Mulder. "You need to keep yourself under tight reins on this 
case, Mulder," he said. "This is an important case to the Bureau. 
The Chief of Police is a high-standing man, and he's up for 
reelection this year. And if you can't keep yourself in line, 
then I'll do it for you." Danger and malice sparked in 
Patterson's eyes as he glared at the younger agent. "Do I make 
myself clear?" 

Sighing, Mulder turned away. Bitched at again. "Crystal," he 
muttered. 

The door opened again and Greenberg entered. Greenberg was a man 
of medium-build and middle age, black and world-weary. Mulder had 
heard something of Chief Ruben Greenberg in the news and in the 
_Washington Post_. He was well regarded in high political 
circles, especially for his tight policies involving high school 
crime. After the Littleton disaster, Greenberg had implemented a 
reward system for students calling in to report weapons in the 
schools. It was a smart idea, one that Mulder respected, and so 
he respected the police chief. 

After going through the proprieties of shaking hands and 
introductions, all sat down to discuss the most important matter 
of all - the case. 

Greenberg, who wore a responsible-looking gray suit, placed his 
hands on his knees and looked sternly at all three agents. It 
wasn't an offensive sternness, just the seriousness of a 
concerned man. It was appropriate. "I'm certain that my assistant 
has told you that we're dealing with a very delicate situation," 
Greenberg said, his voice smooth, serious, and affected with a 
rich Southern accent. "But aside from our media problems, which 
are getting worse and worse every day, we've got a pretty vicious 
serial killer at large. 

"The murders started about a week ago, when one 24-year-old 
Rachel Morris washed ashore in Mt. Pleasant, skinned. She was a 
paralegal, a mother of one, unmarried. No record, nothing that 
would really distinguish her from anything else. Her legal career 
is all we've got to link her to our other victims, which are 
Lucinda Brightman, aged 27, Caroline Brenneman, aged 33, Stella 
Horowitz, aged 32, and our most recent victim, who is still 
unidentified. She was found early this morning on the banks of 
the Ashley River, near Drayton Hall Plantation." A disgusted note 
entered his voice. "A tourist discovered the body, which, if you 
can imagine, is not good for the city. Charleston's major source 
of income *is* tourism, and it's not gonna look good if visitors 
start finding mutilated women. 

"But beyond all that, what I want is for this bastard to be put 
behind bars so that our lives can continue. This is one sick 
jackass out there making life difficult for Charlestonians, and 
it's scaring me that we've had about twenty feds working this 
case with no success." The chief of police leaned forward 
confidentially, arching his eyebrows in scrutiny. "What I want to 
know is why I should trust you three to solve a problem that 
nobody else could." 

Mulder understood the question; it made sense. This was a 
vicious, violent killer, and nobody had been able to make head or 
tails of what exactly was going on. There had been no surface 
evidence and nothing to link the three victims. And there had 
been three other investigative teams sent in before the BSU had 
been called into action. All with no success. 

Patterson took over command, as always. "Agent Brentwood is a 
highly experienced field agent with a degree in criminology," he 
said. "He's given thirteen years of service to the FBI and twelve 
of those years were spent in the Behavioral Sciences Unit. He's a 
decorated agent and a solid one. He won't let you down." Mulder 
knew why Patterson did this. It was because Patterson had 
personally broken Brentwood and wanted Mulder to bend to him as 
well. One of his bribes was the praise that he poured upon 
Brentwood. 

With an arched eyebrow of disdain, Patterson looked at Mulder, 
then mustered up some sort of good word for him. "And this is 
Agent Mulder, a criminal profiler for our team," Patterson said. 
"Agent Mulder is a very talented young man, graduated a year 
early and at the top of his class from Quantico. We're relying on 
solid police work and sound psychology to catch this killer, 
Chief Greenberg." 

Pleased, Greenberg stood up and passed three manila folders to 
the agents. "You can find the most recent body next door at the 
City Morgue," he said. "Dr. Scully, the Chief of Pathology, will 
be more than happy to cooperate with the investigation." 

Scully. The name rolled around in Mulder's head for a moment, 
like a missing puzzle piece searching for the place where it fit. 
It was familiar, and in the strangest way. It was familiar in the 
way that his mother's name was familiar, reverent and loving. 
Even though he was certain that he'd never heard the name before, 
it felt... It felt as though he *should* know it. And he 
instantly felt guilty for not having a face to place with the 
name. As though he was betraying someone for not remembering a 
name. 

A gruff, uncaring hand clapped over his shoulder. It was 
Brentwood, looking at him with mild curiosity. "We're leaving 
now," he said simply, and Mulder blinked his eyes, discovering 
that the room was emptying. Startled, he nodded at Brentwood, who 
walked on ahead without asking him what was wrong. Of course he 
didn't inquire. Words were something that Brentwood didn't waste 
on civilians or on human beings not associated with the case. 

Mulder caught up with Patterson in the hallway, frowning as he 
walked beside the Section Chief. "Sir, have we ever worked with a 
Dr. Scully before?" he asked, furrowing his brow in thought. 

Patterson snorted. "Mulder, we've worked with more pathologists 
than I can think of," he said. "I don't remember their names." 

Shaking his head, Mulder continued, hot on the heels of his boss. 
"It just seems like I know that name, Scully," he murmured. The 
feel of the name rolling off his tongue felt right, felt good, 
like he was whispering a prayer. Like he was calling on God to 
give him solace. All of this comfort and tranquility gathered 
from a name that he had never even heard before... It was 
bizarre. 

With a sigh, Patterson tossed a bored glare in Mulder's 
direction. "Jesus, Mulder, calm down," he said in exasperation. 
"We're going to be there in a minute to meet this guy, so-" 

"It's a woman," Mulder said suddenly. Somehow he knew that Scully 
was a woman's name, even though most of their pathologists were 
men. The feeling that he received when he spoke that name was a 
feeling associated with women - soft, soothing, and subtly 
sensual. This was what the mere utterance of her name induced. 
Dr. Scully was undoubtedly female. 

Patterson rolled his eyes. "Whatever." 

The three agents stepped outside to cross the street to the city 
morgue. 

***** 

Residence of Dana Scully 
Charleston, South Carolina 
10:53 AM, August 14, 1999 

***** 

Scully stepped out into the bright Carolina morning, the smell of 
fresh-blooming wisteria surrounded her. She paused briefly and 
deeply inhaled it, enjoying the combination of sweetness and 
richness that were imbedded deeply into the blooms of the deep 
violet flowers. Duchess slunk out from underneath Scully's 
wraparound porch and threaded her supple body around her owner's 
ankles, purring delightedly. Scully sighed, giving into her cat's 
demands as she reached down to stroke the calico's jewel-toned 
fur. "I'm whipped, you know," she told the cat. "And you're 
totally spoiled for it." 

The cat just continued nuzzling Scully's ankles as Scully walked 
toward her bicycle. 

She did own a car. It was a 1991 Saturn, a fairly decent used 
car, colored dark gray and affectionately nicknamed Lucy by its 
previous owner. But Lucy spent the summer in the garage, mostly 
unused since you could go anywhere in downtown Charleston either 
on foot or on a reliable bike. Scully had chosen to invest her 
money in her bike and her house. 

Scully tilted her head back to glance at her paradise in 
unabashed admiration. The house was a sprawling Southern 
masterpiece, complete with iron-wrought gates with a unique 
design of wisteria and pineapples. The white plaster wraparound 
porch wound around the lemon-colored house, where white wicker 
furniture and embroidered pillows were set out for summer sunsets 
and iced tea consumption. The second story was mostly for the 
guests that Scully never had with its three bedrooms and two and 
a half bathrooms, all furnished with antiques. But her pride and 
joy was on the third floor. 

A magnificent balcony was set just outside of the master bedroom 
and could be entered and exited by genuine French doors. The 
bedroom was a loft, decorated in white linen and eyelet lace, 
simple and understated in the summertime. In the wintertime, she 
broke out the heavier mulberry bedroom set with its velvet 
curtains and forest-green throw pillows. And on top of her 
canary-colored estate was a white widow's walk, where she could 
watch the sailboats and the sea to her heart's content. 

A house on East Battery was difficult to procure and even more 
difficult to pay for. They were usually inherited, passed down 
from generation to generation, and they always included the 
antebellum furniture that the house had always been equipped 
with. Scully had gotten her house on a lucky break - her mentor, 
Dr. Rutledge. She'd been his protegee of sorts, his model doctor 
while an intern at MUSC, and when he'd passed away years after 
she became Chief of Pathology, he left her his prized house. 

Of course, Dr. Rutledge had given it to her in the hopes that one 
day she would find someone to share it with, and that was an 
expectation that she had never been able to fulfill. Yet another 
disappointment to add to the long list. 

With a sigh, Scully got on her BMX and pushed off, peddling down 
the street and toward the city morgue. 

She crossed the street and steered the bike onto the Battery, 
which was nothing more than a raised sidewalk lining the Harbor. 
She loved riding along the Battery, peddling toward top speed. It 
was releasing, relieving, like she was speeding down the line 
between land and sea. Like she was skirting the border between 
ocean and society. Here, she could escape the boundaries and 
restraints of the modern world, could escape the weariness and 
the trials of the South Carolinian culture. She could lose 
herself in the tides or in the people; either way, she could just 
get lost. 

Losing herself was a highly appealing idea nowadays. 

The wind whipped through her hair, pushing it into a torrent of 
red, as she turned onto Broad Street. She had no idea that merely 
three minutes away, a man that she had never met but had always 
been in love with was walking toward her same destination to meet 
her. 

She had no idea that she had just crossed the line between ocean 
and land. 

***** 

Charleston City Morgue 
Charleston, South Carolina 
11:03 AM, August 14, 1999 

***** 

She turned into the parking lot at the same moment that he walked 
out into the sunlight. She curved the bicycle gracefully into the 
turn, feeling her hair fly about her face in a torrent of 
brightness. 

It was that same banner of red that caught his eye. 

A streak of ginger ignited the sky, cinnamon exploding into a 
firestorm of silk. Startled, he turned his head to follow that 
rich ripple of ruby, to see who its owner was, and he was frozen 
in his path at the sight of the beauty that the red hair belonged 
to. 

One slender, petite woman curved a metal bicycle around the bend 
that led into the parking lot, wearing a pair of worn blue jeans 
and an exquisite cream-colored blouse that billowed around her 
body as she rode. Wind and speed pushed her hair into a torrent 
of vermilion, radiant and rapturous in its copper-threaded 
extravagance. That hair, those highlights and those streaks of 
strawberry and sunlight... It was all so exquisitely beautiful, 
so proud and defiant in the Carolina sun. 

She turned her head, and felt herself nearly lose her grip on her 
handlebars. Someone was watching her, a stranger in a black suit 
and a wildly-colored necktie, and that stranger was one of the 
most striking men she had ever seen. A unique face stared at her, 
with high cheekbones and summer-colored skin, all marked by a 
dominant and slightly crooked nose. But it was his eyes that 
caught her attention. The color swarmed together in the distance, 
displaying only dark brown the color of cocoa beans. Yet it was 
what resided in those eyes that she could discern even now. 
Intelligence, intensity, and a deep, heartbreaking flavor of 
sorrow. 

That was what was all focused on her now, and felt her own heart 
clench and tighten with a thick pain. That distant figure that 
she couldn't recognize was breaking her heart, not only with his 
beauty but with this strong sense that she should be by his side. 
She should be standing next to him, completing him, feeling him 
complete her. Instead she was riding a bicycle to a workplace 
that she detested, and he stood alone and longing. 

Her face was solemn when she turned it to his, and from across 
the street, he could discern the bright crystal blue of her eyes 
and the sharpness of her features. But he was attracted to her 
mouth most of all, if only because it was the only softness in 
her angular face. And it was also the most intriguing feature 
that he had ever seen on a woman before. Sensual, determined, and 
lined with berry-colored regret. 

This woman was sad that she had seen him. 

Then the moment passed, and Mulder was left alone on the street 
corner, abandoned by his colleagues and by the beautiful biker. 
She was turning her face away from him, and so he tore his gaze 
away from hers. He had a job to do, and lingering on a woman 
wasn't going to solve the case. 

When Scully glanced over her shoulder again, she saw the tall man 
cross the street toward the morgue, and felt a shudder run down 
her spine. It was the same kind of chill that she had tried to 
eradicate with her earlier showering, the same cold that had 
penetrated her bones and stole her strength before. The same 
strange feeling of missing something passed through her body 
again, all with the sight of this handsome and exotic man. 

All because she thought that she was supposed to know him. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER THREE 

***** 

The bland, sterile walls of the city morgue were a welcome 
blessing for Scully as she entered from the back. Her brain was 
jangled and her mind was confused, and she felt distinct 
disorientation take over her mind. It was the disorientation of a 
woman who had just found something she'd lost wrapped up in a 
stranger's caramel-coated eyes. The only problem was that Scully 
had never had anything to lose, so she couldn't pinpoint why she 
had been missing a man that she had never met before. 

Pathologists and assistants paced the hallway as the white tails 
of their lab coats flared up like angel wings. Scully actually 
took brief comfort in the typicality of the morgue for a moment. 
The boring monotony of the days was a welcome refuge from the 
strangeness that she had experienced outside when glancing at the 
enigmatic stranger, and it grounded her, numbed her, prepared her 
for the autopsy that she would need to perform. Her sudden bout 
of displacement couldn't interfere with the murder case, 
especially when the FBI was in town. 

The FBI... That was a whole other can of worms that Scully wasn't 
going to open yet. She had experienced enough distress already 
today and she wasn't prepared to deal with the implications of 
her past failures. Wordlessly, she slipped past the emotionless 
lab workers and moved toward her office, but then she paused 
outside of her door to read the gold plaque hanging there. 

"DR. DANA SCULLY, CHIEF PATHOLOGIST". It was a title that she had 
spent the past six years earning and the past three years 
loathing. This was what she had spent her entire life working 
for, all of her years studying medicine, forensics, criminology 
and pathology. She had accomplished her goal, and even if she 
hated her career and her life, at least she knew who she was. She 
was Dr. Dana Scully, Chief Pathologist of the Charleston City 
Morgue. Nobody else but that. 

Usually she hated to remind herself of that fact, but her odd 
experience outside had somehow made her want to remember herself. 
She needed to have the strict fact that stated who and what she 
was. Dr. Scully. No more, no less. 

Even if that stranger's sorrow-riddled eyes made her wish that 
she were somebody else. 

Briskly, she entered her office and closed the door soundly 
behind her. No sense in dwelling on a past that she couldn't 
change. 

Scully turned around and took in the sight of her office. It was 
neat and tidy, well organized and sparsely decorated with used 
furniture that had already been broken in when she'd purchased 
it. A high-backed leather chair with cracks in the upholstery was 
placed behind a sturdy pine desk, and everything was lit in the 
typical medical harshness of fluorescent lighting. Only a 
smattering of photographs littered the desk, and they were only 
the pictures of her immediate family. No lovers, no children, no 
memories. It was the simple life of a single woman. 

Another eerie feeling that there was something missing drifted 
through her mind. It was the sensation she felt when she noticed 
that her office lacked clutter and color. 

Shuddering, Scully threw the idea out of her mind as she shrugged 
into her pristine white lab coat. //You're losing it, Scully,// 
she thought to herself. She opted to save these musings for 
another time, when it was just her, her widow's walk, and a nice 
summer sunset. And maybe a glass of iced tea... The thought was 
more than tempting. But now she was trapped in this cubbyhole of 
an office with her bland autopsy reports and another autopsy to 
prepare for. 

Scully sighed as she sat down at her desk and put on her slim 
wire-rimmed glasses. There was Lia's typed report on the gunshot 
victim from West Ashley. She breezed through it and found nothing 
unusual. The toxicology screening came up clean; no signs of drug 
abuse, and it appeared that the gunshot wound was truly 
accidental. The kid's record coincided with the findings of the 
autopsy - the kid was clean at the time of death. 

There was only one more file in her in-box, from the Police 
Station. A muscle in her jaw clenched tightly as she steeled 
herself for the inevitable - another victim of the Southern 
Skinner. 

This woman was nothing more than a Jane Doe at this point, 
discovered by a tourist at Drayton Hall Plantation. Scully winced 
at the thought of a foreigner stumbling across the body. Instead 
of finding magnolias, there were corpses. It was what upset her 
about the case so badly. In spite of Scully's growing discontent 
and her poor opinion of the locals, she did have a deep love of 
the land itself. The swamps, the marshes, the sand dunes and 
plantations all held a special place in her heart. Hearing of 
crime and murder invading those historic habitats broke a piece 
of her. 

It was as though everything that she knew was being destroyed. 

Furrowing her brow, she continued reading the preparatory report 
on the body. There was no trace evidence discovered at the crime 
scene, which was not unusual. The killer was smart, very 
methodical and thorough and exceptionally good at what he did. 
Scully had performed all of the autopsies on the victims to date, 
and the pathologist in her couldn't help but admire the skill and 
smoothness of every incision. The precision and gracefulness with 
the blade... She had made a suggestion to the original team of 
feds that this man was either an artist or a surgeon, but nobody 
had paid attention to the redheaded Yankee pathologist. 

Nobody ever did. 

Funny, how she could love land so much and despise the people who 
lived on it. The South had enchanted her from her first day, with 
its beautiful houses and streets, and Scully had always harbored 
a fondness from the sea. It was something that she had inherited 
from her Navy captain father a love of water. She sailed, she 
walked the beaches, she swam and she sunned. And the Southerners 
themselves were so calm and pretty, with their lulling language 
and politeness to every guest. Yet Scully had discovered that 
Charleston was a society that could only be entered by being born 
in the city or at least raised there since childhood, for many of 
them harbored a resentment for Yankees such as herself, as if she 
could steal the South from them. Inheriting a beautiful house on 
the Battery had not helped her situation much, either she had 
been rejected doubly for inheriting the Compromise House of 
downtown Charleston. 

So she became a hermit. A recluse. She lived in her house, 
dissected the dead, and associated only with British Lia Brown 
and a few men who were enchanted by her stoicism or just wanted 
to melt the Ice Queen. She'd slept with a few of them and 
rejected all of them in return once they began mocking her for 
her loneliness and her love for a land she hadn't been born on. 

Yes, the South was a place of love and hate indeed. 

Gritting her teeth, Scully continued reading the police report. 
It was all the same information as before, just with different 
sites and different names plugged in. A woman, in her mid- 
twenties to early-forties, discovered on either a riverbank or a 
beach, skinned and decaying from being tied down and weighted. No 
surface evidence and no fingerprints anywhere on the site. It was 
her job now to try and discover if there was anything unusual 
about the body, to try and find the killer's error, if there was 
one at all. 

A knock sounded on her door, and Scully looked up from the 
report. "Come in," she called, and the door opened, revealing 
three men in business suits. 

And one of them was him. 

When Mulder stepped through Dr. Scully's office door, the last 
thing that he expected to see was her. The red-haired woman from 
outside on the bike was now sitting at a clean pine desk, wearing 
the immaculate white coat of a doctor. She looked up from a 
manila folder, startled out of her work, and her face was thus 
tilted so that he could see her close-up. From a distance, she 
had been glorious, but now she was magnificent. Her flawless oval 
face was lit with rose both from her hair and from her Irish 
complexion, and there was a smattering of freckles over her nose 
that makeup couldn't conceal. Summertime freckles. The kind that 
came from long afternoons spent at the beach and in sunlight. 

He saw nothing in the room except for her, this lovely young 
woman who looked at him with blatant intrigue that lasted only 
for a moment. Then she arched one gingery eyebrow coldly, 
disdainfully. "Are you the FBI agents from Washington?" she 
asked, and Patterson took over, clearing his throat and extending 
his hand. 

"You must be Dr. Scully," he said. "I'm Agent Patterson, and this 
is Agent Brentwood and Agent Mulder." Her sharp china gaze 
glanced over the other two agents before pausing on him. He 
stared back at her, trying to read her thoughts underneath the 
bright blue ice of her eyes, and he felt a sudden tension simmer 
between them. Electricity crackled in her eyes, sparkling and 
sizzling with clear cerulean heat, before they settled into 
closed-off, reserved pools of frost. 

Dispassionately, she looked over the three men and nodded. "I 
take it that you're here to discuss the murders," she said, and 
Patterson nodded. 

"We understand that you performed the previous autopsies and that 
you will perform the autopsy on the latest victim this morning," 
Patterson said, and Scully nodded. "Can you tell us any of your 
findings? Anything unusual that you noticed?" 

Dr. Scully stood, and Mulder was suddenly surprised by her petite 
stature. Earlier on the bicycle, her presence had been so 
commanding that he had not noticed her physical size. But in the 
company of three men, it was difficult to ignore the fact that 
she was less than five and a half feet tall. A brief image 
floated through his head, a fine fantasy for him to indulge in. 
Of this woman, wrapped around his body, with his chin resting 
snugly on the crown of her bright red hair... 

The sound of her clearing her throat broke him out of his 
reverie, and Mulder looked up to see her staring at him directly 
and archly. Then she averted her eyes to meet Patterson's as she 
began reciting the details of her autopsy findings. 

"There was not very much physical evidence," she said. "We found 
no fingerprints, no blood from anyone other than the victim, and 
even that was difficult to find due to the levels of saltwater in 
the rivers and in the seawater. The poor condition of the bodies 
makes it difficult to perform a standard autopsy, so we've had to 
be somewhat creative in the bay lately." Patterson snorted and 
Dr. Scully ignored him. "The toxicology screenings have all come 
out varied; some of the victims were doped and others were not." 

"Probably depended on how much the victim trusted her attacker," 
Mulder mused aloud, and Scully nodded over at him in agreement. 

"I would look at the girls who didn't require sedation," Scully 
suggested. "Perhaps they were directly linked to the killer." 
Before she could elaborate on her theory, Patterson interrupted 
her, impatient and uncaring. 

"We'll draw the conclusions, Dr. Scully," he said, and the 
smoothness of his voice only served to condescend to the 
pathologist rather than soothe her temper. And Mulder could tell 
that she had a temper. A woman like this always did. 

Beneath her cold, unfeeling exterior, Scully felt her pride start 
seething from the way that Patterson had attempted to humiliate 
her. Scully didn't feel embarrassed in the least by the way that 
he had dismissed her; it was the attempt that pissed her off. 

"Then I hope you have a solid investigative team, *sir*," she 
said sharply, placing unneeded emphasis on Patterson's title. It 
was her way of telling him that if her help wasn't wanted, then 
she wouldn't dispense it. "In any case, it has been difficult to 
deduce how the skin was removed from the bodies, again thanks to 
the saltwater. I did deduce that whoever removed the skin was 
very precise; there was no error at all. Everything was clearly 
methodical and calculated, even done to the removal of the scalp 
and fingernails." 

"Fingernails?" Brentwood asked, and Scully nodded, removing her 
glasses with one steady hand. 

"Yes, the killer removed the fingernails as well as the 
toenails," she confirmed. "That makes it more difficult for us to 
find trace evidence. If the killer had accidentally left a print 
on one of the nails, we couldn't lift it." She had tried. The 
autopsy process for all of these victims had taken hours upon 
hours, trying to apply a practiced method to a mutilated body. 
There had been nothing to salvage, nothing human to dissect, when 
everything was a mass of blood and pulp, barely resembling 
anything female or living. 

"Are you planning on performing the autopsy on the latest victim 
this morning, Dr. Scully?" Patterson asked, and she nodded. 

"I will have the results in about four to five hours, depending 
on the state of the body," she said. "Is there a number where I 
can reach you to notify you when I finish?" 

Before Patterson could pass out any cellular numbers, a soft, 
murmuring tenor voice spoke from the back. "I'm going to stay." 

All of the frigidity, all of the numbness that she had mustered 
up to protect herself with, melted under the velveteen caress of 
Agent Mulder's rich, mocha-flavored voice. It was the same voice 
that had melted the cold and kept her sane during her dream; she 
felt that certainty flood her veins and flow through her 
circulation with a rapidly intensifying heat. It was the heat of 
a thousand words that she had never heard rushing inside of her 
and around her, and she looked up at him suddenly. 

And she realized that she had already known every feature before 
she saw his face. 

Every detail, every crevice and every flaw, not to mention a few 
that weren't even there anymore. But she knew that crooked nose 
that was an inch too large for his face, and she knew that 
subtle, full mouth that was parted slightly. She had already 
memorized the fall of hair across his brow and the rich luster of 
the mahogany and copper that was so deliciously intoxicating to 
touch... 

But she hadn't ever touched him before. She had never seen this 
man before today, so there was no possible way for her to know 
the texture of his dark brown hair. 

It was Patterson who spoke and thus brought her back into 
reality. "Good," he said. "Brentwood, you come with me to the 
police department. I want to get as much background information 
as I can get on this case." Tearing her eyes from Agent Mulder, 
Scully nodded briskly at Patterson, smiling tightly and formally 
at a man that she didn't respect or like. There was a coldness 
about Patterson, a detachment from the brutality of the case, 
that she didn't admire. 

"Then I will have Agent Mulder contact you when the autopsy has 
been wrapped up," she said. Instantly, she felt a set of intense 
hazel eyes fall on her, but she didn't return their 
inquisitiveness. Before they could turn to leave, she walked to 
her desk and passed four large manila folders to Patterson. 
"These are my previous findings on the other victims. I hope that 
they can provide some insight into the case." 

"Thank you, Doctor," Patterson said absently, and Scully nodded. 

"Please let me know if you have any questions," she said, passing 
them a small card embossed with her name, cellular number, and 
work number. After that, the men disassembled, leaving her small 
office. 

All except for Agent Mulder. 

The two stood alone in her office, silent and still, though 
Mulder had the distinct impression that they were sort of 
mentally circling each other. Analyzing each other, sizing each 
other up. Her hair fell around her face in a tamed tumble of red- 
gold, and he placed his hands on his hips, resisting the urge to 
smile at her. There was something so deliciously challenging 
about her, about the constant dare in her sharp blue eyes. 

"Why did you want to stay for the autopsy?" Dr. Scully asked. The 
question was phrased with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, 
and Mulder realized that she was wondering if he was staying 
because he didn't trust her ability to perform an adequate 
autopsy. 

Narrowing his eyes, Mulder looked down at the petite pathologist. 
"I can assure you that I do not share Agent Patterson's opinion 
of your work or your ideas, Dr. Scully," he said carefully, 
meeting her eyes in assurance. "In fact, I found your suggestion 
that the sober victims were linked to the killer very 
interesting." 

One of her slender ginger eyebrows arched upward in an 
exclamation of surprise. "I appreciate that," she said. "But it 
still doesn't explain why you chose to witness the autopsy." She 
crossed her arms over her chest, staring him down until he 
answered. 

"The truth is that I am required to stay for the autopsy," Mulder 
answered. "It's part of my job." 

Realization dawned, and she felt an instant admiration for this 
man. "You're the profiler," she said, and Mulder nodded. "So it's 
true - they finally decided to call in Behavioral Sciences..." 
There was a bitter tone in her voice that made him pause, and she 
caught the look of embarrassment on his face. She quickly 
dispelled it. "I'm of the belief that if they had stopped paying 
attention to bad media and called in the BSU earlier, we might 
have been able to close this case earlier." 

Mulder nodded. "Then you'll have no problems cooperating with the 
Bureau during our investigation," he said, and that cinnamon 
eyebrow remained high and proud. 

"Only if the Bureau keeps me informed," she said. "I don't like 
being kept in the dark. Not on a case like this." A muscle near 
her jaw clenched in determination and pride. "If you expect me to 
perform my job to the best of my abilities, I will need all 
information that is pertinent to the investigation." 

Mulder shook his head. "I can only give you what I am instructed 
to give you, Dr. Scully," he said. "But I can arrange for my 
instructions to include keeping you well-informed." In other 
words, whatever she wanted, he'd give her. Coolly, she appraised 
him with one quick scan of her piercing lake-colored eyes. 
Apparently, she accepted whatever she saw. 

"I need to get changed into my scrubs and then I'll be back," she 
said. "Feel free to take a seat. This will only take a couple of 
minutes." Before she left, she tossed him a tight, professional 
smile from over her shoulder, and Mulder watched her leave the 
office. 

He had never seen such an enchanting smile. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER FOUR 

***** 

Charleston City Morgue 
Charleston, South Carolina 
11:23 AM, August 14, 1999 

***** 

There was nothing as comforting to Scully as the cold sterility 
of the medical scrubs. Their bland mint green and their 
uncomfortable polyester was only tolerable to the numbed and 
uncaring body, not to mention the fact that it put her in her 
place. As soon as she donned the uniform, she felt her identity 
and her emotions leave her body, replacing them with the cool 
intuition and control of a medical examiner. The uncertainty and 
intrigue that the FBI's earlier arrival had inspired were now 
banished from her body and thoughts, and all that was left was 
the calculating mind of the skilled pathologist. 

Coolly, Scully turned around in the locker room to face her 
reflection in the mirror. None of that pride or interest was 
portrayed in this presented image. All that the glass showed was 
a woman preparing to perform an autopsy. Skilled, capable, and 
utterly uncaring. She was the picture of medical detachment, and 
she furthered that image as she tied the medical cap around her 
bright auburn hair. Nimble and practiced fingers tied the strings 
behind her ears, and a surgical mask hung loosely around her 
neck. All that was left was for her to remove her one simple 
piece of jewelry - the gold cross that dangled around her neck. 

As soon as that was done, she was prepared. And if she was 
prepared to go into a cold, unfeeling room and dissect the 
mutilated body of a woman, then she could face this enigmatic 
stranger and all of the strange déjà vu that he seemed to be 
inspiring within her. Scully could handle holding the scalpel; 
she could handle Special Agent Mulder of the FBI. 

Tilting her chin, she eyed herself in the mirror, presenting 
herself with a challenge. //Hold it together, Scully,// she told 
herself. //Hold it together during this autopsy, and hold it 
together in front of this man. Don't try to prove yourself to 
anybody other than yourself. Right here, in this mirror.// 

It was the same challenge that she had always given herself. Be 
better than she expected. Succeed in all ways, personal and 
professional. And never lose control of the situation, no matter 
what tragedy befell her. These were the three rules and 
regulations of living life as Dr. Dana Scully. It wasn't never 
let them see you cry. It was never let them see *you*. 

As her cold blue eyes met their twins in the glass, Scully felt a 
sudden chink in the thick armor that she had wrapped herself in. 
It was the feeling that no matter how high she built her walls, 
he was going to see through them. This feeling that he already 
knew everything about her and that she could know anything she 
wanted to about him. 

Abruptly, Scully slammed the metal door of her locker. No. That 
was impossible. This man was a perfect stranger, someone that she 
had never met before, never seen before. He knew nothing about 
her, and she knew nothing about him. To even fathom the 
possibility... It was ridiculous. This was the sort of thing that 
her sister believed in, but not logical, sane, rational Dana 
Scully. Agent Mulder was just an investigator, and she was just 
the pathologist. 

Determined to hold her own, Scully walked out of the locker room 
and back toward her office. 

When she opened the door, Scully found Agent Mulder sitting on 
the edge of her polished pine desk, glancing curiously at one of 
her few but cherished framed pictures. "I'm ready," she said 
harshly, meaning to startle him and perhaps rattle his nerves. 

But he was as cool as a cucumber, never blinking an eyelash at 
her cold tone of voice. "Is this your father?" he asked, flashing 
a picture of Bill Scully at her. Clenching her jaw, Scully 
crossed her arms over her chest and nodded. 

"Yes, it is," she said. "Could you please put that down? It's the 
only one I have of him." The last thing that she wanted was for 
the last photograph of her father to be shattered and broken on 
the floor of her sterile, impersonal office. 

Mulder replaced the picture on her desk before looking down at 
the desk itself. Plain, simple, somewhat outdated but nonetheless 
serviceable. "I like the desk," he said, somehow feeling that he 
should compliment it, and Dr. Scully frowned, puzzled. 

"Thank you," she said, eyeing him carefully in the same fashion 
that Mulder often eyed his more unstable suspects. "The body has 
been brought down and we can begin at any time." 

Gracefully, the agent stood up and straightened his necktie, 
which was splashed with subdued but still unusual splotches of 
green and blue. Scully had noticed it earlier; it stood out when 
compared with Patterson's stripes and Brentwood's solid charcoal 
color. "Let's get this over with," he said, opening the door for 
her so that she could lead him to the autopsy bay. 

The cool metallic light flooded the room, illuminating the harsh 
angles and the brightness of the operating tools. The body was 
placed in the middle of the room, covered in a sheet that was the 
same mint color of Scully's scrubs. Scully saw blood seeping 
through the fabric, and she glanced briefly at the FBI agent's 
face. It registered nothing; he had prepared himself before 
walking into this room. That was good. The last thing that she 
wanted to deal with was some greenhorn who couldn't hold his 
lunch in while she was autopsying a particularly gruesome body. 

Scully tied on her mask, nimbly knotting the strings behind the 
base of her skull. Mulder took a seat in the corner of the room 
that was untouched by the brutal light, and was instantly veiled 
in subtle, flattering shadow. Darkness masked his unique 
features, all except the intense light of his eyes. Scully tore 
her eyes from him and looked back at the body that she was 
preparing to autopsy. She was going to ignore this observer and 
continue on as planned. 

Briskly, she flipped on the switch of the recorder, stated the 
required information, and removed the sheet. 

Scully sucked in her breath sharply. "Oh, my God..." 

Instantly, Mulder stood up and approached the pathologist and the 
body. "What is it?" he asked, furrowing his brow. She gestured 
down at the mangled mass of flesh on the slab, and Mulder looked 
down at it, instantly disgusted by the violence that had been 
inflicted upon the victim. Everything had been ravaged, ruined 
and destroyed by another person, leaving nothing but this carcass 
and the memory of what was once human. 

But the grotesque state of the body was not what had interested 
Scully. Something else had caught her eye. She picked up a 
slender metal probe and used it to show the agent what she had 
discovered. "Burns," she said, and Mulder looked up, startled. 

"But your autopsy report states that the victims were skinned 
using a blade," he said, and Scully nodded. 

"The other victims *were* skinned by a blade," she said. "We 
discovered chips and scraped on the bones, and some of the 
muscles were torn. That helped us date the victims, actually. As 
the killer progressed, he grew better at what he was doing." She 
shook her head, troubled. "But I've never seen any burns before." 

"So you're suggesting that now he's burning the skin from the 
victims?" Mulder said, and Scully looked up, one eyebrow arched 
and a bloody scalpel in her fingers. 

"No," she said. "If the killer had burned the skin, then there 
would be burn marks all over the body. The muscle tissue would 
have been burned, and there would be some charring on the bones 
as well. Not to mention that burning isn't the most efficient way 
to remove skin; there would be patches left over." She frowned. 
"But oddly enough, this is the cleanest job I've seen yet." And 
it was. There had been some traces of skin, a few odd patches 
where the killer had been unable to remove every pore. Now she 
could tell even without the aid of the microscopic lens that 
there would be very little left of this latest victim. It was as 
if this latest murder had only been an improvement on his ability. 
Like he was perfecting his methodology. 

Mulder's voice was quiet and thoughtful in her ear. "Is there any 
way to tell if a blade was used in this latest killing?" 

Scully picked up a scalpel and began peeling apart the layers of 
skin, muscle, bones and veins that made up the victim's left 
shoulder. As she worked, Mulder watched over her shoulder, 
watching the deft fingers pick apart the remains of the murdered 
woman. It had always astonished him, all of the different 
components inside of a human being. Veins, muscles, blood, and 
bones, all covered by a fine layer of skin. It was the skin that 
was most important, for it was the skin that kept everything 
human concealed and protected. It was the skin that was coveted 
because it was the skin that created the barrier. 

"Here," Scully said, interrupting his brief foray into the 
darkness. "Look at this." 

She pulled a light over to illuminate the exposed bones and 
joints, and the light glinted and gleamed across the perfect bone 
structure. Scully picked up a magnifying glass and narrowed her 
eyes, looking closely at the surface of the bone. "It's in 
perfect condition," Scully said. "Nothing. And there are no bone 
fragments in the surrounding tissue." 

"Interesting," he murmured. 

She eyed him briefly before returning her gaze to the body. "What 
makes it even more interesting is the fact that there are surface 
burns directly over the shoulder," she said. "There should be 
some signs of burning on the bone, considering the severity of 
the burn. But there's nothing, which as far as I know is 
impossible." Helplessly, she shrugged her shoulders. "I'll call 
in a burn specialist from the medical university to get a look at 
this, but I think that Dr. Richardson will concur with me on 
this." She shook her head again. "Still, I've never seen anything 
like this before..." 

"It's strange," he agreed. "Very strange indeed." 

Scully picked up another scalpel, a larger one, and moved toward 
a patch of burned flesh over the heart. "I'm going to check and 
see if there's any damage to any of the internal organs," she 
said, her voice low and husky from the level of concentration she 
was placing on the victim. She continued her autopsy as Mulder 
continued his observation. 

He was not observing the enigmatic doctor. His attention was 
placed solely on the victim, on what this woman must have once 
been. It was not something that he wanted to dwell on, especially 
when gazing upon the tattered remains of the woman, but it was 
his job to do so. It was his job to get under the woman's skin, 
or what was left of it. 

That had been the killer's job, after all. 

While Dana Scully cut underneath the layers of flesh and muscle 
with the sharp blade of her scalpel, Fox Mulder performed his own 
psychological autopsy of the woman. Of the person that she had 
been in life, of what had made her such a prime target. What had 
been under her skin? What had resided beneath all of that 
protective covering? What rested underneath the surface? 

Before Mulder could ponder the thought further, Scully discovered 
it when she stumbled across the woman's blackened heart. 

The heart was charred and burned, seared into a crisp until it 
was nothing but ash and cinder. "Oh my God," Scully said in a 
low, hushed voice that was built of shock and confusion. Wide- 
eyed, she reached for a slender metal instrument and began 
probing the charred remains of the woman's heart. As soon as the 
instrument touched one of the valves, they crumbled into soot. 
"Christ." 

"What happened?" Mulder asked, puzzled. 

Scully shook her head, astonished. "I... I don't really know," 
she said, her voice full of awe. "I've never seen anything like 
this. The valves and chambers are utterly destroyed, burned out, 
as are the veins and arteries directly leading from the heart. 
Look at this." She pointed carefully to one slender vein that was 
black near the heart but slowly faded into normalcy the further 
it got away from the heart. "It's almost as if the heart was 
struck by lightning, but..." She shook her head. "That makes no 
sense." 

Mulder shook his head at her words. "No, it makes perfect sense." 
At her confused look, he reached for a pair of latex gloves, 
snapping them on. He gestured to the small metal probe that she 
held in her hands. "May I?" She passed him the probe and he 
leaned down, touching the center of the heart. "Look at the 
severity of the burns... It's centralized. It's like an 
earthquake; this is the epicenter of the damage. As it spread out 
through the system, it weakened, which is why the veins are less 
burned as they move away from the heart." 

Furrowing her brow, Scully looked away from the body, looking up 
at the brown-haired agent. "That's impossible," she said 
staunchly. "Hearts don't explode like that. Particularly when 
there is no other damage to the thoracic cavity." 

Mulder placed his hands on his hips and pursed his lips at her. 
"Well, how do you explain it then?" he asked, and she arched her 
eyebrow at him, irritated at his tone of voice. 

"I don't explain it," she said coldly. "Not until I can finish my 
autopsy, perform a toxicology screening, and call in a specialist 
who can assist me with this." 

He laughed shortly. "You can do all of that, Dr. Scully, but I 
doubt that it'll change the fact that this woman's heart exploded 
in the middle of her chest." 

She removed the surgical mask that she had been wearing 
throughout the autopsy. "I don't accept that theory," she said. 

Mulder stepped closer, towering over her petite stature. "I don't 
see you presenting any theories of your own," he countered. 

Her reply was punctuated by one arched ginger eyebrow. "That's 
because I don't theorize," she said. "Not until all of the 
scientific evidence has been gathered and properly analyzed." 

Both stood their ground, gritting their teeth. The tension in the 
room sizzled and crackled, churning between them like a third 
entity. The tight coldness of her blue eyes flashed brutally at 
him, and his eyes burned with hazel fire into hers, trying to 
sear past her walls. Her jaw settled and tightened, jutting 
forward in a challenge and Mulder looked at the slender spitfire 
standing in front of him, her temper flaring up in frozen flame. 
She met his eyes, shocked by the heavy-lidded kaleidoscopes of 
greens and golds that seemed charged with electricity. The 
intensity of all of those colors, that hurricane of vibrancy and 
passion, lit up and smoldered at her, and she had never witnessed 
something so intangible and beautiful. No brush, no artist, could 
ever recreate those colors, and no poet could describe the 
feelings invoked by his fierce gaze. 

His heart skipped a beat when she sucked in her breath and licked 
her lips with her tongue, and all attention was suddenly drawn to 
the perfection of her mouth. It was luscious and ripe, sensual 
and sexual, tinted the color of raspberries on fire. During their 
earlier argument, the surgical mask had covered her mouth, but 
now it was exposed and beautifully feminine. All that he wanted 
to do was capture that succulent set of lips within his own and 
never let go. 

But she interrupted the moment by turning away from him and 
picking up a bone saw. The whirring sound of the saw's motor 
effectively ruined the earlier sensuality between them, and 
Mulder chuckled to himself as Scully continued her autopsy. 
Nothing ruined sexual tension better than the reminder of death. 

"If you find anything, let me know," he said before turning his 
back on her and walking out of the autopsy bay. 

***** 

Charleston City Morgue 
Charleston, South Carolina 
12:31 PM, August 14, 1999 

***** 

One of the comforting consistencies of his travelling was the 
knowledge that no matter where he went, morgue coffee was 
terrible. Charlestonian morgue coffee was no exception to the 
rule. 

Flinching, Mulder swallowed the bitter black liquid, feeling the 
coffee flood through his system. The terrible taste was somewhat 
satisfying; he had expected it to be awful and he hadn't been 
disappointed. But it had provided the jolt to his system that he 
had needed: a jolt of reality. 

He was not someone who could stand around and enjoy a strange 
woman's mouth. He was a man who had been sent her to burrow into 
the deranged mind of a madman. It was his job, his duty, his 
responsibility to the victims and to himself. The last thing that 
he needed was to fall prey to the fiery words and hair of a 
strange pathologist. 

So he concentrated on the bizarre case at hand. 

In all of his years at the Bureau, he had dealt with the more 
mundane human monsters: child molesters, murderers, rapists and 
mutilators. Their tools had been depraved but tangible: knives, 
guns, heavy objects. They had selected more domestic items with 
which to torture their victims. No one had ever burned hearts. 

Taking another sip of his disgusting coffee, Mulder mused over 
what he had seen on the slab. The victim was nothing more than a 
mass of tissue, muscle, and bone. The skin was the defining part 
of a person, what brought them all together while protecting what 
remained inside. And the killer had removed it, had stripped that 
defining sense of humanity away from his chosen victim. For what 
purpose? 

To see what was inside. To destroy what resided underneath the 
skin. 

And what would link him to the killer would be to understand what 
was underneath his victims' skin that was worth destroying. 

The door to the autopsy bay opened, and Dr. Scully emerged from 
it. Her hair fell around her face in a nimbus of crimson, 
crowning her features with a fiery halo. One of her deft hands 
smoothed out the locks as she walked toward him, and Mulder stood 
up to meet her. 

"Everything else coincided with the previous victims," she said. 
"I found no evidence of a blade being used, no scrapes or 
erroneous cuts. There were a few more stray burns, but nothing 
else like what we witnessed with the heart." A muscle near her 
jaw twitch. "Except for this." She procured a small cylinder 
filled with a black powder, and Mulder frowned as he took it from 
her. 

"What is it?" he asked, tilting it back and forth so that he 
could get a better look at it. 

"I'm not sure yet," she said. "It looks like some kind of 
explosive, something that could have aided in the damage that was 
done to the heart. I'm sending a sample to the toxicology lab, 
but I'm giving some of this to you to send to your labs in 
Washington." She shook her head. "This case is becoming more and 
more strange as the days go by." //And the strangest part so far 
is you,// Scully thought to herself. 

It was the truth. He was the strangest man that she had ever 
seen, only because he was utterly attractive and aggravating all 
at once. The intensity and the passion that she had seen inside 
of his eyes was intoxicating, even when his preposterous ideas 
were as irritating as hell. But aside from his personality, it 
was the feelings that she was experiencing that made him truly 
odd. Scully never felt anything for anybody. Not even Lia, who 
was supposedly one of her best friends. She was numbed to 
everything and everyone, but Agent Mulder not only intrigued her, 
he excited her. 

Pensively, he turned the canister up and down, tilting it in the 
light to watch the powder fall back. "Very interesting," he 
murmured, and Scully nodded. He rose suddenly, his tall and lean 
frame towering over her. "I need some fresh air care to join 
me?" He offered her his coffee. "Here, you can even finish this 
for me, if you have a taste for something truly disgusting." 

Scully hesitated for a moment, tilting her head to the side and 
examining him. She'd been getting the oddest feeling about him 
all day, as if she were being cloistered by déjà vu, but she 
shook it off. She didn?t even believe in déjà vu. It was just a 
glitch in the human brain, where the sense of memory got crossed 
with a different sensation. He was harmless just a nice agent 
with a pair of remarkably intense hazel eyes. 

"Sure," Scully replied, accepting his offer and the Styrofoam cup 
before following him out of the building. 

The humidity slammed them with its wet wall of heat as they 
stepped out behind the building. Instantly, Scully wilted 
underneath its oppressive touch, bending to its will in a way 
that she hated. She hated surrender, hated relinquishing control 
and strength. But the humidity was demanding and invisible; a foe 
that she could not defeat. Sighing, she felt her energy fall away 
from her body as the heavy August heat flooded through her system 
and pumped through her veins. Unflinching sunlight poured down on 
them, and the heavy brick of the building did nothing to absorb 
the wretched heat. 

Sweat beaded Mulder's brow as he closed his eyes, leaning heavily 
against the brick wall. "Christ, it's hot," he muttered, and 
Scully rolled her shoulders, trying to remove the tension that 
had been crackling inside of her. 

"Get used to it," she said. "August is the most miserable month 
of the year, especially down here." She took a tentative sip of 
the black coffee and instantly felt nauseous. Hot coffee combined 
with humidity was not particularly appetizing. And neither was the 
coffee - Mulder had not been kidding about its disgusting flavor. 

Mulder's large, slender hands dipped into his suit pocket, and 
Scully wondered if he was going to produce a pack of cigarettes. 
Instead, he pulled out a small Ziploc bag of sunflower seeds, and 
that made her chuckle softly to herself. "How do you manage?" he 
asked, and Scully shrugged, feeling the coffee burn her fingers 
through the Styrofoam. 

"You get accustomed to it over time," she replied. It was the 
truth. When she had first arrived in South Carolina, she had been 
suffocated and smothered by the heat, by struggling to beat it. 
But she had recognized it as an oppressive force that she could 
not defeat, and now she lived under its thumb along with the rest 
of the coastal city. 

Pensively, Mulder chewed on a sunflower seed, pursing his sensual 
lips to spit out the seed. She had been focusing in on his mouth 
for the past few minutes; he had the most intriguing way of 
moving his mouth and shelling the seeds with his tongue... Oh, 
she should *not* be thinking that. "I know that Patterson 
wasn't eager to listen to your ideas on the case," Mulder said, 
and Scully blanched. "But we're up a creek without a paddle, if 
you know what I mean. Any input is appreciated as far as I'm 
concerned." 

Scully nodded. She understood completely. The FBI and the local 
law enforcement had been working on this case for two weeks so 
far, and the murders were escalating in intensity and in 
sophistication as the days passed. They were getting desperate. 
"The killer is improving," Scully said. "The earlier bodies were 
cruder, still sufficient, but with less style. There were stray 
marks on the body from the blade, cuts and slices, but the killer 
is discovering new techniques. Even though we can't explain it, 
the burning is obviously efficient and effective." 

Mulder expelled a salted shell from his mouth. "He's enjoying 
this more," he murmured. "When he first started out, it was an 
idea that he had toyed with. Now he's obsessed." 

Scully agreed with him, watching as the intensity in his eyes 
faded and glazed over slightly as he began losing himself in 
thought. She had never seen a profiler in action, but judging by 
the dedication that Mulder had displayed so far, it was obvious 
that he was quite talented. "In spite of the accidents in the 
beginning, it's very obvious that whoever is behind these murders 
is highly skilled with a knife," she said. "My guess is either 
one of the following: a surgeon, an artist, or someone who has 
performed this act before in a different place." 

Mulder shook his head in disagreement. "I'm leaning toward the 
first two," he said. "There seems to be a learning curve here. 
Someone's just figuring out the lay of the land." A troubled look 
passed over his face, clouds mulling and gathering over his eyes. 
"It means that we're dealing with an escalating murderer... 
Something that you never want to deal with." 

Silence hung heavy in the air along with the humidity. The sound 
of palm fronds swayed and rushed with the Atlantic wind, and 
Scully lifted her eyes away from the back of the building to the 
ancient city surrounding them. Charleston had always seemed 
shrouded by its history, protected by its past, but it was not 
impenetrable to the violent dementia of a serial killer. Whatever 
was out there was building, growing, like that tropical cyclone 
out in the Atlantic. And whichever storm hit first would destroy 
something. 

And maybe that something would be her. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER FIVE 

***** 

Residence of Dana Scully 
Charleston, South Carolina 
10:51 PM, August 14, 1999 

***** 

The bright silver of the moon glittered off the sapphire waters 
like a bright diamond, penetrating the faint cloud cover with its 
shimmering rays of light. She could almost smell the silver in 
the air, faintly mingling in with the smell of wisteria and 
azaleas. Everything was lit up at this time of night, by either 
candlelight or mellow streetlight, and that included Scully as 
well. 

The computer screen provided her with light as she read through 
the report from the toxicology lab. No drugs, no sedatives. 
Claire Banks had died clean, sober, and in intense pain. Blood 
loss had killed the previous victims, but it was Claire's 
scorched heart that had killed this formerly pretty young woman. 

Scully's eyes drifted away from the glowing screen of the 
computer monitor to the color photograph next to the keyboard. 
The photo showed a young woman, mid-twenties, with a proud chin 
and dark black eyes that glittered like obsidian left in the sun. 
Claire's hair was elegantly swept up away from her sharp, angular 
features, and her skin was the dark, sweet color of chocolate. 

Scully didn't want to think about where that skin had ended up. 

The toxicology lab had analyzed the black powder and all of their 
doctors were baffled by its outcome. It was a substance that was 
usually found around lightning strike areas, charred earth, and 
they couldn't understand how such a substance could be found in 
Claire's thoracic cavity, crowning her blackened heart. It was a 
mystery, they said. A sinking feeling in her stomach churned when 
she realized how perfectly it coincided with Agent Mulder's 
eccentric theory. 

The bland autopsy report sat on her screen with blaring light, 
and Scully sighed, closing that window so that she could read her 
e-mail. Another storm warning had come in from her hurricane e- 
mail list, and Scully opened up the 11:00 advisory to see how the 
tropical depression was progressing. Now it was Tropical Storm 
Becky, a storm with 60mph winds that had pretty much exploded 
over the day. 

Funny, how everything had seemed to be exploding lately. 

The screen blurred before her eyes, and Scully winced, leaning 
back and away from it. She needed a break; she had been working 
all day, both at the office and at home. All of her attention had 
been focused solely on the murder case and on its investigators. 
Her hands ached from holding the scalpel, and her back hurt from 
crouching over the corpse. 

Grabbing her glass of iced tea, Scully abandoned the upstairs 
computer and walked up the steps to her widow's walk, feeling the 
sea breeze hit her the instant that she stepped out onto the walk 
itself. 

The night was radiant. Everything was painted in rich, heavy 
strokes of sapphire and silver, turning everything into luscious 
shades of violet and dark cerulean. The magnolias glinted like 
silken moons, and the waters of the harbor were tranquil and 
inky. Summer permeated the air with its heavy floral scent, and 
even the burdensome humidity had strayed for the night, leaving 
everything breezy and just a tad balmy. 

Smiling, Scully tilted her head, closing her eyes as the wind 
picked up her hair and ruffled the red locks around her face. The 
feeling was that of cool fingers caressing her hair. Cool, 
slender, comforting fingers... 

A sigh exhaled from her lips, suddenly exhausted. She had let her 
thoughts drift to him again. The dark, intense presence of Agent 
Mulder had been heavy in her mind lately. The brooding hazel 
eyes, the luscious, silken mouth, the oddly adorable nose... It 
was all marked by a heavy intensity and sadness tinged with just 
the faintest oil of regret. She had prohibited all thoughts of 
him earlier, but now, under the dreamy summer moonlight, she 
could let her thoughts wander away from daily life. 

She wondered what he looked like in moonlight, obscured by the 
delicious colors of chiaroscuro. Appetizing, she bet. Absolutely 
delectable. She pictured the lines of his sleek, swimmer's body, 
covered by the fine fabric of his Italian suits, unclothed and 
nude, shimmering under the illumination of August's full moon. 
What he would look like cutting through the Atlantic surf like a 
knife, like a blade constructed out of sinew and flesh... 

A flush swam through her body, hot and sultry, and she wondered 
if it was the humidity making its obligatory appearance or the 
beginning of desire churning low in her belly. Perhaps it was a 
more intoxicating combination of the two. The heavy heat and her 
dark arousal, all propelled by the entrance of a new man. 

A tendril of red caressed her cheek for a moment, and the 
sensation was electrifying. Like the whisper of words across her 
skin, the low murmurs of promises or confessions. Intimacy and 
trust, all touched by exquisite sensuality. The Carolina jasmine 
twisted and turned on the vine like little lemons, and Scully 
leaned forward briefly, inhaling their heady perfume. 

Funny, how sensation could be rediscovered only by the 
introduction of a man who smelled like cigarette smoke and 
mystery. 

All of her senses were melting together to create a stew of 
sensuality, mixing and mingling into a tumultuous tumble of 
smell, taste, and touch. The aroma of flora and seawater, the 
fleeting flavor of the Atlantic brine on her lips, and the 
feeling of her hair dancing across the sensitive nape of her 
neck, not to mention her imaginings of Mulder's fingers 
flickering over her collarbone. 

Then her hand dropped away from her body and she shook her head, 
chuckling. "You're losing it, Scully," she murmured, sitting down 
in a wicker rocking chair. She picked up her abandoned glass of 
iced tea, taking one sip of the lemon-touched liquid. It was odd, 
how she had exchanged only argumentative words with this man but 
still liked him. More than that, she was genuinely and admittedly 
attracted to him. Not only physically, but mentally as well. 
Mulder challenged her, brought forth new ideas and concepts that 
had never illuminated her dull morgue. 

The light silk of her robe fluttered as another breeze pushed in 
from the Harbor, and Scully looked out to see a pair of sailboats 
cutting through the sea. Their slender white sails bobbed back 
and forth in time with the wind and the tide, and then they 
flickered to life as strings of electric lights lit up all over 
the boat. Those were the boats of lovers. 

Love was something that Scully had never been looking for. During 
all of her solitary years, she had never longed much for company. 
She had rather longed for understanding. An understanding of 
herself, of her place in the world. She had a great need for a 
sense of purpose, and that lack of direction was what kept her 
tethered to her job and the haunted city of Charleston. 

She had never thought that she could feel purposeful or 
meaningful in the presence of a tortured FBI agent. 

Her eyelids drooped over her eyes as the breeze caressed her 
body, soothing her towards slumber. Sleep sounded ideal, just a 
quick nap overlooking the endless Atlantic, as sailboats 
illuminated by electric candles drifted past like ivory 
luminaries... 

A secretive smile crossed Scully's lips as she fell asleep. 

***** 

Holiday Inn 
Charleston, South Carolina 
12:22 AM, August 15, 1999 

***** 

Like a multicolored banner, his tie twisted and turned in the 
heavy and humid wind, until he untied it and held it loosely in 
his hands. 

The balcony branching off of his modest hotel room overlooked the 
soft marshes of the Ashley River, and the salty smell wafted up 
toward him. It was a multi-layered smell, the smell of earth, 
water, and air all combined into an indescribable perfume. It was 
the smell of Dana Scully before she changed into her medical 
scrubs, the smell of Charleston and determination. 

Frustrated, Mulder shook his head and loosened the top button of 
his dress shirt. Scully. She was the last thing that needed to be 
on his mind, what with all of the recent data to process and the 
findings that had been sent to him on the black powder found in 
Claire Banks's chest cavity. 

It had been a wild, hare-brained theory. Lightning centralized 
solely in this woman's heart. But somehow, the black powder 
provided him with enough evidence to support that theory, at 
least as far as he went. So now the killer was fixated not only 
on the skin, but on the heart as well. 

He was focusing now on the outside as well as the inside. 

The photograph of smiling, strong Claire Banks was imprinted on 
his memory. Pride and dignity were the clear factors of that 
angular, striking face. Briefly, he wondered if that strong chin 
had trembled when she realized her fate, or if her sharp black 
eyes had filled with tears as the killer smiled and leaned in 
closer... 

It was all about control. This was nothing new; it always was 
about control. Every murder was about power, and that was why it 
became intoxicating. The feeling of the knife, the screams, and 
the pleas for life. The murderer became a twisted version of God, 
holding the life of another in his hands, and in the end, the 
choice was always made to destroy. It was the same with rapes, 
with molestation incidents, and it was the same with the murderer 
in Charleston. Though perhaps this killer possessed a more 
intriguing kind of power. 

Glossy color photographs of Claire's burned heart had been faxed 
to the FBI, and none of their labs could explain it. Science was 
at a loss to provide a solid reason for the state of Claire's 
body, including the rigid science of Dr. Dana Scully. Everything 
in nature said that the murder was impossible, but it had 
happened. Claire Banks was dead, and it seemed as though her 
heart alone had been struck by lightning. 

Fortunately, Mulder was not a man of logic or reason. 

It simply was not his job to investigate solely through reason or 
science. His science was a darker one: the science of the mind. 
He was used to abandoning reason and throwing himself into the 
unknown, plummeting through the barriers of rationalism and 
common sense to a place that was inexplicably unexplainable. When 
he learned what had possibly happened to young Claire Banks, he 
had no trouble throwing aside science to look at it from a 
different angle. 

The angle of extreme possibility. 

First, one had to accept the unacceptable. The heart had been 
struck by lightning. All right, now how had it been struck by 
lightning? The killer had obviously had a part in this murder; 
Claire was a successful young paralegal who was working her way 
to the top of South Carolina social security advocacy. She would 
be a prime target for a killer obsessed with professional, 
successful women. And her skin somehow had been burned off 
without damaging the muscle or tissue underneath. 

But how had it been done? Why had it been done? And who could 
have done it? 

Mulder knew one avenue of possibility to look at: the occult. 
During his studies at Oxford, it had always been fascinating to 
him. The study of the paranormal and the lure of the impossible 
had been intriguing subjects to him, of the unexplainable and the 
illogical. That which had contradicted science had intrigued Fox 
Mulder. Part of what had earned him his Spooky Mulder nickname 
had been his mental encyclopedia of paranormal knowledge. 

It had been a hobby of his ever since his sister... 

No. This had nothing to do with her. This was about the killer in 
Charleston, not about his lost sibling in Massachusetts. He 
wasn't going to concentrate his efforts on the little eight-year- 
old girl that he'd lost when he was only twelve. 

Flinching, Mulder wrapped his hands around the metal railing of 
the balcony, feeling that dizzying nausea grip his body in its 
iron fists. The panic, the cloistering panic of struggling to 
remember and being unable to do so. He remembered lights, 
remembered... Remembered Samantha's eyes, terrified and pleading, 
pleading for help that he had been miserably unable to give 
her... Remembered distant, distant screaming... 

And nothing else. 

Nothing until two days later, when he'd woken up in a hospital 
room with his mother glaring hatefully at his father and his 
father laying the blame on him. All because he'd lost her. He had 
lost Samantha, and it had all been his fault. Something inside of 
him told him that, told him that there was something that he 
could have done to save her, and that feeling was as undeniable 
as it was indescribable. 

The feeling intensified, and Mulder stumbled on the balcony, 
feeling himself waver and weaken with the power of the memory. 
She had been standing right there, only inches away from him; he 
could see the faint pattern of sheep on her cotton nightgown. 
How she'd worn small pigtails, little girlish pigtails; Mom had 
put those in and why couldn't he remember what had happened to 
her? 

Pained, Mulder closed his eyes tightly, not wanting to dwell but 
being forcibly compelled to do so. Sam, his kid sister Sam, the 
one who'd disappeared so suddenly and forgotten by everyone but 
him. She was the one who'd played baseball with him in the front 
yard, the one who'd tattled on him to Mom when he'd called her 
names or said swear words, the one who should still be here 
today. But Mulder was the one who was the big miserable failure, 
the one who had let everyone down starting from the day he'd let 
his little sister vanish. 

Washing his hands over his face rapidly, Mulder tried to escape, 
tried to run away from it, but there it always was. The bitter, 
acidic taste of failure. 

And then the attack stopped, leaving him weak and sweaty on the 
floor of the balcony. A gentle wind caressed his face, soft and 
sweet, like little cool fingers. The cool fingers of a woman, 
caring and compassionate, touching him in a way that he had 
needed back when he was twelve but had never received. But they 
weren't fingers or hands, nonetheless those capable white hands 
from his dream. They were simply the imaginary fingers of the 
river wind. 

Sighing, Mulder brought himself to his feet, feeling the typical 
headache begin pounding behind his eyes. It was the same old song 
and dance, the attacks starting over the years and intensifying 
as he grew older. He wondered if these attacks would kill him one 
day, leaving him a babbling idiot in a convalescent home. His 
parents would probably be thrilled; it would be the punishment 
that their feeble son deserved for losing their treasured 
daughter. 

He pulled out a small bottle of pills from his pants pocket and 
dry-swallowed two small white capsules. Medicine for his frequent 
panic attacks and subsequent headaches. It was his only doctor 
when he was on a case, and it was often the only thing that cared 
in the least about his welfare. Loneliness was not something that 
Mulder dwelled on, but there were occasional moments of yearning 
that he allowed himself. And he allowed himself now to yearn for 
the presence of one proud, beautiful pathologist. 

So he'd been drawn to Scully. She was everything in a woman that 
he'd never thought he'd wanted, both physically and mentally. 
He'd always had tall, dark-haired girlfriends that had smooth 
smiles and cool, agreeing eyes. Women would break him and thus 
add to his myriad of failures. He was intelligent enough to 
realize who and what he was. He was the kind of man who sought 
out women who would hurt him, because he thought that he deserved 
it. 

Mulder knew that he didn't deserve a woman like Scully. 

From the fire in her eyes to the passion and vehemence in her 
words, she had both annoyed and fascinated him. It was a heady 
attraction, something primal and magnetic, like the pull of a 
riptide. She was dangerous, because he could do something with 
her that he had never done before. He felt the strange but 
definite notion that Dana Scully was a woman that he could fall 
in love with. And he felt the notion that she was a woman who 
would not break him. 

Sweeps of wind brushed across the Ashley River, turning the 
smooth, glassy surface into a mass of dancing turquoise. He 
tilted his head toward the night sky, gazing pensively up at the 
moon. It shimmered and danced like a live being, untamed and 
wild. The dunes and marshes below him swayed in the breeze like 
amber ballerinas, and Mulder watched them waver back and forth 
for a brief moment, smiling softly as his headache faded. 

A pair of small sailboats drifted by illuminated by strings of 
electric lights, and they looked as though they were floating 
galaxies on the river. The world seemed to be suspended briefly 
by the soft glow of starlight, and Mulder felt the cool violet 
glow of the river reflected on his face. It was nice to lose 
himself briefly in the beauty of the world. He often forgot that 
it was there in the first place. 

A knock sounded on his door, and Mulder turned his head to see 
Patterson striding through his hotel room, wearing a stern look 
that broke the enchanted glow of the night. "So instead of trying 
to catch a killer, you're slacking off," Patterson said. Mulder's 
fingers loosed their grip on the bottle with resignation; he 
wasn't a man who could afford to smile at sailboats or ponder 
redheaded spitfires. He was a man who was meant to wander through 
the darkness of life. 

"Just taking a break, sir," Mulder muttered, subtly pocketing the 
bottle of pills. He didn't want to give Patterson the 
satisfaction of knowing that he was falling apart. 

Patterson glared at him coldly. "We can't afford to take breaks, 
Mulder," he said. "There's a killer at large. It's not our job to 
stand around like jackasses." Mulder took silent note of the fact 
that Patterson was standing in front of him wearing a terrycloth 
robe and pajamas. It was a nightly ritual; Patterson would come 
in before he fell asleep to urge Mulder to practice the hallowed 
art of insomnia. "And the next time you make a report to me, 
don't talk about the ideas of a small-town pathologist. Her job 
is to dissect the victims; yours is to dissect the killer. Don't 
forget that." 

Mulder resisted a short laugh. God, it was impossible to forget 
it. "Whatever you say, sir," he said. Sometimes he wished that he 
still had it in him to fight Patterson, to struggle against the 
coldness and the darkness, but he was too tired nowadays to wage 
war. 

Satisfied, Patterson turned his back on Mulder and started to 
walk toward the door. But he paused for a moment and threw a 
smirk over his shoulder. "You were right about one thing, 
Mulder," he said, and Mulder arched his eyebrow tiredly. "That 
coroner is *definitely* a woman." 

With that, Patterson left, and Mulder chuckled to himself. 

She most certainly was. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER SIX 

***** 

Baker's Café 
Charleston, South Carolina 
10:34 AM, August 15, 1999 

***** 

The Baker's Café was one of her favorite restaurants in the city. 
It was a place that was solely meant for breakfast and brunch, 
and its odd hours and delicious Southern cooking made it a 
favorite for locals and locals alone. It was a sort of hidden 
secret for Charlestonians, and it was their constant business 
that made it a success. She knew most of the residents that 
frequented the café, like her neighbor Patty and her lawyer 
friend, Marvin. All of them were subtle Southerners that dressed 
in simple Polo shirts and khakis, with soft smiles and lilting 
accents. 

Mulder stuck out like a sore thumb. 

Dressed in a severe but striking charcoal suit, he sat in the 
back corner of the café, jiggling one leg and fidgeting with his 
set of silverware. His short brown hair was dark and his face was 
deliciously exotic, and she took a brief moment to be amused with 
the look on the waiter's face as Mulder ordered unsweetened tea. 
He was the only Yankee in the room other than herself, and 
without a doubt he was the most striking man in the clustered 
café. 

His heavy hazel eyes lifted from his menu and turned to her, and 
she caught a dark fire of mocha and amber in those thick-lashed 
orbs. She smiled dryly as she walked through the café and 
approached this table. "So I get this call at 9:30 in the morning 
saying to meet you at the best breakfast place in town," she 
began, and Mulder grinned a little at her. "You said that you had 
new information on the case that I might be interested in." 

"Yes," he confirmed, and she placed her hand on her hip, arching 
her eyebrow at him to show him that she was utterly unimpressed. 

"Well, the Baker's Café is an expensive eatery," she said. "I'd 
like to know if you're going to interest me enough to make me 
stay for breakfast or if I should just head on over to work." 

Still smirking slyly at her, Mulder reached into the pocket of 
his suit jacket and procured one slender vial of black powder. 
"Remember this?" he asked. She nodded. 

"It's the powder found in Claire Banks's thoracic cavity," she 
said. He nodded, turning it in his fingers like an hourglass. 

"I had the lab technicians in Washington run a check on it," he 
said. "Would you care to know the results?" She had to admit it; 
the substance had intrigued her. It was atypical to any other 
substance that she'd ever seen in an autopsy subject, and she'd 
had her share of burn victims over the year. After all, fireworks 
were legal in South Carolina. The Fourth of July was a busy time 
of year for her. 

Scully nodded, leaning slightly on the wooden chair in front of 
her. Mulder grinned a little, mischief glinting like bright 
copper in his eyes. "Then you'll have to sit down and have 
breakfast with me," he said. A smile threatened to break her 
impartial façade; there was an irresistible boyish quality to 
this man that she was drawn to like a moth to light. Energy and 
excitement radiated off of him in waves, and she couldn't help 
but be a little swept up in his fervency. 

She exhaled in a sigh of feigned resignation. "All right," she 
sighed, sitting down at the table in the seat across from him. 
"But you're buying." 

Mulder smirked at her. "Then you're ordering cheap." 

Scully primly opened her paper menu. "That's what you think," she 
replied archly. Their waiter approached again, pouring her coffee 
and giving Mulder his glass of unsweetened tea. She smiled at him 
brightly, a beguiling smile that flushed Mulder's skin to the 
bones. "I'd like to order the Monte Cristo," she said, a warm 
smile turning her cheeks carnation. "Complete with the hash 
browns and a side of croissants." Mulder didn't need to check the 
prices to know that her meal was expensive; her tone of voice 
supplied him with that information. 

He ordered a more modest chicken salad croissant, and the waiter 
departed. As soon as they were alone in their cozy corner, he 
leaned forward and lowered his voice. "They cannot directly 
identify the substance," he said. "But they did state that it 
contained high levels of carbon, which, coincidentally, is 
something that is very common with lightning strike victims." 

Mulder mustered a grin when her eyebrows nearly shot through the 
roof. "You're kidding," she said, her voice full of surprise and 
shock. "Lightning?" He nodded as he took a sip of his iced tea. 

"Another interesting fact is that there was a surprise 
thunderstorm cell near Summerville, South Carolina the night 
before the body was discovered," he said. "Now, you know your 
South Carolina geography better than I do, but isn't Summerville 
very close to Drayton Hall Plantation?" 

It was. Summerville was a small community on the outskirts of 
Charleston, and the various historic plantations were lined up 
along the highway leading to the sunny town. "Yes," Scully said 
reluctantly. "But coincidences happen." 

Mulder pulled a small map out of his suit jacket pocket and 
spread it out across the round table. Bright red ink marks were 
splashed across it, some highlighted and others not. "This map is 
a record of the thunderstorm cells in the South Carolina state 
since the murders began," he explained. "Every night that a 
murder has been committed, there has been a thunderstorm cell 
near the various areas where the bodies were discovered." His 
smooth fingertips traced the paths on the paper for her, and 
Scully's eyes followed his train of thought skeptically. 

"But there was no evidence of any burning on any of the bodies 
until this last victim," Scully reminded. "The thunderstorm cells 
are irrelevant. We've had a busy weather season so far, 
particularly in the counties that you've highlighted." 

Mulder's eyes sparked at her, and a slow grin curved his mouth. 
"And why do you think that is?" 

Scully rolled her eyes at that and took a long sip of coffee. She 
needed the caffeine this morning to follow the wild ideas that 
Mulder was throwing at her. "I'm not a meteorologist, Agent 
Mulder, but I can tell you right now that I highly doubt that our 
severe weather can be linked to a serial killer," she said. 

Mulder dismissed her science with the wave of his hand and then 
began refolding his map. "I went online to check that out as 
well, Dr. Scully," he said. "The National Weather Association 
currently has no scientific explanation for the recent string of 
severe thunderstorms in the area surrounding Charleston, South 
Carolina." 

She placed her coffee cup back in its saucer and leaned forward. 
A lock of gingery hair loosened itself from the tight mane of red 
and fell in her eyes, casting a shadow across her features. "And 
do you know why that is?" she asked, her voice low and 
confidential. "Because they are pop-up thundershowers. They are 
mixtures of high pressures and low pressures. It's weather, 
Mulder." She paused for a moment, somewhat startled at what she 
had said. She had dropped the formality of addressing him by his 
Bureau title and simply called him by his last name. The strange 
part was that it felt more intimate than if she had called him by 
his first. 

Tilting his head, Mulder looked at the surprise on her face and 
smiled a little at her, reassuringly. "Everyone calls me Mulder," 
he said. "I don't particularly like my first name." 

To give her credit, she recomposed herself elegantly and quickly. 
Nobody other than him would ever be able to tell that her 
confident composure ever faltered. "I don't particularly like 
mine, either," she said simply. "But maybe we both need to be 
reminded of the fact that I'm not an FBI agent." He instantly 
understood what she was saying; he shouldn't be giving her this 
much information on a case that she was not investigating. 

Pensively, Mulder leaned back in his chair, eyeing her from 
across the table. He didn't really know why he was telling this 
pathologist the details of a case, particularly considering the 
fact that she didn't even believe his theories. She was a 
scientist, plain and simple. She was a woman who relied on logic 
and reason to give her answers, and he was a man who preferred to 
push the boundaries. Yet he had called her to lunch here, feeling 
the need to tell her of all people his outlandish ideas. 

"I'm not the kind of agent that usually follows the rules," 
Mulder slowly said, and the redhead chuckled, breaking that tight 
thread of tension. 

"I'm sure that your superiors are thrilled about that," she said. 

A smile crinkled his eyes, making them sparkle with copper light. 
"I'm very lucky in the fact that my job doesn't require me 
following the rules," he said, and she shook her head. 

"I don't recall that being in the job description when I 
applied," she said, and Mulder's eyes widened, surprised. She had 
almost become an FBI agent? 

The waiter chose that moment to return with a basket of hot 
biscuits and a bowl of their special rhubarb and raspberry jelly, 
and Scully calmly took one from the basket and began buttering 
it. "I almost walked down that path about ten years ago," she 
murmured, her voice soft and contemplative. "I applied and was 
accepted to Quantico, but I opted for a residency in forensic 
pathology at the Medical University of South Carolina." Her soft 
smile turned somewhat bittersweet. "I was registered at Quantico 
until two days before classes started." 

Two days... She had been two days away from becoming an FBI agent 
and following her heart rather than her father's. She remembered 
the days of pressure and promises of disappointment, of the 
agonizing choices that had been spread before her. The FBI or the 
medical profession. She had compromised by going into forensic 
pathology, tying her to her father's dreams and turning her away 
from the life that she had wanted for herself. 

"Do you regret it?" 

The soft, compassionate tenor disrupted her foray into her past, 
and Scully lifted her head. Mulder was looking at her through 
warm, hazel lenses, and she allowed herself a wistful smile. 
"Sometimes," she admitted. "Sometimes I wish that I had not 
disappointed myself." 

That was all that she would discuss; the conversation was over. 
He saw that much in the finality of her gestures as she folded 
her hands in her lap, abandoning her biscuit and the topic of 
discussion. Mulder respected that. "So, Scully," he began, and 
she noted the use of her last name, "should I continue breaking 
Bureau protocol or should I leave you and your pathology lab 
alone?" 

She picked up her biscuit again and resumed fixing it. A small, 
enigmatic smile curved her lips, and it was the definition of a 
true Mona Lisa smile. "You can do whatever your judgment tells 
you to do," she said archly. "But you have my number no matter 
what." It was an invitation to continue updating her; he heard it 
in her tone of voice and in the teasing way that she chose her 
words. Mulder grinned and finished his biscuit. 

Their food arrived shortly thereafter. The simple chicken salad 
croissant that he had ordered was delicious, filled with fresh 
ingredients and spices that added zest and uniqueness to a dish 
that was usually plain and bland. He was accustomed to dining in 
dives and fast food joints in the cities that he visited, mostly 
because he had never had a resident to tell him where to eat. He 
now recognized the necessity of having a guide to direct him to 
these eateries, because the Baker's Café was a gem that he never 
would have picked up on if he hadn't met Scully. 

"This is great," he mumbled through a mouthful of food, and 
Scully smirked. He acted as though he hadn't eaten in days, 
devouring the croissant before she was halfway through her Monte 
Cristo. He leaned forward to spear some of her hash browns with 
his fork, and she quickly guarded her food with her knife. The 
two utensils clashed like swords, and she grinned at him. 

"I will protect those hash browns with my life," she said. 
"They're the best hash browns in this city, state, and quite 
possibly country. That would probably make them the best hash 
browns in the world, because I doubt that they fix this 
particular dish anywhere else other than in America." 

Mulder pouted at her in a fashion that was terribly appealing; 
the silk of his ripe lower lip was intoxicating and inviting. 
"You should have told me that earlier," he said, and she 
shrugged. 

"You never asked." 

Their eyes dueled for a moment, arguing and challenging. Copper 
lit in his eyes like lightning, and ice glinted in hers like a 
frozen dagger. But eventually she sighed and relinquished her 
plate of hash browns, watching him dig in with a look of fake 
sadness in her eyes. "You really do owe me for this," she pointed 
out. "You wake me up early to tell me that our victim's heart was 
struck by lightning and then you steal my food." 

"But at least I'm buying," he pointed out, and she waved it off. 

"A minor compensation for a great sacrifice." 

The coroner and the agent continued their meal in relative 
quietude, enjoying the food and the companionship. As much as 
Scully hated to admit it to herself, every extra minute spent 
with Mulder was only making him seem more and more appealing. The 
wildness in his forest green eyes sparkled and glittered with 
every velvet-wrapped word he spoke, and they glittered in a way 
that Scully had never seen before. It was the fiery passion for 
life that she saw there, embedded in the rich swirls of moss and 
mocha. 

Breakfast was over before she wanted it to end. The two ended up 
standing on the street in front of the Baker's Café, Scully 
unchaining her bicycle from the lamp post and Mulder preparing to 
cross the street for the parking garage. He eyed her expensive- 
looking BMX with great curiosity. "You bike?" he asked, and she 
shrugged, putting a pair of lightweight oval sunglasses on. 

"It's cheaper than finding a parking place," she said simply. 
"And it's good exercise." Mulder couldn't resist a quick glance 
down at the coroner's well-shaped legs, imagining them exposed 
and in motion. Not to mention that ass in a pair of nylon 
shorts... It was too hot to be thinking about these things now. 

Before he turned to cross the street, he removed one slender 
white business card and extended his hand. In an almost classic 
move, her fingertips brushed his as she took the offered card, 
and his fingers longed to linger there. Sparks fired at the first 
touch, and Mulder stifled a sigh at the delicious slide of skin 
against skin. "If you need anything," he murmured, feeling 
intimacy surround them both, and she nodded quietly, pocketing 
the business card. 

"You have my number, too," she said, her voice a shade lower than 
it had previously been. "Keep in touch." 

As she mounted her bike and left the café, Mulder watched her go. 
Keep in touch... It was all that he wanted to do. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER SEVEN 

***** 

Law Offices of Oberman and Oberman 
Charleston, South Carolina 
12:40 PM, August 15, 1999 

***** 

There was something unique and charming about the consistency of 
old Southern lawyers. They followed the same traditions as their 
predecessors and ancestors, such as owning law offices on Broad 
Street and shopping for suits at Brooks Brothers. Their voices 
were soft and gentile, muted and syrupy, and their offices always 
possessed the smell of tobacco and Jack Daniels. Yes, the 
consistency was downright comforting, and no one followed that 
adage better than Marvin Oberman did. 

Pulling on his suspenders, Marvin leaned back in his leather 
office chair and eyed the FBI agent sitting in front of him. 
"Claire was a good paralegal," he said, his words slurring 
together in a combination of Southern softness and the 
aftereffects of a lunch consisting solely of liquor. "She was a 
smart girl, nice and earnest, genuinely interested in learning 
the law." 

Mulder nodded, crossing one leg over his knee and loosening his 
tie. The air was heavy and humid, wet and hot, and Mulder wasn't 
handling the adaptation to Southern weather very well at all. 
Marvin noticed this and smirked at Mulder, but not in an unkind 
fashion. "You a little hot under the collar, Agent Mulder?" 
Marvin drawled. Upon seeing the agent's obvious discomfort, the 
lawyer chuckled a little. "The air conditioning in this building's 
pretty old and rickety, since we're in a historic building on Broad 
Street." 

The lazy swirl of a ceiling fan provided the two men with the 
only cool air in the room, and Mulder wished that he had removed 
his suit jacket before sitting down. "Did Claire have any 
boyfriends that used to hang around the office?" he asked. 

Marvin shook his head in response. The lawyer had already removed 
his jacket and was sitting fairly comfortably in his leather 
chair, swinging his stocky legs back and forth as he spoke. "Naw, 
Claire didn't have anyone like that," he said in a dismissive 
tone. "She kept her personal life separate from her professional 
one. Nice girl. I can't tell you enough how goddamn nice that 
girl was." 

Mulder knew it. Everyone that he had interviewed, from her 
roommate to her landlady, had spoke very highly of the murdered 
woman. She had no police record other than a parking violation 
when she was sixteen, and she had been the salutatorian at her 
high school. "What was her business schedule, Mr. Oberman?" he 
asked, and Marvin furrowed his brow, trying to think through the 
thin haze of lunchtime alcohol. 

"Well, she would come into the office right at nine o'clock 
everyday," he said. "She'd stop at the Dunkin' Donuts on Mondays 
and pick us up breakfast. Then she would do the office chores, 
like copying exhibit files and running things over to the Office 
of Hearings and Appeals down the street. You might want to talk 
to the girls down there; I think that Claire went out to lunch 
with them every now and then." Mulder nodded and made a mental 
note of it. "She answered phones and scheduled appointments. 
Hell, she even reminded me of my wedding anniversary and 
important dates." Marvin chuckled to himself. "The wife'll miss 
Claire in a couple months, let me tell you." 

Mulder plastered a fake smile on his face. "So Claire had a sharp 
memory?" he prodded. Marvin nodded. 

"You bet she did," he said. "She showed up for events that I'd 
almost forgotten. Like my daughter, Leah was in a play down at 
the Dock Street a few weeks ago. Claire bought me tickets and 
attended the play herself. She's such an angel." A dark shadow 
crossed his eyes. "She *was* an angel." It was a common error, 
becoming so lost in memory that the living forgot that a loved 
one was dead. It was the opposite of the mistake that Mulder 
often made - referring to Samantha in the past tense rather than 
the present. 

"In any case, Claire was a dreamboat," Marvin murmured, his voice 
soft and tempered with memory. "She was everything a lawyer could 
ever want... Mindful, considerate, and absolutely meticulous in 
her work. I already miss her." Mulder noticed the somber 
atmosphere in the law office; the temp sitting at the murdered 
woman's desk was silent, and the other partner was quiet and 
respectful of his brother's space. 

Mulder stood up and removed his suit jacket, draping it over his 
arm as he reached out to hand Marvin his business card. "If you 
think of anything else, please call me," he said. "I'm sorry for 
your loss, Mr. Oberman." 

Marvin nodded and turned his face away, until the soft features 
of his face were brocaded with the copper of sunlight. 

Broad Street was filled with a mixture of pedestrians, tourists, 
and lawyers. It was the hustle and bustle of Charleston's legal 
offices. Anyone prestigious or inherently Southern in the law 
business had their offices on this particular street, and Mulder 
saw a variety of men and the occasional woman returning from 
their lunch breaks. Sunlight poured onto everything, and it 
seeped through the thin linen of his dress shirt, burning his 
skin underneath the fabric. Groaning, he unbuttoned and rolled up 
his shirtsleeves, before he felt a hand land on his shoulder. 

When he turned around to see who had tapped him, he was met with 
dark, mournful brown eyes. A woman with light blonde hair stood 
in front of him, wearing a light blue suit and smoking a 
cigarette. "You're with the Bureau, aren't you," she stated, her 
voice tempered with an accent that was too soft to be 
forthrightly Southern. He nodded, and she exhaled in a cloud of 
smoke. "You're asking about Claire." He nodded again. She sighed. 
"You're really asking the wrong person." 

Wincing from the sun, Mulder turned his attention on her before 
putting on his sunglasses. "And who should I be asking?" he said, 
shoving his hands in his pocket. 

The woman snorted a little, a bittersweet note in her pretty 
voice when she spoke again. "How about Ashley," she said. 
"Claire's lover." Mulder furrowed his brow. 

"But Oberman said that Claire didn't have any boyfriends," Mulder 
said. The blonde inhaled tightly, and the floral silk of her 
scarf blew around her slender throat as a breeze swept through 
the street. 

"Not that it's anybody's business, but Claire was gay," she said. 
Upon Mulder's skeptical look, she rolled her eyes. "I should know 
- I used to date her." 

The equivalent of a light bulb illuminated Mulder's mind. Claire 
was a lesbian, and since she was working in a prestigious law 
firm, she kept that identity hidden. It made sense; the South was 
not known for its tolerance of homosexuality. All of the avenues 
that once seemed closed to him earlier were now opening up with 
the promise of an underground existence. 

Quickly, Mulder pulled out another business card along with a 
pen. "Can you give me Ashley's number?" he asked. The blonde 
complied, finishing her cigarette as she leaned in the doorframe 
of another law firm. As soon as he had the number and address 
written down, he pocketed the card and smiled warmly at her. 
"Thanks..." 

"Lila," she supplied. "Lila Cooper." Before Mulder could turn 
away, Lila touched his wrist. "By the way, anything else that 
Marvin might have told you about Claire..." A smile turned the 
woman's soft pink lips upward solemnly. "It was all true about 
her." And without a word, she dropped her cigarette to the street 
and walked into the law firm. 

It didn't matter anyway. Mulder finally had a lead. 

***** 

Residence of Ashley Sullivan 
Mt. Pleasant, South Carolina 
1:30 PM, August 15, 1999 

***** 

Azaleas colored in rose and violet exploded in splashes of color 
along the brick walls of the apartment building. Bright canary 
sprigs of jasmine curled and climbed their way up to the second 
story windows, and that was where exquisite Ashley Sullivan 
leaned, watering clay pots of lilacs as the sunlight poured onto 
her. Bright hair floated down her back in a sun shower of gold, 
and the light blue blouse tugged against the slender curve of her 
spine. She was young, pretty, and inconsolable in her loss. 

As she watered, she spoke. "Claire knew her boss well," she 
murmured, her voice colored with the lilting accent that Mulder 
was beginning to adore. "She knew him well enough to know that 
our relationship was something that he would never be able to 
fully understand or accept." He heard the sad smile even though 
her back was turned. "I accepted the necessity for secrecy as 
long as Claire didn't push me to tell my parents about my 
sexuality. My father's your typical Southern man; he wouldn't 
want to hear that his only daughter was dating a black woman." 
She chuckled to herself. "God forbid I ever tell him that I voted 
as a Democrat." 

Mulder forfeited a chuckle at that, and Ashley turned around. She 
was a beauty, soft and delicately Southern, and her Dresden eyes 
were tired and red-tinted from crying. A sad smile graced her 
face, and she sat down across from Mulder. "Is the coffee 
alright?" she asked, and Mulder nodded at her complacently. 

"Yes, thank you," he said politely. "You said that neither you or 
Claire were open about your sexuality, right?" 

Ashley nodded, tucking an errant strand of gold behind her ear. 
"Claire had her job and I have my family legacy to uphold," she 
said. "We were both from different social circles." 

He took another sip of the coffee, harsh and black, just the way 
that he hated it. But it was what was necessary to keep him 
going. "So how did the two of you meet?" 

Sighing, Ashley stirred her mug of coffee, sliding the edge of 
the silver spoon against the rim of the cup warily. "Well, we met 
at a charity benefit," she said. "Claire was there to give a 
speech and I was there with a date that my father set me up 
with." A nostalgic smile crossed her face, and Mulder tried to 
think of the last time that he hadn't seen a smile wilted with 
sadness. A genuine, joyous grin. He couldn't come up with a 
single incident. "Claire was the most beautiful thing I'd ever 
seen. I fell in love at first sight." 

"Did Claire have any previous lovers? Was she seeing anybody at 
the time?" Mulder asked, and Ashley gave him a wry look. 

"You're asking me if I know of anyone suspicious," she said. She 
shook her head and removed the silk kerchief, letting her hair 
fall around her shoulders. "No, Claire was single at the time, 
and so was I. No one knew about us then; she was my first and I 
was her third. I like to think that we were each others' best." 

"Claire lived on campus at the College," Mulder continued. "How 
did the two of you see each other? Was her roommate aware of the 
relationship?" 

Ashley shook her head. "Her roommate was a very untrustworthy 
girl," she said snidely. "I knew her from our days at private 
school. She was from another well-known family who could tell my 
father about me if she wanted to, so we mostly kept the 
relationship at my apartment. But we did meet for lunch every 
Friday at the local legal café." She smiled helpfully. "If you're 
ever looking for a good meal, go to Sermet's on King Street. 
Order the shrimp and grits." 

Mulder smiled a little. "Thanks for the tip." She smiled in 
return, and he continued. "So you didn't frequent any clubs or 
discos, no place that Claire could have been targeted for such an 
attack?" 

Again, Ashley shook her head. "Really, we kept to ourselves," she 
said. "We were very aware of our rather precarious situation. We 
mostly ate in or went out to some of the fancier restaurants with 
a gay couple that we knew. Wayne and Lee were our covers as long 
as we were theirs." Her tranquil smile faltered at the mention of 
their names. "Jesus, I forgot about them... I need to... To call 
them about..." 

Mulder's hand snaked across the table and covered hers 
sympathetically. "It's a difficult time, Ms. Sullivan, and I'm 
asking some difficult questions." He squeezed her fingers briefly 
before releasing them and standing up. "I have an appointment, 
but if you think of anything that could be helpful to us in this 
investigation, don't hesitate to give me a call." 

Absently, Ashley nodded her head, her fingers slowly fidgeting 
with the slender silver spoon in her mug of coffee. Mulder turned 
his back on her and walked out of the kitchen, back into the cozy 
living room that was decorated with photographs and lace. 
Pictures of Claire and Ashley, their arms around each other and 
laughter in their eyes, stared out at him, but those were not the 
pictures that caught his eye. There was one of Claire, smiling 
secretively over one slim cocoa shoulder, an orange hibiscus 
tucked behind her ear. A vivacious grin, a vibrant twinkle in her 
eye, and the aura of youth and possibility... These were the 
things that had been stolen from her and from the people who 
loved her. The innocence of security. 

"Why did this happen, Agent Mulder?" It was Ashley, her voice 
tired and broken. "We played it safe. No one ever knew about us. 
No one ever cared anyway." Her voice wavered with the exhaustion 
of wanting to cry but not having the energy to do so. "And Claire 
was so much better than I ever was..." 

They were the questions and thoughts that every survivor had. 
They were the same questions that he asked of himself every night 
before he fell asleep. He and Samantha had been innocent 
children, beautiful in their strength and simplicity, never 
deserving the fates that had been written for them. Especially 
Samantha. She had been so much better than he had ever become. 

Slouching his shoulders, Mulder turned away from the photograph 
of spirited Claire, and smiled wanly at Ashley. "I can't answer 
that," he said simply, wishing that he could. Wishing that he 
could settle the issue of why murders and kidnappings happened, 
and knowing that he probably never could. All that he could do 
was try and justify the initial wrongdoing, and there were many 
times when he felt the futility in that, too. 

He left the apartment and walked out into the daylight, his 
jacket over his shoulder and his heart on his sleeve. The private 
life of Claire Banks had not given him any answers, though it had 
given him a little motivation to continue pursuing this killer. 
So when his cellular phone rang and it turned out to be Brentwood 
calling him, he was not disappointed - he was pleased. 

Brentwood's gloomy, emotionless voice dimmed the unflinching 
daylight. "I think that you need to come down to Drayton Hall 
Plantation," he said. "We found something interesting in one of 
the stables." 

Frowning, Mulder crossed the street to the parking lot, turning 
under the draperies of Spanish moss and green willow branches. 
"What did you find?" 

Brentwood cleared his throat. "We found some of the black powder 
that was found in the victim's thoracic cavity," he said. "It was 
scattered across a joggling board. And we also found skin that 
can be traced positively to Claire Banks." 

The outline of his rental Taurus glistened brightly in the 
sunlight. "And what was that?" Mulder asked. 

"It was Claire's fingertip." 

Mulder opened the door of his car. "I'm on my way." 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER EIGHT 

***** 

Medical University of South Carolina 
Charleston, South Carolina 
5:21 PM, August 15, 1999 

***** 

Ophelia Brown was not the kind of woman that the South typically 
accepted. She was tall and slender, proud, with a river of dark 
chestnut hair and eyes that dismissed everyone who didn't 
interest her. There was no curiosity left inside of her catlike 
green eyes, and nothing bewitching about her except for the 
tantalizing possibility of defrosting her heart. Scully had 
always considered it ironic that she was a burn specialist, 
though Lia was very talented at her job. 

Frowning, Lia peered through her tortoise-shell glasses at the 
vial of black powder that Scully had handed her. "Odd," she said. 
"I must agree with your FBI friend's lab results - this is quite 
commonly found in victims of lightning strikes. Why, I just had 
one in from Myrtle Beach about a week ago with the exact same 
substance in him." 

Scully crossed her arms over her chest and arched an eyebrow at 
Lia, furrowing her brow in concentration. "But the powder was 
centralized in the victim's thoracic cavity," she said. "It was a 
direct hit. Like lightning had hit the heart but left the rest of 
the body completely untouched. Isn't there anything else that 
could do that?" 

Lia sucked in the corner of her mouth and picked up the vial with 
her long, slender fingers. Scully couldn't help but notice the 
small patch of scarring on the right wrist when the doctor's coat 
sleeve retreated from the skin. It was what had motivated the 
woman into becoming a doctor in the first place. It was an 
accident from her childhood that had destroyed her home, killed 
her mother, and left her father scarred and paralyzed. All that 
Lia had gotten from the gas fire had been a nasty burn on her 
right hand, but it had inspired her to save other lives and 
become a pioneer in the field. MUSC had an excellent burn unit, 
and it was innovative enough to allow Lia's creativity to thrive. 

After viewing the powder through a microscope, Lia frowned. 
"Well, it could result from an electrical fire," she admitted. "I 
would guess that someone could have burned the heart using 
electrical wires and a motor, but there are components to this 
substance that are unique to pure bolts of lightning. Like this 
substance has more carbon than a usual electrical burn has. Very 
interesting indeed." 

Sighing, the redheaded pathologist leaned on the lab counter, 
running her fingers through the layers of her bright red-gold 
hair. "Lia, you're a doctor," she said, and Lia turned her eye 
from the microscope, arching her eyebrow in a fashion very 
similar to Scully's own signature expression. "You and I share 
the same scientific foundations, the same boundaries and 
limits... What is your opinion?" 

A shadow passed over Lia's crystalline green eyes, turning them 
the murky color of swamps. "Logically, I would have to say that 
the most reasonable deduction is that the damage done to the 
heart would have to be done by an electrical wire. You could even 
have done this by directly applying medical paddles, which would 
coincide with your theory that the Skinner is a doctor. Certainly 
we both know that the first victims could have been skinned by a 
surgeon. The precision..." Lia shook her head and Scully 
understood. Admiring the handiwork of a serial killer was twisted 
and immoral. "But personally..." She shook her head, running her 
hand through her wild mass of mahogany curls. "I don't know, 
Scully. It's absolutely inexplicable." She shrugged. "God only 
knows what happened to this woman." 

The fluorescent lights of the lab flickered once before 
recharging, and Lia sighed. "Dammit," she muttered. "The 
electrical circuitry is absolutely shot, and nobody has the 
funding or the consideration to work on it." Her hands itched 
through her hair, churning the sea of chestnut into an uproar of 
bright brown curls. Upon witnessing Scully's amusement at her 
fidgeting, Lia smiled wearily. "I'm sorry... My nerves are shot 
today. Everything's been haywire, what with a long term patient 
dying and now this..." 

Carefully, Scully picked up the vial and peered into it, gazing 
intently at the contents of the small glass canister. The powder 
sifted back and forth like the charred sands of time, and she 
wondered at the true nature of the mysterious powder. Lightning 
and logic had collided on this, all because of the appearance of 
one contradictory man with the most incredible hazel eyes. 

Lia's quiet voice interrupted Scully's contemplation. "What shall 
you tell your FBI friend?" 

Scully rolled her eyes, pocketing the vial in her khakis. "He's 
not really a friend," she denied, and Lia dryly smirked. She 
didn't say another word, but Scully knew the note in her friend's 
voice and it was borne of pure amusement. Jutting her jaw proudly, 
Scully tucked an errant thread of red behind her ear and put her 
hands in her pockets. Lia looked over at her and then furrowed her 
brow. 

"Have you been sleeping well lately?" she asked, and Scully's jaw 
twitched. 

"About as well as I usually do," she lied. To tell the truth, she 
had been sleeping poorly the past couple of days. Nightmares and 
bad dreams had plagued her slumber, hunting down her reprieve and 
destroying any chances of her resting easily. 

Last night, she had fallen asleep on the widow's walk, underneath 
a blanket of stars, and she had woken into dreams of walking down 
the aisle of a simple church. Every pew was empty, deserted, 
except for herself and a small, slender coffin at the end. The 
coffin of a child. A child that was not meant to be. A miracle 
that should never have existed... These phrases had drifted 
through her mind like the sands of a desert, and all that she had 
felt was the hollowness of loss. It was the emptiness of the most 
profound grief in existence. 

A figure appeared to the right of the small casket, masculine and 
devastated, covered in shadows and disfigured by anguish, and she 
heard the almost undetectable sounds of his silent crying. It 
provided her with no comfort, only the conviction that she had to 
see the body once more. She had to bury the child, had to bury 
her hope and her dreams, had to take one fleeting glance at the 
life that she had always wanted before giving it to the earth 
once and for all. 

So she opened up the polished lid of the coffin, and all that she 
saw was sand. 

Distant fingers absently fiddled with the delicate gold cross 
hanging around her neck, caressing the symbol of sacrifice and 
redemption quietly in memoriam of her dream and the dead child 
that she didn't know. When she had opened that nightmarish 
casket, she had seen this very necklace buried amidst the sands, 
one final gift of faith. And when she had woken up from the 
dream, her fingers had been threaded through the necklace in 
prayer. Prayer for herself, prayer for the dead, and prayer for 
the stranger draped in shadows in the corner of the abandoned 
chapel. 

The stranger that shared the same slender and infinitely sad 
stature of Agent Mulder. 

A slender, gentle hand curled around Scully's elbow, and she 
opened her eyes, startled to see Lia looking at her with concern 
and care. "You need sleep," she murmured. 

Weakly, Scully smiled at the doctor and dropped her hand from her 
necklace, feeling the cool gold rest against her throat in the 
comforting caress that the necklace had always given her. "I 
didn't pencil that into my schedule," she quipped, and Lia shook 
her head dryly. 

"You can pencil in frappuccinos then," she said. "Someone just 
got back from Starbuck's. We can steal the caramel ones before 
those damn thieving pediatricians get here." The doctor's smooth, 
cool hands touched Scully's cheek briefly, fleetingly, before 
she dropped her hands again and left the laboratory. 

For a moment, Scully stood amidst the equipment and sterility of 
science, and let her thoughts linger on the sorrow and grief that 
she had been filled with during her surreally realistic dream. 
The anguish had been genuine and almost tangible in its 
abundance. It had been the anguish of guilt, regret, and of 
desperate, unflinching need. The need for the unneeded miracle to 
be necessary. The need to save a person that should never have 
existed in the first place. 

It was probably the worst feeling that she had ever experienced 
in her life, and it had been imaginary. 

Bowing her head in quiet respect, Scully put her hands in her 
pockets and followed Lia out of the burn ward, into the cafeteria 
and thus toward the caffeine. 

***** 

Two frappuccinos later, Scully felt sanity return to her in 
liquid form. Perhaps it was only temporary sanity, lasting as 
long as the caffeine did, but even a temporary state of reality 
was welcome when compared to the unreality that she had been 
living in recently. Lia had been blessedly quiet during the 
conversation, though she had felt Lia's intense green eyes 
peeling away her defenses all throughout their impromptu coffee 
break. "You don't look like yourself," the Englishwoman finally 
commented, and Scully wryly arched an eyebrow, taking another 
delicate sip from her frozen coffee. 

"Is that a compliment or merely an observation?" Scully retorted, 
and Lia sighed, irritated. Scully gave another breath, conceding 
her sarcasm and defensiveness. "You're right. I haven't been 
myself lately. And it's not the murders." It wasn't. She wasn't 
being plagued with nightmares of her skin being peeled off in 
layers and ribbons; she was plagued by constructed memories. 

Narrowing her eyes, Lia tilted her head to the side, focusing the 
intensity of her emerald eyes solely on Scully. "No," she 
deduced, her voice slow and halting. "No, it's not the murders. 
You're too experienced to be thrown off by something like that. 
It's something else that's got you." 

Absently, Scully twisted the straw in the lid of the frozen 
drink. "It's just..." She sighed, frustrated. The feeling that 
she'd been hounded by the past few days was somewhat 
unidentifiable, foreign and alien to her. It was difficult to put 
her anxiety into words. "Have you ever looked back at your life 
and wondered... Well, wondered what would have happened if you'd 
made one choice instead of another. What would have been." 

A small vein twitched near Lia's temple, and she considered 
Scully's words carefully. "I'm human," she said eventually. "Of 
course I'm going to look at my life and ponder what could have or 
would have been. That doesn't necessarily mean that my choices 
were right or wrong, for our projections are really only that: 
projections. There's no possible way of knowing whether or not 
one life is better than another because we can't create an 
absolutely factual representation of what that other life would 
have been." 

It was the logical deduction, the deduction that Dana Scully 
would have come to on any other day or under any other 
circumstances. Yet when she thought of the wildness of Mulder's 
eyes or of the tangibility of her previous nights' dreams, the 
life that she had pictured seemed less and less like an imagining 
and more and more like an alternate reality. Like the life that 
she could have led if she had only made one crucial decision. 
What that decision was remained unknown, but it was obvious that 
her entire life could have been different if she had only picked 
another option. 

A vine of brown hung over Lia's left eye as she leaned in closer 
to Scully. "What made you start wandering down this path of 
thought lately?" she asked, and Scully shook her head, smiling 
dryly and somewhat self-deprecatingly. 

"A variety of things," she said. 

Curiosity bloomed in Lia's eyes, a rarity for the embittered 
Brit. "What do you mean by variety?" 

Scully opened her mouth to answer her colleague's question, but 
discovered that she had no words to formulate any sort of 
response. The dreams, the agent, the August air... Anything and 
everything figured into this sudden dive into the river of 
regret. "I don't know," she finally answered, feeling that the 
reply that she gave was hideously inadequate. "I just don't 
know." 

Relative silence descended on the two, and their table was quiet 
while the hospital activity bustled and moved around them. Scully 
reflected upon the words that Lia had just handed to her. All of 
her dreams, from the green ice to the sand-filled casket, were 
really just speculations on what her life could have been. 
Indeed, it already made sense to her. What kind of ridiculous 
life had she been living in those dreams? A life where she had 
been encased in a cocoon of ice, a life where she bid goodbye to 
a coffin full of sand... It was beyond preposterous. Nothing that 
unorthodox could be real. Dismissing the dreams was the easy 
part. 

It was the fact that she had dreamed about Mulder's voice before 
ever hearing it... That was difficult to rationalize. 

The shrill ring of her cell phone interrupted her internal 
monologue, and Scully answered it with a detached "Scully". 

The caller's voice was velvet mixed in with dry amusement. "And I 
thought that I was the only person who answered the phone that 
way." 

Of course. Mulder seemed to be the only person calling her these 
days. Sighing, she turned her body away from Lia and leaned into 
the cell phone. "I thought that you weren't supposed to be 
accepting any of my input on this case," Scully retorted. Mulder 
gave a melodramatic gasp and pretended to sound hurt. 

"Does this mean that you don't want to talk to me, Scully?" he 
asked, and she rolled her eyes. 

"Actually, quite the contrary," she said. "I just finished 
speaking to an expert at the Medical University about the powder. 
She says that there's a possibility of the burns being caused by 
electrical wires." 

"Possibility or probability?" Mulder asked, and she made a face. 

"In this case, they're synonymous," she replied. "Either way, I'm 
going to leave the powder here with her so that she can continue 
her analyses." 

"Sounds good," Mulder consented. "I just got some new information 
on the victim, if you want to hear it. And don't remind me of 
your position; you're more competent than half of the officers on 
this case." It was an offhanded compliment, but a pleasing one 
nonetheless. "But I'm going to warn you right now that I'm giving 
you the same ultimatum as before." 

A dry grin tugged at her lips. "Let me guess... I pick the place, 
you pick up the bill?" 

The sumptuous ripple of his dark chuckle traveled over the bad 
connection flawlessly, purring into her ear in a manner that made 
her skin flush with heat. "I'm becoming predictable," Mulder 
murmured, and her heart turned over at the sound. He'd never be 
predictable. She knew that much instinctively. 

"Meet me at Slightly North of Broad at about eight," she said. 
"It's right off of Market Street. It's easy to find with the 
lanterns on the façade, and I'll be waiting for you outside." 

She heard the beginning of words halt on the telephone, stopped 
by something inside of him. Part of her was grateful, and the 
other part was disappointed. "I'll be there," he said softly, and 
the intimacy underneath the rich tenor voice was enough to make 
her hair stand up on end on her arms. 

The other line clicked, ending the conversation without any adieu 
or goodbye, but the softness of his words provided enough closure 
to substitute for a farewell. 

Another rich chuckle reminded her of where she was, but it wasn't 
Mulder's laugh. Lia's eyes sparkled as Scully turned back to her 
friend, and the amused note in her chuckle brought Scully's icy 
façade back. She didn't like being the recipient of mockery. 
"Slightly North of Broad?" Lia said dryly. "My, my, my... And now 
all of the pieces of the puzzle are revealed." Her slender hands 
spread on the table as though she were folding imaginary cards. 
"Voila." 

Scully's chin tilted higher, her eyes refusing to give away the 
attraction that she had been feeling toward the brown-haired 
agent lately. "Make your own deductions," she said archly, 
standing up and picking up the remainder of her coffee. 

A low chuckle followed Scully out of the hospital lounge, and 
Scully didn't like the idea that Lia knew more about Scully than 
Scully herself did. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER NINE 

***** 

Slightly North of Broad 
Charleston, South Carolina 
8:03 PM, August 15, 1999 

***** 

A deliciously heavy breeze fluttered through the magnificent 
boughs of the oak tree, twining through the greenery and flora. 
Late-blooming wisteria wavered and trembled underneath the gentle 
breath of the wind, and one delicate violet flower loosened 
itself from the tethers of vines and moss. The silky purple bud 
traveled through the air, the bright explosion of color 
tantalizing and seductive as it drifted on the wind. The spray of 
lavender twisted and turned gracefully, like the tulle tutu of a 
floral ballerina, and it wafted and waved through the ancient 
city. 

Narrowing his eyes, Mulder watched the small sprig of wisteria 
from the back of the taxicab. The fragile flower was the same 
color of the twilit sky, ravishing and exquisite, like it had 
been cut out of the night and made tangible by its sheer beauty. 
What a lovely concept, the idea that something so beautiful could 
be made accessible simply because it *was* beautiful. 

Nothing more than the incandescent glow of mild lanterns lighted 
up the old houses that lined the streets. They were painted in 
colors of canary and lilac, subtle pastels that lent them a 
feeling of uniqueness and individuality. The glory of their 
architecture gave them an air of superiority, of pride and 
stubbornness. Nothing marred the skyline, nothing brought them 
out of their antebellum bliss or plummeted them into the 
twentieth century. Driving through this city was like traveling 
through time, back to days of belles and beaux, of laughter and 
Spanish moss. 

It was like leaving reality and entering an altered one. 

Of course, it wasn't really like that. As beautiful and haunted 
as this city might be, it was still definitely a part of the 
modern world. The violent murders that had recently plagued this 
city were the perfect reminder of that. This was no moonlit night 
in the nineteenth century. His actions had consequences here, 
just like they did everywhere else. No amount of tempered 
moonlight could change that fact. 

His fingers curled along the window, feeling the wind rush around 
his skin as the taxi continued down the street. Perhaps he truly 
was insane, trying to see her. In his experience, women were only 
side attractions, things that could be suppressed in order to 
focus on more important matters. They had never invaded his 
senses before. Not like this one had. 

She was nothing like any of his other women. They had all been 
tall brunettes, proud and haughty, eager to break his heart and 
prove that he was nothing. Scully was proud, there was no doubt 
about that, but she possessed a different sort of pride than 
other women. It was difficult to identify, but unmistakably 
dignified. The sensuality that he had often hungered for in other 
women was subtle and tantalizing with her, hidden under her 
science and her cool blue eyes. Scully was undeniably sexual, but 
it was a less obvious aura. 

The cab turned down Market Street, displaying a myriad of 
restaurants and people. Tourists smiled at the charms of the city 
and residents relished the beauty of their hometown, and all that 
Mulder could do was take in the sights and smells of the historic 
city. The horse-drawn carriages still careened down the streets, 
and one majestic mare pulled a small, cozy carriage. A couple 
rested in it, leaning contentedly inside of it. The woman's dark 
blonde hair whipped around her face, obscuring her features and 
covering her eyes with dark honey locks. It wasn't her physical 
features that mattered to her anyway, but the way that her limbs 
tangled with the man's. Like they had melded into each other. 

It was a feeling that he would probably never get to share with 
Scully. 

Finally, the taxicab slowed, and Mulder saw the façade that she 
had mentioned to him earlier. Lanterns flickered and flashed on 
the side of a brick building, illuminating the restaurant in the 
early night. And there she was, standing underneath the 
flattering glow of a streetlight, bathed in cool blue light. 

The silk of her shirt shimmered with dark raspberry threads 
underneath the light, and Scully's bright red hair was tinted the 
color of wine, threaded through and through with ice-colored 
shards of light. She was an exotic fruit, ripe and frozen; the 
kind that would flow through the body like cool water when 
consumed. Her slender legs were clothed in sleek black slacks 
that were immaculately pressed, and she wore a pair of strappy 
black platform sandals on her feet. Mulder briefly wondered if 
she painted her toenails, and bet that she did. Women like that 
always took small rebellions in the bright colors on their toes, 
only because they could conceal them from the public and expose 
them of their own free will. 

The cab driver turned around to Mulder, gesturing at moonlit 
Scully with his thumb. "She your date?" he asked, and Mulder 
chuckled a little. 

"If things go well," he said, and the driver grinned in approval. 

"Then good luck, man." 

Mulder tipped him well and stepped out of the cab. 

A smile curved her mouth at her first sight of him. The FBI agent 
was delectable, dressed in a tailored suit cut from Italian 
fabric, colored the rich shade of chocolate. A cream-colored 
shirt and tie patterned in flattering shades of brown and green 
completed the ensemble, all hanging off of his trim figure in a 
way that made her admire his swimmer's legs and slender hips. The 
wildness of his hair was somewhat tamed tonight, but the spiky 
threads of brown glimmered with appetizing copper highlights 
underneath the lanterns. The idea that she would be able to gaze 
at him under candlelight all evening was very appealing. She knew 
from the color of his skin that it would turn to hot gold 
underneath firelight. 

Mulder tilted his head a little in cool appreciation, and she 
arched her eyebrow in reply, letting him know that the compliment 
was appreciated. "Hungry?" she asked, and she saw a flicker of 
something chestnut ignite within his eyes. 

"Very," he said, and the note in his voice implied that he 
hungered for something more intangible than mere dinner. Dark, 
forest-colored arousal, something primal and carnal, lit his 
hazel eyes, and Scully decided not to linger on the meaning 
there. Mutely, she turned around and entered the restaurant, 
tilting her chin slightly as she walked. 

The table that the hostess set them up with was one of the best 
tables in the house. It was a small, circular booth, set on a 
platform in the back corner of the restaurant, and lit only by 
the rich firelight of one dangling lantern. Brightly colored 
artwork hung on the walls, illuminated by the firelight, and 
painted in vibrant colors of orange, green, and deep rose. The 
intimacy of the booth forced the two to sit next to each other 
rather than across, and she felt the heat of his body even though 
her skin did not touch his. It was merely the knowledge that he 
sat so closely that turned her skin to fire. 

After settling herself in, Scully picked up her menu and began 
pointing out highlights to Mulder. "The shrimp and grits are 
excellent," she said, "but if you want an appetizer, nothing 
beats the corn and crab chowder. It's exceptional. Also, the crab 
cakes are really different, but in a good way. I'd also suggest 
the shrimp scampi if you're a big seafood fan." 

Mulder chuckled a little, reading over the contents of the menu 
for himself. "How often do you eat out, Scully?" he asked, and 
she shrugged her shoulders. 

"I don't like cooking for myself," was her only reply. There was 
a hint of sadness underlying her short response, and it was a 
sadness that he understood very well. The life that he had chosen 
for himself wasn't one filled with company or companionship. 
Profiling had turned him into a recluse of sorts, unpleasant to 
be around and constantly haunted by the veritable wealth of 
tragedy that had plagued his life. The atrocities that he had 
witnessed and been involved him distanced him from the rest of 
society. In fact, Scully was the first person in years to be even 
mildly interested in speaking with him. 

So while he had made his decisions, there were moments where he 
just wanted someone to talk to or even cook for. 

The waiter came by, and Scully ordered a bottle of wine for the 
two of them, something with a name that Mulder didn't recognize. 
But the air of elegance and self-assurance that Scully carried 
made him trust her opinion in such matters, and so he allowed her 
to make the choice for them. She also ordered a bowl of the corn 
and crab chowder and a small plate of crab cakes, and Mulder 
followed suit. 

After the waiter left, he turned to her and removed a series of 
photographs from his suit jacket pocket. "Brentwood and Patterson 
spent the day interviewing the families of the other victims and 
investigating the area where Claire Banks's body was discovered," 
he said. "What we found was very interesting." 

Mulder fanned out the photographs on the table, spreading them 
out in a display of vivid color pictures. The ancient walls of 
the stable house were sprayed with blood and blackened from fire, 
but it was only internal damage; she saw that much from the fact 
that the stable house was still standing. "Jesus," she muttered, 
her fingers tentatively touching the photographs. "What 
happened?" 

"Nobody knows for sure," Mulder said simply. "But we've got a 
couple of leads with it. One is one of Claire's fingertips that 
was discovered on the scene. And another is this interesting 
tidbit of information: only employees of the plantation have 
access to a location like this, so either it's an employee or 
someone who knows the suspect. It looks good as far as the 
investigation goes." 

Scully nodded. "It could be an artisan at the plantation," she 
suggested. "They often hire people to perform certain tasks for 
the tourists. It's a big gimmick; they dress them up in old- 
fashioned clothing and have them make clay pots or weave blankets 
in the same way that the old plantation workers did." She 
shrugged. "You might want to consider it." 

"I will," Mulder said, gathering up the pictures quickly when the 
waiter approached with their wine and a basket of bread. After 
pouring their wine and giving them a small bowl full of olive oil 
and ground pepper for the bread, he moved away, leaving the two 
alone together in the cozy corner of the restaurant. 

Underneath the lantern's light, the vibrant red color of the wine 
danced and glowed like fire. It was the color of mellifluous 
rubies and garnets, like sparkling jeweled liquefied into nothing 
more than honeyed gemstones. It was the exact color of Scully's 
shirt, and both shone in synchrony beneath the rich glow of the 
lantern. The only difference was that she was more tantalizing 
than the wine. 

But at least he could taste the wine. He couldn't taste her. 

And it did taste delicious. The flavor was husky and slightly 
fruity, and the most dominant taste was the heavy tang of peach 
and pineapple. The bouquet was artfully constructed, given the 
throaty taste of cranberries and a lovely bite of apple. And the 
alcohol was potent; definitely Southern in that it expected the 
drinker to be well-accustomed to heavier volumes of alcohol. 

Scully drank her glass calmly and smoothly, and Mulder was 
impressed with that. "How is it?" she asked, one gingery eyebrow 
arched. 

He nodded, his fingers still holding the stem of the wineglass. 
"Very good," he said. "Of course, I'm no connoisseur, but I do 
know what I like." 

A dark twinkle of gray appeared in her sky-colored eyes. "So do 
I," she said, her voice a little lower and warmer than before. 
Perhaps it was the potency of the wine or merely something 
sparking inside of her, but there was a bolder note of sexuality 
in her sotto voice that sent it blazing through his body. Oh yes, 
she was definitely a headier sensation than any alcohol on earth. 

"Why the South?" he asked. It was a sudden question, a question 
that he hadn't really thought out before asking, but he wanted to 
know the answer. The cool confidence in her movements and the 
unaffected voice told him that she wasn't a native Southerner, 
and he wanted to know what had drawn her to this place. 

But obviously it was a question that she did not want to answer. 
Her mouth tightened and her fingers turned the wineglass tensely. 
"Why the FBI?" she shot back. "Why anything? We all make choices, 
and I chose Charleston." 

"But you obviously aren't from anywhere around this city," he 
said. "Why Charleston?" 

Scully didn't really want to answer this question now. Not to 
him. Not when she had been debating and double-guessing all of 
her previous decisions. Dwelling on such issues would be 
pointless, and confessing all of her private regrets wouldn't be 
wise. Especially when she would be confessing them to a perfect 
stranger. 

Absently, her fingertip slid over the rim of the glass, 
collecting spare droplets of wine in the grooves of her 
fingerprints. "The sea," she murmured. "My father... He was 
always such an influence on me. From when I was a small child to 
when I got older. In any case, he always loved the ocean. He was 
the son of a fisherman in Maryland, and when World War II 
started, he joined the Navy so that he could still be close to 
the water." A small smile drifted across her face, remembering 
the way that her father had spoken of his travels and of his deep 
reverence toward the sea. "So I wanted to remain close to it, 
too. Close enough so that I could go there anytime I wanted to." 

Tilting his head, Mulder caught a look of tranquility on her 
face, but it wasn't the kind of permanent pleasure that one would 
expect or want for her. It was the kind of tranquility of that 
was trapped in time, merely born of better memories. "So you 
picked the South because of your father?" he gently asked, and 
Scully's face stiffened again. 

"Yes," she said. "But I didn't pick it to please him. I think 
that I picked it to run from him." Her eyes were clouded over 
like the sea before a storm arrived, and he allowed her a moment 
of silence as she drank from her glass of wine. Running... It was 
what everyone claimed never solved anything, and it was what they 
had both done with their lives. Run. Run away from the past, run 
away from themselves... 

The wine was very potent, indeed. 

Scully's fingers twirled a piece of bread in the olive oil, 
absently trying to distract herself from the conversation that 
she did not want to be having. Suddenly, everything felt very 
awkward and wrong. She should not have selected this restaurant, 
with its subtle, sensual firelight and rich, elegant menu. She 
shouldn't have worn the tight blouse that set off her hair. She 
shouldn't have accepted the booth in the corner that forced his 
thigh against hers... 

His thigh was against hers. 

The sinew and strength of his skin burned through the layers of 
fabric, pressed against her slender leg. The long, lanky limb 
touched the length of her thigh, all the way down to her knee. It 
was solid, sensual, and oddly reaffirming. It anchored her, 
grounded her, tethered her to her senses and provided her with an 
unexpected source of strength. She knew that she had not moved 
toward him, she had kept her steady position during their earlier 
conversation, and so it must have been Mulder. 

Yes, he was closer than before. His elbow brushed hers as he 
reached for his glass of wine, and the smell of his shampoo and 
fresh soap permeated the smell of food, providing her with a 
refreshing scent of Irish Springs and Pert. It was a nice smell, 
clean and fresh. Like twilight after rain. Where everything was 
cleansed, refreshed, and thusly redeemed. 

She inhaled the smell deeply inside of herself, and smiled. 

Dinner continued on, courses and conversations being served up 
and enjoyed. Mulder discovered as dinner went on that his 
suspicions about Dana Scully were not incorrect in the least. She 
was not an open person. She guarded her secrets and her motives 
carefully, hiding them underneath layers of professionalism and 
cold detachment. Yet this did not mean that he couldn't know her. 
No, he figured out a lot about Scully merely by observing her. By 
profiling her. He could pull information on her simply by looking 
at her manner of dress, by the tilt of her chin, and by her 
exquisite taste in wine, and tell every intimate detail about 
her. 

Like the fact that she had always loved the sea, not because of 
her father, or because of her genetic makeup, but simply because 
that was the woman that she was. 

"So I found this restaurant on a date about a year and a half 
ago," she finished, stirring her soup with her spoon as steam 
curled becomingly around her face. "Sadly enough, that was the 
best part about the date." 

Understandingly, Mulder nodded, tilting his head so that he could 
watch the dark blue amusement flicker in her eyes. "I know what 
you mean," he said. "Relationships..." 

Scully waved him off with her hand. "Let's not." She had already 
discussed her father and her ambitions with him tonight. Going 
into her love life or total lack thereof would only complicate 
things further. As if things weren't complicated enough. 

Because he had kept moving closer all throughout dinner, subtly 
touching her in places and in ways that made his touches and 
caresses seem somehow imagined. Like maybe he hadn't really 
stroked the back of her hand when he'd reached for a piece of 
bread. And perhaps it was just the wind that had breathed across 
her earlobe. Her skin had been so sensitized and excitable ever 
since his thigh had brushed hers; he could have easily imagined 
that he had leaned a little against her earlier. 

It was like he was slowly permeating and invading her senses, 
creating cracks in her defenses with his pointed words and then 
seeping through those holes with his touches. Only it was a slow 
incursion, a dark, inviting invasion. Like wine, he had crawled 
beneath her skin and ignited her senses, her thoughts, and even 
her heart. 

Carefully, Scully stole a glimpse at his eyes, at the rich honey, 
mocha, and moss that mingled there like the alluring mystery of a 
swamp. The fire from the lanterns danced and played over his 
skin, lighting it with copper hues and setting his eyes on fire. 
They glowed at her like twin flames, intense and eternal, and she 
felt like that fire could consume her with its passion and 
fervor. And that was exactly what Scully was wary of. 
Consummation. It was like riding her bicycle on the Battery at 
top speed, closing her eyes and feeling the force of the wind 
push and tug at her body. She always walked the precipice, tasted 
danger, and then pushed it away so that she could be the victor. 
But she never fell. 

She never fell. 

But God, she was wondering if it was too late to even try to keep 
her balance... 

One of his slender, tantalizing copper hands passed over her 
eyes, and Scully looked at him, startled. A grin had curled his 
pink lips into a rich smile, and she realized with some 
embarrassment that he was amused. "You still here?" he asked, and 
she blinked, making her eyes focus on anything but that one 
tantalizing strand of brown that fell over his copper forehead. 

Clearing her throat, Scully straightened her back in the booth, 
primly smoothing the linen napkin in her lap. "Of course," she 
said smoothly, and Mulder chuckled from beside her. 

"Good, because the waiter wants to know what we want for 
dessert." 

Heat flushed her cheeks when she realized that Mulder was right; 
the young man was standing before them carrying a dessert menu 
and a wary smile. "Dessert, ma'am?" he asked, his shaky college 
tenor's voice slow and almost condescending. 

"Ah, no thank you," she said. She didn't need any more food. And 
she really didn't need any more wine. Coherency and clarity, that 
was what Dana Scully needed now. And she needed them in abundance. 
Alcohol and heavy hazel eyes seemed to be her undoing tonight, and 
so she banned both of them from her diet. 

Mulder seemed to be quite content with partaking of another glass 
of wine, his fingers sliding across the glass and cupping the 
stem of the wineglass elegantly. "Thank you again for displaying 
impeccable taste in restaurants, Dr. Scully," he said. His tone 
was a teasing mixture of formality and mockery, and she made 
herself resist a smile. 

"Any time." 

The food had been delicious. Seafood had always been one of his 
weaknesses, from when his father would bring home fresh lobster 
or back when his mother still boiled shrimp for dinner. He could 
still taste the unique blend of seasonings embedded deeply into 
the shellfish, could still smell the unique salt of the sea on 
his fingers. They were still photographs from his childhood, 
which had ended abruptly on the eve of Samantha's abduction. His 
parents had never cared enough to cook after that, and while 
Mulder had learned to cook for himself, he had always classified 
seafood as some sort of religious dish that he wouldn't touch. 

However, whenever he dined in a coastal town, he always indulged 
in his favorite foods. Crab cakes, shrimp scampi, oysters and 
calamari... All of the delicacies of the sea. And Slightly North 
of Broad had taken the fish from the coastal waters and turned 
them into masterpieces, lathering them in rich, delicious 
seasoningsand sauces and serving them on bright Art Deco plates, 
garnished and beautiful. Placed together with the light jazz 
music and the candlelit companion, everything was perfect. 
Perfect for the moment, that is. Mulder knew the shelf life on 
perfection - it was always heartbreakingly temporary. 

He also understood the shelf life of an investigation. The BSU 
was terribly efficient and effective; they had already uncovered 
something of a lead with the plantation workers. It would be only 
a matter of days, maybe a couple of weeks, before the case would 
be solved and he would be shipped back off to Washington and his 
miserable life. Charleston's beauty and Dr. Dana Scully were 
merely a temporary solution to his unending agony that was life. 
She was a medicine that he could only take until the prescription 
wore out. 

But Mulder was going to take it. 

Her measured words and cool language had done him in; dinner had 
proven to him that he was falling for her rapidly. It was 
probably the most bizarre incident of his life since the 
abduction of Samantha. Mulder never fell in love, much less under 
the span of two days. But he felt it, felt the passion underneath 
her smooth, elegant skin, and he could taste the fire underneath 
the subtle scent of Obsession. 

Obsession was right. 

The bottle of wine that she had ordered for them was nearly empty 
now, and the alcohol swam through her veins sleepily and 
languidly. It was a nice sensation though, like she was drifting 
away in a warm sea, drifting away from the prison of Charleston. 
Drifting towards a better destination, toward a new port of call. 
And the tide just pulled her along determinedly, knowing its 
direction even if she did not. Scully knew that the feeling was 
not just a part of the wine that she had consumed. No, this was 
the same invasive stranger that had possessed her emotions ever 
since waking up yesterday morning, after the first nightmare. 

The check was placed on the dinner table in a discreet folder 
made of black leather, and Scully picked it up before Mulder 
could even reach for it. "Mine," she said, looking at the price. 
Nimble brown fingers snatched the bill from her hands, and Scully 
looked at him startled. 

Mulder studied the bill with a furrowed brow. "Let me take care 
of it," he said, reaching for his wallet. 

Scully shook her head, trying to get the bill out of his grasp. 
"You're insane," she said. "I know how much you make and I can 
assure you that I make more." Her fingertips slid along the 
corner of the bill and Mulder protested. 

"You're underestimating my bank account," he said. The two had a 
miniature tug-of-war for a moment before Scully's hand landed on 
his shoulder with a light caress that stilled them both. 

It was the first intentional touch between them. 

Her slim white fingers rested gently on his shoulder, so softly, 
as though her small hand could break him. The heat of his body 
warmed the Italian fabric, and the smooth cloth felt delicious 
and enticing underneath the palm of her hand. When his shoulders 
slumped backward, relaxing ever so slightly into the touch, she 
felt the muscles and joints work underneath the suit. The motion 
and movement of his skin, so close to hers, made her knees go 
weak. 

Finally, she released her hand from his shoulder, and the two sat 
in silence for a moment. Mulder finally broke the tension by 
passing the check to her. "If it means that much to you, o 
liberated woman," he said, trying to inject a moment of joviality 
into the tension. 

Scully only mutely took the check from him, and she did not look 
at him as she laid out the money. 

Then, as an afterthought, his hand brushed her knee. 

Fingers, light as air, lit her skin on fire, fingertips caressing 
the joint through the black pants that she wore. His thumb curved 
over her kneecap, just grazing the side in a way that made her 
toes curl. Those hands, the hands that she had admired all 
through dinner, hands that had been set aglow by the rich, 
flaming lantern... Now one of them touched her knee in such a way 
that she almost came undone. All of her resolutions, all of her 
decisions, her myriad of bad mistakes, all of it almost unraveled 
just through Mulder's hand. 

Wistfully, Mulder let his fingers circle the slender joint for a 
half a moment more, memorizing the feeling of her flesh through 
the black fabric. He never would have known that such a poised 
woman would have such incredibly hot skin. Like she was trying to 
smolder through the stratum of ice that she covered herself in. 

The waiter returned all too quickly, and Mulder's hand fled her 
knee as she paid for dinner. 

Above them, the lantern's flame flickered and turned innocently, 
dangling in the air like suspended fire. It cast shadows over 
Mulder's face, masking him in dark oranges and simmering reds. 
The rich textures and colors of his hair were all ignited in the 
light, and Scully wished that there was a way for her to stop 
stealing glances at him. 

"Thanks for dinner," he murmured, and she realized then that the 
evening was over. Wine and food had been consumed, conversation 
had been exchanged, and thus it was time for the two to part. The 
thought was difficult to bear; she didn't want to give him up 
just yet. 

A sudden breeze blew in and ruffled her hair, and Scully turned 
her head to see what had caused it. Ah, so the waiters were 
opening the windows. The night sky twinkled bewitchingly from 
outside, and when the wind blew in from behind the thin curtains, 
it smelled like a mixture of azaleas and the Atlantic. Salty and 
sweet, all wrapped up into a beautiful package. 

Impulsiveness was not a Scully trait. Calculation and 
consideration were the qualities that everyone in the Scully clan 
inherited, from her wise fisherman grandfather to her Navy father 
and brothers. Even her mother had always been analytical when it 
came to life, always making her children take the time to think 
before they acted. Melissa was the only Scully out there who took 
off on instinct rather than logic. Dana had epitomized that 
typical trait, the trait of analyzing her actions rather than 
just acting. 

But the smell wafting through the windows, combined with the 
heavy aroma of wine and the simmering smell of food, gave her the 
idea and the courage to step away from her cold ground, her 
solitude, and reach out to him. 

Tilting her head to the side, Scully smiled softly at him. 

"Want to take a walk?" 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER TEN 

***** 

***** 

The Battery 
Charleston, South Carolina 
9:02 PM, August 15, 1999 

***** 

Moonlight and mist caressed the ancient cement of the Battery, 
coating the dimming street with a delicate and delicious blanket 
of moisture and mysticism. It congregated underneath the beams of 
the streetlights, churning in the indigo light like twilit steam, 
and the bright nearly-full moon was swollen and silver above the 
city, blanketed by a thick gathering of clouds. All around them, 
the Atlantic lapped gently ashore, adding nothing more than a 
gentle percussion to the soft woodwinds of the early night. 

A cool breeze pushed at the tendrils of red that covered the nape 
of her neck, and her fingers lightly pushed them aside, exposing 
the sweet strip of skin to the quiet, contemplative man walking 
next to her. Beneath sooty lashes, Scully stole a glance at 
Mulder. The tension and stress that she had noticed earlier was 
melting away underneath the ocean's attentive and soothing 
ministrations, leaving him relaxed and somewhat tranquil. The 
heartbreaking anguish that seemed to be his constant mantle had 
been briefly folded up now and concealed, but judging by the 
thick mocha shadows in his eyes, it was only a temporary 
departure. 

"Here," she murmured, stopping the both in their paths. A small 
bronze plaque rested on the sidewalk, etched with words that were 
obscured by the darkness. Scully didn't need to read the plaque; 
she automatically knew what it said. She pointed out to the west 
of them. "That's the Cooper River," she said. Her arm turned 
slightly to the north. "There's the Atlantic." And finally, she 
pointed toward the east. "And that's the Ashley." 

The cool skin of his hand brushed against hers briefly, and she 
turned her face up to his. The conversation had dimmed and 
tapered off as they walked down the Battery, and now she noticed 
a distance in his eyes as he looked out at the glassy Atlantic. 
"What do you see, Mulder?" she asked, her voice low and 
unobtrusive. 

Those secretive hazel eyes churned with flecks of dark, grievous 
green. In the combined glow of silver and blue, his skin seemed 
to glow in the chiaroscuro obscurity. But it glowed with the 
heavy sorrow of a man who had been broken once long ago and never 
quite put back together correctly. When Mulder spoke again, his 
formerly velveteen voice was slightly tattered with distant, 
painful memory. 

"You weren't the only one who grew up by the shore, Scully," he 
murmured, the ripple in his voice increasing as he continued. "My 
grandparents weren't fishermen, though. They were socialites, 
businessmen, lawyers, whatever it took to get them power and 
wealth. It didn't matter what the business was as long as it was 
good business." His eyes narrowed slightly and he leaned on the 
metal railing, crossing his arms as he spoke. 

"We had a summer house on Martha's Vineyard," he slowly said. 
"Right up in the crook of the island. On the cliffs. Our beach 
wasn't made of sand dunes and tidal pools. It was a precarious 
place to walk, rocky and dangerous. You could lose your balance 
so easily up there..." His voice drifted slightly, tapering off 
until the scene was displaying itself only in the confines of his 
memory. Nothing was being spoken, nothing was being shared. Just 
the brief torture of remembering his childhood, before Samantha 
shattered it. 

He remembered the way she had always wanted to climb the beach 
the way that he did, her small feet slipping over the rocks as 
she sped to catch up with her older brother. The patent leather 
Mary Janes that his mother insisted that she wear were nothing 
compared to the gripping of his sturdier sneakers, and the lacy 
white dresses billowed in the wind like sea foam. The dark brown 
pigtails ripped through the bleak sky during the summer storms, 
and her face was the epitome of childhood glee. 

But he always ran from her. Left her behind. Left her to fend for 
herself. And she always fell. Little knees skinned and bloody, 
little tears from big brown eyes, never accusing, always shocked. 
Shocked that she had been abandoned again. 

His heart turned over, and his pulse started to speed and race 
heavily inside his chest. Mulder had left her behind on the 
beach, left her to race and catch up with him, and he'd let her 
alone then. Ignored her. Christ, he hadn't known that he had only 
a limited number of summers with her. He hadn't known. 

"I didn't know," he whispered, his voice broken and foreign to 
him. He didn't really know he was speaking, not through the 
turmoil that his heart and his stomach were going through. The 
image of determined, innocent Samantha, stubborn as the rocks 
upon the shore but not nearly strong enough to withstand the 
abuse of the surf, ravaged his spirit. Then the image faded into 
her, standing in the middle of their suburban living room, 
arguing with him and then nothing but light... 

Eyelashes fluttering, Mulder felt his pulse speed up, and he 
heard his voice distantly mutter words that he didn't want to 
say. "Left her behind." She had been standing right there in 
their living room, argumentative and naïve, those heartbreaking 
brown pigtails swinging around her round face in emphasis of her 
words. They'd been arguing, arguing about something, and Christ, 
fuck, why couldn't he remember what it was about? She had called 
him names, and he'd hated it. He remembered that. She had called 
him names and he didn't think he deserved it. 

But God, he did. 

He really did. 

Then there was a light, bright and encompassing, and screams. Not 
little girl screams. These were the screams born of genuine 
terror. Terror that no eight-year-old girl should ever, *ever* 
have to experience. She had screamed for God, screamed for her 
parents, and she had screamed his name over and over. "Fox! Fox! 
Fox!" 

Then the earth shook, and he collapsed. 

Panting, Mulder fell to the ground, his knees buckling and his 
hands shaking. A sweat broke out on his brow, and the wind and 
sea rushed around him like that light had all those damned years 
ago. His heart was like thunder in his ears, loud and consuming, 
and he couldn't catch his breath. Everything spun around him, 
dizzying and heady, and images of the Atlantic and Samantha spun 
in his mind's eye. God, he had let her go. Let her go. Just like 
he always did. He'd left her behind. 

A cool, soothing palm descended on his brow and gently rested 
there, slowly caressing and calming his fevered skin. A thumb 
kindly touched his temples, and he closed his eyes tightly, 
unable to register anything other than the miracle that someone 
was there. Someone was there. 

Dana Scully's gentle, seamless alto murmured in his ear. "Ssh," 
she breathed, "it's okay. Just calm down, all right? Calm down. 
It's all over. It's okay." She repeated the words like a litany, 
her small doctor's hands passing over his brow tenderly. 

The spinning continued, and his hands fumbled for his pants 
pocket. His pills. But when he tried to open the cap, still 
gasping for breath, his clumsy fingers fumbled on the childproof 
cap. Another subtle hand took the bottle from his hand and 
expertly opened the cap, and she passed him one of the small 
white capsules. "Come on," she murmured when he could not lift 
his hands. Finally, she took the pill from his hand and slipped 
the pill in his mouth, her fingers passing over his lips like 
silk. "Swallow, Mulder. Just swallow. Come on. It's okay." 

Mulder could manage that much, and he leaned his body backwards. 
She was sitting behind him, cradling his lanky body in her arms, 
and holding him upright as she leaned against the railing of the 
Battery. One hand rested on his chest, over his heart, and he 
felt the heat of it through the booming pulsing in his chest. 

Eventually, the medicine took effect, and his breathing slowed, 
returning to normal. Yet Scully did not move from his body. She 
didn't want to take her hands off of him, didn't trust him to 
move or stand. As long as her palm was pressed to his heart, as 
long as she could feel his pulse steady through her skin, then 
she would feel safe. 

Mulder's lean and long body was dead weight against her, heavy 
but comforting in its solidity. As her hands raked through his 
soft, fine brown hair, Scully closed her eyes, leaning her head 
against the railing so that the wind could touch her face. Oh, 
God. The memory of Mulder's eyes glazing over, of all the bronzed 
color fading from his skin, and of his pained, whispered words, 
all before his collapse... There was so much here that she didn't 
know or understand. So much in this man that had hurt him, pained 
him, tortured and agonized him. 

Protectively, her arms tightened around his chest, her palm 
running through his silky mahogany hair in attempt to comfort the 
both of them. A tranquil, soothing breeze passed over her face, 
rustling and stirring her hair, and Scully welcomed it. Embraced 
it, even. It was what she needed. What they both needed. 

A murmur fell from his mouth, guilty and ashamed. "I'm sorry," he 
muttered, and his words were tinted with bitterness and 
embarrassment. 

Lightly, she grazed his cheek with the back of her hand. "Don't 
be," Scully said simply. "You had a panic attack." She saw the 
prescription on the bottle of pills that he'd been carrying with 
him, and she knew that he was on pretty powerful drugs. It was an 
escalating situation. The medication should have prevented the 
attack, and yet it was still a nasty. She could sense his thready 
pulse with her hands and hear his labored breathing. 

With a sigh, he leaned back into her, resting his head against 
her body in weary resignation. Mulder closed his eyes, closed his 
eyes to the dark and the memories, and let himself drift in the 
comfort of having a woman's arms wrapped around him. Of just 
having somebody there who cared about him. The warm silk of her 
cheek nuzzled his briefly before she pulled away, and he 
instantly longed for the return of her comforting, gentle 
presence. 

"You need to stand up," she said gently, her hands moving to his 
elbows so that he could lean on her to bring himself to his feet. 
"If you walk around a little, get your breathing steady, you'll 
feel better. In any case, it'll help the medicine start 
circulating." The doctor's sensibility. He knew that it was 
somewhere inside of her. She certainly had bedside manner down 
pat. 

Obligingly but regretfully, Mulder stood up, abandoning the 
comfort of her embrace. The world spun again, the ocean and land 
turning around him in a whirlwind of antiquity and Atlantic, but 
then everything settled and he could gather his bearings. Slowly, 
he closed his eyes, feeling the melee slow and the world return 
to normal. A twisted normal, but normal nonetheless. 

Then he opened his eyes and remembered Dana Scully. 

Tendrils of dark, starlit red hair swirled becomingly around 
concerned blue eyes. One of her small, deft doctor's hands pushed 
the wind-whipped locks back and away from her oval face, and she 
tilted her chin slightly, looking up at him as though he were a 
specimen for her to dissect. He expected her to speak, expected 
her to ask him questions, but she didn't. Instead, she just 
looked at him in a manner that was oddly disturbing. Like she 
could extract any information that she wanted from him in nothing 
more than a simple glance. The history and creation of Fox 
Mulder, all given to her in one look. The funny thing was that he 
felt like she already knew it - specifics and details aside. 

But Scully was a woman of details and a natural woman of doubt, 
and so she did speak. "Let's keep walking," she suggested, and he 
knew what she wanted. The answers. The specifics. The details and 
the dirt. And Mulder considered giving them to her with open 
arms. 

Waves lapped gently at the Battery like little liquid fingers 
lovingly caressing the old stones. The smell in the air was that 
same peculiar aroma that he had caught a whiff of earlier in the 
taxicab - the smell of flowers, saltwater, and something 
absolutely indescribable. The smell of history and pride, and of 
something uniquely Charlestonian. It was a smell that Scully 
carried, adding to the chemical perfume of Obsession. On her, the 
smell was ultimately proud and determined, like steel wrapped in 
wisteria. The strength in Scully was one of the things that had 
drawn him to her, and it made him realize that every other woman 
that he'd ever thought he'd been in love with had been utterly 
weak. A truly strong woman did not need to break others to build 
her own confidence. Scully had a deep well of it built up within 
her. 

And it made her decidedly, deliciously trustworthy. 

When he spoke, his voice was low and rich like caramel, but it 
was quiet, ravaged, bitter and hurt. "I had a sister," he said 
softly. "Samantha. She was four years younger than I was, very 
energetic, the favorite, the one that my parents doted on and 
adored." 

Furrowing her brow, Scully glanced up at his face. "Was?" 

His mouth twitched slightly with something that resembled regret. 
"Samantha disappeared when I was twelve," he said, and Scully's 
heart twisted instantly in pain, and remained in such a state 
through the rest of Mulder's despairing tale. "It happened at 
nighttime. My parents were at a neighbor's house, playing cards 
or checkers or whatever they did over there. I was in charge." He 
paused briefly, gathering his thoughts and organizing his words. 
"We were arguing about something... I can't remember what... And 
then there was this flash of bright light." He shook his head, 
frustrated. "And she was gone." 

Gone. Just like that. Scully frowned. "Gone?" 

He nodded. "She never returned home. Like she just disappeared 
into thin air..." He shook his head, narrowing his eyes into the 
distance of street and sea. "I don't remember anything else. The 
police asked me questions, my parents asked me questions, but..." 
He shrugged his shoulders, which were tense with frustration and 
bottled grief. Grief for a sister that he had lost and a sister 
that he had never regained. 

Small fingers touched his cuff gently, and then they were gone 
before he could return the touch. When he glanced over at her, 
she was staring straight into the air in front of her, her 
features dark with contemplation and lit faintly with the 
incandescent violet streetlight. A silence fell, dark and somehow 
amiable, and he expected her to break it with the proprietary 
words - apologies, offers of condolence, maybe even the 
occasional wary look at a man who'd never gotten over the 
disappearance of his kid sister. But he received none of these 
words from her. 

Instead, she just continued alongside him, her face shadowed in 
night and her eyes tinted dark blue with contemplation. The wind 
blew in from the Atlantic and brushed over her short red hair 
with its cool fingers, stirring it into a tumble of bright 
ginger. "So that's your story," she said, more to herself than to 
him. 

A dry grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he nodded. 
"Yeah, I guess that's it," he said. 

The stifling humidity was beginning to get to him, and he 
shrugged off his suit jacket, draping it over the crook of his 
arm. Quietly, he rolled up his shirtsleeves and loosened his tie, 
rolling his head back and shrugging his shoulders slightly. 
Mulder stole a glance over at Scully, who was walking alongside 
him with a careful, practiced stride. Thick, dark lashes covered 
her dark blue eyes, and he narrowed his eyes when looking at her. 
"So what's yours?" 

Nimble fingers played absently with the cuff of her wine-colored 
shirt, and a soft smile, humorless and sad, crossed her face. "I 
ah, I don't really have one," she murmured, and then she winced. 
"My feet are killing me. Hold on a second." She leaned over to 
take off her shoes, and nearly lost her balance while trying to 
do so. Quickly, Mulder held her elbow in his hand, and she smiled 
in brief thanks while removing the offending sandals. 

He chuckled briefly from above her. "Nice nail polish," he said, 
and she looked down at her scarlet-painted nails. 

"Thanks," she replied. "They're my small rebellion." 

All that Mulder did was shake his head, not surprised in the 
least, until she straightened herself. His fingers lingered a 
millisecond too long, the heat of his skin comforting and 
delectable. But he withdrew them, and she tightened her grip on 
the slender straps slightly. He was an intoxicating presence, and 
he was also a presence that she didn't need to get addicted to. 

Palm trees swayed in the breeze in synchrony with the rhythm of 
Scully's sandals, the leather platforms swinging against her 
thigh like twin pendulums. "We all need our small rebellions, 
don't we?" Mulder mused aloud, and Scully tilted her face toward 
him, brow furrowed with intrigue. 

"How so?" she asked, and Mulder shrugged his shoulders slightly. 

"Well, we're caught up in the circumstances and borders that 
society or life draws for us," he explained, his tapering fingers 
gesturing gently in accompaniment to his speech. "No matter what 
sort of life we lead, those boundaries do exist. And at one time 
or another, we feel cloistered and restricted, and so we feel the 
need to rebel. Whether that's through painted toenails or tattoos 
or even something as extreme as maiming or injuring another human 
being, it's all essentially the same human reaction." 

One eyebrow arched as she considered his theory. "So you're 
saying that as human beings, we all feel the innate desire to 
rebel against life itself," she said, and Mulder nodded. A wry 
grin lit her face. "I think that you're interpreting too much 
into my pedicure." 

Mulder couldn't resist relinquishing a chuckle to her. "All 
right, I'll grant you that," he said, raking a hand through his 
wild spikes of hair. "But don't tell me that you've never felt 
the need to rebel against something, Scully." 

Scully took a glance at her walking companion from the corner of 
her eye, then cast her eyes away from Mulder's intense eyes and 
striking features. "Sometimes," she admitted. "But whether or not 
your rebellion is as mild as painted toenails or as severe as 
murder is sometimes difficult to determine, isn't it?" 

A subtle shifting of footing and steps brought him in front of 
her, and he stopped her in her path. Silver and indigo lit his 
features, cast him in chiaroscuro beauty, and his eyes glowed 
profoundly from the shadows. The plush mouth that she had been 
admiring and lingering since she had met him was soft and 
inviting in front of her, and her mouth turned dry as he stepped 
closer. "Sometimes," he murmured. "But there's one surefire way 
to find out." 

Eyelashes fluttered shut as the inevitable loomed closer; she 
felt the heat of his body brush against hers and a large, gentle 
hand cup the back of her neck. Everything in her mind screamed 
for her not to do this, told her not to let this happen, and 
everything else waited in electric anticipation for the stars to 
collide. 

Then his mouth was upon hers, and she stopped thinking 
altogether. 

The kiss was fragile, tangible and delicate, nothing more than a 
brush of his lips over hers. But God, what a brush. Heat and 
desire flushed through her skin as his mouth nuzzled hers, 
testing pliancy and possibility, and she felt the moisture of his 
mouth slightly push at hers, asking her for permission to 
continue. Such gentility, such kindness, such a wonderful 
sensation of electricity and eroticism... 

It almost killed her to refuse. 

But she did refuse. Pained, Scully pulled away from him, her 
small hands pressing against his chest to push him away. "I'm 
sorry," he muttered, and Scully shook her head, confused and 
disturbed as she walked toward the railing. 

Gentle seas lapped at the Battery, filling the air with a perfume 
of pacific liquid and tranquility. Wearily, Scully closed her 
eyes, running her hand through her hair in a feeble attempt to 
regain her previously shattered composure. Her skin cried out in 
protest, her body begged her to return to him, and her heart 
ached in the absence of his kiss. Only her logic and reason was 
satisfied, and that was just a small consolation when she thought 
of what she could have had. 

Heartbroken, Mulder watched her walk away, saw the cloudiness in 
her previously clear blue eyes, and instantly felt angry at 
himself for testing waters that obviously didn't exist. Idiot, he 
scolded. She's not interested. Oh, he knew that she had wanted the 
kiss, but she wasn't interested in taking it. That in and of 
itself was even worse than if she had not wanted anything in the 
first place. His fumble could have been laughed off and he could 
have ignored the fluke, but now the chemistry and possibility 
between them would drive him mad for the remainder of his time in 
Charleston. 

The Atlantic rippled and churned in a flowing melody of wind and 
water, and to Mulder's ears, it sounded like it was laughing at 
him. 

Tight-knuckled fingers slid over the iron rail, and Scully 
gritted her teeth, looking down at her bare feet. Crimson 
toenails dangled precariously over the edge of the Battery, and 
the sea spray tickled the sensitive skin. Her small rebellion... 
Frowning, Scully wiggled her toes, watching the little scarlet 
tips fan out before her. Everybody needed to rebel every now and 
then, right? Everyone needed a small rebellion. 

Even against themselves. 

He would only be here a couple more weeks anyway, before he would 
return to Washington and she would return to her dull, typical 
Southern life. But that didn't mean that she couldn't have two 
weeks with him. Fourteen days, if that, spent in his arms and in 
his world. An escape from the boundaries and concise territories 
of logic and reason - a little foray into the impossible. 

Perhaps she should consider this one extreme possibility. 

Lifting her chin proudly, Scully turned around to face Mulder, 
and she started chuckling at what stood behind him. 

"That's my house," she said, and Mulder turned around to take it 
in. 

The bright canary house stood shaded by billowing willow trees 
and one meandering oak, both shadowed with sprinklings of Spanish 
moss. An iron-wrought gate surrounded the residence, intertwined 
with pineapples and wisteria in a fashion that was elegant and 
enigmatic, just like the house's owner. A round balcony protruded 
from the front of the house, surrounded by white railing, and 
Mulder imagined her standing on it, looking out at the ocean, 
searching for something that only she could find. 

"It's beautiful," Mulder murmured, and Scully smiled a little in 
gratitude. 

"Thanks," she said. "Do you want to come in?" 

His only reply was a satisfied smile. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER ELEVEN 

***** 

The music included in this chapter is from Beth Orton's new CD, 
_Central Reservation_, and is excerpted from the song "Sweetest 
Decline". I had no permission to use the lyrics. 

***** 

Residence of Dana Scully 
Charleston, South Carolina 
9:47 PM, August 15, 1999 

***** 

Mulder did not know what intrigued him about the painting on the 
wall so much, but it was intriguing nonetheless. 

It was nothing more than a simple painting of a riverbed at dawn, 
lined with wheat-colored dunes and vivid green cattails, all 
tinted in rosy colors of lavender, rose, and deep, fiery 
tangerine. In it, the sun was a swollen ball of Spanish orange, 
and it seemed to be rising not out of the sky, but from the 
bright length of the snaking river, ascending to its rightful 
place in the morning sky. The wind was almost visible on the 
broad strokes of the canvas, pushing at the water and the land in 
long fingers of white. The only sign of humanity in the painting 
was one slender boat, curving its way through the river, steered 
by a young woman with hair made of early morning sunlight. 

Perhaps it was the richness of the painting, or merely the skill 
of the artist, but there was something so quiet and tranquil 
about the woman in the painting, surrounded by all the color and 
beauty of the riverbed, that was utterly beautiful. 

"It's a marsh," Scully murmured from behind him, her smooth alto 
voice cool and refreshing, like the painted wind. "Painted by a 
local artist, most likely of Edisto Island." It didn't really 
matter what the local geography was, because the painting and the 
land were unique and undeniably Charlestonian. 

Cocking his head to the side, Mulder examined the artwork's 
whorls and swirls. "Nice," he said softly. Only nice wasn't an 
adequate adjective to describe the skillful painting. There was 
some word that his immense vocabulary couldn't quite conjure up 
to describe the portrait, and it frustrated him that he couldn't 
look at it now and instantly label it. 

A low, mocha-flavored chuckle rang out behind him, and Mulder 
turned around to see Scully walking away, running her hand 
through her hair and dropping her shoes neatly in a corner of her 
living room. "I'm going to pour us some iced tea," she called 
from over her shoulder as she walked toward the kitchen. "Do you 
want yours sweetened or unsweetened, Mulder?" 

"Unsweetened," he called, and Scully smiled dryly. She should 
have been able to guess that right off the bat. He seemed to want 
nothing sugared or doctored, including his own heart. He was all 
about the truth, plain and simple. She understood that; Scully 
was constructed the same way. Only she thought that perhaps 
Mulder's truth varied a little from her strict rationalism and 
science. 

As she walked toward the refrigerator, Scully turned on the TV 
and turned it to The Weather Channel, where Dr. Lyons was 
predicting the course of Hurricane Becky. The doctor's precise 
words drifted to her ear while she poured the tea into dark blue 
glass tumblers. "Currently, Becky has winds up to 110mph, making 
her a Category 2 hurricane. The storm's pressure has dropped to 
964mb, meaning that there are signs of significant strengthening 
that will come along with this storm in the days ahead, as the 
storm approaches Puerto Rico and the Bahamas." 

From the living room, Mulder entered the kitchen and looked with 
a furrowed brow at the television set. "What's this?" he asked, 
and Scully looked at him, placing one finger against her lips. 

"Ssh," she said, leaning forward to watch the television closer. 
The bald-headed hurricane expert was standing in his shirtsleeves 
and tie in front of the blue screen, his hand waving across the 
map and over Florida, Georgia, and both the Carolinas. 

"Could this storm impact the United States?" he said. "Yes. The 
possibility that Hurricane Becky could strengthen and make 
landfall along the southeastern coast is definitely plausible. 
All interests from Florida to the Carolinas should keep a close 
eye on Hurricane Becky over the next couple of days and stay 
tuned to The Weather Channel for further updates on the storm's 
progress." 

Sighing, Scully turned off the television and picked up one blue 
crystal tumbler. "Lovely," she murmured, and there wasn't a trace 
of sarcasm or bitterness in her voice. A half-smile crossed his 
face as he picked up his own glass of tea. 

"You follow hurricane season closely?" he asked, and Scully 
nodded, taking a sip of the tea and boosting herself onto the 
pristine white counter. Her slender body leaned against the 
refrigerator casually and enticingly, locks of red caressing the 
pale skin of her cheek absently. 

"One has to when one lives on the coast," she said simply. "I've 
never lived through one, but I get prepared every year. Canned 
goods, bottled water, batteries and tracking charts..." She 
shrugged. "It's all a part of the game down here. After Hurricane 
Hugo hit, everyone started paying closer attention to the 
tropics." Graceful wrists turned the tumbler back and forth in 
her hand, and the tea glowed like liquid indigo as the glass 
caught the dim lighting. 

Mulder took a tentative taste of the tea, finding the flavor to 
be surprisingly agreeable. Husky and hungry, something deep and 
rich that unfurled like watery flowers on his tongue. Subtle and 
sensual. "You look like you almost anticipate these storms," he 
observed, and Scully shrugged her shoulders. 

"It's something to do." Something to spice up the doldrums and 
escape the trappings of normalcy. Admittedly, it was a more 
destructive and violent distraction, but it remained a 
distraction nonetheless. Besides, she had always been a bad 
weather junkie, and the science behind the complexities of these 
giant storm systems fascinated her. All about math and 
probability, predicting the path of a storm, and there was no 
such thing as a truly accurate forecast. 

Languidly, he approached her, his fingers drawing patterns in the 
beads of perspiration on the outside of the glass. Through half- 
lidded eyes, she looked down at him, feeling butterflies that she 
had captured earlier escape and flutter through her stomach. 
Under the dim lighting, his skin was like velvety copper, 
tapering fingers cupping the glass and his empty hand touching 
the counter near her thigh. "It's all about the science to you, 
isn't it Scully?" he murmured, his voice low and throaty. 
"Probability, possibility, calculations and formulations..." 

Gold and green flecked through his eyes in a becoming tumble of 
gemstones as he spoke. God, he was irresistible. She was 
discovering this with every low, husky word that he spoke and 
with every new color in his kaleidoscope eyes. Another emotion, 
another color, and with that came a totally different set of 
rules. Another set of rules to break. "You can't calculate 
everything," he continued, and Scully's heart skipped a beat as 
he leaned up his head up to look at her. 

Now she had the advantage. 

A curving smile that had always won men over before curled across 
her lips, and she placed one hand around the nape of his neck. 
The fringe of mahogany that hit his collar was thick and rich 
against her fingers, and her thumb barely massaged the hot skin 
of his neck as she bent her head down closer. 

"No," she murmured, her breath caressing his lips in a whisper of 
a kiss, "you really can't." 

Smiling enigmatically, she bent her mouth to his and took her 
first taste of his mouth. Languorously, her tongue slid across 
his ripe lower lip, catching the cool beads of iced tea on the 
tip of her tongue and she felt his formerly sure mouth tremble 
under her exploration. Her hand tightened around the back of his 
head, securing his mouth to hers, and she lightly nipped at his 
juicy lip, eliciting a moan from his deep tenor voice. 

And so she slipped her tongue between his lips then, sliding her 
tongue with excruciating slowness through the cavernous depths of 
his mouth. His tongue collided with hers, and she tasted the rich 
flavors of the tea explode on her taste buds. A chuckle passed 
from her body to his, and she wondered if she heard him correctly 
when he whimpered. The tip of his large nose brushed against 
hers, and she drank in the feel of him, the taste of him, even 
the tangy smell of him as she kissed him deeper. 

As Scully's tongue slid exquisitely through his mouth, Mulder 
wondered when he had lost control of the seduction, and how she 
had turned the tables on him so deftly and suddenly. It didn't 
really matter, he thought as her hand massaged the nape of his 
neck. No, as long as she was going to kiss him like this, it 
didn't matter in the least as to just which one of them was in 
control. 

Before he had a chance to reciprocate, Scully pulled away, her 
fingers fluttering down to rest firmly on his shoulder. Dark, 
luminous blue eyes stared at him from underneath a veil of black 
lashes, and the smile on her kiss-swollen lips was a smile of 
deep satisfaction and the promise of sex. In one glance, one 
little look, he could tell that she had him wrapped around her 
little white doctor's finger and there was no place he'd rather 
be. 

The same luscious pink tongue that had formerly been excavating 
his mouth now peeked out from her perfect mouth to moisten her 
lips, and she took a measured sip of her iced tea. The smug smile 
on her face was both coy and inviting. "Well, are you going to 
ravish me on my kitchen counter or shall we wait for later?" she 
asked, and his hair stood up on end at her utterance of the word 
"ravish". 

"Wait," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "Let's wait." 

Slowly, her hand relinquished its hold on his shoulder, and she 
leaned forward slightly again. Mulder's mouth tingled in 
anticipation of her kiss, but her mouth landed on his cheek 
rather than his lips. The soft, gentle kiss that she laid there 
was nothing more than a brush of her lips against his skin, but 
it was in many ways even better than the previous passionate 
exchange. This was an affectionate gesture, one born of 
tenderness rather than sexuality. 

"Alright," she said simply, pushing herself down from the 
countertop. The reminder of how petite she was momentarily 
shocked Mulder; her earlier dominance of him had prompted him to 
forget her smaller stature. "Then let me take you on the grand 
tour of the house." 

Still sipping her glass of iced tea, Scully walked out of the 
kitchen and toward the rest of the house, and Mulder followed 
helplessly after her. He was hers. 

The elegance of her home was always a pleasant reminder when she 
showed guests around. It was a nice mixture of antique and 
contemporary, blending modern technology in with historic 
artifacts. For instance, there was a black television and a 
laptop in the breakfast nook, where she could send e-mail and get 
connected with the rest of the world while eating her morning 
yogurt. And her spotless white living room was draped in linen 
and silk but topped off by an excellent stereo system. As she 
passed it by, she watched out of the corner of her eye as Mulder 
inspected her CD collection. 

"Acceptable?" she asked, and Mulder nodded. 

"Rachmaninoff and R.E.M.," he said. "Nice blend." Curiosity 
compelled him to press play on the stereo, and the airy music of 
Beth Orton filled the house with a mixture of light guitar, 
piano, and deeply resonating bells. Scully was instantly glad 
that she had left that CD in the player from the night before; 
it was a nice complement to the way that she felt right now. 

Out from underneath a cream-colored chaise popped a sleek, 
multicolored feline that instantly cried out for her mistress. 
The calico cat approached Mulder with trepidation and then 
instant affection, snaking her slender body in and out between 
his long legs, purring all the while. Amused, he bent down and 
rewarded the little animal with a pet or two, and Scully 
chuckled. 

"Don't take it personally," she warned. "She loves men. I think 
that she was a prostitute in a past life." 

A wry grin crossed his face as he looked up at skeptical Scully. 
"I didn't think you believed in past lives, Scully," he said, and 
she grinned. 

"Extreme possibilities, Mulder." 

Both grinned at each other until Duchess nuzzled Mulder's hand 
with a seduction that almost rivaled her owner's, and Mulder gave 
in just as he had previously surrendered to Scully. As he 
scratched the contented cat's ears, Scully shook her head, 
amused. "You do realize that you're going to end up as her 
slave," she said, and Mulder flashed his eyes at her, luminescent 
pools of green and gold staring at her with intensity and sex. 

"Bought and sold, Scully," he murmured, and his velveteen voice 
was as smooth and enticing as a cat's purr. She turned her back 
on him and walked toward the stairs, the music drifting around 
her dreamily as she made her way toward her bedroom. She did not 
need to glance over her shoulder to know that he was following 
her; she felt the heat of his gaze on her back as she walked. 

White. Her entire bedroom was covered in white. White wicker 
dresser with matching rocking chair, embroidered vanilla pillows 
and bedspread, and soft, cream-colored linen curtains that 
floated and fluttered on the breath of the Atlantic breeze. The 
high ceiling and the mixture of modern and historic furniture 
lent the room a cool but cozy air, and Mulder's eyes gravitated 
toward the queen-sized bed with dark pine bedposts that was 
draped in thin sheets and an ivory comforter. His already heated 
skin increased in temperature upon the image of Scully, lying 
nude in that bed, looking at him with sleepy but clear eyes, 
smiling in invitation and arousal. 

The object of his desire was walking toward the large French 
doors, and she opened them to reveal a white circular balcony. It 
was the same balcony that he had admired earlier, shadowed by the 
looming oak tree and its fringe of Spanish moss. "The view's 
beautiful out here," Scully said over her shoulder. "Very 
tranquil." Her voice was smooth and contemplative, and he watched 
as she walked out onto the balcony, the linen curtains billowing 
behind her to mask her silhouette, making her seem like nothing 
more than a ghost. 

Mulder paused briefly before joining her, simply enjoying 
watching the outline of her body against the moonlit sky. The 
curve of Scully's slender, proud shoulder sheathed in ruby 
enticed him through the filmy curtains, and her sharp, angular 
profile was dignified and precise. Such a contradiction, softness 
and sharpness... 

Beth Orton's rich voice murmured words against a background of 
piano and bells. "She wears secrets in her hair..." It was a good 
description of her. 

Clear cerulean eyes sparked at him from outside. "You coming or 
not, Mulder?" she asked, and Mulder walked out there obediently. 
Slave for life... Thank God. 

Her appreciative eye consumed his tall, lean figure as he walked 
out onto the balcony to join her. The light cream of his dress 
shirt was a delicious contrast against his copper skin, and the 
mocha trousers hung off of his slender, trim hips in a fashion 
that made her skin warm. Everything about him was touched in 
careless grace; Mulder possessed a delectable beauty simply 
because he had no clue that he was so attractive. The slightly 
awkward nose, the self-deprecating smile, the intense, haunted 
hazel eyes... He was everything that appealed to her and 
everything that fascinated her. 

No matter what else he was, what else he could be, Scully knew 
that she wanted him tonight. 

One of his long, slender hands touched her exposed wrist, and his 
tapering fingers drew absent circles on her sleeve. "So this is 
the view," he murmured, and Scully had forgotten about the 
starlit sea and sky that lay before her. All of the mystery and 
beauty of the universe resided in the galaxy of Mulder's copper 
and mocha eyes. 

"Yes," she murmured, never taking her gaze off of him, "and it's 
beautiful." 

Hooded hazel eyes looked at her with a sleepy sexuality that 
personified the term "bedroom eyes". The same silky mouth that 
she had kissed only moments earlier curled in an alluring smile 
that was a mixture of invitation and seduction. She thought that 
he would choose to kiss her now, but her instincts were wrong. 
The hand that had doodled abstract designs on her wrist now 
traveled further north until it was sketching shapes in the crook 
of her elbow. "So now I've seen the whole house," he murmured, 
and Scully tilted her head, trying to maintain her composure and 
her control of the situation. 

"Most of it," she said. The languid hand continued its course up 
the length of her arm, lighting on her shoulder before finally 
abandoning the limb and landing on her collarbone. Instant 
arousal flooded her system, shooting through her veins like 
liquefied electricity, and the backs of his knuckles grazed her 
exposed throat. She resisted the urge to shudder under his airy 
touch; the lightness of his fingers on her flesh was killing her. 

Knuckles brushed over the thin material of her cranberry-colored 
blouse, just above the swell of her left breast, and Scully 
closed her eyes to everything but the sensation that his hand was 
creating. Lower and lower, those magic fingers went, tracing the 
outline of her breast while his other hand began to curl around 
her slender neck. Heat pulsed throughout her body and centralized 
between her thighs, creating a thick, warm rhythm as Mulder 
continued his assault on her senses. 

Rich tenor murmured low in her ear. "I wanna see the rest of it," 
Mulder breathed, and Scully's back arched when his fingers 
brushed over her taut, hard nipple. Desperately, her hand gripped 
his strong shoulder and arousal pulsed and throbbed between her 
legs and beneath his hand. 

"Later," she whispered, "we'll see the rest of it later..." Those 
well-sculpted fingers slowly circled the outline of her areola, 
smoothing one particular patch of skin that had always been 
hypersensitive when it came to sex. Scully was unable to resist a 
cry, her hips flying wildly as she lost control over her own 
senses. "Oh, Christ, Mulder..." 

With one final excruciatingly delicious pinch, Mulder pulled his 
hand away and smiled at her. The back of his hand stroked the 
side of her face, brushing away errant strands of striking 
vermilion hair that had come loose. "Come on," he murmured, his 
hand cupping her face. "Come on." 

Hesitation seized her briefly as she recovered from his touch, 
and she thought about what she was considering doing. She was 
actually contemplating taking his hand, pulling him into her 
bedroom, and ravishing him until the sun rose high and bright in 
the sky. Tangling her limbs in his, melding into his embrace, 
losing herself in him only to find herself all over again at the 
end... 

Nothing sounded sweeter. 

Neither mentioned the slight, almost unnoticeable tremor in her 
slender fingers as she wrapped her hand through his and led him 
to her bed. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER TWELVE 

***** 

THIS PARTED RATED NC-17 FOR SEXUAL CONTENT 

***** 

Like fingers, the curtains wove in and out of the bedroom, 
billowing on the currents of the heavy Atlantic wind. It swept 
across their silhouettes, melded together into one slender 
creation of skin and sex, masking identity but not passion. Linen 
and sinew, all combined and lit by the omnipotent August moon. 

As the curtains fell, his hand rose, tiptoeing up the column of 
her spine, beneath the tight sheath of her fire-colored blouse. 
Fire, Scully was composed of fire, even beneath the frigid 
demeanor that everyone else saw. Not him. No, he saw the heat and 
the intensity beneath the cold detachment. There was nothing numb 
about the woman who moaned throatily beneath his touch. Nothing 
frozen about the burning skin underneath his roving hands. 

Everything was on fire, the night, the curtains, and Mulder 
himself. 

Lips parted to accept a kiss and exert a moan, and he leaned into 
her body, drinking her in. Drinking in her taste, her essence, 
her spirit and her soul, like she was some perfectly fermented 
wine. No, beyond that. She was communion, holy and redemptive, 
searing away the hard layers of anguish and torture that had 
blistered and bruised him over the years. It was heaven to touch 
her, heaven to kiss her, heaven just to stand here in her bedroom 
instead of in a cold hotel room somewhere else. 

While Mulder ravished her with his mouth, Scully ravished him 
with her hands. Every muscle, every limb, every patch of skin 
that she had wanted to feel beneath her hands ever since first 
meeting him, was now available for her arousal and perusal. Her 
fingers slid underneath his suit jacket, pushing it away from his 
straight, broad shoulders, and her fingertips raced down his 
sides to the slim, tantalizing hips that she'd been eyeing all 
night. Her fingers fumbled when his lips discovered her earlobe, 
and her hips arched with pleasure when he suckled the fleshy 
droplet, hard and thoroughly. 

"Christ," she whispered, her head thrown back in momentary 
ecstasy that she never wanted to end. Over and over, his hands 
raced through her hair in a manner that was driving her mad. Such 
intensity wrapped in gentility, a touch that she wanted all over 
her body, located only in her hair. "Oh, *Christ*..." 

Pleasure was all that she registered now, standing here in her 
bedroom, painted in moonlight and draped in rapture. Everything 
had faded away except for she and Mulder. Their lives, their 
grievances, their sorrows and the years that had forged their 
souls. Everything was pushed to the backdrop for now, yet it 
lingered in such a way that made everything they were 
experiencing only more wonderful. But reality had not been 
abandoned completely; she still felt a niggling sensation that 
had to be logic, telling her that she was acting irrationally. 
That she was not supposed to be doing this. 

When Mulder's lips left her earlobe and began trailing down her 
throat, she rebutted reason's argument with the fact that she 
deserved every ounce of pleasure that she was receiving tonight. 
Let rationalism rest for a night, and let her heart take over. 
Just once. Just once. 

Mulder's delicious mouth paused at her collar, right where her 
white skin met the red fabric of her blouse. Smoldering hazel 
eyes seared into hers. "You know," he murmured, his voice husky 
and rich with arousal, "this is usually where the woman tells me 
to leave." 

Feverishly, her hands raked through his hair, fingers grasping 
the base of his skull as she searched for the right answer. This 
was her window. Her last chance to bail out. And she wasn't going 
to take it tonight. 

"I'm a very unusual woman," was all that she said, and Mulder 
couldn't have agreed more with her. 

Like a ruby-colored skin, the shirt peeled away from her body, 
revealing curves constructed of fine cream and steel. The 
millions of multicolored threads flickered and shimmered with 
indigo flame underneath the violet moonlight. As she discarded 
it, it fluttered to the ground in a pile of abandoned fire, 
rippling like wine. One slender sleeve curled around her small 
feet, and in the darkness, her skin was cooled with shades of 
dark plum. 

Instinctively, her shoulders straightened, and the long expanse 
of alabaster and amethyst skin rippled as she stepped out of the 
pressed black pants, until she stood before him wearing nothing 
but her bra and panties. A wave of desire struck him with 
unimaginable force at the simple sight of Dana Scully in her 
underwear, covered in darkness. The slender body, the delicate 
curves, the proud manner with which she stood... Like he'd seen 
it all before. The only thing that was missing from the scene 
unfolding in his mind was the delicious smell of rain mixed with 
candles... 

One small, perfectly shaped hand covered her belly briefly, and 
Mulder was snapped out of his mental fantasy back into the 
fantasy taking shape before him. Those perfect little fingers, 
the fingers that had wrapped through his hair earlier as they had 
joined in a kiss, were nearing the edge of her slate-colored silk 
panties, dancing so near to the source of her arousal, his port 
of call. They moved slowly over her bare skin in a tender caress, 
and his cock twitched with fever at the sight of Scully stroking 
her own sensitive skin. "Scully," he murmured, stepping toward 
her, placing his hand next to hers on her bare midriff. 

Together, the two hands began carving a path down her body, 
stroking the embers of the fire that burned below her skin. 
Across her belly button, touching the undersides of her breasts, 
feeling her back arch and curve as they both stroked and caressed 
the length of her body. When one of her hands slipped over the 
milky-colored inner thigh, a gasp rose from her throat, and 
Mulder's palm cupped her mound in reply. A shudder raced through 
her body, and she used her other hand to brace his shoulder. 
"God, Mulder," she whispered, and his erection strained against 
his trousers at the gasped sound of her voice. 

This was undoing her. The sensation of her hands and his on her 
hot, feverish skin, was killing her. His large, hot palm was 
pressed against her center, and the pressure of his hand against 
the source of her arousal was beginning to drive her slowly 
insane. And then his fingers began to stroke... A gasp flew from 
her throat as he started moving his fingers over the swollen 
folds of flesh between her legs, and she desperately searched for 
something to anchor her, just until he was on the edge too. She 
wasn't going to come without him. Wasn't going to do anything 
without him. 

While his fingers continued stroking her through the damp silk of 
her panties, Scully miraculously found words. "You..." she 
whispered, her voice ragged with desire, "you're not... you're 
not playing fair." 

A rich, sensuous chuckle purred in reply. "Oh, I'm not?" he 
asked, his fingers moving with increased fervor in response. 

Her head rolled back as she moaned, her fingers tightening around 
his head. "Jesus," she whispered, "you're not." Her hands then 
moved to his shoulders as she pushed him back, away from her, and 
even though her body cried now for the return of his touch, she 
knew that she could satisfy her needs with what she wanted next. 
She wanted his body, displayed before her in all its copper 
glory, available for the taking. 

The tremor in her fingers calmed as she reached for the silk knot 
of his necktie, and Scully carefully loosened it and slipped it 
over his head, ignoring the smirk on his face when she had to 
stand on tiptoes to do so. "I will not accept any disparaging 
remarks about my height," she said haughtily, and Mulder raised 
his hands in surrender. 

"I wouldn't dream of it," he said in mocking solemnity, and 
Scully rolled her eyes when his eyes danced in contradiction. She 
had more important business to attend to, like undressing him. 

Once the wildly colored necktie was discarded in a splash of 
vivid green and rich brown, Scully's hands targeted the cream- 
colored shirt he wore. All night long, she had been admiring the 
poetry of his sinuous body beneath the elegantly tailored suit, 
roaming over him with her eyes when she couldn't touch him with 
her hands. But now she had access to that particular brand of 
exploration, and she would utilize that opportunity with a smile 
on her face and a song in her heart. 

Off went the shirt, fluttering to the ground with the same motion 
as the linen curtains, and there he stood, half-naked before her. 
Hungry eyes scoured him up and down, drinking in his long torso, 
the strength in his arms, the light feathering of chest hair, and 
the two alert pink nipples. It was all there, all perfect, even 
the slight slope of his tummy that was endearing and appealing. 
Her fingers ached to touch him, but she wasn't finished yet. 
Equal opportunity, that was what Scully was all about here. 

The pants followed shortly while Mulder shucked off his shoes and 
socks, and Scully's heart skipped a beat at the noticeable bulge 
in his black boxer shorts. It was a sight that never failed to 
please her: the sight of what she could do to a man. She tore her 
gaze away from his cock and greedily took in the rest of him. 
Long legs, lanky and strong, large but slender feet, all adding 
to the slim figure that she had always thought he would be. 
Everything that she could ever want and more. 

So now they both stood here, partially undressed and fully 
aroused, bathed in moonlight and hungering for each other. 

One small but strong hand reached for his shoulder and lavished 
the joint with attention. The smooth skin was hot and hard 
beneath her touch, and she frowned briefly. Funny, how that patch 
of skin was almost too smooth, too perfect. What was even 
stranger was the fact that Scully was expecting a flaw. Waiting 
for the marred skin that just wasn't there. Silly. She was 
obviously going insane, and it didn't take much to figure out 
why. 

Slowly, her hand continued roving across his chest, much in the 
same fashion that their hands had earlier explored her body. She 
loved the moan that she elicited when her fingers passed over his 
taut pink nipple, and she lingered on the small bud just to hear 
that noise again. It was the sound of a man who wanted her. The 
sound of being wanted. 

Southward, southward, southward. This was the course that Scully 
chartered as she explored the length and leanness of Mulder's 
body. Then on his hip, she encountered that marred flesh that she 
had been expecting. The puckered roundness of a bullet hole rose 
from the brocaded gold of his skin, and Scully's fingertips 
traced the shape of it. 

"Bad case," Mulder murmured huskily in reply to her curious 
fingers. 

"Tell me," Scully demanded, and Mulder's eyes flashed painfully 
as the memory took over. Gentle hands touched her hair softly, 
and he shook his head. 

"It's not the right story for this occasion," Mulder murmured, 
and Scully's heart ached for him. So the past couldn't be 
banished from this bedroom. Yet perhaps it shouldn't be. Those 
miseries and disasters had shaped and molded them, made them the 
people that stood here today. Honesty and tragedy seemed to come 
hand in hand for them, and she would accept the scar tissue along 
with the skin before her. She wanted it all, the delight and the 
despair, all within her body and encased tightly within her 
heart. 

With a fragility that almost brought him to his knees, Scully's 
lips caressed the circular wound, the light fluttering of her 
eyelashes brushing his bare skin as she added a butterfly kiss to 
the attention she lavished on the scar. Her tongue traced the 
shape and size of the scar, adding whole new dimensions to the 
term "kiss it and make it all better". Everything was better, 
everything was brighter under her hands and her influence. She 
was the best medicine that he'd ever tasted. 

Then her tongue went lower and he stopped thinking. 

The cotton boxers fell down his hips as Scully pushed them off, 
and Mulder groaned as the warm humidity touched his exposed 
erection. The heat of her mouth was so devastatingly close, and 
his hips arched wildly as her fingers fluttered before the tip of 
his cock. A slow smile curled across her face as she looked up at 
his face, gauging his reaction. No words needed to be spoken 
here. It was obvious what she was going to do, and he wasn't in 
any position (ignore the pun, Mulder) to stop her. 

Scully was like liquid fire. Kiss-swollen lips curled over the 
girth of him, taking him in with excruciatingly slowness. The 
bare brush of her tongue was so light that he wondered if he was 
just imagining it, but then one distinct lick made him certain 
that it was there. His eyes were sewn tightly shut with desire 
and sensation, but he struggled to open them just to see her. 
Sure enough, there she was, a blur of bright red shot through and 
through with indigo, like an vermilion starburst between his 
legs. She was explosive as she trailed his cock with her tongue, 
swirling and twirling like a frenzied dancer, and then one long, 
delicious slide... His hips arched and a loud cry escaped his 
lips. She was ecstasy embodied. 

"Scully," he whispered, "Scully Scully." No other words. Coherent 
thought fled his mind as blood rushed through his erection. Deft 
doctor's fingers cradled his balls briefly, and Mulder couldn't 
take it anymore. He was on the edge, his toes curling in a 
desperate attempt to keep himself grounded. "Scully, not yet, not 
yet..." 

With grueling slowness, she released him and stood, smiling at 
him with a slow, sultry smile that made his knees even weaker. It 
killed him to make her stop, but he wasn't going anywhere without 
her. Not now, not ever again. "What's wrong, Mulder?" she 
murmured, her voice dripping with heat and secrecy. "Am I not 
playing fair?" 

He groaned. She knew that she wasn't. 

Mulder congratulated his hands when they didn't fumble on the 
clasp of her bra, knowing the effort that it had taken for his 
fingers to undo the snap on the delicate fabric. But his efforts 
were successful, and his fingers lightly pushed the bra off of 
her shoulders and down to the floor. The storm-colored silk 
joined the fiery blouse, and all that was left was her ravishing 
skin. Her breasts were perfect, absolutely flawless, full with 
high, coral-colored nipples. She looked up at him with an arched 
eyebrow, not shy in the least, knowing that he would be pleased 
with the results. 

And God knew that he was. 

Tapering bronze fingers covered the round rises of her breasts, 
and Scully closed her eyes, momentarily suspended in bliss. The 
callused palms provided a sandpapery texture that was ecstasy and 
happiness all wrapped up in the weight of his hands. She hummed 
to herself beneath her breath and arched her back, filling his 
palms with her breasts in a plea for him to continue. Lazily, her 
arms draped over his neck in a loose embrace, linking him to her 
and ensuring that he wouldn't leave. Like there was any force on 
earth that would ever pull him from this. 

As his thumbs began sketching shapes on the sensitive circles of 
her areolas, Scully's mouth wandered for his, seeking out a kiss 
amidst paradise. The plush lower lip that she was falling in love 
with brushed her mouth like hot silk, and she gasped onto his 
lips when his fingers pinched her nipples ever so slightly. 
"Mulder," she breathed, and then he chuckled deeply onto her 
lips. 

"You're amazing, Scully," he murmured, his fingers idly toying 
with the hard peaks of her nipples. "Really amazing. I've never 
seen anything like you before." Rotating fingers, warm hands... 
How was she supposed to reciprocate his words under such 
conditions? 

Easily. With a kiss. 

Scully was almost disappointed when his mouth tore itself away 
from hers, but not for long. That glorious mouth descended on her 
right breast and every single cell in her body sang in ecstasy. 
The velvety lower lip brushed her nipple while his hand squeezed 
her other breast, and Scully moaned, her hands clinging to the 
nape of his neck while arousal throbbed and ached between her 
legs. As Mulder lowered himself to continue lavishing attention 
on her breasts, Scully felt the hot, hard silk of his erection 
brush her leg, and her body ached to encase it in the moisture 
that she felt on her inner thigh. 

As Mulder's teeth gently, barely nipped at the aroused nubbin of 
skin, Scully moaned out his name. "Mulder!" she cried, and he 
smiled against her skin. "Christ..." Then his fingers disappeared 
from her other breast and trailed down her belly, toward the last 
barrier between his flesh and hers. The blue-gray panties slid 
down her legs, and she felt her hips rotate and plea while her 
clitoris pulsed. She wanted everything, wanted all the sensation 
and all the pleasure in the world, and his hand was willing to 
provide it. 

Long fingers slid between her thighs, gently caressing the slick 
inner lips that cried for his touch. The swollen flesh was 
ignited by his tender touch, and when Mulder's fingertip dipped 
slightly inside of her, Scully clenched around him and moaned 
deeply. "Mulder," she whispered, "Mulder, the bed..." 

Nothing more. No more barriers, no more tests, nothing more but 
the promise of the final joining. The meeting of flesh against 
flesh, the inevitability of their union. 

The two fell onto the bed in a tumble of gold and rose, splashing 
color on the pristine vanilla sheets. Greedy hands traveled over 
her body, stroking her breasts and stomach before covering the 
bright patch of light auburn between her legs. Mulder felt it 
instinctively as he drank in the petite perfection of Dana 
Scully: he was falling in love with her. Her stubbornness 
sheathed in sensuality, her intelligence and integrity... She was 
everything he always wanted but never thought he deserved. 

Her cream-colored thighs slowly slid apart, a tremor of 
excitement running through her body like a current of dark 
electricity. Starlight caressed his body in synchrony with her 
hands, running over that magnificent gold back possessively. 
"Now, Mulder," she murmured, feeling blood and want pulse and 
throb through her body. "Now." 

Nothing more was said as he slid into her, and a mutual cry shot 
through the room as he buried himself inside of her. Hot, warm 
moisture surrounded him, both from Scully and from the humid wind 
of the South. The entire world seemed to be encasing him safely 
within its arms, embracing him and sheltering him for just these 
few moments. His erection throbbed; everything was starting to 
slip from him as he pulled out and entered again, feeling her 
squeeze and contract around him. The rhythm of their coupling was 
beginning to pulse inside of him like some kind of carnal 
percussion, quickening and increasing while his fingers played 
her clitoris like she was the finest instrument of all. 

Moans and cries provided them with the only soundtrack necessary, 
and Scully's legs wrapped tightly around his, tangling herself 
inside of his limbs as her entire body tightened and braced 
itself for the finale. Violet and adagio flushed her skin with 
the stars that had lined the Atlantic, and every blood vessel 
inside of her was expanding and warming as Mulder thrust inside 
of her. Her head thrown back in rapture, Scully cried out his 
name as the galaxy drew itself inside of her body and then 
shattered beneath her skin, and she felt him explode inside of 
her with the passion and intensity of a supernova. 

And as he climaxed inside of her, Mulder knew that he was 
hopelessly, delightfully in love with her. 

Bodies and thoughts slowed under the lulling Southern breeze, and 
the sweet voice of Beth Orton continued singing around them. "The 
sweetest decline... The sweetest decline..." 

The rustling of the willow tree's limbs combined with the 
constant motion of the linen curtains, and it provided a pleasant 
backdrop for the sounds of sighs as Mulder and Scully parted 
briefly only to spoon together in the bed again. An errant curl 
of red gently caressed Scully's brow, pushed by the light breeze, 
and Mulder stroked it lovingly. Quiet wrapped the two lovers in 
its embrace, lovely and sweet, and Mulder gently wrapped his arms 
around her midriff, holding her tightly to him while she pulled 
the sheets over him. "You aren't planning on leaving," she said. 
There was no question in her voice; she simply knew that he 
wouldn't go anywhere. 

"Not for the world," Mulder murmured into her ear, and he was 
rewarded when she picked up his hand and stroked her cheek with 
it. "There's no other place I'd rather be." 

A smile spread over her face, and Scully took him for what he was 
and fell asleep. 

All the while, the billowing linen curtains danced and swayed on 
the delicious ocean wind. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

***** 

One of them wasn't going to leave this room alive. 

Tension radiated through the small chamber, tangible and thick 
like despair ignited by electricity. It had a smell, like pure 
oxygen and gunpowder. He could taste it on his lips, taste the 
bitter flavor of betrayal and perspiration. The tension even had 
a texture to it; he felt it slide in his hands like heated metal. 

No, wait. That wasn't the tension. 

That was the gun. 

The weapon was heavy and hard in his hand as he picked it up from 
the table, and all that he could see was the vicious blue-gray 
eyes of his opponent and his controller. Those eyes, encouraging 
him to pick up the gun, telling him that he needed to hold it in 
his hands. His mind screamed for him to stop, ordered him to 
leave the weapon abandoned and thus harmless on the tabletop, but 
for some horrible reason his body thought differently. He watched 
in agony as his hand picked up the gun from the table, dull 
fingers sliding through the trigger and holding it to his 
opponent. 

Click. Empty. 

The chamber was empty; no bullet fired past the barrel and 
shattered the opponent's face. Intense disappointment and fear 
rattled his system, and sweat rolled down from his temples at the 
myriad of possibilities that his brain registered. Because he 
could smell *her* in the room, citrus and anguish colliding under 
his nose. Oh, no. She was here. She would watch as his body 
deceived him and buckled under the other man's control. 

As his hand aimed the gun for his own temple, he heard her cries 
and her pleas as his finger tightened on the trigger. Somewhere, 
from beyond the haze and mist of the other man's control, his own 
thoughts surfaced. 

//Can't fight it, can't fight it. I'm sorry. Sorry, so very 
sorry. But I can end it now with me. I can end it now with me 
before it's your turn. It can all be stopped with one pull...// 

While his face contorted with the pain of feeling her desolation, 
he pulled the trigger and tried to kill himself. 

Screams and cries echoed throughout the room as he pulled the 
trigger over and over again, praying that the bullet would come 
up on this round, trying to fight the other man's control so that 
he could get as many pulls as possible. But the iron fist 
clenched; he was forced to stop. Suddenly, a sneer propelled his 
hand, and there she was, struck in the crosshairs. 

The red hair and the pale angles of her face were blurred by his 
tears and his sweat, but her eyes were clear and heartbreaking as 
she looked at him in sorrowful shock. All of a sudden, the game 
made sense. He was never supposed to die in this room. The true 
victim was supposed to be her. She was the one. 

She would never walk out of this room alive. 

And his finger tightened on the trigger and... 

***** 

Residence of Dana Scully 
Charleston, South Carolina 
4:03 AM, August 16, 1999 

***** 

With a gasp, she woke. Her eyes were wide with leftover fright 
from her terrible nightmare. Sweat, mixed from her nightmare and 
from her bout of passionate sex, beaded over her body in a head- 
to-toe veil of perspiration. Scully was hot, terribly hot, and 
the moist air outside did nothing to aid her situation. 

Neither did the possessive male hand that lovingly clutched her 
left breast. 

Carelessly, Scully tossed Mulder's hand aside and swung her legs 
out of the bed, her bare feet hitting the light wooden floor as 
she moved for the phone. The thin linen robe fluttered like a 
banner as Scully draped it over her bare shoulders, belting it so 
that her nude body was a peach-colored silhouette underneath the 
cream-colored and gauzy fabric. Still breathing heavily, she 
picked up the cordless phone and dialed the number of the woman 
she so desperately needed to talk to. 

Melissa Scully answered on the first ring. "Hello?" 

A deep, relieved sigh shuddered through Scully. "Missy," she 
breathed, tired tranquility whispering throughout her beloved 
sister's name. "It's me." 

Melissa sounded confused and uncertain through the other end of 
the line. "Dana?" the redheaded Scully sister asked. "Jesus, it 
must be late out there..." Her voice turned worried and afraid. 
"Oh, God, Dana, did something happen? Are you all right?" 

Scully furrowed her brow and clutched the phone tighter in her 
hand, running another hand through her hair as she walked out 
onto the balcony. "No, no," she said, "I'm fine. But I, ah..." 
She laughed a little, a strange, choked sort of laughter that was 
humorless and soft. "I actually called to make sure that *you* 
were all right." She laughed that strange little laugh again. 
"Silly, huh?" 

It was probably the wrong thing to say to spiritual, intuitive 
Melissa, who believed in anything that couldn't be proven to be 
wrong. "Never silly," Melissa murmured in that husky, often 
dreamy version of Dana's own alto voice. "You know that." 

Scratching the back of her neck, Scully adjusted the phone on her 
shoulder, feeling embarrassed for picking up the phone and waking 
up her sister. "Yeah," she muttered, toying with the longer wisps 
of red that curled along the nape of her neck. "I'm sorry to wake 
you up, Missy. I'll let you go back to sleep." 

The sound of sheets rustling and bones creaking transferred well 
across the line that stretched between California and Carolina. 
"Are you sure you're all right, Dana?" Melissa asked. "You sound 
sort of..." Her throat cleared. "Strange." 

A short chuckle broke through Scully's throat like a strangle. 
"It's been a strange sort of night," she said, wiping the beaded 
sweat from her face as she quieted her voice. Strange wasn't even 
the word, but it would suffice. "I'll call you tomorrow, 
Melissa." 

Still sounding concerned, Melissa bid goodnight to her sister and 
hung up the phone, leaving Scully alone on the balcony, staring 
at the telephone with a mixture of lingering sadness and fear. 
The dream was still fresh in her mind, the vivid colors and 
imagery of the nightmare not quite yellowing yet. No, Melissa's 
blood was still as dark and red as her hair as it pooled around 
her head, staining the carpet of the apartment as she curled in 
fetal position, an expression of utter stillness on her face. The 
metal gun was still next to the pile of blood and hair as two 
men's shadows crossed over her body, abandoning the woman that 
they had murdered. 

A shudder ran through her body, and Scully crossed her arms over 
her chest, feeling a chill race through her even though she had 
been burning up with heat only a moment before. Then everything 
stilled and calmed, and comprehension dawned on her as the sky 
lightened from navy to cerulean. Understanding. Realization. 

That body should have been hers. She was the one that was 
supposed to be lying on her apartment floor, pooled in her own 
blood. The bullet had been meant for her, not for Missy, all 
because of Mulder and his damned digital tape, that was why 
Krycek... 

Eyes fluttering, Scully stilled herself on the balcony, her hands 
clutching the railing as her linen robe fluttered in the 
increasing wind. The notion passed as the ideas drained from her 
brain, settling into the back of her mind as her logic 
resurfaced. //What are you thinking about, Scully?// she scolded. 
//You've known Mulder for a grand total of two days, never mind 
anyone named Krycek. And the only digital tapes that you own are 
electronic medical journals. You're going insane and the man in 
your bed's not helping matters.// 

Thunder rumbled across the Atlantic in a rumble of dark bass. It 
was a dark, ominous sound, and Scully stared out darkly across 
the ocean, lit only by the light of the bilious moon. Ivory and 
indigo mingled and mixed across the ocean's surface, and Scully 
watched it with narrowed eyes, still haunted by the images of 
Melissa's death and even more haunted by the eerie feeling that 
there was more yet to come. 

She remained this way until dawn. 

***** 

Residence of Dana Scully 
Charleston, South Carolina 
8:02 AM, August 16, 1999 

***** 

She was watching him experience a nightmare. 

His beautiful face was contorted with pain; anguish twisted his 
sensuous mouth into a thin line of pale pink. Eyelashes fluttered 
against his cheeks with a sort of distorted rapture, and his 
hands gripped his pillow for dear life as the nightmare seized 
him. It was a glorious sort of fear, the kind that could break 
hearts as well as enslave them, and all that she could do was 
touch his hair and wonder what he was dreaming about. 

A frown settled on her face when Mulder finally rolled over on 
his side and thus away from her gaze, and Scully took her hand 
away from his hair. It wasn't her place to wake him from his 
sleep, not when it was so obviously needed. Whether or not he was 
ravaged by nightmares, it was still sleep. 

An angry rumble of thunder growled from outside, and Scully 
closed her eyes with mild weariness. The gray skies were heavy 
with inevitable rain and thick with impending moisture. Lightning 
was flickering with absent inconsistency, but the flashes of 
bright light were becoming more and more frequent as the storm 
began building over the sea. Scully had left the French doors 
open in spite of the deteriorating weather, only because there 
was a delicious coolness in the Atlantic breeze that caressed her 
bare skin and ruffled Mulder's spiky hair. 

Another twitch from her sleeping lover; Scully was beginning to 
worry about him. His nightmares were intensifying, just like the 
distant storm out in the Atlantic. Yes, Hurricane Becky was 
growing, feeding off the warm waters of the Caribbean and working 
its way toward the islands with breakneck speed, as far as 
hurricanes went. Winds were growing, the storm surge possibility 
was becoming more and more dangerous, and nobody seemed to know 
where the Category 2 storm was heading. Torrential rains, 
devastating winds, and a plummeting barometrical pressure... 
The storm was becoming more than a storm. It was becoming a 
monster. A curious mixture of science and instinct told her this 
as the hurricane moved into the hot waters surrounding Puerto 
Rico. 

And there was another threat out there as well. 

Sighing, Scully stood up, stretching out her sore limbs and 
briefly enjoying her nudity. Clothing was a bother, particularly 
when the skies were so dreary and her bed was filled with Mulder. 
Sleep was as enticing a possibility as he was, but responsibility 
had taken over her senses again, destroying last night's 
indulgence and frivolity. Yet she couldn't discount her encounter 
with Mulder as nothing more than a fling. A connection had 
occurred, something electric and magnetic, and it was a force 
that Scully couldn't recognize or deny. Nor did she want to. It 
didn't really matter that she couldn't identify or explain the 
feelings that she was developing about Mulder, because they were 
there and therefore they were valid. She wouldn't throw him out 
of her bed or count this as an exceptional one-night stand. 

Her bare feet carefully tiptoed around the bed as she picked up 
Mulder's discarded clothes from last night. When she picked up 
his charcoal trousers, a small square of leather fell from one 
pocket. Scully picked it up, opened it, and sighed. His badge. 
She couldn't forget that though. He was an agent of the FBI and 
she was just the coroner, and nothing could really change that 
aspect of their relationship. Their union was tainted by the dark 
shadow of a serial killer, and they hadn't met because of some 
delicious twist of fate. They had met due to the horrific nature 
of their work. Both were placed here to dissect the killer - she 
through science, he through a darker ritual. The ritual of 
profiling. 

A brief pant exhaled through his lips, the whisper of what could 
be a moan, and Scully turned her face to him once again. The 
broad, rich expanse of his back was exposed to her as he slid off 
the protective cotton sheets, and his muscles rippled sinuously 
through the thick shielding of copper skin. A shiver ran through 
her at the memory of her hands, running up and down his back as 
she had climaxed around him, at how absolutely wonderful his skin 
was. Gold and brocaded, thick like heated velvet, the very thing 
that she would want to wake up to during the miserably wet 
winters of Charleston... 

But Mulder wouldn't be here in winter. 

Perhaps he would be in Minnesota, profiling a child molester, 
becoming a monster that would stalk through the snow with a wool 
overcoat flapping in the harsh wind like ashen angel wings. It 
didn't really matter, because the fact was that Mulder would be 
miles away from a Scully that sat alone in the confines of her 
lonely and beautiful house, watching slate-colored waves crash 
on the Battery. Distance and time, miles and months, would 
spread between them, until all that they had of each other was 
the memento of a constantly yellowing week of sheer ecstasy. 

So she just wouldn't let the inevitability of his departure 
overshadow the week that they could have. 

Even though she had just received the phone call to jolt them 
back to reality. 

A bolt of colorless lightning flickered through the clouds, never 
touching the earth as it shimmered through the dark skies. The 
constant rush of water against the Battery was growing louder 
under the pressure of the waves and the wind. The glittering 
shoots of electricity illuminated her body as she dressed, 
sliding limber limbs through thin silk and severe navy slacks. 
Thunder overshadowed the silvery melodies of her wind chimes, and 
from a distance, Duchess observed the scene with the bemused 
detachment that all felines seemed to possess, licking her paws 
and smirking. 

Finally, Scully knelt by the bed and tilted her head, resting her 
chin on the mattress. Her fingers absently brushed at the sweep 
of spikes falling into his face, and she traced the worry lines 
creasing his coppery brow. How distressed he seemed, snared in 
the clutches of a nightmare that she couldn't understand. Perhaps 
he was dreaming of Samantha, struggling for memories that he 
couldn't grasp completely. Maybe he was caught in a past case, 
trapped in the persona of a serial killer or a rapist. 

Scully didn't know that he was dreaming about pointing a gun at 
her, his finger tightening while he desperately and shamefully 
pleaded with her to flee. She didn't know that this other Scully 
had cried at his plight, that she had saved his life by running 
from the room and hitting an alarm to break the trance that he 
was caught up. And she never knew that after Mulder had killed 
Robert Patrick Modell, she had taken the gun from him in silence 
and watched him hold his head and fight back tears. 

She did not know these things at all. 

As her small white hand passed over his long-lashed eyes, he 
woke, shielded by a fan of feminine fingers. A dark peal of 
thunder rumbled underneath the distinct sound of wind chimes, and 
the constant rush of the Atlantic purred constantly beneath it 
all. Yet it was the sound of Scully's rhythmic breathing that he 
focused on as he woke up, memory still fresh in his head as he 
looked at her. 

"You need to wake up," Scully murmured, and Mulder abandoned the 
momentary fright of the dream to look warily into her eyes. They 
were empty eyes, devoid of any of the sapphire heat that had been 
behind them the night before. These were two orbs constructed of 
clear, lucid ice, eyes that he couldn't penetrate and eyes that 
he couldn't read. For a moment, he felt the distinct fear that 
she was going to tell him that their encounter was a mistake, and 
that he had to leave. 

"Why?" Mulder asked, his brow furrowed in concern, but Scully 
smiled at this. Like she knew what he was afraid of and she was 
going to dispel his worries. 

"Because you have to get dressed, return to your hotel, and join 
up with Patterson and Brentwood," Scully said simply. "They've 
found another body." 

A flinch ran through his body, crawling beneath his skin with a 
mixture of heartache and revulsion. He closed his eyes, savoring 
the moment spent beneath Scully's sheets and Scully's hand, which 
cupped his cheek with a fondness that told him that he'd been 
silly for thinking that she was going to kick him out. No, it was 
just reality invading their momentary oasis, rolling onto shore 
with the menacing darkness of an approaching storm. 

With a groan, Mulder rolled out of bed and stood up, looking down 
at Scully and wondering if she would comment on his nudity 
compared to her full state of dress. She did, not verbally, but 
with a spark of dark blue beneath the frosty color of her eyes. 
That satisfied him. He groaned again though when he picked up his 
trousers and noticed the weight of his cell phone. "Christ, 
Patterson's gonna kill me for running off," Mulder muttered, and 
Scully snorted, standing up and brushing off her trousers. 

"It's your own fault," she said archly. "You were the one who was 
so damn insistent on spending the night here." 

A wolfish grin crossed his face as he stepped into his previously 
discarded pair of boxers. "I don't recall this voice of reason 
from last night," Mulder said, and Scully just arched her eyebrow 
enigmatically and left the room, letting him get dressed in 
privacy. 

As he knotted the multicolored tie, a stray bolt of lightning 
flashed across the sky and shot hot white light over the room. 
The roar of thunder that followed was enough to make Scully's 
calico cat yowl and run inside, the furry little body a streak of 
orange and black as she ran for cover. All the while, the wind 
rustled through the silver chimes, and they tinkled and twisted 
with quick ripples of metal. 

Narrowing his eyes, Mulder stepped out onto the balcony, 
shrugging into his suit jacket as he walked. The tranquil, smooth 
Atlantic was now churned into a murky mess of dark water colored 
jade and cobalt, and angry waves crashed ashore while a heavy 
wind blew. It was heavy with humidity, cool at first but steadily 
warming as the storm rolled closer. The clouds were heavy as 
well, thick with rain and moisture. 

A cool lick of wind caressed his face like fingers, and Mulder 
shivered underneath them as gooseflesh broke out on his skin. His 
dream was still fresh in his memory, that nightmare of holding 
the metallic gun in his hand, turning it on Scully and begging 
her to run, the guilt and the shame of his involuntary betrayal 
flooding through his heart with a realism that none of his other 
dreams had. Oh, his dreams had caused him guilt before. Guilt 
about Samantha's disappearance, guilt about his previous 
failures... 

But that was all afterward. 

And yet this wasn't even the dream that was really bothering him. 
Certainly it had been terrible and puzzling, but it was another 
nightmare that dominated his mind. The nightmare of being 
strapped to the chair, wrists bound and feet bound, as the mask 
slipped over his eyes and the lights started flashing. And then 
the drill, with its metallic whir, approaching and then piercing 
his skull as the floodgate of memory opened and drowned him. 

That was the one that interested him. 

Not so much because of the drill or the restraints, he had 
expected that in his dream, but because of the thoughts that ran 
through his head before the drill. When he had stood and the 
doctor (he knew that instinctively; it had to be a doctor doing 
this to him) injected him with the needle, right on the fleshy 
part of his hip, he'd thought about remembering. He had to 
remember. He *had* to remember. No one understood, not Scully, 
even when his memories could save her life, not the police, and 
especially not his cheating, lying mother. But he had to know. 
The regression hypnosis had worked, but it hadn't told him 
*enough*, the- 

But that was all that Mulder needed to know. 

Regression hypnosis. 

With a loud, rippling crackle, lightning rippled through the 
clouds in deadly flashes of bright indigo and gold, breaking the 
sky and shattering it to a thousand pieces. Palmetto trees swayed 
and moaned as the storm approached, and a hand clasped over 
Mulder's shoulder, fingers tightening over the muscle. "Do you 
want to know the details?" a silky alto voice asked, and Mulder 
almost laughed at the irony of her words. Yes, he wanted to know 
the details. The details of Samantha's disappearance. What had 
happened to his little sister all those years ago? 

"Yeah," Mulder said hoarsely. "I want to know." 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

***** 

***** 

Magnolia Plantation Swamp Gardens 
Charleston, South Carolina 
11:20 AM, August 16, 1999 

***** 

Broken petals of lilies and azalea drifted idly along the 
flawless green waters of the swamps, and Spanish moss drooped 
over the vivid emerald creeks and ravines. Lazy raindrops began 
to fall, disturbing the thick green surface of the swamp and 
sending networks of ripples along the face of the water. Thunder 
growled like a tiger, the storm making its way through the city 
along with its fingers of rain. 

The low purr of the motorboat glided through the swamp slowly, 
almost with dreary and dismal speed. The six men aboard the small 
watercraft were all draped in identical trench coats, all with 
expressionless faces and blank mouths, slick with rainwater and 
shadowed by the heavy clouds. 

Bill Patterson was displeased. The case was disintegrating before 
his very eyes, falling into a mire as thick as the swamp he was 
in now. A plantation worker had discovered yet another body, 
skinned, burned and then discarded in the Magnolia Plantations 
Swamp Garden like a piece of driftwood. And they still had no 
idea just who the killer was. 

And Fox Mulder wasn't helping one bit. 

It wasn't that Patterson greatly disliked Mulder. It was that 
Mulder had to be disliked for his own good. Misery was the secret 
to profiling. It was the key to unlock that darker, more sinister 
world of violent thought and tormented behavior. One had to be 
beaten into becoming a good profiler, tortured in the same way 
that the criminals were tortured. Profilers were built to suffer, 
and Mulder was most definitely a member of that peculiar class of 
people. 

Yet Mulder wasn't suffering. The usual portrait of quiet anguish 
that Mulder's strange face painted was now tinted with a... 
Lighter hue. Patterson wouldn't say that Mulder was glowing. Guys 
like Mulder just didn't glow. But it was like the load he was 
carrying was somewhat lighter today, and that wasn't helping 
things. 

It was the seventh victim. A young woman had been discovered in 
the swamp garden, tangled in the roots of an oak tree, skinned 
like all the other victims had been. 

A whispering of leaves and boughs rustled above him as the small 
watercraft growled through the waters beneath a submerged willow 
tree. The green of the swamp was surprisingly bright against the 
dark sky, contrasting sharply with the blackening clouds. The 
boat rocked gently as the engine idled near shore. Patterson took 
a final glance at Mulder from over his shoulder; Mulder seemed 
unaffected and undaunted by the scene unfolding. The cops milling 
about, the body stretched out on the blue tarp... Nothing. 

Police Chief Greenberg stood on the banks of the swamps, hands on 
his hips and a dark expression on his stern face. Murky swamp 
water covered his thigh-high leather boots up to the knee, and 
the man's flannel shirt was stained with splashes of dark, fresh 
mud. "You're late," Greenberg said flatly, and Patterson glared 
at Mulder. 

"We had a delay," Patterson said. "What's going on?" 

Sighing, Greenberg stepped out of the shallow waters surrounding 
the banks and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "The body 
was discovered at around eight this morning by a groundskeeper by 
the name of Steven Hartford, aged 43, who's worked here at the 
plantation for about thirty years. We're questioning him, but we 
don't suspect him for anything. No record other than a parking 
ticket, which basically means, well, no record. The guy's clean." 

Mulder spoke up from the back. "Have you checked the grounds for 
any possible crime scenes?" he asked. "Anywhere small, enclosed, 
intimate is a possibility. The killer doesn't just want to trap 
his victims; he wants his victims to be focused on him and him 
alone. They want a place with no distractions." 

Greenberg nodded at the younger agent. "I'll have my men start 
scouring the area. We'll bring out the dogs in hopes of 
discovering any trace evidence." 

Mulder shook his head, looking around the secluded grove. "You 
probably won't find any. The killer's meticulous. But there was 
that errant fingertip last time, so you can't be too careful, 
right?" 

Patterson nodded in reply. 

"I'll have them look for stable houses, woodsheds, anything that 
might fit that description," Greenberg said. "Anything else?" 

The profiler hooked his thumbs in the loops of his trench coat in 
that constant fidgeting that Patterson found so damn irritating. 
"Yeah," Mulder said, "when the body was discovered, did it seem 
like it was decorated?" 

Both Patterson and Greenberg turned around to look at Mulder with 
puzzled expressions. Patterson didn't understand the question and 
Greenberg didn't understand how Mulder already knew the answer. 
Narrowing his eyes, the police chief examined the profiler 
closer, sizing up the quiet, slender man with new appreciation. 
"Yes," Patterson slowly said. "There was about two feet of 
Carolina jasmine wound around the victim's wrists." 

"Bound," Mulder said. "And it's not an act of aggression. It's an 
act of love. He loves all of his victims, but this one was 
special." And with that, Mulder turned and walked away, leaving 
Patterson irritated by the young man's careless precision and 
Greenberg quietly impressed. 

Shaking his head, Patterson turned to Brentwood. "Get the 
groundskeeper's statement," he said, his voice low and quiet. 
"And speak to the owner of the plantation to get permission for 
us to block off the grounds until further notice. Paperwork, 
orders, you know the drill." 

The dull gray eyes of the older agent blinked complacently, and 
Patterson approved. Patterson turned around to look at the police 
chief again, and the police chief's eyes were serious and dark. 
"Tell me the truth, Agent Patterson," Greenberg said. "Have you 
made any progress whatsoever in solving this case?" 

It was the question that Patterson had been laboring over. The 
question of the team's effectiveness ever since landing in the 
hallowed city of Charleston. A stray bolt of lightning dashed 
across the sky with a condemning roar of thunder chasing after 
it, and Patterson ignored the shudder that rumbled up his spine. 
Honestly, he wasn't so sure about the answer, but he would lie 
anyway. Good politics. Good media. These were the keys of running 
the section. 

And the truth be damned. 

Tightly, Patterson smiled. "Of course we are," he said smoothly, 
as though the lie was the truth. And perhaps he could believe the 
lie and therefore make it into manufactured truth. In any case, 
he had work to do and couldn't linger on anything else but the 
task at hand. "I need to speak with the coroner." 

Frowning, Greenberg looked over his shoulder toward a large, 
billowing willow tree with boughs that whispered and wavered in 
the increasing wind. "I thought that Agent Mulder was taking care 
of that task," the chief said, and Patterson frowned. 

"What do you mean?" he asked, suspicion placing a hard edge on 
his voice. 

Greenberg gestured at the tree. "I just saw your man talking to 
Dr. Scully a minute ago." 

A flash of memory turned through Patterson's head as the face of 
Dana Scully came to mind. The delicate oval structure and the 
skeptical but sensual mouth. The coifed bob of bright copper-red 
hair that contrasted sharply with her fine skin. The way that 
Mulder had instinctively known that she was a woman before even 
meeting her, and then the way that he had looked at her when he 
thought that nobody else was looking. 

But Mulder had been sorely mistaken. Patterson was always 
watching. Watching for the slightest error. The inevitable chink 
in the armor. The fatal mistake. 

And that mistake was Dana Scully. 

***** 

Beyond the gentle sweeps of the willow tree's branches, deeper 
into the quietude of the swamps and the richness of its jewel- 
toned waters, there was a small cluster of sprawling oaks draped 
with shadowy Spanish moss and bright vines of yellow jasmine. The 
salty smell of the swamp water mingled pleasantly with the 
sweetness of the sunlit and delicate flowers. Everything seemed 
distant, detached from the world that was only minutes away. The 
sound of police sirens and grave conversation did not exist here, 
where the rustling of leaves and the two voices were the only 
audible sounds, punctuated by the occasional clap of thunder. 

Absent fingers toyed with the fabric of his cuff as he listened, 
his eyes never leaving hers. The murmuring monotone of her voice 
as she rattled off science and skepticism was comforting in its 
passionate stubbornness, shooting down his idea with the grace of 
a practiced hunter. "You're certifiable," Scully said, arching 
one ginger-colored eyebrow to punctuate her words. "The 
thunderstorm that we're having now is in no way related to this 
woman's murder." 

Hazel eyes sparked at her with intrigue. The stakes were higher 
now. Personal. "I was up last night at three o'clock in the 
morning when this particular thunderstorm was rolling in off of 
the Atlantic," Mulder said. "And you say that the time of death 
is somewhere around that time, correct?" 

The frosty orbs narrowed slightly as she considered the idea. He 
didn't mind that she dismissed it; at least she had considered it 
in the first place. She had given his thoughts the respect that 
they were due, and Mulder loved that about her. "The estimated 
time of death is currently positioned at around two to three 
o'clock in the morning, thanks to the groundskeeper's statement 
and the evidence at hand," Scully carefully stated. "However, 
keep in mind that this information is pre-autopsy and could 
change when I make my formal conclusions." 

A nod of his head conceded her point, and a brief flicker of 
bright blue lightning shot through the sky. Seemingly startled by 
the disruption of the stillness, Scully turned her head to glance 
at the continuously darkening skies beyond the grove of oaks. He 
took in the straight, sharp lines of her profile, outlined 
clearly in the dark contrast between her white skin and the dark 
skies. The smooth cap of auburn hair curved perfectly around to 
hug her jaw, and she looked back around at him with a curious 
look. "I didn't see you awake last night," Scully commented, and 
Mulder shrugged. 

"Bad dream." 

Neither elaborated on the statement. No elaboration was really 
necessary. Scully recalled her own bad dreams from the night 
before, the ones about her sister's death and other various 
visions, and Mulder's dreams about recalling his sister's 
abduction were still running through his mind with immeasurable 
force. Silently, Mulder eased himself onto a downed tree, his 
hand bracing the tree trunk and wrapping over the flaking bark. 
Nightmares aside though, the night had been beautiful. She had 
been exquisite, the medicine that he had so badly needed. Not a 
cure, but a medicine nonetheless. Nothing could ever erase the 
pain, but she could certainly push it aside. 

Waking up from the nightmares had been a lot better, for example. 
Instead of pacing the floors or watching bad television, Mulder 
had indulged himself in the luxury of Scully's hair. While the 
adrenaline slowly drained itself from his system and the dream's 
bad memories passed, Mulder had simply laid there, cradling the 
lithe redhead in his arms, stroking her hair until his hand 
stilled and the night took him again. And what a pleasant 
awakening he'd had this morning, with the first sight being 
caring eyes rather than the stern glare of Bill Patterson. 

It didn't take away from the fact that he knew that Patterson was 
pissed. That much had been inevitable since before he had 
followed Scully across the threshold of her house. Patterson 
would be indefinitely incensed about the entire affair, mostly 
because it was indeed an affair. Nothing pertinent to the 
investigation. Yet in spite of its total frivolity, there was 
nothing on earth that would have forced Mulder to give up that 
one night of sheer indulgence. It was that indulgence that had 
revived him, resuscitated him, redeemed him in many different 
ways. One encounter with an intense pathologist had given him his 
life back. 

Yet Mulder was no fool. He was aware of the consequences that 
would face the both of them if this affair were revealed to 
anyone else. It could cost Scully her job, and that was the last 
thing that he would be a party to. 

But this was the grove. Inside this select enclave of draping 
willows and languishing oaks, there was a measure of privacy that 
they were not allowed in the exposed swamps by the policemen and 
Patterson's watchful eye. Sheltered by the whispering willows 
from the looming thunderheads, he could indulge himself in a 
taste of her body, and not an ounce of guilt tainted the kiss as 
Mulder's lips brushed over hers. 

Passion was a constant presence in the complexity of Mulder. 
Scully had known this from the beginning, from the focus he had 
displayed in the autopsy bay to the intensity that his hands had 
possessed in his rich worship of her body. Yet there was a 
gentleness muting the fire in his mouth when his head bent and 
his lips caressed hers. It was not a demand when he parted her 
lips to allow his tongue entrance. It was a delight. There was 
warmth in this kiss, not heat, and the warmth filled her body 
with a vibrant new display of colors that shot through her skin 
and illuminated her senses. This was not a kiss built on sexual 
desire. It was the kind of kiss that was exchanged between 
lovers. Mental lovers. Spiritual lovers. 

It was the kind of kiss that she shouldn't be receiving after two 
days of knowing this man. 

A soft fall of rain began shimmering down, the first mild 
droplets quietly murmuring across the leaves before touching them 
on the tree. Chuckling slightly to herself, Scully broke away 
from the kiss and patted his cheek fondly, tearing her eyes from 
the dark eyes that seemed to explore her heart as deftly as they 
explored her eyes. "I have work to do still," Scully said 
quietly, looking down at her hands, so neatly folded in her lap. 
"Your beloved senior agent will be looking for me as well as you." 

He understood the terms that she had just presented him with: her 
bedroom was a very different place than the crime scene. That was 
heaven. This was hell. Understand the difference, and don't break 
the barriers. With one lingering caress along the side of her 
face, Mulder stood up and smiled wistfully at her. "You're 
right," Mulder conceded. "Patterson will want to talk to you. 
He'll want to ask you about the body." 

A smirk landed on her lips, lightening the mood a shade. "Well, I 
would hope that he would, considering the fact that I'm the 
coroner," Scully said dryly, and Mulder rewarded her with a grin, 
stepping away slightly. 

"I wasn't valedictorian for nothing, Scully," Mulder quipped, and 
she rolled her eyes. 

"Oh, yes, Fox Mulder the Brilliant," Scully commented 
sarcastically, and Mulder stopped in his path, his grin widening 
with the slyness that she was beginning to recognize as trademark 
Mulder. 

"Hey," he said, "how'd you unlock the well-kept secret of my 
first name?" 

The smile remained on her face. The relaxed shape of her body did 
not tense. One would have to look extremely carefully to 
recognize one brief but distinct dimming in Scully's eyes as she 
realized that she had absolutely no idea as to how she knew that 
Mulder's first name was Fox. 

The words effortlessly came to her, and the shrug that she gave 
managed to be enigmatic without revealing her absolute 
befuddlement. "I have my sources," she said mysteriously, arching 
her eyebrows a little for emphasis. The grin in his eyes said 
that her moment of disbelief had not betrayed her, and that her 
secret was well hidden. Not that it was much of a secret. She 
must have seen it somewhere, overheard one of the officers or 
maybe even Police Chief Greenberg state it. In any case, Scully 
knew herself well enough to know that she wouldn't have invited a 
man into her bed without ever even knowing his first name. And 
she couldn't just pull a name like "Fox" out of thin air, could 
she? No. 

Rain created a liquid veil, surrounding the circular clearing and 
penetrating the exposed middle. With a brief shudder, Scully 
wrapped the light corduroy jacket around her middle tighter and 
stood up, wiping off her thighs from the moss on the downed tree. 
The shadows beneath the canopy of the oak tree danced across 
Mulder's face as the wind rustled the leaves, and Scully walked 
over to join him beneath the shade of the branches. Composure was 
regained, system maintained. "I have to get going," she murmured, 
looking up at him while she spoke. "I've got an autopsy to do, 
but that should be done at around three if you want to have a 
late lunch somewhere." 

Smiling lightly, Mulder ran a thumb along the inside of her wrist 
in reply. "Name the place and I'll be there," he confirmed. 

"Kaminsky's," Scully said. "See you at 3:30." 

She did not leave him standing without bidding him an adequate 
farewell. One gentle kiss in the hollow of his jaw was all that 
Mulder needed to smile well past the moment of exiting the small 
grove of trees and thus reentering the real world. 

A sweep of heavier rain danced across the grove, and Scully moved 
closer to the wide trunk of the oak, watching with pensive, 
contemplative eyes as Mulder walked back toward the group of 
milling agents and concerned cops. The dark banner of his trench 
coat flapped in the accelerating wind as he walked by, whipping 
into a torrent of damp black around his slender legs. "Fox 
Mulder," Scully murmured to herself, wondering what was so 
special about this one agent that allowed him to crumble nine 
years' worth of walls in one sweet night. 

The leaves rustled again, and Scully turned her head, fully 
expecting her welcomed intruder to walk back into the grove 
again, seeking another kiss. Instead, Agent Bill Patterson walked 
through the barrier of sheltering trees, his broad shoulders 
sharp and his stern disapproval too dark for this one patch of 
light. "Dr. Scully," Patterson said, his voice filled with 
lilting mockery, and Scully turned her face to his in a bold 
gesture of defiance. 

"Agent Patterson." 

The two stood before each other and sized each other up as 
warriors would do before battle. The bold, strong feminine lines 
of Dana Scully's profile were razor-sharp and constructed out of 
intensity and dignity, and the bright shock of red-gold hair was 
just as sharp and striking as the rest of her features. 
Unforgiving blue eyes stared him down, trying to penetrate the 
thick façade of dissatisfaction and superiority that Patterson 
upheld like it were a civil duty. She was challenging his 
challenge, and they were both intelligent enough to realize just 
which challenge that was. 

A challenge of her professionalism. 

"I'm not going to go into the details," Patterson said, his voice 
slow and knowing. "The details, in this aspect of the situation, 
are unnecessary." Scully appreciated that. If he had asked her 
for details, she would have denied him access. The details of her 
private relationship with Fox Mulder were not for public record. 
She wouldn't cheapen them by arguing their validity when she 
already knew in her heart that they were quite valid indeed. 

Her voice was expectantly cool and her tone was controlled. "If 
you don't mind my asking, sir, in just which aspect of the 
situation are the details necessary for discussion?" Scully 
retorted, and Patterson nodded. Rain streamed down steadily now, 
not touching Scully from her umbrella of leaves and branches but 
drenching Patterson through the meager protection of his trench. 

"The details concerning who and what Fox Mulder is," Patterson 
said simply. "The details of his past." 

One arched eyebrow rebutted his argument. "I already know who he 
is," Scully said. "I've heard his story." 

His eyebrows raised in return, impressed. "Samantha," Patterson 
said. "The great failure of Spooky Mulder. The one mistake that 
he's determined to pay penance for through profiling." Scully 
already knew this. She knew the guilt that his parents and 
Patterson placed on his shoulders, and she knew how much of that 
guilt Mulder accepted: all of it. Whether or not he admitted it 
was irrelevant - the truth was in his eyes and words. "Did he 
tell you the story of his life beyond childhood, Dr. Scully?" 

She knew what he was going to tell her before the words began. 
Details were irrelevant here, too. Fox Mulder had excelled in 
school but had been rejected by his peers socially. He'd been 
broken by a woman in college. He'd been broken by an instructor 
at Quantico. And now Patterson was trying to break him at the 
Bureau, and he was telling Scully that Mulder was going to break 
her. Pity that Patterson didn't know that it took a great amount 
of force to break Dana Katherine Scully, and that the only 
intensity inside of Fox Mulder was directed in the opposite 
direction. 

Yet she let Patterson continue. She let him continue telling her 
about Mulder's increasing panic attacks, the way his peers 
regarded Spooky Mulder, and the various women he occasionally 
slept with. She knew that she was not the average fuck. Not to 
Mulder. He meant more than that to her already, and the 
connection between them was mutual and heartily passionate. 

So Patterson wove a tale of a man who had been abused by everyone 
who should have loved him, from his parents to his lovers to his 
instructors and idols. He told her these stories of the 
continuous mental torture inflicted upon the agent, never 
mentioning the abuse directly, but she was aware of this 
regardless. Rain soaked the ground and the soil absorbed it 
easily, and Scully never moved a muscle, not even her eyes, from 
Patterson's face. She absorbed the story with as much 
carelessness as the dirt below her absorbed the rain. 

Eventually, Patterson finished his story, looking at her through 
the obscured lenses of his thin-framed glasses. "You're wondering 
why I'm telling you what you already instinctively know, aren't 
you, Doctor?" Patterson asked, and Scully blinked at him coldly 
in reply. 

"No," she said simply. "You want me to give this up. You want me 
to agree with you that Agent Mulder should be left alone to 
perform the task assigned, that everyone else in his life has 
done so and that has affected his ability to perform his job in a 
positive way. You're telling me this story under the pretense of 
warning when all it is is an attempt to alleviate responsibility 
and guilt off of my shoulders, and it's a shoddy attempt at 
that." Patterson's eyes flickered at that, and it satisfied 
Scully to see him irritated. "If you want me to stop seeing Agent 
Mulder, you're going to need a better reason." 

A pause took place where everything seemed to still, from the 
storm to the sea. But then Patterson chuckled to himself and 
started to walk away. "He'll give you the reason, Dr. Scully," 
Patterson said. "I was just trying to give you one of mine, 
because mine's less painful." 

With that, Patterson exited the secure grove of trees, leaving 
Scully alone beneath the shade of the oak tree, wondering if her 
heart would be able to completely back up the passion of her 
words. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER FIFTEEN 

***** 

Charleston City Morgue 
Charleston, South Carolina 
2:58 PM, August 16, 1999 

***** 

The cold glow of the computer screen was the only light in her 
office as she typed. The circular lenses of her glasses caught 
the vivid blue light and obscured her features, and Scully 
narrowed her eyes as the tinny sound of her voice murmured behind 
her. 

"The heart is in a condition very similar to the heart of the 
previous victim, Claire Banks," her voice said, and the keys 
clicked accordingly, recording the words onto the computer 
screen. The sound of a camera's flashbulb accompanied her voice 
on the mini-recorder. "I am documenting the state of the body and 
the heart at this time, as the heart will most likely crumble 
upon attempted removal." Her voice lowered one shade. "There are 
fewer burns on this body than on the last, but it is apparent 
that the body was burned in some manner that directly contributed 
to death." 

One slender finger abandoned the keyboard briefly to pause the 
cassette. Silence ensued as her voice faded away, and she took 
the brief moment to contemplate the case itself. 

The vial of powder rested at an angle against the black tape 
recorder, and the gentle sound of the powder shifting inside the 
glass was audible in the quiet of the office as Scully picked up 
the vial. Frowning, she narrowed her eyes and examined the vial 
closer, looking at the mass of fine black powder that sifted back 
and forth like sand as she tilted the vial. 

The powder had been found in the heart again. Just like Claire 
Banks. It was the powder that puzzled her and bothered her. The 
powder of flesh so badly burned that it had crumbled and 
disintegrated on first touch. Only one pure force of electricity 
on this earth could do such a thing, and that was lightning. Yet 
this was an impossible possibility, and Scully wasn't much one 
for contradictions. She simply did not believe in them. So that 
meant that she either disregarded the theory of these women being 
victims of lightning strikes, which the evidence forbade her from 
doing, or began considering *other* possibilities. Possibilities 
that science forbade her from doing. 

The possibility that man could harness lightning. 

As if to punctuate her thoughts, a growl of thunder sounded from 
outside, and a chill crept down Scully's spine. By the time she 
had left the plantations in her Saturn, following the desecrated 
corpse of who they had later discovered to be Lisa Sanford, the 
storm had finally approached, and now it was raging outside with 
a vengeance. Every bolt of thunder seemed to boom beneath her 
skin with the knowledge that a flash of lightning had preceded 
it. The same lightning that Mulder claimed had killed both Lisa 
and Claire. The same lightning that couldn't possibly have done 
such a thing. 

Closing her eyes briefly, she replaced the vial on the counter 
and folded her hands over her face. She was tired. Burned out, in 
fact. Confusion and frustration had sapped her of her energy and 
motivation, and it was all that she could do to keep herself from 
either passing out or throwing the damned vial against the wall 
of her office. Anything to shatter the tiredness. Anything at 
all. 

As she folded her arms on her desk, her elbow inadvertently 
bumped the tape recorder, and her voice continued, filling the 
room with a sudden sound that startled Scully. The sound of the 
tinny recorded voice sounded quietly shaken to her, and her skin 
actually crawled at the sound of it. "I cannot weigh the heart; 
it has crumbled upon removal." 

Lisa's heart had been broken. 

Flinching, Scully quickly snapped off the recorder. The autopsy 
report was due in a matter of minutes, and she was running late. 
Again, the killer's meticulous habits had prevented her from 
collecting any sort of evidence that could possibly finger anyone 
in particular. A lower, quieter rumble of thunder murmured from 
outside, and she was glad that the storm was finally quieting 
down. Rain and clouds weren't helping her spectacularly dour 
mood. 

Neither were the stark black and white photographs spread across 
the table. 

Scully's eyes couldn't help but linger on the pale string of 
jasmine wound delicately around young Lisa's wrists. Dark 
splashes of monochromatic blood tinted the velvety canary petals 
almost black in some places, tainting the original pastel hue. 
The blue light of the computer monitor shone across the glossy 
surfaces, tinting the black and white pictures blue, and Scully 
wondered briefly what this woman must have looked like 
underwater. Submerged, floating, drifting along on the tide, 
chained by flowers and tethered by the roots of an ancient tree. 
A skinned Ophelia, too young and too tragic to be dead, bound 
forever by nothing more than one vine of Carolina jasmine... 

The shrill ringing of her telephone sounded in the background, 
and Scully sighed, placing the photographs back on the table 
before picking up the phone. "Scully," she answered, and the warm 
tenor voice that she was met with was relieving. 

"Hey, Scully, it's me," Mulder said, and she leaned back in the 
leather chair, removing her glasses and placing them on the table 
atop the stack of crime scene photos. 

"Where are you?" she asked, wincing and closing her eyes briefly. 

"I'm at the law offices that Lisa Sanford interned at, and we've 
got ourselves our first lead," Mulder said. "It turns out that 
Lisa and a previous victim, Lucinda Brightman, were lawyers, one 
a social security lawyer and the other a family lawyer. It also 
turns out that Lisa was known to socialize with all of the other 
victims: Claire Banks, Rachel Morris, so on and so forth. She's 
the common link between them." 

"And she's also the only one that was raped." 

There was a pause in Mulder's voice when he spoke. "Lisa Sanford 
was raped?" 

Scully nodded. "There is distinct evidence of forced sexual 
entry, but no sperm samples, unfortunately," she said, flipping 
to the section of the report that covered her findings in that 
area. "There were abrasions inside the vagina and latex 
irritation that's generally associated with condom use. The 
degree of the irritation suggests that the victim was raped prior 
to death." She shut the file and returned to the phone call. 
"Puts an interesting spin on the latest murder, doesn't it?" 

"Yeah," Mulder replied, his voice deep in thought. "Hey, you got 
me off track from the reason I called. I have to cancel our lunch 
date." 

Scully nodded. "That's fine. This latest development in the case 
put me behind a little, so I'm going to be stuck at the office 
for a while yet anyway. But I'll be done by dinner..." 

A groan sounded from the other end of the telephone, and Scully 
heard the smile in it. "Aw, Scully, you're killing me here. All 
these expensive restaurants can't just be written off on expense 
reports." 

She rolled her eyes, smirking a little. "Fine then," she said. 
"I'll cook. Just meet me at the house at seven." 

He hung up the phone without saying hello, but she caught a small 
laugh before the connection was gone and she was left alone again 
in her small, barren office, lit only by the light of a monitor 
and the warmth of conversation that still lingered in her subtle 
smile. 

***** 

Offices of Dr. Ben Brown 
Summerville, South Carolina 
3:04 PM, August 16, 1999 

***** 

He hated lying to her. 

As Mulder folded up the cell phone and smiled faintly at the 
receptionist, he tried to rationalize the reasons that he'd lied 
to her, and one simple answer came to mind: protection. He had to 
protect her. Scully didn't need to get any more involved than his 
wreck of a personal life than she already was - and she didn't 
need to know how truly fucked-up he was beneath the surface. Let 
the surface be good enough for her. 

Even though the surface wasn't good enough for him. 

The receptionist looked up at him. "Mr. Mulder?" she said, and he 
turned around slowly to face her. "Dr. Wallace will see you 
now." He nodded, replacing the cellular phone in the pocket of 
his jacket, turning off the phone and turning off the rest of the 
world. Turning off the present so that he could return to the 
past. Goodbye to Patterson, goodbye to BSU, goodbye to the 
Southern Skinner. 

Goodbye to Dana Scully. 

Wordlessly, he walked back into the office and faced Dr. Wallace. 

He was aware of the procedure's details. During his time at 
Oxford earning his psychology degree, they had covered the ideas 
and methodology behind the practice of the theory of regression 
hypnosis, and he had even performed it on a fellow classmate. Yet 
the procedure had never been fully explained, and it had been 
covered only briefly at the university due to lost school days 
for a fire in the psychology building. He'd never applied it to 
his own situation and poor memory concerning the disappearance of 
his sister. 

Now, as he sat reclined on the doctor's couch, jacket discarded 
and eyes staring into the gray eyes of Dr. Wallace, he wished 
he'd done it years ago. 

The calm voice of the doctor spoke to him in gentle, soothing 
tones. "I'll keep a recording of our session for your future 
personal reference, Fox," Wallace said, his hands folded neatly 
on his leg. "Just relax, get comfortable, and follow my 
instructions. Do you have a specific time or place where you 
would like to regress to?" 

His voice was calm and smooth when he spoke, not giving away the 
nervousness and anxiety that was hard and thick in his stomach. 
"Yes," Mulder said smoothly, hands cupping his left knee. "I do." 
He swallowed. "The day that my sister disappeared." 

Wallace nodded with something that looked like sympathy. "I 
understand, Fox," he said. "If you just follow my instructions 
and cooperate with me, things will go very smoothly." 

And so it began. 

As the doctor began the litany, a cool, pleasant feeling began 
washing over him, gently lapping at his mind with small, cool 
fingers. They were the whispers of sea foam, intricate and fine, 
brushing over him and soothing away the years that he'd 
accumulated following the trauma of losing Samantha. They lured 
him into the waters, pulling at his feet until he was up to his 
waist, up to his chest... 

And then he disappeared... 

Nothing but black fathoms, oceans of time, consuming him and 
eroding his thoughts, his self, his feelings... Nothing but the 
brutality of time fleeing, all as the doctor's words droned on. 

"Tell me where you are, Fox." 

And he knew. 

When his voice came out of his throat, it sounded like his voice. 
Dark, low monotone, reciting words that came to his mind as 
though they had always been there. "In my living room," he said 
with great certainty. "I'm in my living room. My sister... She's 
right beside me." 

"What are you doing?" 

Samantha's pout lit up the dark living room as Nixon droned on 
behind them. One chestnut pigtail swung around her slender little 
shoulders, and locks of dark brown hair swung against the rosebud 
pattern of her cotton nightgown. "Fighting," he said, smiling 
briefly. "She won't let me watch TV." 

"Good... Keep talking, Fox. Tell me what happens next." 

Insults were hurled and frustration teemed; he hated his sister 
that night. Stubborn, indignant, a real bitch to deal with, Sam 
had been the average kid sister. A sister who was still on a 
birthday high where she got everything she wanted and was the 
center of attention, yes, but still the usual kid sister. And 
he'd loved her to death. 

"She's calling me names, telling me that she wanted to watch TV, 
but 'The Magician' is coming on next..." Mulder frowned. "And 
then everything..." A shiver ran down his spine. "Everything is 
different..." 

"Tell me." 

The words seemed to float to him from a distance. Light filled 
the house with blinding white electricity, flooding the living 
room and turning Samantha into nothing more than a dark 
silhouette. The small holes in the eyelet lace of her nightgown 
were like tiny pinpoints of white light, and he could not tear 
his eyes away from her. Couldn't stop looking at her. 

Then the house began to shake. 

As he spoke in rapid words, his face contorted into pain, and 
tears that he couldn't quite emit were weeping in his memory. 
"She's standing there, standing there in this light, crying... 
What's happening, what's happening... And I try to get to Dad's 
gun, it's up there on the mantel and I know how to load it, he 
taught me just last month, and I get to the box but it falls 
and... Oh, God, I can't *move*." 

The smooth voice of Dr. Wallace drifted to him from an 
immeasurable distance. "Where's Samantha, Fox? Do you see her?" 

Outstretched limbs, long and lean like his own, were stretched 
out like the victim of a crucifixion, palms spread, nightgown 
billowing around her in a long bell of soft cotton. Light 
embraced her, covered her, and silence ensued. The weeping had 
stopped. She feared nothing. Limply, helplessly, she floated in 
midair, her long brown hair swinging gently around her. Fear 
raced through his body still, but it was mixed with a sort of awe 
at what he saw. His sister, floating before him, flying higher 
and higher... 

He didn't know that the tears had crossed over into this world 
and that he was weeping openly in the doctor's office. He would 
not know if until the session was over and he caught a glimpse of 
himself in the mirror in the hall. 

But his traveling was not over. 

Even as the doctor was beginning to coax him back into returning 
to the present, Mulder was being tugged along the waters of time 
into a deeper part of the ocean. A darker section of life. The 
grotto that he had never foraged until this one thieved day in 
Charleston. 

"Scully." 

Young, bright and beautiful, she stood in a windbreaker in a 
graveyard, her face colored indigo with silvery moonlight as 
laughter poured from her mouth with the fluid beauty of rain. Joy 
threw her head back as she laughed, laughing insanely at the mere 
prospect of insanity, while piles of dirt and an empty grave 
stood by them. It was the joy of a woman who was free, of a woman 
liberated and exquisitely rapturous in the open embrace of night. 
Long tendrils of red were plastered to her cheeks as she laughed, 
and he was laughing with her. Laughing at her, laughing at him, 
laughing at them. It was the best moment of his life, watching 
Scully laugh. 

"Scully." 

The slender, milky nape of her neck exposed to him, veiled by 
only the faintest wisps of soft red and caressed by a plaid 
flannel color. The expanse of her straight, proud back was also 
turned to him in a dare. A tense gesture that she was vulnerable 
and that she was challenging him to take advantage of it. Ice 
surrounded them outside, the impenetrable ice of Alaska, and even 
from outside the walls of the storage closet, he could hear the 
wind rushing. The only stillness was in the thick heat of this 
room, as his hand cupped and covered the back of her neck, 
rubbing the flesh there in search of a predator. Gentle fingers 
pushed away the fine strands of red, and then she was exposed to 
him. Body and soul. He wanted both. 

"Scully..." 

Covered by machinery, trapped by technology, her divine face 
concealed by tubes and wires. Anguish painted her in a color 
different from her previous shade of indigo - it painted her in 
shadow. No color touched her here, in this hospital room, where 
hope had been discarded and life had been dismissed. Limp, 
lifeless hands were splayed palm-up, like Samantha's had been as 
she had drifted away from him, and she was going to drift away 
too. To a place more certain than Samantha. To a place known as 
the great beyond, beyond the sea, beyond life, beyond his reach. 
And he'd just gotten her back. He'd gotten her back so that he 
could watch her die. 

"Sc... Scully..." 

Submerged in green ice, consumed by the emerald frigidity that 
froze her forever in time. Nothing moved. Utter stillness ensued, 
from the blankly startled expression in her wide blue eyes to the 
lack of breath to move her naked breasts. Time stood still, 
everything was still, as his fist pounded uselessly against the 
thick wall of ice that encased her, and even after he broke it, 
even after he told her that he should have kissed her, even after 
she coughed and took breath, she was still dying. When her own 
breath finally stilled, he laid her on the ground and tried to 
give her his own. Tried to breathe for her. Would have died for 
her. And the stillness ensued... 

Then the seas of time receded, and he was left lying strangled 
ashore, like a piece of human driftwood. 

The bright sunlight of reality and afternoon flooded in through 
the slits of Brown's blinds, and Mulder blinked once, twice 
against the harshness of the light. Brown's voice was pleased, 
and Mulder didn't hear a word that he said as he took the 
cassette from his hand and walked outside of the office. He only 
briefly noticed the drying tears on his cheeks as he dazedly 
walked out of the office. 

It was not until the humidity had revived him through its subtle 
domination that Mulder began thinking clearly again. The light... 
Samantha's light... The light that had wrapped her in its grip 
and taken her away from him and the light that had rendered him 
incapable to help her. 

Alien light. 

It was as though his life had been a gigantic puzzle and every 
piece had been scattered to the winds until now. Now, every 
individual piece was slowly coming into place with an audible 
"snick". The mystery of his sister's disappearance. The shock 
that he'd been thrown into in the days following her vanishing. 
The way that his parents had never spoken about it in front of 
him. His sister hadn't disappeared. She had been abducted. 

The plastic casing of the tape was warm in his hands as he looked 
down at the small cassette. Everything made a beautiful sense, 
all illuminated by the image of his sister's silhouette bathed in 
that foreign light. She had been taken. He had read about this in 
his spare time, during his various collegiate studies of the 
occult and when building profiles for the criminals he tracked. 
Everything that he had ever wondered had now been revealed to him 
and recorded for future reference. The grand mystery of Fox 
Mulder's existence, now solved. 

"Scully. Scully. Scully... Sc... Scully..." 

These four strangled whispers of the coroner's name were also on 
the tape, and the four glimpses into laughing with her, caressing 
her, crying over her, and breathing for her were locked inside of 
his mind. Puzzling memories and flashes of Scully, of Scully young 
and happy and of Scully older and dead. Flashes of Scully in his 
arms and flashes of Scully in his hands. Flashes of a woman that 
he'd met three days ago but had seemingly known a lifetime ago. 

"What the hell..." Mulder murmured, his voice dark with wonder 
and with confusion. "What the hell..." 

The tape just rested in his palm silently. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER SIXTEEN 

***** 

THIS CHAPTER IS RATED NC-17 FOR SEXUAL CONTENT 

***** 

Residence of Dana Scully 
Charleston, South Carolina 
7:43 PM, August 16, 1999 

***** 

She liked watching the sun set. 

During the day, it was a round orb of unflinching canary light, 
glowing brightly in the jewel-toned sky and projecting its rays 
across the earth, warming the ground with its heat. Yet as 
nighttime approached, the sun shifted from gold to tangerine, 
swelling and doubling its size, fighting its descent as the skies 
darkened into twilight. Below it, marshes and dunes swayed and 
bent to its power and intensity, and vermilion and carnelian 
tones took over the sky. The sun exploded, igniting the blue sky 
and turning it into stained fire, and the sight was awesomely 
beautiful. As it sank into the depths of the Atlantic, it took 
its fire with her, and it never stopped burning until the 
tranquil moon took its place. 

She liked watching the sun set because it always fought the 
night. 

A light breeze caught her hair in the wind and blew it into a 
firestorm of red and copper, and she tilted her face, letting the 
wind cup her cheek like fingers. The smell of palmettos and 
magnolias fluttered past her, and she looked down at the streets 
below her widow's walk, eyeing the sidewalks and anticipating the 
approach of her lover. 

Scully was generally a punctual person, and she liked it when 
others respected time in the same manner. Mulder was obviously a 
different person. She'd been waiting for fifteen minutes, 
scanning the streets for a taxi or a rental car to pull up and 
let out a well-dressed and tired man. The chicken was thawing on 
her kitchen counter and the sounds of the Weather Channel blared 
behind her, and Scully was beginning to get irritated. She didn't 
like being dismissed or ditched. 

Yet she understood if the case had taken over. The case... It was 
growing more and more complicated as the murders continued. First 
the electric burns on Claire's body and now the rape of Lisa 
Sanford. The MO was changing with every new development, and her 
staff had dropped all other issues to deal with this more 
pressing concern. The city itself was torn between eyeing the 
killer and eyeing the hurricane. 

Yes, Becky. Scully had just checked her e-mail for the latest 
update before walking out on the widow's walk, and the storm had 
intensified further, now holding winds of up to 125mph. Memories 
of the destruction of Hurricane Hugo were fresh in everybody's 
minds. Hugo had only been one category stronger than Becky was 
now. 

A chill ran down her spine. She had not been here for Hurricane 
Hugo, yet she had heard the horror stories. The stories of the 
mayor fleeing city hall during the middle of the storm after 
seeing the roof running down Broad Street and of the police 
officer racing across the bridge linking Sullivan's Island to the 
rest of the world before the bridge fell apart. And the stories 
of the small fishing town of McClellanville, where the storm 
surge had devastated the community and nearly leveled the little 
village. Now, as Becky rose to attack Puerto Rico in a near 
mimicry of Hugo's path from nearly a decade ago, Charleston 
remembered and waited. Watched and waited. 

And so did Scully. 

Two bright headlights drove down the street like twin moons, and 
Scully smiled when the bright yellow taxi stopped in front of 
Scully's house. Undoubtedly Mulder. Chuckling to herself, she 
stepped off of the widow's walk and reentered the house, heading 
down toward the kitchen to start preparing dinner. 

The wind pushed at Mulder's overcoat as he stood on the sidewalk 
in front of Scully's house, narrowing his eyes and looking at the 
house in front of him. The cheerful canary color of the house was 
the same shade of jasmine that had been wrapped around Lisa 
Sanford's wrists, but the color was not all that disturbed him. 
It was the notion that Dana Scully never should have bought this 
house. That she was never destined for a life in the South, 
shaded by willows and oaks. She should have been with him in 
Washington, searching for a truth more important than the 
identity of one serial killer. As he watched her shadowed 
silhouette descend from the widow's walk and into the depths of 
her beautiful antique house, a chill traveled down his spine and 
made his skin crawl. It was as though she had been meant for 
other things, greater things, and that she had failed. 

"Don't," Mulder ordered himself firmly, shrugging out of his 
jacket. It was a command not to dwell on the contents of the 
cassette tape, at least not the contents concerning Scully. Think 
of Samantha, of the definite things he had recovered concerning 
her abduction. Those events had made sense. But don't linger on 
what couldn't be. 

A small post-it note was stuck to the door inside of the screen 
door, and he leaned down to read Scully's elegant cursive 
inscription. "The door's open - let yourself in. - Scully". With 
a smile, he removed the bright orange note and placed it in his 
jacket pocket, entering the house that wasn't meant to be. 

The first noise that he heard was the sound of the television 
from the living room, hooked up to speakers and thus broadcasting 
its message through every room in the historic house. "As 
Hurricane Becky inches toward Puerto Rico, the question is where 
will it impact next? This and more coming up on Storm Watch at 
fifty minutes past the hour..." Obviously Scully had turned her 
attention to the tropical cyclone swirling through the Atlantic 
and heading toward the Southeast coast. Fear for her house and 
fear for her city had led up to this. 

A frowning Scully stared at her own smaller television nestled 
snugly in an alcove of the kitchen, a wing of red hair hanging 
over her cheek as she watched the hurricane expert speak. "We've 
just received the latest update on Hurricane Becky, so I'll read 
off the 8:00 advisory," the balding meteorologist said. "At this 
time, Hurricane Becky is centered just off the coast of Puerto 
Rico, with sustained winds still at 125 miles per hour and a 
barometric pressure that has fallen to 954 millibars, which is 
down five millibars from the 5:00 advisory. Conditions are 
optimal in these warmer waters for intensification, and the 
trough that impeded earlier intensification has just lifted. I 
wouldn't be surprised to see this storm strengthen a little more 
before making landfall just east of San Juan, Puerto Rico." 

Scully was so caught up in this latest advisory on Hurricane 
Becky that she did not notice when Mulder joined her at her side, 
his hand cupping her elbow gently as he watched the storm with 
her. "Of course, the question on everybody's mind is where will 
Becky go from there?" Dr. Steve Lyons said. "Right now, it's too 
soon to guess just where on the southeast coast Becky will 
impact, but all of our project paths place it somewhere between 
northern Florida and North Carolina. All interests on the 
southeast coast should be monitoring this storm very closely as 
it approaches. There is a very strong possibility that this 
strengthening Category 3 hurricane will make landfall somewhere 
along the southeast US coastline within the next few days, and we 
should all keep a close eye on it. Stay tuned to the Weather 
Channel for further..." 

Sighing, Scully turned off the television set and turned to face 
the man standing next to her. Dark hazel eyes looked down at her, 
worried eyes, and she smiled tightly in order to dispel any 
concern or fear. "It's fine," she said. "We get hurricanes every 
now and then. Usually they just sideswipe the city and we get 
some foul weather, like with Bonnie last year. North Carolina 
usually receives the brunt of these things, but you've got to be 
alert." 

"Must be difficult," Mulder murmured, his hand brushing over her 
forearm before briefly touching the back of her hand. 

She feigned a look of nonchalance for him, shrugging her slender, 
proud shoulders slightly. "It's the consequence of being a 
coastal resident," she said. "The city may be beautiful, but it 
has a certain level of vulnerability to the elements." Everything 
did. It was a lesson that she had learned upon moving to the 
South. The city was vulnerable to the destructive forces of 
Mother Nature and she herself was vulnerable to the destruction 
of life itself. One had to be protected and anticipate 
everything, and she usually did. 

Usually being the operative word here. She had not anticipated 
the arrival of a slender man with a mouth that tasted like the 
nectar of the gods. 

She sampled that particular flavor with her own mouth, giving him 
a lush and exploratory kiss upon his full, plush lips. He gave a 
startled, strangled sort of noise before giving into the demand 
her mouth had just given him, and his compliance was well 
appreciated. Hands slid down across her shoulders, caressing her 
skin through the thin lavender silk, igniting the soft and frail 
fabric into immolation. The sensation of his fingertips trailing 
along her collarbone was extremely Epicurean, like being caressed 
by the essence of delectability. As his fingers traveled lower, 
dancing along the low V of her thin top, she felt heat spread 
under her skin like a humid supernova. Humming low in her throat, 
she wrapped her hands around the nape of his neck, moaning when 
he broke the kiss and then sighing again when he met her mouth 
once more. One button snapped on her top and then two, but before 
he could get to three she pushed him away, smiling at him wryly. 

"I take it that you missed me," Scully said dryly, and Mulder 
found himself rendered incapable of tearing his eyes away from 
the exposed strip of silk that ran between her breasts. Lingerie 
was apparently an indulgence of Scully's; the cream-colored 
material was dotted faintly with patterns of wisteria and ivy. 
Feminine yet elegant - that was what she was all about. 

"Very much so," Mulder murmured, and she chuckled as she redid 
the buttons on her three-quarter-sleeve shirt. "Hey, what're you 
doing that for?" 

The auburn eyebrow that she tossed in his direction shut him up 
instantly. "Because I have chicken thawing along with a bottle of 
good white wine," she said. "And because we still have a case to 
solve, if I recall correctly." 

As she returned to the wooden cutting board to slice cheese, 
Mulder followed behind her. "Well, if I do recall correctly, I'm 
the FBI agent and you're the coroner, Dr. Scully," Mulder said, 
and she brought the knife across the block of Fontina, slicing 
off one thin strip of sharp cheese and laying it on stretched out 
breasts of chicken. 

"A mere technicality," she disregarded, and the knife went across 
the block again, shaving off another piece of cheese. The 
precision with which she cooked showed off her ability and her 
skill, and Mulder admired it. 

"You're rather good at this, Scully," he commented, and she 
shrugged her shoulders. 

"I always was good with my hands," she replied, and Mulder 
smiled, looking down at the two small hands that were now moving 
on to a package of Prosciutto ham. Then strangled gasp caught in 
his throat and he swallowed it before he could make a sound. 

They were the same hands that he'd dreamed about on the flight 
from Washington. The same exact hands. The delicate, slender 
fingers with their tiny design and elegant ability. The flawless 
white skin that was cool against hot brown palms. The petite 
structure and tiny design. Everything that he'd been drawn to in 
the dream was now reconstructed perfectly in reality with the 
hands of Dr. Dana Scully. 

As those intricate fingers rolled up the first of the five 
chicken breasts, tucking the cheese and meat neatly into the 
cylinder of raw chicken, Mulder felt somewhat light-headed. He'd 
dreamed of these hands on the morning of meeting her. He'd taken 
notice of her for no apparent reason while walking into the 
morgue, that beautiful and defiant figure riding unrestrained on 
her bicycle. He'd been drawn to her stubbornness when 
consternation of all kinds usually deterred him from people. And 
he'd bedded her on the second night here, something that Mulder 
never did. 

Who the hell was Dana Scully? 

Right now, she was a woman shooing her out of her kitchen. After 
thrusting a slender wineglass filled with sparkling white wine at 
him, she pushed him out into the living room and onto a chair 
that Duchess had previously been occupying. "My pet peeve in life 
is having someone else in the kitchen," Scully said. "Put some 
music on, relax, but don't interrupt." And with that, she 
reentered the kitchen and began cooking again. 

For a moment, Mulder relished the silence. No distractions, no 
influences, just the relative objectivity of his own mind. The 
flavor of the white wine was light and pleasant, and the 
bitterness of the alcohol was somewhat tempered by its cool 
temperature. She was readying the palate, cleansing it and 
preparing it for whatever meal she was fixing in the solicitude 
of her well-stocked kitchen. Those delicate and capable hands of 
hers were folding slices of chicken and setting them on the 
skillet that he'd spotted on the gas stove; he smelled the sweet 
aroma of butter and olive oil drifting out to him. She was a 
tease of a cook. 

In many ways, Scully herself was the embodiment of a tease. Not 
intentionally, though. Scully possessed and often utilized the 
seductive and coy quality to her, but a tease... No. She was a 
woman of the facts, blunt and straightforward, constantly stating 
her mind and her wants. She didn't tease or imply; she spoke. It 
was part of what he liked about her. A large part of what he 
liked about her, as a matter of fact. But there was also a large 
portion about Scully that was undiscovered territory, and he 
liked her for that by instinct. 

Or was it destiny? 

Eyelashes slipped past his eyes and closed, and Mulder's body 
slumped downward slightly as he relaxed in the plush upholstered 
chair. Destiny was one of the few things that Mulder didn't 
believe in. He was a man who liked to control his own fate, 
follow whichever paths he chose, but there were moments where he 
wondered just how much of his life was controlled by his own free 
will. Meeting Scully had inspired him to reevaluate the possible 
existence of such ideas as destiny and fate. And there was some 
definite evidence in support of that idea recorded in the 
contents of that cassette. 

Her hands... Her laughter... Her neck... Her death... These were 
the things that had been shown to him outside of consciousness 
and in that gray area between reality and unreality. She was a 
presence ingrained into him, and whether that engraving had been 
recent or historic was tearing him apart. 

Who was Dana Scully? It was a good question indeed. But perhaps 
the real question he should be asking himself was this: who 
should Dana Scully be? 

The answer came to him on long wavelets of truth, multicolored 
ripples of fact. She should be with him. She should be at his 
side. His equal and his desire. His light and his redemption. His 
agony, his ecstasy, his North Star. His unattainable and 
destroyed love. She should be everything that he wanted in life 
but had killed because of his ideals and his quest. She should be 
his partner. 

Then a thumb brushed the side of his face and it was all lost 
again. 

Sympathetic blue eyes looked at him accompanied by a warm smile. 
Scully was kneeling in front of him, a wineglass in the hand that 
wasn't cupping his cheek. "Tired?" she asked, and Mulder yawned a 
little, conceding that he was. She chuckled and took a seat on 
the comfortable-looking antique chaise across from him, 
stretching out her short but slender legs on the mahogany coffee 
table. Mulder resisted a smile at her barefoot state; she seemed 
to have a love/hate relationship with footwear. 

"Shouldn't you be cooking?" Mulder asked, his sleepy eyes half- 
covered by his long lashes. She shook her head, taking a sip of 
the vintage white wine that she'd been saving in her cabinet for 
the right occasion. 

"The chicken's simmering right now," she said. "I've got about 
ten minutes before it'll be done. Besides, you were dozing for a 
while and need to be woken up." 

The clear liquid in his glass swirled as he tilted the glass 
pointedly at her. "And this is supposed to perk me up?" he 
pointed out, and she shrugged her shoulders. 

"It's supposed to taste good," Scully said dryly. 

Mulder's hands fidgeted slightly in his lap before he looked up 
at her. "I lied to you, Scully," he said, and she arched her 
eyebrow at him in curiosity. 

"Really? When?" 

His eyes looked past her and outside of the picture window. "When 
I called earlier and canceled our lunch, it wasn't because of an 
interview. It was because I had an appointment scheduled for a 
session of regression hypnosis." 

Scully reached for the bottle of white wine on the table. She had 
a sinking feeling that she was going to be drinking a lot more of 
this before the night or the conversation was over with. 
"Regression hypnosis?" she asked, eyebrows arched with an 
irritating mixture of skepticism and incredulity. 

He nodded, downing another sip of wine before answering her. 
"Yeah, it's when the patient is hypnotized and-" 

She cut him off with one hand. "I know what regression hypnosis 
is, Mulder," she said. "I just can't believe that you'd go off 
and spend good money on such a controversial and unreliable 
procedure." 

The tenor voice that replied to her was wry and cynical. "I take 
it that you don't agree with regression hypnosis," Mulder 
deduced, and she snorted her affirmation. 

"I just don't think that regression hypnosis is accurate," she 
said. "I think that it suggests more than it recovers and that it 
sparks imagination rather than memory. It taps into the creative 
aspect of the human mind, not the nerves or cortexes that control 
memory. It's not scientifically proven to do anything other than 
give the patient a sense of security." 

Dark brown eyes blazed at her. "I saw things that happened to 
Samantha today. Things that I never understood before but things 
that I do know now." 

Gritting her teeth, Scully shook her head. "Whatever you saw, 
Mulder, is completely unreliable." 

"I believe my sister was abducted by aliens." 

She said nothing. The directness of her cerulean gaze spoke all 
of the words that Mulder didn't really want to hear at this time, 
and he sighed, frustrated. "It's the truth, Scully. It makes 
sense." 

The elegantly skeptical eyebrow gave emotion to her otherwise 
flat voice. "I would be very interested to know how the idea that 
your sister was abducted by aliens makes sense." 

Leaning forward in the peach-colored upholstered chair, Mulder 
placed his half-full glass of wine on the coffee table and 
trapped her gaze with his. "I remembered standing in the middle 
of my living room, looking at my sister, arguing with her like I 
always did, and usually my memory would blank out. That's where 
I'd stop remembering. But today..." Like a flash of lightning, 
the images that he had recovered during his regression passed 
through his mind in bright bursts of color and strangled sound. 
Samantha floating in mid-air, fingers splayed out in slender 
digits... A shiver ran through his body. "I know what I saw, 
Scully. I know what I believe. It fits in with all of the other 
research and evidence-" 

"And that research and evidence doesn't fit in with logic or 
science," Scully finished, her brow furrowed with a mixture of 
frustration and confusion. "Mulder, I don't understand how you 
could possibly believe that your sister was abducted. Regression 
hypnosis is a highly dubious and experimental form of psychology, 
more used as therapy than as actual memory retrieval. And I'd 
like to know how you got the idea in your head to go have this 
procedure performed in the first place." 

Mulder winced, running his hands over his face briefly before 
smiling at her dryly. "From a dream." 

The stare that she gave him could have frozen fire. "A dream." 
Her voice was flat with disbelief. "You went and had a very 
controversial procedure performed because of a dream. And you 
wonder how I doubt the accuracy of your recollection." 

She could see the frustration in his eyes from across the room. 
"I don't wonder how you doubt it. I wonder how you dismiss it." 

And at that moment, the timer for the chicken went off. 

Intense brown-gold eyes held hers for a moment, before she tore 
herself away from his gaze, muttering on how she had to finish 
dinner. As she walked away, wineglass in hand, she felt that the 
fire behind his gaze could shatter the glass and scar her for 
life. 

The chicken sizzled and simmered inside of the rich wine sauce, 
and the scent that it emitted was savory and sumptuous. The 
sharply appetizing aroma of melted Fontina cheese and seared 
Prosciutto was tantalizing and seductive. For a moment, as she 
turned off the burner and started ladling the sauce over the 
perfectly baked chicken, Scully felt that she could lose herself 
in the lavish scent of her own creation. Lose herself there and 
not deal with Mulder's insanity or Mulder's disjointed idea of 
reality. 

Then his hand closed around hers and forced her to face him. 

It was difficult to determine what made his eyes blaze so 
fiercely. Anger, passion, arousal... She had seen all three of 
these entities light his indescribably exotic eyes with copper 
flecks at one time or another, but the strength of his large hand 
around her wrist and the close proximity of those vivid 
kaleidoscopic eyes was almost intimidating. 

Fortunately, she knew that the blaze of her own blue eyes could 
be just as effective and even more forceful. 

While she returned the glare, Mulder's voice came out in a rough, 
scratched velvet. "You know, Scully, one of the things that drew 
me to you was your open-mindedness," he said. "Your rigid science 
and your unflinching logic were frustrating, but at least you 
listened to my ideas about the murders. At least you conceded 
truth. So why would you dismiss my ideas about my sister so 
quickly and so forcefully now?" 

With one furiously defiant twist of her arm, she broke the grip 
that Mulder had and stepped closer, flashing ice-colored anger at 
him. "Because they're illogical, Mulder," she said. "Because 
there are no such things as aliens, not to mention alien 
abductions! Science and space don't allow for such things to -" 

"Oh, come *on* Scully, we all know that you-" 

"I'm just trying to protect you!" 

Over a thousand miles away, out in the Atlantic, the water heated 
beneath a constant cycle of cloud and rain. The depths of the 
warm Caribbean leapt in temperature and shot rays of humidity and 
power to the ever-strengthening storm overhead. The eye 
tightened, furrowing into one wink of clouds and wind that seemed 
to shake by its own culminating strength. The storm was 
tightening, tensing, preparing for metamorphosis from creature to 
catastrophe. 

As the eye of the hurricane started to narrow, the tension 
between the agent and the coroner turned from anger to arousal. 
Carnality took over where rage had once lived, shifting the form 
of electricity but not the amount. Now it was an anguished sort 
of heat, a painful passion, and when he spoke his voice was 
hoarse with meaning. "Why would you say that?" he whispered. 

Darkness seemed to overtake them, the stumbling darkness of 
confusion, emotion, and an unrecognizable entity that had been 
third party to their relationship ever since his plane had landed 
in Charleston. "I..." Scully swallowed. "I don't know." 

The two wavered for a moment as arousal drained the two of ardor, 
bringing a feverish, sensual element into the picture. Eyes 
sought the other for some sort of invitation, and once they both 
knew what the other wanted, nothing could be denied. 

Fire and heat seared her mouth when she snared his lips with her 
own, and the depths of his mouth were blisteringly blissful. His 
hands reached everywhere, squeezing her breasts firmly and 
forcefully while hers gravitated to the tight ass underneath his 
trousers. Arousal pulsed through her blood while his tongue 
wrapped around hers, and she needed to touch every inch of his 
skin as soon as humanly possible. Scalding sexuality sizzled 
between her legs, and she threaded one supple leg between his, 
relishing the volume of his cry when her upper thigh pushed 
against his hot, stiff erection. 

The kiss broke with a heat that was palpable, and then it was 
only for his mouth to latch onto her earlobe, tongue twining 
around the fleshly lobe until Scully screamed out in pleasure. 
Fingernails raked down over his shirt, trying to scratch off 
fabric and skin so that she could feel the essence of Mulder 
inside of her palms. Clothing and conversation had become 
barriers, barriers that *must* be eliminated, no matter what the 
cost. Her lilac sweater was pulled from her body by a combination 
of both male and female hands, and she took great pleasure in 
removing his tie, dress shirt and undershirt. Belts and trousers, 
panties and boxers... All of these things were discarded until 
there was nothing left but expanses of skin glistening with 
arousal and heat. 

Greedy lips suckled at one ripe raspberry nipple, and the cry 
that he tore from her throat was the scream of a woman in 
ecstasy. Nothing tethered her to earth now. All of the bliss that 
she was experiencing was due to the celestial carnality of 
Mulder's mouth, and she writhed beneath his touch. Every inch of 
her screamed for him while her cries voiced their needs, and she 
snatched at his skin as a command for more. More, more, more. 

And he obeyed. 

Nothing on earth could propel them to the bed that waited 
upstairs, and so they moved to the chaise in the living room. 
Hands pushed and voices moaned until they fell together in a heap 
of limbs and lust on the luxurious linen upholstery. His warm, 
brown hand crept in between her thighs, cupping her slightly, 
feeling wet arousal coat his fingertips when he slid them deeply 
inside of her. "Oh God!" she cried, her voice filling the high 
arches of the room with the music of her ecstasy. "Mulder!" 

Tumbling and rolling to scramble for position and skin, Mulder 
and Scully turned until she was atop of him, stretching her 
slender body over him so that the hard, pointed nipples raked 
across his chest as her fingernails had done to his back earlier. 
Wet warmth trailed across his belly as she sat up on him, her 
palms splayed out on his chest to brace herself, and she stayed 
there for a moment, rotating her hips and feeling his strong, 
taut abdomen beneath the thick, swollen inner folds. The rawness 
of feeling his skin beneath hers and not inside of her was 
rapturous, and she threw her head back with ecstasy, pressing her 
palms on his body and bucking her hips wildly. 

Masculine hands gripped her hips and secured her body to his, and 
Mulder watched her ecstasy-contorted face as the hot moisture of 
her arousal dampened his skin. He could see her nearing climax, 
could tell that she was growing close, and one hand abandoned her 
waist to sneak between her thighs and steal one caress of the 
delicate nubbin of nerve that would undoubtedly undo her. 

And it did. 

The shredded sound of her orgasm rang throughout the house, and 
Scully bucked atop him, squeezing the rich flesh of his shoulders 
as she came, and when the sensations slowed, she looked at him 
with hungry eyes. "I'm taking you inside me, Mulder," she purred, 
and he thought he'd never heard more beautiful words. 

Sliding into Scully was like sliding into molten honey - hot, 
thick, and tight. She eased herself onto his straining erection 
with excruciatingly exquisite slowness, steadying herself by 
placing her palms over his chest and therefore kneading his own 
nipples. Every inch, every millimeter, was like entering rapture 
embodied, and he ran his hands over her body, inside her thighs, 
feeling the stickiness of her arousal. This was new arousal. She 
was ready for more and Mulder would give it to her in copious 
amounts. 

Once he was buried inside of her, consumed by her, the rocking 
began. A delicious, timed synchrony that existed as a compromise 
between melody and harmony. She rotated her hips as she had done 
before, clenching her tiny muscles around his cock, withdrawing 
just enough so that he was constantly assaulted by sensation. 
"God, Scully," he moaned hoarsely, feeling her fingertips squeeze 
his nipples. "Oh my God..." 

Then his hands circled hers, gripping her breasts and thumbing 
her nipples. Sudden sensation flooded her body, and she arched 
her back, throwing her head back as she cried out. The way with 
which her hair whipped... The maelstrom of red that flashed 
behind her like a sunburst of vermilion... The wildness and 
freedom of Dana Scully in this one exuberant moment... 

Her slender back curved like a crescent moon to meet his mouth 
with an earth-shattering kiss, and with a cry that matched her 
own, Mulder came inside of her, and heat filled her as she came 
again, all in startling and perfect synchrony. 

Heaving, sighing, panting from the exhausting fervency of the 
act, the two separated only enough for the two to spoon together 
on the linen chaise, his leg covering her thigh and his nose 
buried in the tender nape of her neck. The slope of her spine 
curved into his body perfectly as the sea breeze blew in from off 
the Atlantic in long, gentle fingers. It touched his shoulder, 
touched hers, and he murmured something into her ear. 

"We should eat dinner," he said, and she shrugged her shoulders. 

"Stuffed chicken microwaves beautifully." 

With a contented, sated smile, he wrapped his arms tighter around 
her and she curled up into him, falling into delicious, tranquil 
slumber. 

***** 

And the eye contracted. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 

***** 

THIS CHAPTER RATED R FOR SOME SEXUALITY 

***** 

He hated the sound of the machines. 

Mechanical music filled the small hospital room, the sort of 
symphony created by utilizing the noises of respirators and heart 
monitors. Nothing human interrupted the constant electronic flow, 
nothing to override the orchestra built of machinery and 
artificial life. 

It was the sound of a life without Scully. 

The dwindling of her life had been agony to witness. It was like 
building a fire in winter and then watching an inferno die down 
to nothing more than crumbling embers. They still glowed, but 
with every passing second, that glow dimmed. It crumbled into 
cinder with every labored breath that the machines drew from her 
body, and for a moment, he desperately wished that she would stop 
breathing. Stop drawing out the agony of letting go. Make the 
break severe and harsh, but just make it. 

Yet the strands of her indigo-lit vermilion hair laying softly 
against the immaculate whiteness of her pillow was enough to 
remind him of why Dana Scully could not be allowed to die. 

He did not approach her immediately. Watching her from the 
slender frame of the door was satisfactory for now. Moonlight 
poured in through the drawn blinds in slits of violet and cast 
her slumbering profile in varying hues of somber blue. Stillness 
and solemnity coated her features in the rich shades of plum and 
sapphire, and he wondered briefly if this would be what she would 
look like in death. Perhaps only dying would finally be able to 
strip her of the misery that she had endured on earth. 

Something that he had never been able to do. 

Now he came to her, crossing the room and painfully trying to 
ignore the mass of machinery monitoring her life. All that he 
wanted to see was her, whole and strong, without the marring 
presence of medical technology and fake life. He needed her, 
needed her for survival. Necessity was one of the things that he 
had always abhorred, but she was the exception to every rule out 
there. Every exception but death. 

No words were spoken as he gently lifted her hand and knelt 
beside her bed. A thousand questions ran through his mind, a 
thousand things that he needed her to answer, and then the most 
terrible answer came to mind. She would never answer half of 
these things. She would not be around forever. 

The coals were dying out in the grasp of his hand. 

And then nothing could restrain the tears. Pain crippled him, 
crumpled him, and with a silence as powerful and anguished as an 
audible scream, he bent his cheek to the back of her hand and 
cried. Tears for her suffering, tears for his, tears for all of 
the utter pointlessness of her death. Tears for the love that he 
had never realized with her, for all of the years that had been 
brutally stolen from them with one malignant growth. One act of 
malice had destroyed one incredible woman, and all for nothing. 

For nothing. 

He couldn't do this. Losing her was the one thing that he 
couldn't endure. She had become the only anchor to reality, the 
only thing that made life worth living and worth fighting for. 
Life without her wouldn't be worth it. All of his efforts, 
everything that they had accomplished through science and 
sacrifice... What would they be worth if he couldn't save her? 
What would they be worth? Nothing. Nothing at all... 

And what would he be worth. 

Burying his face into the palm of her hand, he tried to capture 
everything about her, from the smell of her skin to the shade of 
her red hair. Everything that he loved about her, everything that 
made her exquisite and exceptional, and he discovered that there 
was not enough time in the world to ever know everything. He 
would lose her, lose her completely. 

And he couldn't do that. 

He couldn't. 

He couldn't lose Scully. 

Not again. 

***** 

With a violence, he woke up and bit back a scream. 

Pain flushed through his body, a dizzying sensation that was 
heady but brutal, flooding his mind with a raging kaleidoscope of 
agonizing memory. //Panic attack,// Mulder thought wildly as he 
pried himself apart from his sleeping lover and stumbled into his 
boxers. //I'm having a panic attack... Pills...// 

Fresh air slapped him in the face as Mulder practically fell onto 
the side porch, and he desperately reached into his pants pocket 
in search of the bottle of pills he needed so badly. Images and 
memories were racing through his brain, pulsing painfully, and 
the force and swiftness of the images was blinding. And just when 
his fingers slid around the plastic bottle, one image came 
through his head that froze his hand. 

Samantha. 

Samantha wading through rows of sunflowers, wearing overalls, 
mute and deaf to language and comprehension, the little brown 
braids taunting him as they swayed against her slender back while 
bees swarmed about her and created a thorny halo. 

This was no panic attack. 

Gasping for breath, Mulder clung to the wooden railing of the 
front porch, feeling history and chronology flood through his 
body with the same pace of the swiftly blowing wind. A thousand 
images raced throughout his mind, like recovered memories 
surfacing forcefully and vengefully. The body of his father on 
the bathroom floor, his mother's betrayal, cloth hearts and 
little lost sisters, viruses and Antarctica, corn crops and bees, 
Diana, Krycek, Skinner, the ash of a cigarette... 

And Scully. 

Most of all, there was Scully. 

Scully in a cheap suit and shoes, extending her hand and smiling. 
Scully in a parked car, smiling at him warmly over a bottle of 
root beer. Scully ruffling his hair as he lost everything and 
then Scully bound and taped in the trunk of a car. Scully covered 
with machinery and life support. Scully emerging triumphant and 
radiant. Scully hating him, Scully loving him, Scully dying and 
Scully living. Scully was everywhere, in his arms on a baseball 
diamond and in his heart when she was in hell. 

Agony rang out with one choked scream as everything fell into 
place, and this time his pain was not physical. 

It was the pain of a man who had lost everything he had never 
had. 

The memories slowed from their insistent hail to a lighter rain, 
a drizzle, and then a heavy, thick humidity. Images lingered 
inside of his mind and heart, swelling with a perfect clarity and 
painful understanding. While his breathing steadied, his mind did 
as well, and everything began registering and coming together, 
connecting effortlessly, as though the needle and thread to sew 
the fabric together had been kept well inside of him for aeons. A 
history was building, a story, a myth... 

Slowly, his head lifted and looked at the clear, brilliantly 
starry night. The clouds from the earlier thunderstorm had 
dissipated into the sapphire mass of sky, leaving a moon that had 
ripened into a full ivory circle. All week it had been near 
completion, and now it had risen, round and strong, whole and... 
Truly complete. 

Mulder was beginning to understand that. 

Images were still drifting through his head idly... At one 
moment, he saw his sister falling from a bridge, a sacrifice for 
the beautiful and battered redhead slumped fearfully in his car, 
and at the next he saw his sister again, pained and uncertain in 
the brash light of a diner. Sometimes his father was there, 
laying guilt on his shoulders with great expertise, and then he 
was lying in a pool of blood on a bathroom floor. His mother was 
comatose at one moment and then slapping his cheek vehemently at 
the next. 

Yet none of these marked the rocky path that was carving itself 
out more than the same woman who slept elegantly and peacefully 
on a cream-colored chaise downstairs. 

Nobody else was there more than Scully. 

She was there in hospital hallways, lit by the electronically 
cold glow of morgues and mortuaries. She was there in dark cars, 
smiling at him enigmatically in a way that gave life to dull 
stakeouts. She was there to hold his hand when a family member or 
a cherished belief died. She was there in silent grief when one 
of hers died as well, his arms wrapped around her or his hand 
caressing hers. She was there in a thousand subtle ways and in a 
million significant ones. She was the constant factor in the 
circling mass of chaos. 

Flinching, he heard her panicked voice as a man named Duane Barry 
shattered her life and saw the stark black and white photograph 
of her bound and gagged in a trunk. He saw her surrounded by 
machinery and lingering near death on multiple painful occasions. 
And he felt... 

Oh, God, what he *felt*... 

Seeing was supposedly believing, but it was what Mulder felt 
ingrained deep within his mind that led him to wonder if what he 
was experiencing was something more than a hallucination or a 
continuation of a dream. It was the feeling of falling in love 
with this auburn apparition, of falling so deeply that he was 
burrowed within her. It was as though he was connected to her, 
intertwined with her, all starting from a single urge of trust 
that had blossomed into passionate desire and unbelievably 
fathomless love. 

A breeze rushed past his face and pushed through his hair, 
reminding him that he did not live in the fantasy that was 
unfolding within; he was a resident of the tangible world. And in 
the tangible world, it was nearly sunrise. 

His head ached terribly as he stumbled in through the French 
doors and into the house, the linen curtains caressing his skin 
like the seductive fingers of angels. They encouraged him to 
believe with gentle, soothing words. //It's true,// they 
murmured. //It's all true.// 

Then there she lay. 

The bare slope of her slender back was arched like a sliver of 
moon as she slept on her stomach. Moonlight traced the outline of 
her spine, shimmering across her straight shoulder blades and 
caressing her slim, strong arms. The sky-colored throw blanket 
only covered her bottom half, and the gentle rise of her buttocks 
swelled beneath the fine fabric. That startling tumble of red 
hair was smooth and flawlessly streaked with indigo... 

Like it had been in his dream. The dream where she had lain just 
this still and silent in the hospital bed, hooked up to various 
machinery which monitored the end of her life. The fine lines of 
her hand stretched across the place where his body had lain only 
minutes earlier, though it felt like a lifetime. 

Perhaps it was. 

Perhaps it was another lifetime. 

Then realization struck him, and he couldn't move. Couldn't 
stand. Couldn't do anything but reel from the force of what sort 
of hellish hand fate had dealt them both. 

"Oh my God..." he whispered. 

Another lifetime. 

***** 

Residence of Dana Scully 
Charleston, South Carolina 
7:03 AM, August 17, 1999 

***** 

The sun ascended from the bed of sparkling blue Atlantic with 
slow silence, not needing to speak a single word with the 
vermilion vibrancy that it displayed in its swollen glory. Orange 
and tangerine streaked the sky until it was the color of ripe 
carnations, and it cast glitter and gold over the smooth, glassy 
waters cradling the peninsula of Charleston. Dunes swayed in the 
gentle, lulling breeze like tapering fingers of grass, and the 
sound of the small waves lapping against the Battery was nearly 
inaudible. A great calm had enveloped the city, encasing it and 
somehow distancing it from the rest of the world, detaching it so 
that it floated tranquilly amidst the sunrise without the bother 
of people. 

It was to this calm that Dana Scully woke, her head filled with 
strangeness and her heart caught in an eerie lull. 

Fingers fanned out in the dim but brightening light of the sun as 
she stretched her hands out, and she watched them turn in the 
muted gold rays. A fuzzy sort of lethargy that lingered from 
slumber covered her head and shielded her from the acceptance of 
reality, and she chose to remain caught between sleep and waking 
for another moment. Blanketed by the thin blue quilt and 
protected from the sun by a fine veil of stars, she stretched her 
body on the chaise, arching her back like a cat, feeling her toes 
separate as she stretched her feet as well. 

The dawn-induced daze that she was wrapped in lifted slightly, 
revealing a memory of something lost aeons ago. The memory was 
painted in shades of dark blue and violet, of flashing crimson 
light that continued with the rhythm of a strobe, while rope 
chafed the sensitive skin on the insides of her wrists. A loose 
white strip of cloth dangled from around her neck, and her entire 
body ached from struggle and the hideous experience of being 
bound and gagged. Cuts and scrapes lined her face, and she hurt. 
She hurt a lot. And she *hated* being tied like this; she had to 
get free, had to get free *now*... 

Mulder's gentle hands lifted her bound ones and calmly, tenderly 
undid the knots, while she felt tears of exhaustion, fear, and 
relief spring to her eyes. She shook her hands free and whispered 
unconvincingly that she was fine, but one crooked finger lifted 
her scraped chin slightly, and the pain and worry captured in his 
dark hazel eyes broke the fragile glass of her resolve. 

She dissolved into tears, her body racking from the force of 
them, and propelled her body into his arms, feeling his hands 
stroke her hair lovingly while his mouth whispered words of 
comfort into her ear. All that she could do was cry, cry tears of 
grief and exhaustion, until her body was empty and she was free. 

Now fully awake, Scully turned on her side to look for the man 
who had fallen asleep beside her last night, but all that she saw 
was empty space. A pillar of light peeked through the French 
doors and shone onto the place where Mulder was supposed to be, 
but all that was there was that one fragile sunbeam. Furrowing 
her brow, she wondered where he had gone off to, knowing that he 
couldn't have gotten far with most of his clothing still strewn 
carelessly around the polished wood floor. Her leg dangled 
absently from the edge of the vanilla chaise, her bare toes 
sweeping the floor as it swung back and forth, and her big toe 
caught on the leg of his trousers. He was still here... Still 
here around her somewhere... 

Groaning, Scully sat up straight in the makeshift bed, the blue 
throw blanket falling from her body so that the sun could warm 
her naked breasts and skin. She stepped into the pair of 
wisteria-print panties from the previous night and indulged 
herself by slipping into Mulder's discarded dress shirt. One of 
her favorite things was sleeping in her lovers' shirts, just to 
smell their lingering scent on her own skin. 

She rolled up the sleeves to just above her elbows and stumbled 
somewhat blindly into the kitchen, wondering if he was in there, 
cooking breakfast or making coffee. The platter of abandoned 
chicken from the night before was still sitting out, and Scully 
reflexively covered the uneaten dinner with Saran wrap and put it 
in the refrigerator. Domestic little things that she was used to 
doing, like thawing leftover Chinese food, even though most of it 
was the ginger chicken that Mulder liked and not her vegetable lo 
mein that he always ended up stealing... 

Scully blinked. She didn't know where that came from. 

Abandoning the kitchen, she walked upstairs to her bedroom, 
wondering if his lean body had been unable to get comfortable on 
the small chaise the night before. Perhaps he had just moved 
upstairs to stretch out in her queen-sized bed, with Duchess's 
lithe body wrapped around his slender feet purring like a fur- 
covered motor. 

A stray image crossed her mind as she walked down the small 
hallway to her bedroom. Mulder, lying in her bed, delirious with 
fever and covered in his father's blood, babbling incoherently 
about a digital tape and following the path to the truth, pain 
and grief etched across the beautiful lines of his face until he 
finally drifted off into a dark slumber. But it wasn't her bed 
that he was in. Yet she felt a certainty that the striped 
bedcovers belonged to her, that she was the owner, even though 
she wasn't. 

Shaking her head, Scully entered her bedroom as she knew it, with 
its cream décor and wide French doors covered by linen curtains. 
Mulder was still nowhere to be seen, but as the linen curtains 
billowed and blew on the breeze, the distinct figure of a tall, 
lanky man could be discerned through the thin fabric. Broad 
shoulders, narrow hips, long legs, all cast in the shadow of the 
rising sun on her wooden balcony. 

Scully parted the curtains with her hand and walked to him. 

The distended crimson orb that was the morning sun was now midway 
between the ocean and the heavens, slowly rising to its rightful 
place at the top of the cloudless sky. Lavender and lilac stained 
the sky with the light liquidity of watercolors, and the ocean 
seemed a mass of deep rose sprinkled with gold. Then smoke rose 
to halo the sun, crowning and encircling it with a cloud the 
color of Spanish moss, and Mulder stared out into it all, his 
hazel eyes calculating the distance from the sea to the shore. 

Loving eyes trailed down the strong length of his body with vast 
admiration. As a doctor, she carried with her a very unique 
appreciation and perspective of the human body. She knew the 
workings of every muscle beneath his copper skin, knew the 
structure of his bones and the flow of blood through his veins. 
With every movement that he made, she knew what went on beneath 
the surface, and that only made his body more beautiful. She 
loved watching him move his arms, turn his hands, just because of 
the knowledge that beneath the simplicity of these motions there 
was a deep complexity. 

Dark mahogany hair curled over the nape of his neck, and she 
walked toward him, her hands covering the back of his neck in a 
touch that sent a shiver of broken memory through her body. Her 
hand touching his neck in winter, while snow and blizzard blew 
outside and heat intensified within. Tension and want turned her 
body into a taut instrument of arousal as she cupped the column 
of his neck and massaged the rich gold skin. He had the most 
incredible skin... 

The image fluttered away, leaving Scully wondering what the hell 
was going on with her this morning. It was as though Mulder had 
invaded every aspect of her life, from her home to her memories. 

Mulder sighed and then watched as his breath traveled on the 
humid breeze. Watched the release of his breath move toward the 
sky, dissolving in the morning light as it did so. He knew that 
she was there behind him, heard the small padding of her bare 
feet and felt the heat of her gaze on his back. Mulder couldn't 
return the gaze, even though he wanted to. He desperately wanted 
to, but he couldn't. 

He couldn't give her the kind of life that he had dreamed of last 
night. 

The random series of events that had flashed before his eyes last 
night had connected over the hours into a complete piece of time, 
starting from his graduation at Quantico. He saw himself go to 
work for Bill Patterson, saw himself write the profile for Monty 
Props and saw him testifying at the trial for John Barnett. All 
of these things were recognizable things, memories that he had 
had for a very long time, like working for Patterson and writing 
profiles for monsters like John Lee Roche. Yet somewhere along 
the history of Fox Mulder's depressing and desolate life, there 
had been a deviation from the path. 

The introduction of Diana Fowley and the discovery of the X- 
Files. 

From there, everything turned haywire. He discovered the X-Files, 
underwent regression hypnosis from Dr. Heitz Werber, and decided 
that his sister had been abducted by aliens. Diana had left him 
at that point, and it had hurt, but the X-Files were there in 
their magnificence and mystery. He worked on them relentlessly, 
throwing his career away and turning himself into a laughingstock 
relegated to the basement of the FBI. 

Then they assigned Dana Scully. 

She had shown up on the threshold to his office wearing a 
tasteless plaid suit and an arrogant, elegant expression on her 
unique and slender face. Red hair hung immaculately around her 
face and swung around her shoulders, framing her shoulders and 
showing proud, skeptical blue eyes the color of the glassy 
Charleston Harbor. 

And the Fox Mulder of the X-Files liked her. 

The years went by in a painful entourage of conspiracy, lies, 
deception and torture. This other Mulder watched as everyone 
turned against him, as his father died and his mother revealed 
her deception, and as everything good was taken away from him 
through trial and fire. Viruses and plots to destroy the world 
through colonization and ex-lovers returning in the form of 
vipers ran through his head, until everything that he had trusted 
was ruined. 

Including Scully. 

The torment that she endured was excruciatingly painful to bear 
witness to, and all because of his quest for a sister whose face 
blurred in his memory with the passing of every year. They took 
Scully and experimented on her, combining her blood with 
something that Scully didn't even believe in, implanting a chip 
into the slender nape of her neck that, when removed, gave her a 
disease which nearly killed her. She lost her ability to have 
children and therefore possess the future that she had always 
wanted, and then discovered a daughter who was never meant to be. 

And the other Mulder had fallen in love with her. 

Small fingers looped through his, and he turned his head slightly 
to see a painfully beautiful woman swimming in his dress shirt 
leaning against the railing of her balcony. Shards of red hair 
fell across her face in a striking manner, and his heart hurt at 
the anguished pictures of her that had torn through his mind. 

Yet that woman wasn't this woman. But she was. Or wasn't she? 

Sullen brown-gold eyes stared out dismally at the rose-tinted 
seas that stretched before them, and she wondered at what he was 
looking at that so disturbed him. 

//he stood out on the cliffs, tie loosened around his neck so 
that it flapped in the ocean wind like a banner of gold and 
green, filled with the regrets of letting that one man die, a man 
who had not been worth much in the first place but in his eyes, 
they were all worth something// 

Sharply, she took in her breath, feeling a jolt of pain flush 
through her mind at the thoughts that swarmed through her body. 
"Jesus," she muttered, and Mulder turned his head sharply at 
that. 

A swirl of images turned in her mind's eye, like a sort of 
twisted kaleidoscope constructed of memory, and as the wheel 
turned the colors and memories shifted, displaying a different 
window. She could see the images of him lying cold and dead to 
the world in a bathtub in Alaska, of her daughter's coffin lying 
open and empty, of the two men staring each other down in a 
hospital room, a revolver between them and death imminent... 

Then she shook her head forcefully and the kaleidoscope stilled. 

They showered together and sex happened as a surprise, not as 
something that had been seductively planned or hinted at as all 
of their other couplings had been. A hand caressed the side of 
her face and she remembered a nonexistent kiss in a hallway where 
his hands had cupped her face just like that. Her hand tousled 
his hair once and he recalled a stolen moment after a case 
involving cut out hearts and the return of a vicious child 
molester. They kissed and both remembered the want for a kiss, 
the intensity of that desire, even though it had been fulfilled 
many times in the past couple of days. 

While he pulsed inside of her, watching her brows furrow and her 
face contort with the oncoming power of ecstasy, he felt as 
though he was making love to two different women with the same 
unique heart. The woman who was the Charlestonian pathologist and 
the woman who was the cold FBI agent... They were all and the 
same in the confines of the shower, her red hair a vividly damp 
tangle of vermilion under the hot showerhead. "Scully," Mulder 
gasped, and the familiarity of her name was painful. God, how 
many times had he said it? How many times had he whispered it, 
cried it, screamed it, begged for it? 

"Scully!" 

She didn't know. Didn't know who or what she was, who was inside 
of her both physically and mentally, but she knew that the force 
with which he made love to her was driving something into her 
mind. A horribly lush story of a man haunted by the disappearance 
of his sister who stumbled onto the conspiracy to destroy the 
world and in return became its hero. And it was her story, too. 
Her story of pain. Her story of loss. Her story of destruction 
and torment. 

Who was it now who made love to her with the passion of a lover 
and the poignancy of a martyr? Who was Fox Mulder? Was he 
profiler or savior? Man or myth? 

Oh, God, she didn't know. She didn't *know*. 

Hands gripped her slender back as the two came together with a 
violent and startling synchronicity, and she clung to his skin 
until the shattering orgasm subsided and cooling water poured 
over her face, slinking down her shoulders to pool in the bottom 
of the tub. Scully gasped for breath, leaning her forehead 
against his chest, and his chin rested against the top of her 
head as he panted from a dark mixture of pleasure and pain. 

The only audible sounds were their labored breath and the 
hammering of the showerhead onto their bodies. Confusion reigned, 
tearing her insides apart as the same story that Mulder had 
received began to unfurl within Scully's being, painting her mind 
with the horribly ravishing portrait that was her life in another 
world. A world where she had followed her heart rather than her 
head and it had led her to Fox Mulder. 

But that was not her world. That was her mind, playing tricks on 
her, and she had to get out of the shower and dry off. Without 
giving Mulder another glance, she stepped out of the shower and 
into her terry cloth robe, not noticing the choked gasp of pain 
that he exerted upon seeing her in that particular garment. She 
didn't know that part yet. Didn't know about the hospital hallway 
where she had stood in a similar robe, telling Mulder that even 
though she was dying, she would never give up. 

Never. 

Water poured over his body as he remained in the shower, the 
scent of her body lingering on the surface of his body. Like a 
thick humidity, it seeped beneath his skin, settled into his 
veins and starting its slow flow through his system. And with her 
presence came the slow weight of darker sensations, tunneling 
into his blood and melding with his persona. A sense of himself, 
this Other Mulder, tumbled into his body with a stumbling sort of 
grace. It was a man built on passion, on purpose and vibrancy, 
questing for truth and living for himself. A man forever 
tormented by oppression and skepticism, a man who had been robbed 
and ruined in so many ways, but it was a man who was better than 
this Mulder. 

It was a Mulder who was alive. 

Droplets of water sprayed from his face as he threw his head back 
and gripped the shower curtain, casting orb-shaped liquefied 
diamonds into the air as the torture of failure once again 
consumed him. Oh, God, what was happening to him? Who was he? Who 
should he have been? Everything else be damned; who was Fox 
Mulder now? 

Anguish still lingered in his stomach as he stepped out of the 
shower and wrapped a cream-colored towel around his waist. The 
extraordinary beauty of Scully's house was lost on him as he 
traveled through the mansion coated in Southern grace, past the 
vanilla bedroom where he had first made love to her and into the 
kitchen where she now stood, frozen with shock. 

Blue eyes stared in disbelief at the television set in her 
kitchen alcove. Damp red hair washed over her face in wet silk 
strands that shot across her face in broken fragments of crimson. 
"Scully?" Mulder asked quietly, not wanting to startle her. She 
did not respond, not even when he rested his hand on the nape of 
her neck, cupping the base of her skull with mild tenderness. 
Worried, he looked over her shoulder to see what had upset her, 
but all he saw was a tire commercial playing on the muted screen. 

Then her voice spoke. "I'm fine." 

Pained, Mulder closed his eyes, dropping his hand from the back 
of her neck. The fingertips were damp from the wetness of her 
hair and skin. She continued in an eerily calm voice. "Hurricane 
Becky surprised everyone last night," she said. "It hit warmer 
waters off the coast of the islands and started gaining strength. 
In a three-hour period, it went from having winds of 125mph to 
winds of 145. And this morning it officially has sustained winds 
of 160mph, making it a Category 5 hurricane." 

Mulder frowned. "Category 5? What kind of damage does that do?" 

Bitterly, she closed her eyes. 

"Catastrophic." 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 

***** 

***** 

Charleston County Library, Downtown Branch 
Charleston, South Carolina 
10:53 AM, August 17, 1999 

***** 

Sunlight billowed voluminously inside the high arches of the 
library, cascading down from the windows in pillars of golden 
warmth. The smell of ink and paper filled the air with its unique 
scent of literature, the tangible aroma of fiction mingled and 
somehow merged with fact, creating a thick entwining of poetry 
and probability. Dust fell lazily and languidly in the light, 
falling to coat everything with a touchable shadow. 

It shimmered across the vivid red of her hair, the tamed bob of 
crimson shot through with carnelian and copper, as she sat in 
front of the computer while light reflected across the thin orbs 
of her glasses. She noticed nothing, did not feel the dust as it 
caressed her skin with feather-soft kisses. All of her attention 
was focused on the information given to her on the monitor. 

Projected paths and satellite imagery of the menacing Becky 
flashed over the screen, showing the taut discipline of the 
hurricane's structure. A glaring, unflinching eye stared at her 
from the center of the storm's dark red convection and heavy 
rain, and Scully stared at it back with equal force mixed with 
human curiosity. A center of calm amidst the constant chaos... 
She had heard stories of sailors sitting in the middle of the 
ocean during a hurricane, fighting for their lives until the eye 
passed over. And then, the sky lit with colors that they had 
never seen before. It was as though heaven gave them a canvas of 
hope, a reason to survive, by staining the sky crimson and indigo 
before letting hell resume its fury. 

Wincing, Scully removed her glasses and set them carefully on the 
table. She could have researched this at home, but she needed the 
escape. Ever since the possibility of a hurricane had entered her 
mind, she had needed to venture outside into the beautiful city 
she loved so dearly. The Holy City, crowned with steeples and 
lined by the protection of saltwater marsh. She had walked the 
Battery alone, taking her steps slowly instead of blurring the 
line between land and ocean with speed. 

That line had almost been erased completely anyway. 

A shudder ran through her spine. Scully had left her yellow 
refuge for reasons other than seeking research on the storm. Her 
encounter with Mulder earlier this morning, along with the 
strangeness of her dreams, had not left her with a very strong 
desire to remain in his arms or in their makeshift bed. A 
thousand memories that she didn't really remember were swirling 
through her head, and she was doing her damn best to ignore them 
completely. Now was not the time to linger on frivolities such as 
dreams anyway. Not when her world was threatened with 
destruction. 

Much like any other resident of the South, Scully had a love-hate 
relationship with it. She loved its beauty and distinction, its 
history and its natural surroundings. She loved the wisteria in 
June and the rich salty smell of marshes right before the set of 
the sun. It had enraptured her and ensnared her since her initial 
arrival into the city, when she was young and had no idea what 
the future would bring her except the certainty that it was not 
the future she had wanted. Charleston had seduced her from the 
beginning, charming her with visions of the Old South and the 
lulling, thick accents of the locals. The woman who had become 
accustomed to constant change and eternal change, from moving to 
one locale to another, never anchored or tethered to anything at 
all. The exquisite structure and style of the South lured her and 
appealed to her. The idea of settling down here, making a life 
and a name for herself under boughs of magnolias and shadowy arms 
full of azaleas, was a nice idea. 

And it was an idea that faded as time went on. 

She did not belong in the South. As much as she loved the sway of 
the dunes and the music of the marsh, she had never found a home 
among the stubbornness of the Southern rituals and beliefs, not 
even after she inherited her ancient Southern mansion. Scully was 
not a Southern woman. She was not a woman of any land or 
anchorage. Untethered to anything or anyone, she felt as though 
she was floating through life like flotsam or driftwood, seeking 
moorings in anything or anyone. And the only time she ever felt a 
true sense of belonging was in bed with Mulder, in Mulder's mere 
presence. Or in the myriad of dreams that she was trying so 
desperately to bury in the back of her consciousness. 

The Internet sites changed as Scully abandoned the link to the 
National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Association for a link to 
her Pathology Message Board, narrowing her eyes as she scrolled 
past the various posts. A few fellow coroners had responded to 
the post concerning the Skinner victims last night, and she 
eagerly selected them and read what her colleagues had suggested. 

Mollie203 had replied with, "You may want to investigate the 
possibilities of lightning involvement and check with the NOAA 
about lightning strike occurrences recently... Possible high 
voltage units involved as well, yet there would be burn marks in 
the shape of wires or transmitters would definitely be 
noticeable. Strange!" Scully frowned and pressed the next report, 
which was infinitely more helpful than the previous. 

"Judging by the photographs you sent, I'd have to say that I 
agree with the FBI's opinion that lightning was possibly 
involved," DrDeath232 mused. "And I also agree with Mollie's 
suggestion about lightning strikes. Checking the lightning strike 
occurrences could lead to possible crime scenes and valuable 
evidence. BTW, Scully, there are machines and transmitters which 
do not require application and can produce this amount of 
electricity without a direct lightning strike, but the machine 
required to produce such electricity would be large and probably 
necessitate actual lightning to operate. I concur with your 
opinion that a person with the capability to actually generate or 
conduct lightning is scientifically highly improbable at the 
least. Fascinating case - tell me how it turns out." 

Hopefully, it would turn out well. Hopefully, Mulder's profiling 
and her sound scientific analyses would lead to an arrest and 
justice for the murdered women. It was the goal that she was 
working for - a solid end to the case, so that Mulder could go 
back to his world and she could continue on in hers. 

Before she fell in love with him. 

A shadow fell on her back, and for a moment, she thought it was 
him. Fear touched her spine as she wondered if he had followed 
her even to this library, but it turned out that she was quite 
wrong. It was an older man, balding and wearing a cheap suit, 
frowning at the screen next to her. "Shit," he muttered, and 
Scully turned her head to look at the newest advisory on 
Hurricane Becky from the National Weather Association. 

She did not have to see a diagram or a forecast trajectory to 
know what was unraveling before her. No currents or streams were 
buffering the coast to protect the city from the approach of the 
storm. Warm seas lay ahead of the Category 5 hurricane, leading 
to further strengthening before it snaked toward the coast. In 
other words, a little bit of Hell was circling out in the 
Atlantic, nearing the Bahamas before it continued on the path to 
the United States, and fear was beginning to bloom along with the 
late season wisteria. 

"Something wicked this way comes," the man drawled, and Scully 
turned around to look up at him. There was a darkness in the 
man's honey-soaked bass, a note of ripening fear, and she felt 
the same lump of terror start blossoming within her stomach at a 
variety of different things. Becky, the Skinner, Mulder... It was 
all something terrible boiling beneath her skin and threatening 
to overcome her. Surfacing was an inevitability. Change was 
absolutely imminent. 

And what would she be able to do? 

//Nothing,// something whispered. //There's nothing that you can 
do to stop it, Scully.// 

But there *was* something she could do - call Mulder. 

"Mulder," he answered in his usual but somehow mesmerizing droll 
voice. 

"Mulder, it's me," she said, feeling a sense of deja vu wash over 
her at the familiarity of their conversation. She knew his reply 
before he breathed a single syllable, knew it like she knew the 
color of her own hair or the lines on her palm. 

"Where are you, Scully?" 

Closing her eyes, she took a breath before opening her eyes and 
reading the computer screen. "I'm at the library, doing a little 
research on the case," she said. "I've got an idea here that 
could be helpful, if you're willing to hear me out." 

"Always," Mulder responded, and she continued on. 

"I think that this does have something to do with lightning, just 
not in the way that you think," she said, reading through the 
NOAA site again through the fine lenses of her circular glasses. 
"A friend online suggested that lightning could be involved with 
the murders through generators and transmitters, and that that 
lightning can be transmitted without the use of wiring or 
applicators. Yet in order for such pure amounts of electricity to 
be harnessed, it would require an actual bolt of lightning." 

"Go on," Mulder said, and Scully licked her lips, reading through 
the sites. 

"All of the nights when the murders occurred did have strikes of 
lightning, all in areas around where the bodies were later 
discovered," she said. "I'm e-mailing you a link to the site, 
Mulder. This could be the key to pinpointing the crime scenes." 

An excited note entered into his voice, electrifying his bass 
tones with energy and heat. "Yes, it certainly could," he said. 
"I'm right on it, Scully. Thanks." With nothing more than that 
final signal of gratitude, he hung up the phone and ended the 
conversation, leaving Scully smiling to herself slightly while 
returning to the link to the initial message board. 

There was one more reply to her earlier post concerning the 
anonymous information on the Skinner, and she clicked on it, 
bringing up RickRocket2's message. "While I agree that looking 
for lightning strike sites is an excellent way to track down 
possible crime scenes, I'm not so sure that Dr. Death is 
completely correct on his theory involving lightning 
transmitters," Rick wrote. "Click this link to learn about an 
interesting story which supports your FBI contact's theory." 

Frowning, Scully clicked the offered link and found her heart 
fall to the floor when the article popped up on the screen: 

"THE STRANGE CASE OF DARREN PETER OSWALD" 

She did not have to read the article to know the logistics of the 
story. It was all tucked away in the recesses of a strange, 
second memory, where she had witnessed the power of Darren Oswald 
firsthand, the powers of the boy who could channel and generate 
lightning after being a victim of several lightning strike 
attacks. The boy that Mulder had tracked down using video game 
scores, who was sickly and sadly in love with a teacher he 
couldn't ever possess. The photographs and stories documented in 
the article varied only slightly differently from the case that 
Scully had worked in her mind, only the ending was a tad more 
ominous and depressing. The teacher that the misguided Darren had 
loved so dearly had died with him, a victim of the lightning 
which had made the ordinary boy so hideously unique. 

Yet how could she know this? How could she possibly know the 
details of a case that she had never worked or seen before? How 
could she know that this woman was even directly related to 
Oswald in the first place, let alone know how this case varied 
from the one her memory recalled with such blinding precision. 

A seductive whisper rushed through her head, taking control of 
her sensibilities and igniting her curiosity. //Maybe Oswald 
isn't the only one that was true,// this voice murmured. //Maybe 
there are other cases out there. Other truths to be found and 
verified.// 

Part of her wanted to know. Scully wanted evidence. It was all 
that she ever wanted. Cold, hard fact to either solidly deny or 
solidly confirm what she hypothesized or believed. The dreamer 
within her wanted to believe in the fantasia of working on exotic 
cases, on uncovering magnitudes of truth, and of living side by 
side with a man as passionate and intense as Fox Mulder, but the 
scientist and rationalist inside demanded fact to back it up. She 
was infinitely grateful for that voice of reason, telling her 
that if she was worried about what she felt, then she should 
simply look for proof to either back up her beliefs or discard 
them. 

So Scully linked herself to the federal search engine she had 
access to as a county coroner, and began looking for things that 
were beginning to come into focus as "X-Files". 

What she found was an enormous wealth of information that she 
wished she hadn't found at all. 

Names led to names, cases and disturbances led to volumes of 
unsolved mysteries that, if printed and bound, could fill the 
wide halls of the city library. The name Donnie Pfaster led her 
to an FBI file containing somewhat classified information about a 
fetishist who had been arrested in the Philadelphia area in 1995 
after a series of over twelve murders and sixteen graves that had 
been desecrated. Again, her memory recalled a far less 
destructive case, ended thanks to the solid police work and 
profiling made by her partner and by her escape from the human 
monster's clutches. 

She uncovered files on dozens of people, from Eugene Tooms to 
Duane Barry, of Donald Krump and Robert Modell. Names which had 
been whispered to her on the light feathers of dreams were now 
made solid and true by the articles which flashed before her, and 
she did not have to read a single case to know the details of 
every murder and each mutant's quirks or habits. She knew them 
all by heart, from the Flukeman to Pusher's "suicides", and the 
only thing these files were missing were the notations of the 
FBI's involvement and the X-Files. 

It was a bittersweet discovery. Every file, every case, 
everything she had thought her mind had created was staring at 
her in the face with an irrefutable truth, daring her to 
challenge its validity, telling the scientist within that cold, 
hard fact supported her emotions and feelings. Something was 
terribly wrong, and it wasn't just the weather. 

Dust shimmered down like angel's breath, fluttering down onto the 
computer monitor as she stared blankly at the screen. "Something 
wicked this way comes," Scully murmured aloud, echoing the man's 
earlier sentiments. 

Something very, very wicked. 

***** 

Magnolia Swamp Gardens 
Charleston, South Carolina 
12:24 PM, August 17, 1999 

***** 

Thick, murky pluff mud sucked in Mulder's thigh-high rubber boots 
as he waded through the dark, gelatinous swamp mud. Wincing, he 
looked down through the layer of algae and vivid green moss in 
hopes of seeing where his feet stood, and all that he saw was 
impenetrable brown water surrounding his sinking feet. 
"Disgusting," he muttered to himself, and the caretaker beside 
him chuckled. 

"Yankee," the caretaker teased, but it wasn't a malicious 
comment. Just a gentle poke at Mulder's obvious discomfort in the 
thick grime and mud of the Carolina swamps. "I told you we could 
trouble Bobby for the boat, but it ain't much further till we get 
to the little island." The caretaker grinned at the expression on 
the Yankee's face. "You do look mighty cute in my overalls." 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Mulder muttered, not wanting to be teased 
about his appearance anymore until this humiliating swamp walk 
was over and he could take a very long, very intense shower. A 
very, very long shower. "You claim you were here when the 
lightning struck?" 

While pushing past a growth of swamp grass, the middle-aged 
caretaker nodded. "Yep," he said. "My wife and I live about a 
quarter of a mile down from here, and we were here during the 
storm. Real strange one. It just blew up and then calmed down 
real fast. The kids were scared, and my dog, Texas, was barkin' 
his head off at it, but we didn't think much of it until the next 
morning when they found that poor woman's body." The caretaker 
shook his head as he swatted at a particularly large and greedy 
mosquito. "Sad state of affairs, that woman. I just hope you guys 
catch this son of a bitch and put him where he belongs." 

Grimacing, Mulder nodded in agreement while trying to escape his 
own pesky crowd of insect paparazzi. "That's what we're all 
working for," he said. "During this storm, did you see any other 
bolts of lightning?" 

"Nope," he said, trudging steadily through the mass of swamp and 
grass. "Things were pretty much rain and wind, some thunder, but 
no lightning except for what hit the old cottage. I'd have to say 
that it was a fairly irregular storm - right after that lightning 
hit, the whole thing calmed down, like there'd never been any 
storm at all." The caretaker shook his head. "I've never seen 
anything like it... Anything at all." 

A haunted silence fell then with the grace of a swooping heron, 
leaving the two men to quietly continue on the path through the 
winding labyrinth of fallen trees and murky water. The suction of 
the mud became easier to deal with as Mulder continued forward, 
and even though the water was cold it was oddly enough refreshing 
to walk through when compared to the humidity of the day. Spanish 
moss dangled and swayed in the breeze, and Mulder caught a sudden 
flash of what it must have looked like the night that Lisa 
Sanford was murdered - twisting in the thick summer wind like 
hag's hair, while the clouds swirled overhead in a constant circle 
of wind and night... 

What must she have been feeling before she died... Desperation? 
No, no desperation. Despair was for the weak, and these women all 
possessed unfathomable wells of strength. No, Lisa must have 
been looking up at the skies overhead, knowing her fate, knowing 
that she would never see daylight again, before she closed her 
eyes and died for herself. She never gave him what he wanted. She 
never gave him the essence that lay beneath the fine and fragile 
paper of her skin. He could rape her, he could pillage her, he 
could scar and wound her, but when he set her body on fire, she 
would still be herself. 

He wondered if Lisa Sanford died with a smile. 

The caretaker lifted his arm and gestured to a small house 
surrounded by a grove of thick oaks. "That's it," he said. "The 
cottage." 

Mulder was never so happy as to remove the mud-soaked boots and 
walk barefoot to the cabin, feeling his wet toes revel in the 
cleanness of the grass beneath him. Wincing, he stared through 
the protective walls that the trees provided and into the windows 
of the old, rundown cottage. There was a smell that permeated 
through the thick stench of the mud and his own sweat, and that 
smell was painfully familiar to him. It was the smell that had 
been destroying him for the past six years under Patterson's 
supervision, and that smell was the corrosive odor of lingering 
death. 

"Holy shit," the caretaker muttered under his breath, and Mulder 
looked closely at the cabin, procuring the waterproof disposable 
camera he had picked up at a drug store on the drive over. "What 
the hell happened here?" 

"Something wicked," Mulder muttered, and he wondered where his 
words had come from. Oh, well. No time to ponder. He had work to 
do. 

Snapshot after snapshot of the house followed that initial moment 
of awe and discovery, and he entered the house with great 
trepidation, breaking out his crime scene kit. A hideous aroma 
lay underneath the smell of murder, and Mulder wrinkled his nose 
at it. "What the hell," he muttered, and this time, the caretaker 
spoke. 

"I know that smell," he said. "My daddy was a butcher when I was 
a kid, and he wanted me to follow him in that particular 
profession. This is the same smell at the slaughterhouse, when he 
smoked turkeys or hogs. Seared flesh." 

"Human flesh," Mulder murmured, scouring the place over after 
snapping on plastic gloves. "Jesus Christ, we've hit the jackpot." 

Rust-colored stains littered the ancient floor of the small 
cottage, and Mulder bent down to scrape the samples of dried 
blood from the rotting wood. Something terrible had happened 
here, and Mulder had a very good idea as to what that "something 
terrible" was. Lightning and murder, all mixed in and splashed 
across the plantation cottage nestled among the oaks and the 
swamps. Frowning, he scoured the floors, searching for further 
evidence. It was stunning, the amount of blood that had seeped 
into the absorbent pine of the floor, of just how vicious and 
violent the murder had been. This woman had not just been 
murdered. 

She had been annihilated. 

"Good Lord," the caretaker whispered, and Mulder turned around 
slowly, lowering his voice. 

"Would you mind if I had a few minutes alone?" he asked politely. 
"I just need to get a feel of the crime scene. I'll be out in a 
couple of minutes." He was met with no resistance from the 
obviously disturbed Southerner, and as soon as the overall-clad 
worker exited the cottage, Mulder recreated the murder itself in 
the terrible lens of his mind's eye. 

She had been bound but not gagged. Ropes were required to keep 
her from escaping, but he had questions for her. There were 
things he wanted to know, needs he wanted fulfilled, and the only 
way he could retrieve his answers was through conversation while 
the storm churned and built overhead. Electricity began winding 
in the air, sparking as thunder rumbled in the closing distance, 
and the candlelight showed the copper of the young woman's 
flawless skin. 

Her skin was flawless on the surface. It was cool, creamy, clear 
and utterly smooth, like paper silk to the touch, obviously 
pampered and smelling faintly of some expensive cream. Not oily, 
not sweaty, nothing but sheer perfection and precision. She 
possessed the hands of a true woman, slightly callused but worn 
with pride, with manicured fingernails that weren't painted and 
weren't obscenely long. They were skilled, not useless 
butterflies like most women made their hands out to be, and their 
perfume wasn't flowery or particularly feminine. No, they were 
clean hands. They were clean hands that were strong and capable, 
strengthened by piano or the passion for work. 

The passion for pathology. The passion for truth. The passion 
that he had experienced as her slender, strong hands ran down his 
back and reached for his buttocks, holding his body close to hers 
as she wrapped her legs around him, taking him inside of her 
until she climaxed in an explosion that rivaled any storm. 

Bleary eyes looked up from the blood-splattered floor, and Mulder 
winced at the sudden shift from profiling to fantasy. Dana 
Scully. He had blocked her from his mind since leaving her house 
this morning, and he thought had done so successfully. Yet it was 
impossible to deny the life that had flashed before his eyes in 
his dream, and all of the complexities of that life as well. 

The X-Files were the most intriguing aspect of all. 

Ever since the abduction or disappearance of his sister, Mulder 
had harbored a unique fascination with the most extreme of 
possibilities. The X-Files held a myriad of fascinating mythology 
turned into fact, and they all led to a truth that he could not 
deny. Beneath a million lies fed by the government to the public, 
underneath layers of deception and conspiracy, there was a 
devastating outcome that could destroy the world. It was his 
goal, his mission, to destroy the destroyers, to prevent that 
event from ever occurring. 

Colonization must be thwarted. 

It was the goal that had united that other Mulder and Scully in 
their crusade against the Consortium's lies and vicious lashes 
against them. Thousands had died for the cause of self- 
preservation, for the denial of the right to live, and in this 
alternate world where the safety of survival itself was at stake, 
Fox Mulder and Dana Scully had lost everything but each other. So 
each other was all that they had. 

Fortunately for them, it was all they ever wanted. 

Running his hands over the smooth pine of the floor, Mulder 
washed his fingers over the splashes of blood, frowning at the 
red that was tossed liberally about like paint. The images of 
Lisa Sanford, tangled in submerged roots and vivid yellow 
jasmine ran through his brain at a stunning pace in conjuncture 
with the images of the other life where Fox Mulder was something 
more than a profiler. 

Where Fox Mulder was happy and alive. 

Bitterly, he closed his eyes and shut out the possibilities that 
raced through his mind. He still had a job to do here. Collect 
the evidence, analyze the evidence, build a profile based on the 
evidence. These were the duties of a good profiler, and Mulder 
was not just a good profiler. He was the best. He was to 
empathize with the victim and the killer, play both parts, and 
then make a solid arrest. X-Files and colonization were distant 
possibilities that he couldn't analyze now, and so he would focus 
on the case at hand. 

"Agent Mulder?" The caretaker had re-entered the cottage and now 
looked at the profiler warily. "I don't mean to rush you, but 
I've got to be getting back to my own house soon to get ready for 
the hurricane." 

Mulder turned around and frowned at the caretaker. "I thought 
Becky was a few days away from making landfall in the United 
States," he said, and the caretaker snorted with bitter humor. 

"You really are a Yank, Agent Mulder," he commented. "We don't 
mess around with storms like these. I was here for Hurricane Hugo 
with my family, and that storm ain't nothing compared to Becky. 
Nothing at all, sir. Nothing at all." The caretaker shook his 
head, eyes darkening as he looked up at the seemingly clear skies 
ahead. "I remember that hurricane, Agent Mulder. We had a storm 
like you wouldn't believe three days before the storm, then the 
next day we had clear skies and sunshine. Everything clears out 
when a storm like this comes." Fearful brown eyes stared darkly 
at Mulder. "I know what's gonna happen from here on out. This 
storm's gonna hit, and I'm taking my family and running now." 

A shudder ran down his spine, and Mulder wondered what would 
happen when the hurricane hit. 

He wondered what would happen before then, too. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER NINETEEN 

***** 

Wipeout Beach 
Folly Beach, South Carolina 
8:34 PM, August 17, 1999 

***** 

Furiously, the waves pounded the shore with fists constructed of 
liquid and foam, slamming onto the diamonds of sand with an anger 
and rage that was unfathomable and breathtaking. Sunlight 
descended in a fireball of tangerine and blood orange as the 
angered sea swallowed it whole, absorbing the fire into itself 
and increasing the vengeful manner with which the sea moved. 
Riptides were forming out in the Atlantic; dangerous tides which 
could destroy even the most capable swimmer with one vicious tug. 
Everything was dangerous off the coast now. 

Everything. 

With a shudder, Scully turned her back on the violent temper of 
the Atlantic. The formerly tranquil ocean had been stirred into a 
tempest of flaming cobalt and broken glass, and while the surfers 
were in paradise, she felt lost and unanchored. The tranquility 
of the tides had supported her, grounded her, and now, as the 
intense waves smashed ashore like iron liquid, Scully only felt 
further turmoil and torture. The world that she knew, that she 
understood, was tossed into a turbulent mass of confusion, all 
poignantly summarized by the anguished Atlantic. 

And City Hall... 

Pained, Scully closed her eyes and wrapped her arms tightly 
around her body, crisscrossing her slender arms around her 
abdomen in a futile effort to keep safe. It was the same position 
she had been walking in all day, tethering herself to herself in 
the hopes that she could keep herself grounded even as the rest 
of the world fell apart. As a light breeze began whispering 
through the city in a pale shadow of the hurricane's distant 
wrath, things began changing. The usually laid-back people of the 
Lowcountry were now warily watching the skies and the television. 
All eyes were on the massive storm churning out in the Atlantic. 
Cameras showed people cramming grocery stores and gas stations, 
lining up at banks to withdraw money and prepare to flee. It had 
all seemed so surreal, the uneasy conversations over Becky's 
position and its slow approach, as all the projected paths began 
guardedly pointing to South Carolina as the place of landfall. 

And so after work, carrying her briefcase full of printed out "X- 
Files", she walked through her city and wondered what was 
happening to it. Conversations took place outdoors, and Becky was 
the hot topic. With the ten-year anniversary of Hugo's landfall 
approaching in September, everyone had a memory or a nightmare to 
share. Loss of life, loss of property, loss of sleep and loss of 
normalcy... And the loss of City Hall. 

City Hall was one of the most majestic and magnificent buildings 
in Charleston and part of one of the Four Corners of Law. 
Judicial, federal, civil, and religious - all four aspects of law 
and government had their home on Broad Street. City Hall was the 
constant in Charleston. And it had been boarded up when she had 
walked home. Plywood covered the long, frosted glass windows on 
the front of the building, turning the strong institution into an 
abandoned dream. It was a sign. A sign that something was going 
to turn. That something was shifting inside the city, changing 
the world from stable and normal into something dark and 
hopeless. 

Something wicked this way comes. 

Manicured fingernails bit into her elbows as she tightened her 
grip on her arms, ducking her head into the sudden whip of wind 
that suddenly rushed across the beach. Hair fluttered around her 
face in an explosion of anguished vermilion, and Scully stopped 
her walk for a moment in a desperate attempt to find new 
moorings. She was losing it. Not her sanity, not her mind, but 
her life. Her world was dissolving like sand through her hands, 
eroding away into something that she could not reclaim or even 
understand. 

The roar of waves was not enough to drown out the low murmur of 
tenor that whispered into her ear. "Hey." 

Strong hands slid over her arms, tangling his slender fingers 
into hers until she was pressed up against the warmth of his 
stomach. A strong chin covered the top of her head, cupping and 
cradling her like a vertical spoon. Gratefully, she closed her 
eyes, thankful for his appearance and for his providing a basis 
for her. When the world was slipping away beneath the consuming 
force of the ocean tides, Mulder was here to show her that there 
was one constant in any world, in every world. 

And that constant was Mulder himself. 

Words ceased as the waves continued crashing on the shore, foam 
dancing across her bare toes like little bits of liquid lace. The 
cool Atlantic was a welcome relief from the constant Carolina 
heat, and water circled around her ankles, pooling around her 
feet. The pull of the tide was alluring, seductive, and subtly 
forceful, like the crook of a lover's finger enticing her into 
bed. Dunes swayed behind the two, creating a whispering rush that 
sounded like bedsheets. Gently, Mulder toyed with her fingers, 
and Scully looked down to stare at the tapering bronze digits 
that caressed her small, white palms. Copper and cream, tangled 
together against the tapestry of a tumultuous beach... She 
shivered when a gust of wind caressed the nape of her neck, 
kissing her in the possessive manner with which Mulder always 
kissed her. 

Yet the wind didn't know her as well as he did. 

Mulder's hands guided her to turn around in the circle of his 
embrace, pivoting her until she was forced to tilt her face up to 
look at him. Looking at him was like looking at two people - the 
profiler who lost his sister and the investigator who found the 
truth. She didn't know who he was in that moment. It was 
impossible to discern which man owned the pair of puissant hazel 
eyes flecked with sparks of gold and crystallized green, or which 
man owned the capable fingers that gravitated to the small of her 
back. Everything had become incredibly complex in such a small 
window of time... 

There was nothing more complicated than the various shades of 
emotions that flooded her body when he leaned down to grace her 
with a seemingly simple kiss. 

Soft, yielding lips drank hers in, and one hand abandoned her 
back to cup the back of her neck where the wind had kissed it 
earlier, fastening her mouth to his gently. A tongue traced the 
shape of her mouth with loving ease, and she responded by 
slipping her own tongue in between his lips, not delving, just 
dipping. It was as though they were wading through the kiss like 
they were wading through the water, not going deeper, but just 
enjoying the initial shallowness. Touching the surface but not 
breaking it. 

Scully couldn't break the surface. Beneath the exterior of 
rumpled suit and ruffled hair, there was a mass of 
impossibilities and variables that she couldn't understand or 
touch. Comprehending Mulder beyond the beauty of his mouth or the 
simplicity of his words was painstaking work, and she didn't know 
which man she was falling in love with. Was it this Mulder in 
this world, the real man, the man who was consumed by a 
combination of his own demons and the demons he was forced to 
hunt? Or was it the other Mulder, the Mulder her mind had 
created, propelled by tragedy to hunt literal demons? 

She didn't know. She just didn't know. But she did know one 
thing: she was falling in love. And that, in and of itself, was 
enough to scare the absolute shit out of her. 

Mulder remembered kissing her. He remembered the sensation of it, 
what it felt like to place her mouth underneath his and kiss the 
hell out of her. Passion and intensity, a touch of desperation, 
all forged through the heat of battle. It was an extraordinary 
kiss, and it hadn't even really been her he had been kissing. 
Just a clone of her, found on a boat in the middle of the Bermuda 
Triangle, and a substitute for a woman whom he thought he might 
never see again. Yet not a poor substitute. 

And this woman was certainly no substitute. 

Yet as he parted from this gentler kiss, he wondered whom he had 
been kissing. Both Dana Scullys were heavy on his mind, the 
pathologist and the agent, as was that other life. The 
tantalizing prospective life where his life meant something other 
than a disgusting failure - and God, he really was a failure. His 
parents had been right about that. Fox Mulder was nothing. A man 
who was partially destroyed by losing his sister and paid the 
penance by effectively destroying himself through profiling - 
yeah, that was this Fox Mulder. A man without a purpose was a sad 
man indeed. 

The roar of the waves smashed the sands behind him, and Mulder 
turned around to watch the water crash ashore again. "The ocean 
seems angry tonight," he murmured aloud, watching as an 
abnormally large wave grew offshore and began building as it 
rushed toward land. 

Locks of red hair beat constantly against his shoulder and her 
voice was intimate in spite of the loudness of the water and 
wind. "The hurricane's stirred it up," she replied, her voice 
dark with foreboding concern. "Funny... I always come out here 
whenever a hurricane passes by. The surfers love it for the 
waves, but there's something so magnificent about watching the 
sunset in a sea so riled up as this. The skies are clear and the 
water's turbulent. Everything's different. Changed." She 
shrugged, and her face was obscured by the flurry of crimson that 
dashed around her fine features. "Storms always change 
everything." 

"How is that funny?" he asked, furrowing his brow as he looked 
down for an answer, and she paused, uncertain as to how to answer 
him. 

"I guess it's because now everything's already changed, and I 
can't find anything that's not different," was her grudging 
reply, the volume of her voice never breaking past a whisper. 

Tangles and brambles of fire swam around her face, drifting and 
floating around her ears in a mass of vermilion violence. The 
world was disturbed today, thrown off balance, and Scully had 
become a part of that skewered universe, whether she liked it or 
not. The entire world had been set afire by the blaze of sunset 
and crimson and copper stained the sands, the seas, and the sky 
as the sun angrily opposed its descent. It was a coastal 
conflagration, where tangerine and carmine erupted into a spill 
of phlogiston beauty, and both Mulder and Scully were coated in 
the enraged explosion of the setting sun. 

A brighter fire burned within that inferno, and that was the fire 
of possibility and of escalating confusion. A sigh broke their 
mutual silence, and Mulder looked down at her, placing a square 
palm against the slender column of her neck. "Are you all right?" 
he asked, and he didn't need to her answer to know it 
preternaturally. 

"I'm fine," Scully whispered back, yet she elaborated on that 
statement, which surprised him somewhat. She was a stoic woman 
who didn't like to elaborate on her feelings, yet she breached 
that contract of silence to speak now. "I didn't sleep well last 
night." 

Fingers stroked the fine ringlets of red that caressed her neck. 
Her hair sprung into fine curls under thick humidity; he had 
pictures captured in his memory of her hair in wet woods, 
dampened into wavy red. "Bad dreams?" Mulder asked, and Scully 
sighed, touching his elbow briefly in a gesture that she was going 
to continue walking and that he should follow. That was fine - she 
had called him out here to walk with her and walking is just what 
he would do. 

Wading through the pooling water was like dipping skin into 
glass. Tidal pools had formed from the earlier high tide, and 
they created long lawns composed of saltwater and sand that 
stretched for endless lengths along the beach. They were flawless 
reflections, like melted mirrors, capturing the cerise brilliance 
of the sanguine sky so that they seemed to be walking in the sky, 
not the sea. Lace fragments of foam collected around his bare 
feet as he accompanied her on her walk, and as they waded through 
the water, she began speaking. 

"I had a few dreams which were odd," she murmured while dragging 
her toe along the basin of the pool, "which is unusual, 
considering the fact that I rarely dream at all. But I remember 
these dreams very vividly. They seemed very real, very solid." 
Her hair blew back and away from her face suddenly, revealing the 
expression of extreme calm that smoothed out any minute lines, 
leaving her face a canvas painted in tranquil shades of 
tangerine. 

Without skipping a beat, Scully continued in a voice that was 
built in shades of curiosity, like she was reading a book aloud 
instead of relating a dream. "I was walking through the halls of 
a hospital," she murmured. "I wore something heavy on my body... 
It felt like a lead vest. I was afraid in the dream, but not in 
the sense of fright. It was a darker fear. Dread. Anyway, I was 
looking for someone, but I didn't know who until I found you." 

A dull sort of ringing began sounding in his ears, combining with 
the rush of the waves. "Me?" he asked in a flat, emotionless 
voice, even though his own flavor of dread embittered his tongue. 

Scully nodded, tossing shards of red hair away from her face as 
she did so. "Yes, you," she confirmed. "You were sitting at a 
table in a hospital room, across from a man with incredibly 
intense blue eyes. You were staring at him, focusing solely on 
him, and there was a gun on the table. The man invited me to sit 
down, told me that they had been expecting me, like I was a 
participant in this game. And I realized that this was what I had 
been dreading - participation." She swallowed, and a line of 
worry and concentration marred the otherwise flawless expression 
on her face. "I didn't want to watch what I knew was happening." 

His voice was flat, and his tongue felt numb as he formed out the 
shock-based words. "What was happening?" he asked, even though he 
already knew how the scene from her dream would unfold. It would 
blossom from staring contest to full-fledged terror, like a rose 
unfurling rotten petals. 

Scully furrowed her brow, but Mulder suspected that it was not in 
a struggle to remember, but in a struggle of coping with the 
recollection of the pain. "I knew who it was," she said, her 
voice darkening in near synchronicity with the twilit sky. 
"Pusher. He wanted to wage war with you, his worthy opponent. It 
was Russian Roulette. Only one chamber of the gun was loaded, one 
bullet. You got a chance to kill him, and you aimed." She 
swallowed. "I tried to tell you not to fire. There was pure 
oxygen in the room; it could be dangerous, but there was 
something controlling you. It was as though you weren't there. 
You fired, but it wasn't the loaded chamber. And Pusher knew 
that; it was part of his plan. And you turned the gun on 
yourself..." Scully shook her head. "I don't remember what 
happened after that. I woke up." 

"You're lying." 

Startled, Scully whipped her face around to stare into his eyes. 
They were the same haunted hazel eyes that had drawn her in days 
ago, but these eyes were painted in a different hue of pain. It 
was like they had been scratched with a fresh wound... No. Not 
that. It was as though an old wound had been reopened, and was 
seeping fresh blood. Fresh pain. 

"You know what happens next, Scully," Mulder said in a dark bass 
voice that was low and smooth. "I pressed the barrel against my 
temple and pulled the trigger. You screamed; you cursed at him, 
and I didn't fight it. I tried to pull the trigger until I received 
the bullet, because I knew what would happen next." Fiery hazel 
orbs seared through her blue lenses. "And so do you." 

Behind him, the fire was fading into bright variations on blue, 
and a nearly full moon started gleaming silver in the sky. The 
belt of Orion shimmered in its line of three bright stars, and a 
mass of diamonds glittered over them in a canopy of silvery 
white. Yet she did not notice the nighttime beauty; all that she 
saw was the stark reality that her dream had just been finished 
and completed from his mouth and words. "How..." she whispered, 
her eyebrows furrowed with hurt and confusion. "How did you know 
that?" 

Mulder took a step toward her, invading her personal space in a 
manner that brutally reminded her of her shorter stature. "How 
did *you* know that?" he countered, and Scully winced visibly, 
her face contorting in distress. She turned from him, facing the 
tempestuous ocean and the waves that shattered against the shore 
instead. Violence and torment surrounded her, in the form of a 
man and in the form of the sea. Gripping her elbows tightly, 
Scully stepped away from him, and her feet sank into the wet 
sands, water churning around her calves. Wind whipped her hair 
into a thick flurry of carmine and copper, and she turned her 
face downward, staring at the water which consumed her skin. 

"I don't know," she said softly, her voice disturbed and 
strained. 

Mulder didn't move toward her, and she was grateful for that. He 
was still in close enough range for him to speak without raising 
his voice, and his low murmur was carried by the wind to land on 
her ear. "You've been having dreams," he said, and she closed her 
eyes. "Nightmares, mostly. You see strange events and 
occurrences, all very vivid and clear, like they're memories 
instead of fantasies. And I think that they *are* memories, 
Scully." 

Tears welted behind her eyes, and she fought them with her closed 
lids. "They aren't memories, Mulder," she denied. "None of these 
things ever happened. Not to me, not to you-" 

Strong hands gripped her arms, flinging hers away and turning her 
to face him with an anguished force. "But they *did*!" Mulder 
hissed, his face twisted and taut with torment. She didn't want 
to see him this way, lit with burning sapphire and surrounded by 
beach and dune. It was a poignant pain, something exquisitely 
excruciating, and it cut her to the bone to see him in this 
condition. "It didn't happen to you, and it didn't happen to me, 
but it *happened* nonetheless." 

Despairingly, she searched his eyes with a dark sort of anger, 
something simmering hot and heavy beneath her skin. "How?" she 
demanded. "How did it happen, Mulder? What's your explanation? 
Give me your theory, your hypothesis, your speculation." Her 
words were like acid, hot and hurtful, and he took them with 
bitter acceptance. 

"You won't believe me," he said, and she laughed dryly. 

"Oh, you wouldn't believe the things I consider these days," 
Scully retorted with malignant sarcasm. There was an oldness in 
her face that broke his heart when he saw it - he recognized the 
cynical age as being the same weariness that the other Dana 
Scully had possessed. It was as though all of the mysteries of 
the world had been revealed to her and their revelations had 
exhausted her spirit and her body. It drained the frustration and 
the heat from his words, and he brushed the backs of his knuckles 
against her shoulder. 

"I've been having the same dreams," Mulder murmured. "Ever since 
I came to Charleston, on the flight over and during my nights 
here. They're always the same, fragments of things, of things so 
clear that they seem like memories, and you're almost always in 
them. And then this morning, I woke up, and I kept dreaming." 

She shut her eyes. 

Mulder's voice continued, even though she desperately wished that 
it wouldn't. "I think that there's another world out there, 
Scully, where we didn't make the mistakes we made in this one," 
he murmured, and his choice of words were as brutal as the slam 
of water against her denim-clad calf. "Where our lives had more 
meaning than hunting human monsters or dissecting homicide 
victims." Mulder turned his head away from hers, scanning over 
the surface of the choppy seas and looking toward the horizon, 
where sky met sea in a blending of blue. "Where our lives 
actually meant something..." 

"It's impossible." Scully broke the conversation with shattering 
words, wanting the pieces of it to be so minute and delicate that 
the words could never be reassembled or corrected, so fine and 
fragile that they would become part of the beach's sands. "There 
is no such thing as an alternate universe. Science doesn't-" 

Frustrated, Mulder threw his hands in the air in synchrony with 
the crash of an enormous wave onshore. "Oh, come *on*, Scully!" 
he cried. "Not everything has to do with science or reason or 
fact. We both shared the same dreams. We both felt an instant 
connection with each other from the moment we saw each other. And 
I don't exactly go around sleeping with strangers all the 
time, and I know you don't either. There's something about the 
two of us, something fated or foretold, and I think that we're 
finally starting to get an idea as to what that unnamed something 
is." Distressed eyes met hers, and she found herself unable to 
break away from the pull of the tides and his gaze. 

"I don't believe in fate!" Scully said obstinately, clinging to 
her last shred of stubborn skepticism, and Mulder touched her 
arm. 

"Who does?" he simply replied. "But maybe fate isn't something 
that controls. It's a combination of predestination and choice. 
We chose our lives. We simply made the wrong decisions. Or maybe 
we made the right ones, depending on the way that you look at 
it." Curled fingers trailed up and down the exposed part of her 
arm, brushing over the cuff of her linen sleeve. Water continued 
washing around them, stretching toward the dunes behind them as 
the abnormally high tide surged inward. 

She didn't know what to think or who to believe. The strange 
timeline and story had been unfolding inside of her all day, and 
Mulder's confirmation combined with the data she had printed out 
at the library seemed to be substantiating her mind's claim. The 
last thing that she wanted to consider was the possibility of a 
myriad of other worlds, all composed of the same elements and 
ingredients of people, but where certain variables were 
different. The idea was mind-boggling, too difficult and complex 
for her to even touch upon, but Mulder's brilliant mind had 
already theorized on it and believed in it wholeheartedly. 

Dunes swayed like slender ballerinas behind her, and the gentle 
swooshing sound that they emitted whispered in a rush of light 
percussion in her ear, confessing the numerous secrets of the 
sands to her. Cool Atlantic saltwater pooled around her bare 
ankles, and Mulder's hand gripped hers loosely, assuring her of 
his certainty and stability. "I found things," she whispered, and 
Mulder turned his head, surprised. "At the library, someone sent 
me a link regarding the case of one Darren Peter Oswald. I 
followed the link and read the article, but I realized that I 
didn't even need to read it to know its contents." 

Slowly, Mulder nodded, realization and remembrance dawning. "The 
boy who could transmit lightning after being struck by it on 
multiple occasions," he said, and Scully nodded. 

"After reading that, I began entering other names into the search 
engine," she said. "I came up with results for Donnie Pfaster, 
Duane Barry, Robert Modell, and numerous other convicts and 
mutants. And I knew all of them, all of them from dreams or 
snippets of ideas I gathered in consciousness." Frowning, Scully 
shook her head and looked up at her taller companion and lover. 
"But it doesn't make any sense. There can't be such a thing as an 
alternate world." 

Soft fingertips reached behind her collar to brush against the 
nape of her neck, touching one fine stretch of skin beneath a 
curl of red hair. It was a conducive touch, something that 
transferred his heat to her skin, and yet there was an emptiness 
there. For a moment, a mere flash of a second, she felt that 
there should be something burrowed beneath the thin layer of skin 
and blood. There should be something embedded there, and there 
was not. "The implant," Mulder murmured, and she closed her eyes. 
Yes, that was it. She was missing the implant. 

Yet how could she lack something which had never been there in 
the first place? "It makes no sense," she protested again, and 
her objections were sounding less and less reasonable to her own 
ears. Mulder's fingers trailed upward from the nape of her neck 
to her earlobes, gently fingering the small gold hoops which hung 
from her ears. 

"It doesn't," Mulder murmured in surprising agreement. "But 
sometimes the very things which don't make sense to us are true. 
Just because we can't explain or verify them with evidence or 
science doesn't make them false or imaginary. It just means that 
there's something out there that is inexplicable and 
unexplainable." He trailed his fingers down the slender slope of 
her throat until they came to rest on her slim, straight 
shoulders. "I'm just asking you to consider, Scully. Consider the 
possibilities that have been displayed to you. Weigh the 
evidence. And instead of disbelieving something simply because 
science dictates its impossibility, disbelieve in it because you 
dictate its impossibility. And I don't think that you can." 

No. She couldn't disbelieve it. The mass of files that she had 
discovered on the computer and the memories which they both 
shared were evidence pointing toward his theory. Perhaps there 
was another world out there where they were different people, 
built of the same fibers but turned under different 
circumstances. They hunted truth. They sought justice. Perhaps in 
that world, Dana Scully was not a meaningless pathologist in a 
place that did not accept her. 

Maybe she was a woman who lived her life for herself. 

Blinding pain shot through her temples like a crack of white 
lightning, and Scully cried out, feeling her knees weaken and her 
footing slip on the shore. Startled, Mulder reached out and 
caught her, steadying her until she regained her balance. 
"Scully?" he asked, fearful of her condition, and the world spun 
about her in a blur of indigo sky and sea. The roar of the 
Atlantic sounded from all sides, and the whoosh of the dunes beat 
incessantly on her eardrums. "Scully!" 

And she remembered everything. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER TWENTY 

***** 

Residence of Dana Scully 
Charleston, South Carolina 
9:38 PM, August 17, 1999 

***** 

Red hair floated around her face in a dreamy coil of crimson, and 
it pooled around her slender cheeks as she lay resting in 
undisturbed slumber. Her hands were folded as if in prayer 
beneath her down pillow, and the wrinkled linen shirt was creased 
gently around her slim body, curled in sleep. She looked tranquil 
and calm as she napped in her queen-sized bed, with Duchess 
purring contentedly in the crook of her mistress's knee. Her 
eyelids beat softly with the rhythm of REM sleep, and her fingers 
curled slightly as she dreamed. 

Mulder did not need to guess at what she was dreaming of. Her 
spell on the beach had exhausted and wearied her, and after 
driving them both to her house in her Saturn, he put her to bed 
and started working on a profile. She would sleep through his 
descent into monstrosity and would not have to witness his cold 
transformation, and she needed her sleep after the tiring process 
of remembering the other life. She had napped in the car, and now 
she was in full-fledged sleep here in her comfortable cream bed, 
and Mulder was thankful for that. She didn't need to stay awake. 

The yellow paper of the legal pad stretched emptily before him, 
and he held the ballpoint pen loosely in his hand. Nothing came 
to his mind yet. The process of profiling reminded him of playing 
with a Ouija board when he was a kid, loosely fingering the 
planchette while someone asked the spirits a question. When the 
spirits came up with an answer, they channeled it through and the 
planchette began mysteriously moving, spelling out its 
supernatural reply. 

Then the pen began moving in his hand as the ideas sprung to his 
mind. 

These women all had a common thread - Lisa Sanford. She was the 
woman whom the killer had first seen and fixated on. Pictures of 
pretty blonde Lisa, vibrant and golden sitting in her father's 
yacht during the summer, flashed through his photographic memory. 
She was not the haughty, sheltered beauty that many thought she 
should have been, and at the tender age of nineteen, she had 
abandoned her father's fortune to seek out one of her own. By the 
age of twenty-nine, she had doubled her father's net worth and 
had an extremely prosperous law practice of her own on expensive 
and prestigious Broad Street, three doors down from the City 
Hall. Lisa was a smart, astute businesswoman and a talented 
trial lawyer. If she had not been selected as the murderer's 
target, she probably would have worked at getting him off. And 
she would have succeeded. 

Yet there were certain things which just weren't in the cards for 
Lisa Sanford. For instance, she had been declared infertile before 
graduating high school and therefore dumped by her blue-blood 
boyfriend, Jefferson Matthews. She didn't seem to mind too much. 
Lisa was eternally single and emotionally distant, not making 
many friends and taking on lovers only to fulfill her sexual 
needs. She was cold, unavailable, and dedicated only to her work. 
If she could prosecute her own mother, she probably would have 
done so consciously and calculatingly. She was not a stupid or 
particularly loyal woman. 

So what was intriguing about her? Everything. She was intensely 
strong, but a cool demeanor and unearthly beauty hid the various 
pieces that she was composed of. A thin, bright layer of skin 
concealed the mystery of Lisa Sanford, and the killer wanted to 
know what that secret was. He wanted to peel off the layers, 
remove the shroud, and obtain the enigma that she had worked so 
arduously to hide. He wanted to own and possess her, and once 
that mystery had been revealed, he wanted to mark his domination 
over her. He understood her, and so the skin had to be removed to 
symbolize and commemorate the magic of his moment of triumph. His 
victory had to be remembered. 

The shift of skin and sheets behind him caught Mulder's 
attention, and he turned away from the notes on his legal pad to 
slumbering Scully. A fan of fine vermilion concealed her face, 
and the palm of her hand lay exposed on her pillow. Shallow 
breath filled the room as she slept, and Mulder glanced hungrily 
at the fingers that curled toward the ceiling. 

What lay beneath her skin? What divine mystery was buried beneath 
the fine cream of her strong hands, or beneath the construction 
of her face? He recalled the first dream he ever had of her, of 
her hands cupping his while she murmured devotionals into his 
ear, and of how intricate and ornate her hands had seemed under 
the rough calluses of his own palms. He had loved her from first 
sight, even though he didn't know it then. Intrigue had blossomed 
into adoration, and from that came something richer and 
multifaceted. Yet who was it who resided beneath the fine 
covering of white skin? Was it Dr. Dana Scully, Charleston 
coroner, or was it Special Agent Scully of the X-Files? Which 
woman was covered in this pale finery? 

Silently, Mulder moved from the cherry wood desk and crouched low 
beside her bed. His hands swept over the exposed skin of her 
back, caressing her spinal cord, and then they cupped the base of 
her skull so that his thumbs were pressed against the spot where 
her implant should be. She didn't really pamper her skin, not in 
the way that Lisa Sanford had or any of the other victims, but it 
was still flawless and smooth. No oils or lotions destroyed the 
humanity or the calluses, and she wore her pain with pride. They 
were badges of life, medals she had earned, and she wouldn't deny 
them for the world. 

She turned slightly in her slumber, eyelids rapidly beating now 
as her dream intensified, and Mulder wondered what she dreamed 
about underneath her skin. Which life was inspiring her 
nightmares? Was it her Charlestonian world or her X-Files world 
that pushed such violent thoughts inside of her? Did she dream of 
him or of the tethers that tied her down to this universe? He 
wanted to know. He wanted to tear open her heart and learn its 
contents, just to see if she really did believe what he believed. 
Which Dana Scully dreamed with such vivid vengeance? 

There was only one way to know for sure... 

Bright blue eyes opened with startling intensity, and Mulder 
stopped on his path to his place beside her. "Mulder?" she asked, 
and he was broken. The ritualistic profiling had been halted 
because of the soft alto of her voice, and he stopped, the hunger 
draining from his body as she stirred and woke. Duchess nuzzled 
Scully's knee with the side of her pretty calico face, and Scully 
absently stroked the cat's back with a free hand. "Is everything 
all right?" 

Mulder muttered "I'm fine" and returned to his work, refusing to 
glance at her and risk the chance of falling beneath her skin 
again. 

With a sigh, Scully leaned against the headboard and ran her 
hands through her hair, smoothing it into place after its 
disarray from her earlier nap. She had needed the rest after all 
that she had seen that day, both within and without her mind. The 
various forces of nature and knowledge had sapped her of her 
strength, and it was difficult to function with the ideas that 
swam agilely through her mind. The story had been told to her as 
well now, and Scully didn't have anything to deny the validity of 
the tale that had been told. 

"I believe." 

Her words were muttered with reluctance, almost inaudible, but 
Mulder's sensitive ears picked them up and relished them. Slowly, 
he turned his head around to face her, but he couldn't catch her 
eyes. She was looking down at the steeple of her knees, her arms 
wrapped around her legs while her cat stretched beside her. Long 
lashes draped over the cerulean orbs, and a sorrow was painted on 
her face with such anguish that only Mulder could understand. He 
knew what she was going through, knew what sort of agony she was 
experiencing, and he understood it implicitly. 

The story of Special Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully was not a 
beautiful romance. It was a hard story to understand, with its 
multitude of sacrifices and its darkly tragic components. Many 
people had been lost in the story, such as her sister and his 
father, and they had both lost much of themselves in the process 
of its telling. She had nearly died from cancer and abduction, 
and he had almost died from a few nasty alien viruses. She had 
lost a child and her ability to ever have any more children, and 
he had lost the capacity to ever sleep an untroubled night. They 
had fought for a purpose though, and that purpose was to uncover 
the truth in the hopes that it could save a world. 

She understood this now in the comforting confines of her 
familiar bed, clutching the sheets in her balled-up fists, and 
inhaling the scent of vanilla and nighttime. It all made a 
disastrous sort of sense, the calamity of their riotous 
existence, and the collision of fate and destiny that had been 
caused by their unpredicted meeting in the Holy City. 

An ironic puff of air exhaled from her body. "I shouldn't believe 
it," she said, her fingers toying with the comforter. "It makes 
absolutely no sense to me. Science doesn't have a cause for it, 
and logic can't substantiate it. Every morsel of reason and 
sanity within me says that it can't be true, but every part of me 
says that it is." She lifted her eyes from her knees and gazed 
strongly at him. "And you told me to listen to myself and not my 
science. It was good advice." A weary, dry smile touched her 
mouth and then faded with the combined sadness of two tiring 
lives. "So I believe. Where does that leave us?" 

Mulder moved to join her on the bed, and Duchess abandoned the 
two, sensing in her feline way that the two lovers needed 
breathing room. A slight gust of wind touched the linen curtains 
and blew them about in twists of gauze, twirling like ivory 
angels' wings. She watched them obscure his body as they wrapped 
around his lanky limbs, and then they parted, allowing him to 
cross the room and perch himself on the corner of her bed. "I 
don't know," he murmured. "It's difficult, Scully. It's 
exceedingly difficult. I read what you discovered, and you're 
right. There was no need to read the articles. I already knew the 
grisly details." She bowed her head in agreement. "I don't need 
to tell you their story, do I." 

"No," she murmured. "I know it all." And she did. It was painful 
and forlorn, something elegantly disturbing, like a well-told 
nightmare. She knew every instance and every emotion that came 
attached to it. She was fluent in the language of their other 
selves. She understood them implicitly, from their struggles to 
their sorrows, and she knew the basis for everything they worked 
for and everything they lost in the process. She also knew that 
he had been right. This would have and could have been her life 
if she had not made the mistakes of this world. 

His hands brushed over her cheekbones, lifting her face and 
forcing her eyes to look into his. Gazing at Mulder had become 
something that excruciatingly painful rather than extremely 
comforting. Beneath the unusual nose and the dark eyes, she knew 
a different man. She knew of a man who was driven by passion and 
by a thirst for truth, a man so brilliant and unbreakable that he 
was exhilarating to watch. Scully could look at him through her 
other self's eyes. They were the admiring eyes of a woman who saw 
finery forged by fighting, of a woman who had witnessed his 
downfall as well as his triumph, and they were the eyes of a Dana 
Scully who had become a different person as well. That woman's 
life was something foreign and yet familiar too, and piecing 
together the various jigsaw parts of her life had not been 
difficult in the least. She understood her pleasures and her 
pain. 

She understood it all. 

The night wore on as discussion of their other lives continued, 
of relaying stories and details, of swapping memories and 
igniting reminiscences. He could tell her things that were not 
available to Scully's limited memory, such as Mulder's anguish 
over her three-month absence and abduction, and she could tell 
him about things that he didn't understand. Things like Emily and 
her cancer. 

Emily... She was the most difficult element for Scully to 
process. The blonde-haired replica of Dana's older sister (oh, 
she could not linger on Melissa just yet) had danced into 
Scully's life for a brief period of time, followed by an intense 
period of lengthy mourning and grief. She understood Emily's 
existence, the alien origins behind her conception and death, and 
the pain of losing little Emily was something that transferred 
completely from one world to the next. Emily was something 
conceivable for this Scully, a woman who had never been abducted 
or stripped of her ova, yet this woman was still single and 
childless. She had never had a family of her own, even though she 
had a house that could be filled with children and a master 
bedroom fit for a married couple. Nobody had ever excited Scully 
or warmed the frozen exterior that she kept up with such grace and 
ease. 

Nobody until Mulder. 

She understood his traumas and tragedies, knew the depth of his 
pain, and they gave her some insight into the construction of her 
tangible Mulder. The Mulder from this world, borne of this life 
and these conditions, was a part of the Mulder from the other 
world and the X-Files' cruelties. He was two men and the same, in 
a strange way that she could not describe with words. The usually 
succinct Scully found herself at a loss when trying to explain 
the methods and meaning behind his eyes, but she knew who he was 
and what he was. He was not Fox Mulder the profiler or Fox Mulder 
the martyr. He was both men, beautifully combined in a mixture of 
Mulders. 

So it wasn't difficult at all to discern which man she was 
falling in love with. She was falling in love with both. 

The night endured, and their hunger grew, and so they both ended 
up sitting at her kitchen table in the middle of the night eating 
re-heated stuffed chicken. Mulder had to admit to himself that 
she was a superior cook, even judging by the microwaved chicken. 
If they'd only staved off sex for an hour the night before, he 
could have enjoyed a true gourmet meal, but the lovemaking had 
been four stars in and of itself. In any case, the white wine 
sauce combined with the Prosciutto and Fontina created a rich, 
sharp sauce that complemented the poultry dish beautifully, and 
he eagerly ate it. "I didn't know that you were such an 
accomplished chef," he said, and Scully arched her eyebrows. 

"She wasn't," Scully said, referring to her other self as a 
separate entity. It was easier that way. "I don't think that they 
had much time to develop personal hobbies or habits like cooking 
or gardening. It was always about the work. I have a lot of spare 
time on my hands, so cooking was something valuable to learn." 
She shrugged. 

Gazing at her over the tops of a slender glass of sparkling white 
wine, Mulder watched her profile being licked by the gentle 
golden light. "There's a lot I don't know about you, but I know 
most of it," he said, and she shook her head. 

"It's difficult to believe that," she said. "You know a lot about 
the other Scully, but there's a vast amount of information that 
you don't know about me." 

Mulder knew it was the truth. The two women were separate but the 
same, built of the same material but sewn in different ways. The 
Dana Scully of the X-Files was a revealed mystery, an enigma 
exposed, but this woman was still filled with puzzles which he 
wanted to solve. "When did your father die?" he asked, and she 
looked up, startled. 

"Actually, he died about a year after I came down here," Scully 
replied, playing absently with her fork while speaking. "I know 
that she used to blame her father's death on the violence and 
turbulence of her career, but I think that worrying about her 
prolonged his life. I was one less woman he had to worry about in 
Charleston. My job contained no dangers and I had fulfilled his 
expectations." 

Mulder tilted his head and furrowed his brow. "Do you think that 
you took this job so that he wouldn't have to worry about you?" 

It had been inevitable - they were going to discuss where their 
lives had departed to give them such differing existences. Mulder 
was still an FBI agent, but he had never left BSU for the X- 
Files. Scully had never gone through Quantico in the first place 
and had ended up as a lonely coroner in the deep South. It was 
difficult to discern the motivators for each other's decisions, 
but they both wanted to know. 

Bowing her head, she looked at the napkin in her lap rather than 
at Mulder. "I think I left for a combination of wanting to please 
him and lack of faith in myself," Scully murmured. "I wanted to 
join the FBI ever since a recruiter for the Bureau gave a lecture 
at Georgetown. The recruiter spoke of opportunity and community 
service, of providing a significant use to the country and the 
people. I could directly protect the way of life that I loved and 
further justice and truth. The idea appealed to me vastly, and 
when I broached the subject with my father, he instantly and 
wholeheartedly disapproved." Her smile was tight and ironic. "I 
understood his disapproval, even though I can't deny that it 
hurt. 

"I was also offered a position in Charleston as an intern at 
MUSC, where I could gain a bachelor's in pathology and pursue a 
career as a coroner. The land was beautiful, and I've always 
loved the sea. It's part of my blood as a sailor's daughter." Her 
eyes darkened. "Yet there was a twinge of regret when I flew down 
here, carrying my father's blessing and my only possessions. I 
felt as though I was abandoning something, leaving something 
behind..." 

Strong hands reached over to hold hers in their tight grasp, 
turning over the pale fingers until the fine lines of her palm 
were exposed to his discerning eye. "You were leaving something, 
Scully," he murmured, and she looked up at his face to find 
exactly what she had abandoned. She had left happiness behind in 
Maryland, had left her opportunity at tranquility and purpose 
simmering in the hot hazel of Fox Mulder's eyes. She had 
abandoned her chosen path for something steadier and less 
satisfying, and she wished that she had chosen the harder road. 

Fingertips trailed over the creases and crinkles in her palm, 
exploring the crisscrosses and lines as though they were a map. 
And in many ways they were. They foretold the geography and 
astrology of Scully, her fate and her fortune. Or misfortune, 
depending which way you looked at it. A callused thumb slid down 
the deepest line, which was the lifeline. "Look at this," Mulder 
murmured, tracing down the slender lifeline. "Do you know 
anything about palm reading?" 

Scully shook her head. "I don't-" 

He nodded, finishing her sentence. "I know, I know, you don't 
believe in palmistry." Mulder chuckled. "But you have a very 
unique hand here, Scully. It's very deep, very well defined, 
until it forks at a point, right around your late twenties. One 
path is dark, strong and forceful, but broken and jagged in many 
places, showing where your life dwindled and how many times you 
cheated death. And the other path is steady and unflinching, but 
thin, like you lived a shadow of your life." Scully winced, 
pulling her hand away and placing the blazing palm in her lap. 
She knew it was true, but the brutality of his diagnosis was 
still wounding and painful. She didn't want to believe in the 
invalidity of her own life, that her existence in Charleston was 
absolutely meaningless, and yet a lot of her knew that most of 
her existence was just that. Meaningless. 

"Palmistry isn't science," she muttered futilely, and Mulder 
nodded. 

"I know," he said. "But it explains a lot, doesn't it?" 

Silence fell, and the wind stirred the trees outside. Blossoms of 
dainty violet wisteria shimmered from the boughs of the old 
trees, shedding lavender petals onto the cobblestone streets. 
Dark cobalt fingers of Becky's outer bands were beginning to curl 
out over the Atlantic, reaching toward the small and ancient city 
of Charleston in a possessive fist, declaring its ownership. 
Magenta azaleas and vivid tangerine hibiscuses fluttered down the 
streets as the enraged seas continued crashing ashore, their 
violence intensifying as the storm grew ever closer and stronger. 

Inside, the storm was already magnificent. 

Red fell in her eyes as she looked down at her palm, reading the 
lines of fate and destiny with the simplicity of an amateur. She 
didn't know how to interpret what she saw or what she felt, but 
she was a scientist in the sense that she knew it was there. 
Scully looked up at him. "Is your hand the same?" she asked, and 
Mulder nodded. Smiling sadly, she dropped her hand in her lap 
again, not giving it a second glance. "Two of a kind, Mulder." 

He gave her the same wistful smile. "Always, Scully." 

The two continued looking at each other, wearing the same ancient 
expressions that their otherworldly counterparts most have worn 
most of the time. Tired, understanding empathy. Mulder watched 
her from underneath hooded hazel eyes, tracing the lines of her 
familiar form with his vision, not his hands. He knew that the 
other Mulder had loved Dana Scully more than anyone or anything 
else on earth. She was his constant and touchstone, to quote his 
other self. She was the stability and sanity in a world clouded 
by instability and insanity, an anchor in tumultuous seas. When 
darkness fell, she was the light, a slender red lantern to guide 
him through trouble and confusion. 

Mulder watched this woman now, looking at the beautiful redhead 
sitting in front of him, rubbing her fate-stamped hand as though 
it were a precious talisman. She had saved him in that other life 
and she had saved him in this life, too. He wondered if she knew 
how close he had become to falling into the darkness of 
profiling, into becoming one of the monsters that he sought to 
destroy. Before encountering her, Mulder had been losing bits and 
pieces of himself with the passing of every second, as his dreams 
became more and more haunted by past cases and foes. She had 
saved him from his own self-destruction, and it was a salvation 
that he would never forget. 

"What happens now, Mulder?" she asked, and it hurt to hear the 
confusion and disorientation in her voice. 

"I don't know," he admitted. "We don't have six years to recreate 
or rebuild what we've lost here, Scully. We don't have any time 
at all." It was a harsh truth. A hard fact to accept, but a fact 
nonetheless. She didn't have time to reconstruct a lifetime lost. 

"They didn't really have six years together anyway," she 
murmured, and Mulder was startled. 

"What do you mean?" he asked, and she shrugged. 

"We both know the nature of their relationship, Mulder," she 
murmured. "As much as they obviously loved each other-" 

"She loved him?" 

Surprise was etched all over her lovely face as she turned her 
chin to look at him. "Yes," she said softly. "She loved him very 
much." Scully had thought he'd known that much. That other 
Scully, the refined and haunted agent, had been deeply in love 
with him for years. It was a dark and passionate love, something 
that had been building within her for years, but something that 
she had never confessed. Not to him, not to anyone, barely even 
to herself. She had kept it all tucked within herself, a secret 
concealed by layers of skin and lies, but she always thought that 
he knew. Another regret for the other Scully to contemplate, 
another ill token of their life together. He had never known that 
she loved him. That thought and in of itself was enough to topple 
the tower of pain that had been spiraling all day. 

His dark eyelashes lowered over his eyes as he briefly 
contemplated the words that she had just presented to him. "Thank 
you," he murmured, adding a small concession of closure to the 
other Mulder's lonely life. Perhaps the other man would never 
know or understand the way his Scully loved him, but at least 
this one knew. That was something. "And I want you to know that 
he loved her, too." 

Funny... It shouldn't matter to her that an alternate version of 
Mulder had loved her, not even her but a different rendering of 
her, but it was still touching nonetheless. It was the promise of 
possibility, an explanation for her damning her beliefs and 
standards to make an exception in her heart for Fox Mulder, and 
it was... Well, it was nice. It was nice to know that one man had 
loved at least one Dana Scully, and it was nice to know that she 
perhaps had the potential to be that passionately cherished. 

Thoughtful hands reached over to touch hers, and she felt a 
sudden heat burning beneath the skin. "How did she love him, 
Scully?" he asked, and Scully looked up, feeling her skin flush 
under a combination of his touch and gaze. She knew the question 
that he was asking her, understood the answer that he wanted. But 
giving him an answer that her other persona had never found the 
words for was now a difficult idea to grasp or follow through. It 
was stunning, the amount of calenture and kindness that her other 
self had held for Mulder. It was an unflinching, unwavering sort 
of love, something built on concern and shared anguish, and 
beautifully heated with an unending supply of want. She wanted 
him, she needed him, she adored him... And all that she could 
tell him now was this: 

"She was in love with him." 

Simply, truthfully, efficiently and lovingly bestowed: the truth 
and sum of that tragic Scully's feelings toward her partner. She 
had laid her cards out on the table, exposed finally, and Mulder 
accepted them with great relief and thanks. "That was how he felt 
about her," Mulder said. "Very much in love." Scully was his 
redemption, his salvation, his connection to humanity and his 
reminder of all that was good in the world. She was beauty, she 
was light, and she was fantasy and frustration. Mulder had first 
been infuriated by her, then infatuated with her, and finally 
settled into distant and painful desire. 

How sad that their desires had never been fulfilled. 

His hands ascended toward her face, cupping her cheeks in his 
brown, callused palms. How familiar her face was, from its 
straight, proud Roman nose to its soft, plush berry-ripe lips. 
That small punctuation of a mole on her upper lip that she always 
tried to conceal with makeup but always rose tantalizingly 
beneath. The slender expressive auburn eyebrows that arched 
whenever she queried or questioned him. All of it was familiar to 
both Mulders in an endearing and constant fashion, and when she 
smiled as he touched her, this Mulder realized that she really 
had loved him, and perhaps loved him still. 

"They never said anything," he said, a note of sadness underneath 
the smooth bass of his voice. She understood that sadness 
perfectly. It was the same sadness that she felt when thinking of 
the tragedy between them. They never expressed their love, never 
consummated the want that they shared, and always held each other 
slightly distanced and through smoke and mirrors. Illusions and 
deceit... Those were the mortar and brick walls that separated 
them. 

Pained, Scully closed her eyes softly. "No," she said in a hushed 
voice, relishing the slow way his hands were caressing her skin. 
Mulder's touch had always lit the other Scully on fire, and now 
this Scully's body was reacting similarly. Biology and emotion; 
they shared the same wiring. "I think that things were difficult 
for them, Mulder. They didn't... They had such awful 
circumstances..." 

Soulful hazel eyes turned dark with a mixture of arousal and 
agony. "Not awful enough to prevent that," he murmured. "He 
always wanted her, Scully." Fingers sought her earlobes, touching 
the tender and sensitive lobes until they were singing for more. 
Heat simmered low in her body, traveling lower, until it found a 
rhythm and kept it. "Every night, he desperately wanted her. She 
was always there, everyday, intangible and unreachable, and at 
night it haunted him..." 

A shiver streaked through her spine, sizzling underneath her 
flesh, and Mulder's hands dropped lower to start tracing her 
delicate collarbone. "She..." she breathed, trying to control her 
words and her body in spite of Mulder's slow seduction. "She 
always felt the same way... Alone and wanting him..." 

The hands stilled. Seriousness ensued, seizing Mulder's eyes 
until they swirled with a thousand different colors. Amber, gold, 
copper, green, forest, mahogany... They all took their turns 
tumbling in the depths until she couldn't discern a difference 
anymore. "We should give them that," he murmured. "Give them 
everything they couldn't have. Everything they deserved and never 
received." 

He wanted her. Mulder wanted Scully. Whichever Mulder that was, 
whichever Scully... All that she knew was that she wanted the 
same thing. She wanted *him*. The man, the legend, the martyr, 
the ghost... They were all solid and sensual, all burning beneath 
her senses. 

Scully nodded. "Yes." 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 

***** 

THIS SECTION RATED NC-17 FOR SEXUAL CONTENT 

***** 

He looked at her and saw another woman. 

Fine white linen slipped from her shoulders, revealing inches of 
flesh and moonlight, and the shirt slid to the floor in a small 
pool of ivory fabric. She stood there, eyeing him eyeing a 
nonexistent woman, and she did not feel angry. No outrage, no 
disappointment, no hurt. She knew what he was looking for; they 
had agreed on their terms. 

The terms had not been discussed or summarized in words. Language 
had been discarded in exchange for simple mutual understanding. 
They would not be making love as Dr. Scully and Agent Mulder. 
They would make love for the first time as their other selves. He 
would become another man. 

And she would become something else, too. 

All of the pain, the anguish, the passion and strength that Other 
Scully had experienced, had gone through, had been burdening her 
slender shoulders throughout the day. She had ignored it, buried 
it beneath her own concerns and problems, but now it was 
acceptable to touch it. Taste it. Experience it in its entirety. 

She looked at him, standing before her, devouring her with his 
eyes, and wondered who she was to him. Some sort of mystery, 
wrapped in violet and lilac shades of falling nighttime, with 
carmine hair streaked with copper and silver moonlight. Yet which 
mystery was she to him? The pathologist or the crusader? Did it 
even matter? 

No. Tonight the pathologist was damned. Tonight reality must sit 
outside the walls of her yellow house, left to swirl around in 
the rustling murmurs of slowly quickening wind. They were 
allowing a different realm of possibility and memory to seep in 
through the walls and windows, inviting a different flavor of 
fantasy to take them over. Forget the FBI, forget the killer, 
forget the hurricane and the consequences. A small window of want 
had been opened and it would not be closed until they were 
satisfied. 

And so she looked at him and saw another man. 

The striking angles of her thin, finely featured face looked at 
him with stormy intensity, the silver skin colored a vivid violet 
in the ripening color of night. Red framed her face, and it was a 
red streaked through and through with plum and purple. Smoldering 
blue eyes bored holes into his, telling him who she was with 
nothing more than the bat of her long, sharp lashes. She 
straightened her shoulders, the fine bones working beneath an 
expanse of porcelain, and Mulder longed to taste her proud, 
stubborn mouth. 

Her breasts were layered only in shadow and satin, otherwise 
bared before him in a display of her abandonment. She had left 
both realities behind to stand before him now, and he knew the 
sacrifice that it was. "They never had this," Scully said, her 
voice darkly serious. 

Mulder shook his head. "No," he murmured, his voice rich with 
meaning. "All these years, Scully... Everything we've gone 
through... And we never..." He was slipping, falling away from 
the stark moonlit bedroom and into a different realm, where he 
could have her in all the ways he never could have had her 
before. The brilliant and tragic woman, all underneath his hands 
and his mouth... That was what he wanted. Fingers inside of her, 
tongue teasing hers, satisfaction wrapped in passion and 
delivered to his taste. 

Cool blue poured down upon her as she breathed in anticipation, 
waiting on his words and devouring the tension with unappeasable 
hunger. "I want this, Mulder," she whispered, her words combining 
with those of another woman. Her breath was not her own, her 
heart beat with a different rhythm, and she felt distanced from 
her own body as another woman stepped in. She sheathed this woman 
in the sensuality and anxiety that was Dana Scully, and became a 
better woman for it. "Please..." 

Heat seemed to burn within the seemingly frosty shades of 
cerulean and violet. They wrapped over his face, streaking 
shadows beneath his eyes and casting his sensual mouth in seared 
iris. Darkness shrouded his features in a thin veil of nighttime, 
as it always did. Scully possessed a thousand and one memories of 
viewing his face through a night-colored lens of icy lavender and 
thick indigo, and this was another to add to the jumbled array of 
tossed gemstones. Mulder, night light hitting his collar like the 
fine tendrils of his hair, attending to her with his bedroom eyes 
and liquid honey voice. 

She took the first bold step to close the distance between them, 
and thus stepped out of the light and into the shadows. The 
pillars of quiet china were abandoned here, leaving deepening 
night to obscure fact and replace it with myth. Truth evaporated 
into thin smoke, leaving only folklore and possibility to simmer 
and boil beneath the cool colors of night. Another step; she was 
nearly there. A low crescent of silver cupped the underside of 
her breast, turning the vanilla satin of her bra into a slender 
slice of frosted sapphire. Starlight beaded her skin with silvery 
white light, giving her a sort of glitter that was too ethereal 
to be artificial. She was exquisite, she was intangible, and she 
was Scully. 

She was the woman who had stood beside him even when everything 
else crumbled, and she was the woman who supported rather than 
deceived. All that he believed in lay in a fine network of veins 
and bereavement, covered by a light wrapping of creamy skin. The 
serious sensuality of her mouth, the sheath of red hair as 
graceful and vivid as a cardinal's wing, and the small gold cross 
that dangled around her neck as a symbol of dying faith... All of 
these components and signatures compiled to create a mother, a 
daughter, a savior and a lover. But most of all, they created a 
partner and a woman. 

That was what he loved the most. 

With one step, he bridged the gap, his hand slipping up to push a 
thin strip of silk away from the delicate collarbone, not 
removing it, just revealing more of her. Every fragment of her, 
every facet and quality that had been covered by shadow and 
satin, he now wanted stripped and bared for his eyes to see. The 
beauty of Scully had been dampened and downplayed for years now, 
even though he had only known this Scully for four days. It 
didn't matter. Both women glimmered in the same manner, and 
memory dictated that she be bared. He had a thousand memories 
where she was not his own and now he wanted all of her. 

A long, ragged breath sighed away from her body, and Mulder was 
startled out of his momentary reverie to glance down at the 
expectant face below him. A long sliver of vermilion was draped 
over her eyes, masking the burning blue from his gaze, and her 
full, ripe raspberry lips were parted in anticipatory arousal. 
Dark lashes hung over her cerulean eyes like crescents made of 
mica, and he leaned down briefly to lay a gentle, tender kiss on 
the creased lid of her eye. A soft sound whispered from her 
throat, almost resembling a whimper but without the weakness, and 
he swore that he tasted the salt of tears on his tongue when he 
pulled away. 

It *was* inherently sad, this singular coupling in this canary 
house on a vulnerable peninsula. Gingerbread trim and magnolias 
floating on a riverbed couldn't compensate for the years and the 
pain that these two had suffered, and one kiss couldn't alleviate 
the losses and the sacrifices. Yet this wasn't about ignoring or 
abandoning the past; it was about celebrating it. Embracing it. 
And so he cupped her face, that painfully poignant sculpture of 
skin and steel, and drank her mouth in with his. 

Velvet sank beneath velvet, pink into pink, and the first kiss 
was enough to inspire more weeping. Gentility and calmness, a 
sort of soft serenity, was discovered in the first brush of lip 
against lip, while passion simmered and sizzled beneath. Scully's 
hand cupped his cheek as he withdrew only a millimeter, so that 
his breath still flared on the waiting bow of her mouth. 
Hesitation entered but only for a moment, his thumb drawing lazy 
circles with a stray tendril of coppery crimson, as his eyes 
carefully sought hers. She wondered then what he was looking for, 
what he was expecting to find, in the depths of her eyes. Which 
woman lurked below the azure surface? 

"Both," Scully whispered. "Both of us." 

And then his mouth consumed hers. 

A torrent of teeth and tongue descended upon the heated 
cushioning of her soft mouth, entering in with a demanding and 
frenzied pace and sweeping through the depths with the intent to 
own. She didn't care, wildly abandoning pride or possession in 
order to stand here and be pillaged. And she reciprocated with a 
looting of her own, greedily drinking his mouth and seeking out 
all of the places that her other self had wistfully catalogued 
over the years. //Take his lower lip,// that woman dictated. 
//Touch his earlobe, taste his tongue, smell the tang of his 
sex... Please, do that for me.// The imagined guidance was 
necessary and well wanted, and Scully obeyed her alternate self's 
commands. No, they weren't even commands. They were pleas. 
Simple, desperate, anguished cries for mercy and Mulder. 

Heat lightning sizzled in the distance, briefly illuminating the 
two entangled bodies in a streak of brilliant silvery gold. The 
slender slice of her thigh was wedged between his legs, her foot 
dragging the hem of his trousers as her toes curled in delicious 
delight. One large, brown hand showed fingers dipped into the 
mint-colored cup of her bra, delving into the delectable breast 
and reaching for one roseate nipple. The electricity that was 
tearing skin off of a woman across town now illumined the skin of 
a divinely beautiful redheaded woman as she removed her bra and 
pressed her bared flesh against the recently stripped skin of her 
chosen lover. Her companion, her salvation, her brilliance and 
her light... Her partner. Mulder. 

A screaming sigh flashed in synchrony with one particularly 
violent flash of lightning, and Scully threw her head back with 
the liberating loudness of it. She had no care for volume or 
violence, not when a hand was parting her thighs and another was 
removing her panties. She wanted him everywhere, wanted him to 
touch every inch of her body in the way he had always wanted to 
and never been able to. Give him this freedom, give her this 
independence, and give them both a window in time to enjoy each 
other wholly. Consummate and celebrate - she wanted it *now*! 

Kisses trailed over her body, and his mouth lavished every taste 
that clung to her skin. From the salty remnants of her earlier 
tears to the sweet tang of vanilla perfume and sweat, Mulder 
catalogued and noted every differing flavor. She was a feast that 
he would never forget, and she was the feast that he would give 
his other self. They both deserved this, after so many years of 
either wandering lost or fighting deception. She was the only 
candle in the dark, the one star in otherwise night, and he would 
forever remember her as his human constellation. 

Heat burned hard and long between his legs, and Scully's slim, 
strong thigh slid up to stroke him with her skin, and Mulder bit 
down on a groan at the feel of her even through his pants and 
boxers. "Get those off," Scully muttered darkly, her voice low 
and hungry, and her choice of words were *certainly* motivating. 

"Yes, ma'am," Mulder replied, his fingers fumbling on his belt in 
a hasty effort to undo his pants and add his nudity to hers. She 
stepped away briefly to watch him undress and give him the space 
necessary to do so, and his eyes never left her body as he took 
off his pants and heather gray boxers. Beneath layers of violet 
night and ebony shadowing, she glowed with rose and gold, and 
auburn hair streaked in her eyes from the frenzy of their 
fleeting foreplay. Flurried and yet elegant, Scully watched him 
with steadily burning turquoise eyes, flecks of sea foam 
shimmering beneath long lashes. 

"Hurry, Mulder," she breathed, her eyes devouring his body from 
head to toe. She knew this body from other moments, both from 
this life and the other, yet the combined meaning behind each 
stretch of sinew and skin was now extraordinarily powerful. There 
lay a strong mixture of sensuality and strength in the smooth 
joining of his collarbone and his shoulder, to the adorably 
endearing slope of his stomach, and in the haphazard way his hair 
fell over his brow. "Hurry..." 

And with increased ardor, he kissed her again, naked and hot 
between her legs. 

When they tumbled onto her bed, she knew that it wasn't the place 
that these two others belonged, yet she hoped that her cream 
concoction would suffice for this stolen coupling. Azaleas and 
jasmine weren't for the other ones. They wanted musty basements 
or leather sofas, cheap motels or Arlington hallways, but all 
that they could have was one grandiose but misdirected lemon 
mansion in South Carolina. As Mulder's mouth took one of her taut 
strawberry nipples between his lips, teasing her by grazing a 
combination of teeth and tongue, she arched her back on the 
pillows and abandoned thoughts of propriety or appropriation. 
This was all that she had, all she had in this world, and it 
would simply have to do. 

It would have to do. 

A large, constantly burning coal was beginning to pulse with 
every breath that was breathed upon her skin or every sigh that 
was exhaled upon her breast. Damp arousal coated her inner thighs 
in a sort of physical desire that she had never experienced 
before. Intensity and intimacy kindled between her legs and 
within her heart, and it was then that she realized that it was 
not just his physical touch that scorched her in bed anymore. No, 
now the beauty of his mind combined with the skill of his body to 
create a more intoxicating and feverish lovemaking. The knowledge 
that the other Scully had given her was telling her something 
altogether exciting and frightening. 

//Oh,// she thought as her knee wrapped around the lavish copper 
of his back, //so I did fall in love with him after all.// 

A callused copper fingertip snaked between her thighs in an 
attempt to stroke her, and with a shaking wrist she pushed his 
hand away. "No," she whispered darkly, "I want you in me now." 
She needed it. They needed it. Both sets of selves wanted this 
most intimate and necessary form of union, physical and mental 
combined, and that was what they would give. 

For the fourth time in the past four days, Mulder eased himself 
into her, and yet it was the first. Memory fled here and replaced 
itself with a different set of images. Images of wanting her, of 
desiring her from a distance, of thanking and worshipping and 
even hating her, but all the while it was touched with love. She 
was the woman who had never abandoned him where others had never 
even joined, and she was the woman who had shown herself in truth 
where others concealed with lies. She was what he didn't deserve 
but desperately wanted, and she had invited him into herself. 

And he could never refuse her. 

Vibrant lightning flickered against their joined bodies so that 
electricity brocaded their united skin. One long, slow thrust 
inside of her ripped rose throughout her veins, and she cried out 
from the ecstasy and the glory of taking him within herself. Her 
scarlet-tipped toes fanned out in a slow unveiling of carmine as 
she felt climax build inside of her belly like a slowly 
fermenting wine, and she wondered what would happen when that 
wine was finally uncorked. What could possibly happen next? 

"I love you," Mulder whispered in her ears, his voice a ragged 
shred of velvet against the soft skin. Her face contorting with a 
mixture of anguish and ecstasy, Scully's hands desperately 
clamored for a grip on him, her fingers sinking into the long 
leanness of his copper back. Fingers tangled through her hair, 
gripping the locks like they were his last hold on sanity. She 
took him into herself deeper, so deep that she felt him 
everywhere and he was buried within her. 

Violet stroked her in synchrony with him, and she cried out, 
gasping with the intensity of the color and the man. Her fingers 
balled into a fist, gripping the nape of his neck and fastening 
his mouth to her neck while he groaned out the beginnings of his 
orgasm. 

He never wanted to leave this. Never wanted to leave the woman he 
had fought so hard for, never wanted to abandon this cream- 
colored bed and this cream-colored lover. Crimson silk filled his 
hands as he gripped her hair and her body, his pulse and his body 
quickening as he started to shake with the climax. A violent 
slash of light ripped through the sky and illuminated the shape 
of her mouth that was only a twist of berry as she began to come. 
A thousand memories of this face, both from his life and his 
other life, began screaming through his mind, showing him every 
contortion and every smile, every laugh and every cry. And so he 
made love to a thousand different versions of Dana Scully until 
he came inside of her and she followed suit. 

***** 

Residence of Dana Scully 
Charleston, South Carolina 
1:02 AM, August 18, 1999 

***** 

Minutes filled with silence passed, as the two lay spooned 
together in the large luxury of her bed. A mere scrap of cream 
cloth was tangled through one of her calves; other than that they 
were only covered by moonlight and now silencing claps of 
lightning. Violet and carmine hair lay in a small pile on his 
shoulder, resting in the loose crook of his arm, and one loose 
white hand rested on his chest. Nothing gripped, nothing groped; 
they merely lay loosely entwined amidst piles of vanilla as the 
brief lightning storm began to fade away. 

Absent fingers began rifling through her hair, letting fine 
threads of auburn fan against her cheek, and Scully closed her 
eyes briefly, sighing. The slender silver of her starlit shoulder 
brushed gratefully against his arm, and Mulder continued in his 
reverent comb through her hair. "It was only temporary," he 
murmured aloud, a small note of sadness in his voice, and Scully 
understood. It was only a sliver of happiness for the two, just a 
small gift of rapture, and it was not even something that they 
could tangibly give or receive. It was merely a gesture. 
Something nice for the two tortured souls. 

Fingertips brushed over the light cinnamon dabbling of freckles 
on her shoulder and clavicle, and he smiled lightly. "She didn't 
have freckles," he murmured, and Scully smiled back in return. 

"Of course she didn't," she replied with simplicity, as though he 
should have known. "She didn't have any time for sunbathing or 
access to the ocean she loved. I do." 

Gentleness touched his eyes as he started stroking the nape of 
her neck, and Scully wondered if he could sense the smattering of 
freckles that rested there, too. "Where do you go, Scully?" he 
asked, and she furrowed her brow, not understanding what he was 
asking. "When you go to the ocean, where do you go?" 

A memory drifted through her head of her maneuvering through the 
riverbeds near Edisto, her hand skillfully turning the small 
motor and paddle so that the slender wooden boat glided between 
the golden grains of the marshes. Shrimp boats sailed around her, 
their massive nets expanding out like mesh wings, while gulls 
followed in dark silhouettes. They were going home, the boats, 
sailing in toward their harbor so that the shrimpers could meet 
their wives and the waters would calm into sapphire tranquility 
without their interruption. What a nice feeling... Going home... 

Quietly, Scully traced the shape of his collarbone with her 
finger, and shrugged. "Everywhere." 

The sigh of happiness beneath him cleared up the dispute she had 
been grappling with in the afterglow of their lovemaking. She had 
wondered to whom Mulder had said, "I love you". She wasn't that 
other Dana Scully. She hadn't survived seven years of anguish and 
suffering or discovered buried truths. This woman had lived her 
life surrounded by two Southern rivers, sailing through marshes 
and watching wisteria bloom. She may be composed of the same 
steely materials and imbedded with the same undying love for the 
sea and passion, but they weren't the same. 

Yet this man loved both. He loved the paragon of virtue from that 
other world, the damaged Dana Scully who had become his salvation 
even though she had lost everything she ever knew. And yet he 
also loved this quiet, miserable woman who lived under canary 
jasmine and knew the island tides. Both women held a place in 
this Fox Mulder's heart, and she knew this from what her own 
heart told her. 

Because she loved both men, too. 

Still smiling, Scully nestled tightly within his arms until he 
turned on his side and wrapped her body in his arms, forearms 
crossing around her abdomen so that she was tightly nestled 
inside of his body. The tip of his endearingly awkward nose 
nuzzled the nape of her neck, and Scully smiled. The freckles 
that she had always hated had now whispered to her the secrets of 
her lover's heart, and she would never damn them again. 

A fitful slumber passed through her mind, giving her little 
reprieve but not filling her mind with any otherworldly images. 
She was grateful for that; she'd had her fill of those for a very 
long while. Yet it was still a troubled sleep, as she drifted in 
and out of consciousness, and when she woke up she knew that she 
would not return to it tonight. Questions and queries had 
replaced all thought of any sort of tranquility, and Scully 
finally slipped away from his arms and moved toward the widow's 
walk. 

A light breeze had stirred during their lovemaking and following 
slumber and it rustled hauntingly through the trees. It was not 
simply a pre-dawn whisper, but a dark murmur. It rippled off the 
coast, turning the glassy Atlantic into a ruffled mass of cobalt 
and black, and sifted through the oaks and willows. She felt it 
brush over her skin, bringing with it a coolness that was unlike 
August's usual humidity and heat, and she knew with thick dread 
what this heavier wind was. It was the first sigh of Becky, 
strong and deadly, moving steadily through the Atlantic while 
keeping Charleston closely in the crosshairs. 

The lilac sprigs of wisteria shimmered and rustled beneath her, 
dancing with dark indigo in the exhalation of the wind. Jasmine 
waved in small, beguiling dots of canary, and the various 
magentas and purples of the azaleas billowed in the breeze. 
Silent and pure magnolias simply hung in the balance between 
stillness and madness, their stark white petals staring at her 
with seductive mocking. This was the hidden ugliness of the 
South. Whenever she desired elsewhere, it taunted her with the 
knowledge that she was bound to it forever. Bound to the gently 
swaying palmetto fronds, bound to the endlessly moving tides, and 
bound to the history and the hell of Charleston. She was tethered 
and tied. 

Pained, Scully gripped the railing tighter and looked down at the 
city beneath her. She had needed this moment alone to gather her 
thoughts and mentally recap the meaning of what had happened to 
her. 

It was interesting to ponder how her world differed from the 
other Dana Scully's, and to wonder how it could have been the 
same. They had walked the same path for so long, so many years 
spent on Navy bases and under the watchful eye of God, but then 
the path branched. She had taken a very different route than her 
other self, and Scully wondered where she had chosen the fork. It 
was not so much which profession or city, but rather who she 
wanted to be. 

And who she was living her life for. 

She had wanted the FBI. She had dreamed of Quantico, of studying 
there and working there. The idea of dispensing justice, of 
protecting the country that she had been taught to love and did 
so wholeheartedly, appealed to her greatly. Military service was 
not satisfying enough for her, even though she was a captain's 
daughters and the sister of two other Navy men. She wanted to 
solve something, to directly serve her community, and hopefully 
distinguish herself from the rest of her Navy clan. She wanted a 
life of her own. 

Yet her father had wanted something different for her. The dream 
of having a doctor for a daughter had been dancing through his 
mind ever since childhood Dana had mentioned her interest in 
medicine. And Scully had wanted to be a doctor. Biology and 
chemistry, the mysteries of the human body, were all fascinating 
to her. Yet as she grew older, her eye caught on bigger things. 
Pathology and criminology captivated her while at Georgetown, and 
the idea of justifying deaths intrigued her. And when she had 
mentioned her dream of the FBI to her father, he had instantly 
disapproved. He didn't want his daughter hurt, either physically 
or spiritually. 

So when the time had come for her to decide her future, she had 
been heartbroken. She knew what she wanted, but the deep love she 
possessed for her father made it impossible for her to disappoint 
him. And he had been so *right* at the time - it was simply 
irresponsible to dispose of a perfectly good medical degree just 
to solve cases and possibly die. She could fail miserably at 
Quantico and become nothing as an agent of the Bureau, and so 
Scully decided to do what was rational. She relied on her common 
sense and followed her science to Charleston. 

And she had regretted it ever since. 

Dawn began staining the sky with a radiant pink and red, and 
Scully leaned miserably on the painted railing of the widow's 
walk. Carmine lay buried beneath the ocean, and Scully watched it 
as it slowly began lacing the sky with a decidedly exquisite 
cotton candy. Sunlight would soon claim the sky and take away 
another day, and she would watch it here and now. It was not her 
nature to run from things, even though she had run from another 
life that could have, *should* have, been her own. 

With a sigh, Scully walked back inside, her fingers briefly 
touching the nape of her neck in a gesture that had become a sort 
of habit over the past few days. Mulder had been obsessing over 
that particular patch of skin, sprinkled with freckles and 
usually veiled by short tendrils of vermilion. Her fingertips 
paused when she realized why: the chip. The small, round chip 
that rested at the base of the other Scully's skull. The same 
chip that had saved her life. 

Christ... Did anything belong to her anymore? 

Feeling sluggishly slow, Scully walked down the stairs to the 
kitchen, where she turned on the lights and began brewing a pot 
of coffee. Caffeine would be necessary to get through today, and 
she decided to take advantage of her good supply of gourmet 
blends. She laughed shortly as she considered adding a good dash 
of something a little more conventional to her coffee: a strong 
spot of bourbon. 

Wearily, Scully turned on the television and booted up her 
computer. The storm still lingered in the southern Atlantic, 
probably approaching the Bahamas today. The heavens would weep 
and God would scream with the absolute ferocity of the storm, and 
then it would move north to the anciently beautiful city of 
Charleston. History was in the making, good children, and Scully 
would have a record of it. 

The television blared to life, and its words stunned her. "We're 
now going to go live to our correspondent for a special news 
conference live from the E.O.C. with an official statement from 
the Mayor," the anchorman said, and Scully turned her attention 
away from her computer to the footage running on the television 
set. 

The Mayor of Charleston, Joseph P. Riley, stood onstage at the 
Emergency Operations Center behind a podium, while Ruben 
Greenberg and various other city councilmen filed behind him. No 
suit and tie gave the Mayor a formal look. No, he was clothed 
simply in a Polo shirt and a pair of rumpled khakis. She knew 
that look on his face. It was the same look that Scully had worn 
for the past three days. The look of sleep depravation and 
distress. 

//Something wicked this way comes...// 

A pause gathered the conference into silence, and then the Mayor 
began to speak. "At six o'clock this morning, an order was handed 
down to me from the Governor," Riley said, pushing up on his 
small wire-rimmed glasses and clearing his throat. "This order 
stated that the city of Charleston, the West Ashley area, and all 
barrier islands surrounding the city were placed under a 
mandatory evacuation due to the impending hurricane. 

"The 5am package sent to the governor and this council by the 
NOAA and the NWA on Hurricane Becky contained a projected path 
for the storm that showed Becky making landfall somewhere near 
the Charleston area at around midnight on August 21. It showed 
this hurricane as a Category 5 hurricane, with projected 
sustained winds of 170mph, and a storm surge of 15 to 20 feet. 
Using this information, we had to make the difficult but 
necessary decision to evacuate the city immediately." 

Briefly, Mayor Riley closed his eyes and bowed his head. Scully 
tilted her head, eyeing the images on television carefully. This 
was the Mayor who had fought so deeply and passionately for the 
city he loved. This was where he had been born and raised, amidst 
the blooming summer flora and given the tides to tame. She saw 
him now in the agony of loss, and she knew that everything that 
she knew would soon be destroyed. 

"I was in this city for Hurricane Hugo, nearly ten years ago," 
Riley quietly said in that hushed Charlestonian accent. "I saw 
this city through it then, and I'll see it through this. But I 
beg the rest of you not to. This is not Hugo. Only two other 
Category 5 storms have made landfall in the United States in 
documented history, and the results were catastrophic. I'm 
imploring the people of this city to follow the evacuation orders 
and find shelter elsewhere." Worn, pained brown eyes looked 
directly at the camera. "Please leave." 

Scully did not hear the rest of the conference. With a twist of a 
tortured wrist, she turned off the television and sat in the 
silence of the rising sun. Everything she knew... Everything she 
loved... Everything was changing and all for the worse. She knew 
nothing in this changed reality, in this different realm where 
lovers did not make love and a storm threatened the Holy City. 

She knew nothing. 

"Something wicked..." She could not finish. All that she could do 
was sit in the comfort of her kitchen and watch the world begin 
to die. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 

***** 

Residence of Dana Scully 
Charleston, South Carolina 
7:16 AM, August 18, 1999 

***** 

The blue sky lightened as the sun rose, but there was no glorious 
sunrise or fantastic globe of gold to crown the sky. Clouds were 
beginning to sift in from the Atlantic, drifting in lazily, as 
though there wasn't any pressure on them to enter at all. Nothing 
could stop its assault, and so there was no hurry. Overhead, the 
first dark fingers of Becky's fist curled gently around the city 
of Charleston in the form of a rain band, cupping the city inside 
of its outstretched palm like a claim: "Mine". 

The city was awakening to a skewered alarm clock: the declaration 
of the evacuation. Worried citizens had watched the news 
conference and they all knew what was approaching. Preparations 
had to be made for the storm, and so plywood and nails started to 
cover windows. Masking tape stars stretched over the elegant 
French windows and multicolored stained glass, carefully 
protecting it from any impending harm. Briefly and despairingly, 
Scully wondered if it would do any good at all. How could one 
slender piece of wood protect a house from a meteorological 
Apocalypse? 

Jesus. She was being morbid. Yet she couldn't *help* it; this was 
the city that she had sacrificed everything for and still deeply 
loved below the circles of associated dislike. Destruction was 
not what she wanted. Her lemon-colored house covered in vines of 
jasmine and shadowed by wisteria didn't deserve to crumble into 
the merciless sea, and she didn't want to see it go. 

Her coffee had cooled by now into a lukewarm state, yet Scully 
still drank it mechanically. It was a reflex, just some hand-to- 
mouth action in a *very* feeble attempt to distract herself from 
the churning seas in the distance. The formerly glassy and smooth 
waves had been stirred up by the distant storm, and this one 
slender finger of gray cloud and sky was only one indicator of 
its approach. She knew from satellite pictures and Doppler radar 
that the storm was still raging over the Bahamas, edging closer 
to the outer edges of the Florida Panhandle and still a long ways 
away. Yet the images showed that this was a monstrously large 
storm, larger than Hugo had ever been, and therefore a force to 
be reckoned with. 

And she had no idea what to do about it. 

He found her standing this way on the balcony, a cup of cooling 
coffee in one hand while her other cupped her chin thoughtfully. 
A troubled expression marred the previous tranquility, darkness 
claiming over the cool blue of her eyes and shadowing the lenses 
with unease. A thin cotton robe with two slits up the side 
covered her body in light, airy spring green subtly patterned 
with peach hibiscuses, and the flimsy material allowed enough 
light to silhouette her body. Fine curves, slender figure, lean 
legs... All were displayed through the shadowy fabric. The loose 
collar had slipped down over her shoulder to bare the freckled 
skin there, all dotted in cinnamon, while spare tendrils of red 
flew and fluttered over the exposed shoulder. 

Mulder could have touched her if he wanted, but he decided not 
to. Watching her told him enough about her current state of mind, 
using data that both Mulders had collected over the years and 
days. She was lost right now, trying to find anchorage, and she 
needed to do it in her own time. He understood completely. The 
trauma and trials of the past five days had provided them with 
nothing more than heartbreak and a universe of confusion. His 
head ached when he tried to sort it all out. 

Yet she turned around to watch him watching her, and the haunted, 
hollow expression on her face pained him. She was in agony, and 
not of her usual brand. No, she was experiencing a different sort 
of pain. It was the pain of not recognizing which life as her 
own. 

"I didn't sleep last night," Scully said, and the confession 
surprised him. He knew that she had left in the middle of the 
night, but she wasn't the type to admit to such trivialities as 
insomnia or illness. Neither woman was. And he didn't know why 
she was telling him this now. 

"Why not?" he asked gently, tilting his face to look at the 
troubled woman leaning over the balcony to glance down at the 
clouded city. 

Her bared shoulder shrugged, a small line of rising rose tinting 
the fine bone as her joint tilted. Gold and indigo trailed over 
her features, lighting her hair with vermilion and violet. She 
was quiet, self-composed and yet too troubled to be tranquil. 
Light rose over the horizon slowly, and Mulder narrowed his eyes 
at the strangeness of the sky. Rings of clouds were circling over 
the city, slowly turning as they came on shore, almost rotating. 
Sunlight dipped over the Atlantic, red staining the seas in a 
sunset that was darker than usual. 

"Weird clouds," Mulder commented, and Scully's eyelashes 
fluttered against her cheek as she flinched. The clouds... And 
Mulder realized that he was gazing over the Atlantic at the 
onslaught of an approaching hurricane. "Becky." 

One finger languidly trailed along the rim of the coffee mug, 
tracing the navy blue handle. "They're predicting that the storm 
will make landfall somewhere before tomorrow night, near the 
Charleston area," she murmured in a hushed voice, as though the 
quickening winds would steal her words from her mouth and turn 
them into falsehoods. Mulder had the distinct feeling that Scully 
wanted it all to be a lie, if only so that she could find a grain 
of stability and balance in the suddenly skewered world. 

And Mulder was very right indeed. Everything she owned had been 
destroyed in the past days. Her beliefs, her science, her faith, 
her life, and now the city she lived in would follow them all 
into oblivion. She knew nothing in this world, and it had once 
been her own. She had taken control of her life, as miserable as 
it had once been, and it had been something that she had 
understood. And now it was all questioned and queried to the 
point where she recognized nothing. At this moment, standing over 
the city and just beneath the rolling hurricane clouds, Scully 
would have given anything to stand in her old shoes. Ignorance 
was bliss, and that was the rapture she wanted. 

Gentle hands brushed along her shoulder, harmless knuckles 
running like whispers across the bared skin. A sigh exhaled from 
her body of its own volition - she would have rather kept it all 
in. But she couldn't help it underneath his touch, couldn't 
withhold her reaction from him. She had to remember him, the 
destroyer of her life as well as the resurrection of Scully. 
Giving up the past few days, returning to her past life, now 
seemed impossible when stained with the memory of Mulder and the 
world she could have once had. 

So she relaxed into his touch and allowed him to stand next to 
her, his fingers endlessly connecting the small freckles as the 
two looked down at the stirring city. "It's waking up early 
today," Mulder commented, and Scully nodded. 

"The governor ordered a mandatory evacuation of the city earlier 
today," Scully said, and Mulder turned his head, concerned. "I 
was expecting something for the islands, but the city itself..." 
She shook her head. "Even for Hurricane Hugo, they never tried to 
force an evacuation on the city. West Ashley, Mt. Pleasant, the 
downtown area... All of them have to be abandoned for this." The 
wind rushed through her hair in something that felt suspiciously 
like a sneer. Like the storm was mocking her just by coming 
ashore near her city. Everything rushing toward her: the truth, 
the hurricane, and the murders... She was dying on the inside. 

Usually, this was where he would have touched her, where he would 
have given some sort of breathy caress that would distract her 
from the pain, but this time he let her go. Instead, Mulder stood 
beside her and watched the city move beneath them, his eyes 
watching the trees shake with the wind and the sun crown the 
horizon in a globe of goldenrod. "What are you going to do?" he 
asked, and she shrugged, her arms wrapping around her midsection 
as a chill passed through the wind. 

"I'll leave," she said. "I may be a bad weather junkie, but I'm 
not insane or stupid. Catastrophic damage, category five 
conditions, and then there's..." She took a breath and finally 
took a look into his face, meeting him square in the eyes with 
her own tired blue ones. "Mulder, I know what it means that 
they're evacuating downtown and West Ashley." 

Frowning, he tilted his head to the side. "What does it mean, 
Scully?" he asked, and she clenched her jaw, obviously troubled 
by everything that was going on around her. 

"They're expecting Charleston to get the storm surge." 

It was obvious from the expression on his face that Mulder was 
completely hurricane illiterate. Why shouldn't he be? His life 
and world didn't rely on the unpredictable realm of the tropics. 

A tired hand brushed through her windblown hair, absently 
straightening the ruffled locks. "Everyone measures the ferocity 
of a storm by the wind," she said, "but that's an incorrect 
assessment of a hurricane's damage. You see, its power isn't in 
its wind but in its water. The storm surge rises above the normal 
waterline and floods the city in a matter of minutes. It destroys 
everything in its path, and that's what we're facing. That's why 
the evacuation is mandatory." 

Now his hand landed on her shoulder, cupping the slender bone and 
tracing the freckles with his fingers. He didn't say anything; he 
had no consolation to offer her. What she was facing was 
something monumental, and a sinking feeling of guilt crept 
beneath his skin. This was why he should leave her as soon as 
possible. This was what happened when Fox Mulder was involved in 
the life of Dana Scully. It was why he had never made love to her 
in that other life, and why he shouldn't even contemplate what he 
was already contemplating. 

Mulder knew both Scullys well. They were essentially the same 
women with different sets of memories. Both were built of the 
same fiber and material, constructed of the same fineries and 
trimmings. She was built from strength and compassion, from 
intelligence and an unusual brand of beauty, and it didn't matter 
what life she lived - that was always who and what she would be. 
Built out of strength and sculpted in private tragedy. And she 
always saved him in the end. 

Red tossed in her eyes as he looked at her, sad and distant, 
standing on this balcony while the hibiscus-print robe slid 
further down her freckled shoulder. Cream dusted with coral, he 
thought, enjoying the slight smiles of sunlight that were stained 
on her skin. He recalled first seeing her in both lives: once in 
a basement office in Washington and once on a street corner in 
Charleston. Both times she was proud and defiant, stubborn and 
strong, painted in shades of defiance. And now he could remember 
the first moments where Dana Scully fell apart - once in a foyer 
in Donnie Pfaster's parlor and again here, watching her city 
before it fell into the sea. 

She had saved him in both lives. Saved him from insanity in one 
and saved him from physical death in the other. Mulder knew what 
he was becoming before he came to Charleston - he was becoming 
the broken man that Patterson had made of Townsend and wanted to 
make of Mulder. Losing his mind in the vast sea of child 
molestation and brutal torture was not an appealing future, but 
it had been the future that he had been heading for. A future 
spent in strait jackets and dead time, and he had felt that 
apathy beginning to slip over him, killing him at the age of 
thirty-seven. 

But then Scully had showed her lovely face, spoken passionately 
and listened intently, and with every revelation and slip of 
skin, he felt as though one lost part of himself surfaced and 
snapped back into place. He had not felt this alive since before 
joining BSU, before Patterson's slow unraveling and his 
consumption. The way she made him feel... 

Yet it was more than about Scully. It was about the truths that 
existed in that world that also existed in this one. Conspiracy. 
The Consortium. The lies of his parents and the painful truth 
behind his parentage. And colonization. 

Colonization was the worst. 

In the other world, there was always Mulder and Scully to reveal 
the hidden truths and destroy the shadows. They were the ones who 
had put a stall on the coming plague and started a path working 
toward some sort of vaccine. And in this world, there was nothing 
there to give them that security. No federal saviors could take 
control of the world now, and Mulder knew that he would always 
have an obligation to the truth. The X-Files were the key to 
unlocking the door, and all that Mulder needed was to own and 
possess them. 

And he wanted her with him. 

It was selfish. He knew that. It was terribly selfish and cruel 
to want her to leave her city and her life behind to live out 
hell with him. It was the same thing that the other Mulder had 
done to Scully - tell her he wanted her there with him, begged 
her not to leave him, even though he knew how destructive and 
painful living out their life was. All of the sacrifices and 
losses that they had experienced totaled to an unbelievable 
amount of grief, and with every human life lost, a part of her 
went down, too. She had those memories locked inside of her now, 
and asking her to leave and go with him was something that he 
didn't want to do to her. 

Yet that niggling selfish part of him said that he loved her, and 
letting her go would be letting the best of him just walk away. 
And for what? Pride? Protection? He didn't know. Looking down at 
the sleek and somber profile, licked and lacquered in multiple 
shades of rose and blue, Mulder knew that living without her 
could kill him but living with him could kill her. It was the 
ultimate Catch-22, but her life wasn't up for him to live. 

All that he could do was propose and let her decide. 

Not that he had anything to propose to her - the idea of 
transferring from BSU to the X-Files, if the X-Files even existed 
in this realm, was still just a farfetched fantasy, and it 
wouldn't save him from profiling the Southern Skinner. Nothing 
would, not even Scully herself. His job and profession relied on 
his ability to catch this monster, and he had put off writing a 
profile long enough. 

"I need to get back to the hotel," Mulder murmured in her ear, 
and Scully nodded, her eyes still distracted. He wondered what 
was diverting her thoughts - the revelations from yesterday or 
the storm coming in tomorrow. She was still a mystery, this 
silent and stoic woman, and that was comforting to know that 
Scully's enigma transcended time and space. Gently, not wanting 
to intrude upon her thoughts or musings, Mulder kissed her on her 
forehead, and was surprised when she tilted her head back and 
captured his mouth with hers. 

There was low burning passion in this, always fiery, but this 
carried a more pleasant warmth, like burning leaves in winter. It 
was welcomed here for the both of them, somewhat exhausted from 
the constant intensity and looking for something easier to 
handle. Something that could be tamed and tender, not unleashed 
and wild. She had provided them both with that, while her lips 
slowly slid over his, adding one hint of sexuality when her 
tongue traced the plumpness of his lower lip. "Take care," she 
murmured when she pulled away, her hand touching his mouth and 
lingering there before he could speak. It troubled her to see her 
so disturbed, so alone, and he wanted to stay, but the necessity 
of the case and the difference in their jobs required him to 
leave. 

Aching for another moment out here, for some reassurance that she 
wouldn't fall apart once he left, Mulder covered her hand with 
his and kissed the tips of her fingers. "I'll call you," he said 
softly, and Scully shook her head. 

"Call my cellular," she said. "I've got to go out to Home Depot 
and try to find something to board the house up with. There are 
a lot of things I have to do today." Of course there was - she 
had a vast amount of work that needed to be done if she wanted to 
keep her house or her sanity. She wouldn't be called to work 
today; the entire city was coming to a halt in the face of the 
approaching storm. 

"I'll do that," Mulder said, turning his back on her and leaving 
her alone out on the balcony. 

She didn't return until he had dressed and left her, and then 
watched him leave the house in a dark navy suit that was rumpled 
from their tumble of sex and still blanketed in the slowly 
lightening darkness of predawn. News vans were beginning to pull 
up to the Battery, and Scully realized that she would never see 
the city in the same state again. It was already changing, had 
changed while she slept the night away in her lover's arms, and 
she had already changed with it. It was an unplanned 
synchronicity, their united metamorphosis, and not an entirely 
welcome one, either. She had never liked surprises. 

She dressed in a mechanical fashion, picking out a pair of 
tailored black slacks and a pressed linen shirt, leaving the 
first two buttons undone so that the gold of her cross glinted in 
the hollow of her throat. After adding a professional yet casual 
black jacket to the ensemble, she took a glance of herself in the 
mirror and saw another woman's image reflected back at her. The 
pumps she had chosen, the cut of the makeshift suit, and the way 
her hair fell over her cheek... That was the cool, collected, 
quietly disturbed portrait of the other skeptical Scully, the 
scientist and the eternal doubting Thomas, who now seemed to have 
a presence on both realms. 

Gritting her teeth, Scully tilted her chin higher, examining the 
reflection with firm scrutiny. It was still her, with her bright 
red hair and that straight, strong profile. She saw herself in 
the taut, proud shoulders and unwavering chin, and she could 
remember who she was through the nimble fingers of her hands or 
the long arch of her throat, just faintly dusted with a smattering 
of freckles. That was both Dana Scullys, captured here in the 
mirror, thrown back at her through light and glass. This was the 
woman who would survive the storm. 

From outside on the balcony, Duchess yowled for entry, her 
multicolored furry head nuzzling the glass insistently. "Coming," 
Scully muttered, walking toward the balcony to let her calico 
indoors. An imperial feline head was held high and proud as she 
tiptoed inside the house, her little declawed white toes padding 
the Oriental carpets in an utterly useless but amusing fashion. 
Affectionately, Scully lifted the cat up into her arms, not 
caring about the tiger's eye hairs that were undoubtedly catching 
on the expensive material of her suit jacket. She'd been terribly 
preoccupied in the past couple of days; Duchess must be starved 
for attention. Cats were so damn needy... 

Orange and black fur purred like a motor underneath Scully's 
hand, and Scully stroked the nape of the cat's neck while she 
stepped out onto the balcony one last time. She wanted a bird's 
eye view of the world as it shattered below her. She needed to 
see the sun stroke the sea with its roseate fingers while the 
wind churned and tumbled the ocean into a pile of jewels. These 
were the things and places she knew and loved for nine years, and 
as far as she was concerned, it was home to her. 

Palmetto fronds brushed over the city, turning and twisting with 
their verdant lushness, and they briefly obscured her vision of 
the city below. Scully looked past the fronds at the gathering 
news crews and residents below her, her eyes trailing over the 
varied mixture of reporters and Charlestonians. Narrowing her 
eyes, she thought she sensed something familiar out there, 
beneath the trees and draping vines of wisteria and violets. 
Something burning. 

The wind blew past her face and brought her a scent that was dark 
and beautiful all at once. Fallen flora, churning sea, and the 
dying smell of a cigarette. 

Eyes widening, Scully saw him through the swiftly moving fronds 
of the trees. He was wearing a dark, nondescript suit, leaning 
against the railing of the Battery, and smirking at her like he 
knew everything there was to know about Dana Katherine Scully. 

The cigarette-smoking man. 

Heart pounding, Scully raced down the stairs, eyes wide with fear 
and face flushed with anger. Oh, God, he couldn't be here. He 
wouldn't have the knowledge or the nerve to pay a visit on the 
woman he had tried to destroy a thousand times over before. The 
ruin and wreckage that Agent Scully had been forced to wade 
through swarmed through Scully's mind - Samantha, Emily, Duane 
Barry, Melissa, the cancer, and poor broken Mulder... She had a 
million things she wanted to say to him, a thousand ways she 
wanted to murder him, and all that she could do was scramble down 
the stairs and out the front door toward the Battery. 

The wind showered dozens of loosened wisteria petals on her front 
yard so that it rained lavender, and as Scully ran across the 
yard her feet sprayed scattered flora around her. Her bobbed 
vermilion hair fanned out around her wild-eyed face, mouth taut 
with tension and determination. She had to know if it was him. 
God, it couldn't be him. 

Oaks and passing cars obscured the pedestrians on the Battery 
from her view, and she frantically tried to weave in and out of 
the slow-moving vehicles in a desperate attempt to get to the 
Battery. All the while, leaves and flowerets rained down like 
sands in an hourglass, and Scully felt as though she was running 
out of time. She *had* to get to him before he left. Part of her 
hoped it was him and the other part, the part that still clung to 
the sanity and stalwartness of her old life, prayed that it 
wasn't. The devil couldn't have infiltrated every realm that Dana 
Scully and Fox Mulder inhabited. He couldn't be here. 

And he wasn't. 

Her head tossed from side to side as she frenziedly tried to seek 
him out, but she knew from something inside of her that he had 
already left. He was gone, left without a trace, and she was 
alone on the Battery without him. Then something that still 
burned and emitted a stream of ominous and seemingly endless 
smoke rolled lazily to push at her feet, and Scully kneeled down 
to inspect the abandoned cigarette. 

A Morley. 

She controlled the tremor in her fingers as she picked up the 
still-burning cigarette by its filter, eyes wide with startled 
despair and mouth twisted in disbelief and fear. Her eyes turned 
from the cigarette to scan the cars or the people milling about 
the other portions of the Battery, but there was nothing to be 
seen. All that was left of the ghostly figure was the cigarette 
butt she held pinched between her fingers, and nothing more. 

The coal burned down to the filter and singed Scully's 
fingertips, and she dropped the cigarette instantly, recoiling 
from the place that his mouth had touched and thusly burned her 
fingers. No. It couldn't be him. He wouldn't have the knowledge 
to come seek her out in Charleston; she was only a lowly 
pathologist with no knowledge of the ring of lies and betrayal 
that the other Scully had been caught up in. Her other self's 
fear and paranoia must have led her to believe that the man 
standing on the Battery was her nemesis, and not an actual 
sighting of the hated foe. 

But what if it *was* him? What if he had known all along that 
they would somehow meet one day? What if he possessed the same 
knowledge that Mulder and Scully had learned only yesterday - 
that they were his downfall? God, what if he had come to kill her 
now, before they could do anything to ruin him in this life? 
Abduction, testing, cold-blooded murder - he was capable of 
anything and everything. Her worst nightmares were in the cortex 
of his brain, and he had the ability and the utter lack of 
humanity to make them all come true. 

Wincing, Scully turned her face toward the Atlantic, looking out 
at the half-circle of barrier islands that protectively cradled 
the city in a wall of sand and trees. Shrimp boats plowed out in 
the distance, away from the tamer waters of the harbor and out 
near the wildness by Kiawah and Seabrook, gliding through in 
hopes of collecting sea animals stirred up by the tumultuous 
tides. She felt like those shrimp and crabs right now, tossed 
about by rowdy and boisterous seas only to be collected and 
destroyed by the masses. 

It was not a pleasant sensation. 

The phone rang in her pocket and she picked up, her voice small 
and shaken by the experience she had just had. "Scully," she 
murmured, and Mulder's voice answered. 

"Hey, it's me," he said. 

Quickly, she tried to compose herself, straightening her 
shoulders and turning her gaze away from the waters. "Where are 
you, Mulder?" she asked, and Mulder replied. He sounded as though 
he was in a car, traveling somewhere. 

"On my way to the hospital," he said. "I need you there to look 
at something for me." 

"What did you find?" 

His voice stopped for a moment, and when he spoke again, his 
voice was concerned. "Scully, are you all right?" 

She flinched, knowing that he wasn't going to believe her when 
she told him she was fine but also knowing that she didn't want 
to tell him what had disturbed her. Mulder didn't need to know 
about what she saw. Not until she could make sense of it herself. 
"Yeah, I'm fine," she said. "What is it you want me to look at." 

"We found another victim," Mulder said. "And this one's alive." 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 

***** 

This part rated R for violent imagery and some gross stuff <g> 

***** 

Medical University of South Carolina (MUSC) 
Charleston, South Carolina 
10:32 AM, August 18, 1999 

***** 

The discovery of the only survivor of the Southern Skinner was 
discovered lying bloody and half-burned, crying even though she 
was nearly unconscious, in the swaying dunes on Folly Beach. 
Grain and sea oats covered her naked body, her arms crossed 
around her body in a halfhearted attempt at modesty and shame, 
and her charred face was contorted by pain and exhaustion. A 
young girl around the age of six had been walking on the beach 
that morning collecting conch shells when she overheard something 
that sounded like sobbing and discovered the escaped and severely 
wounded woman in the dunes. She went for help immediately, and 
her mother screamed at the sight of the woman's condition. Were 
it not for the woman's weeping, she would have died of exposure 
out on the beach, but her crying had saved her life. 

On the way over the hospital, she had flatlined from the blood 
loss, and though she had been resuscitated, she had been comatose 
thereafter. She had been able to mumble her name repeatedly in an 
attempt to give herself some sort of identity and to notify her 
family, and that name was Jean Edwards. "Jean," she had whispered 
to the paramedic who had carted her battered body from the sands. 
"Jean Ellen Edwards." Exhausted by her ordeal, the woman had 
fallen off the mortal coil, only to be brought back to life and 
misery by machinery. 

Mulder had the mental image captured inside of his mind as the 
paramedic and police officers described to the FBI team their 
situation and after visiting the crime scene itself. The young 
girl remained calm and coherent while her mother was obviously 
shaken, though the older woman was beginning to calm down. It had 
been the daughter who had dialed 911, following instructions 
given to her by many teachers and guidance counselors, and it had 
been the daughter who had draped a cotton blanket embroidered 
with balloons over the woman. 

The female officer who had taken the child's statement shook her 
head, flipping through the shorthand written on her pad. "That 
kid's something else," the officer muttered, while a loose coil 
of brown fell in her face. "Most kids would've made the 911 call, 
but half of them wouldn't think to regenerate body heat." 

"She didn't give the woman the blanket to regenerate heat," 
Mulder said absently, his eyes scanning the crowds in search of 
the pathologist he had just called. "She did it because the woman 
was naked." 

Narrowing her eyes, the officer looked up from the notepad, 
staring at him blankly. She wasn't a bad officer; Mulder could 
tell that from the thoroughness of her questioning. But she had 
simply made the wrong deduction about the girl. "How would you 
know that?" she asked, and Mulder shrugged. 

"That's just how kids think." 

Patterson interrupted before the young officer could ask any more 
questions, and Mulder let the senior agent take over. "Thank you 
for your time, Officer Stanley," Patterson said, and he turned 
away, taking Brentwood and Mulder with him as they walked toward 
the elevator that would bring them to the Intensive Care Burn 
Unit. A gruff and stern look had tightened Patterson's features 
so that a constant glare growled at Mulder. "There's no point in 
telling things like that to an officer," he said. "Put them in 
your profile." 

Mulder nodded. "Yes, sir." 

A silence stiffened the air as the three agents rode the 
elevator, and Brentwood's dull monotone finally spoke. "Why would 
there be a live one now?" he mused aloud, and Patterson shook his 
head. 

"She was probably placed there by the killer," he said. "He wants 
to be caught. Maybe the forced evacuation had something to do 
with it to; he has to get out of the city and can't continue 
until then." 

Mulder shook his head. "She escaped," he said. "This guy's not 
the type of person to let things go unfinished by his own power 
and will. The doctor's report will prove that when we speak to 
her, too." Mulder knew the insides and workings of this 
individual. The hour he had been given to crawl within the 
murderer and steal his thoughts and dreams had been a highly 
productive and terrifying hour. He was cold and cruel, human in 
that the only motivator in these murders was curiosity and greed. 
He wanted these women, wanted them because they were beautiful 
and possessed a strength that he simply did not. He wanted them 
for their strength and for their sexuality, and he wanted to 
understand them. He wanted to get under their skin. 

Literally. 

The elevator doors opened and they walked into the burn unit, 
where a tall, slender woman with cascading brown hair and cool, 
assessing eyes stood before them with a clipboard in one hand and 
a ballpoint pen in the other. A slender set of oval eyeglasses, 
framed in tortoiseshell matching her nutmeg hair, was perched on 
her straight nose. "Agents?" she asked, her voice calm and 
professional in a manner that instantly reminded Mulder of 
Scully, except this woman's voice had a clipped British accent. 
"I'm Dr. Ophelia Brown, head of the burn unit." 

Mulder shook the doctor's slender, cold hand, noting her 
elegantly manicured fingernails. "Special Agent Mulder," he said, 
and each man introduced himself until the four were all 
acquainted. 

Patterson started the round of questioning, crossing his strong 
arms over his stern chest and glaring at her. "I take it you've 
performed your initial examination already," he said, and Brown 
nodded, a long coil of chestnut loosing itself from behind her 
ear. Mulder's quick and careful eyesight noticed a small network 
of raised pink flesh on her inner right wrist. Scar tissue. 
Burns, as a matter of fact. How interesting for a doctor who 
specialized in burn treatment. 

"Miss Edwards is currently asleep right now, knocked out from a 
combination of Vicaden and Demerol, with Phenergan to relieve any 
nausea or discomfort," Brown said, not even glancing at the 
medical chart she held in her hands. "She's being fed 
intravenously and is being properly medicated for the burns she 
suffered. And those burns are *extremely* severe. I've never seen 
anyone survive something as serious as those burns, not to 
mention walk." 

Glancing pointedly at Patterson, Mulder asked his question to 
Brown. "How can you be sure that she walked, Dr. Brown?" he 
asked, and Brown shrugged, as though that answer was plain to 
see. 

"Her feet were cut with a multitude of minor lacerations and the 
wounds contained sand and saltwater," she said. "She obviously 
cut the soles of her feet when walking through tidal pools and 
over small seashells. And the lacerations are all new, not prior 
to her burns. They were still bleeding when she was brought into 
the hospital." She flipped to one page of the chart to read out 
loud how many lacerations were on her feet. "She must have been 
running and it must have been dark - there were a good number of 
them, so she wasn't looking as to where she was going." 

Mulder nodded, looking down at the chart in hopes of procuring 
more answers. "It also says here that you noted wounds on both of 
her wrists and ankles," he murmured, pointing to the note on the 
chart. 

Dr. Brown nodded, tossing back the rueful chestnut helix of hair 
from out of her face. "I'm pretty sure that they were some sort 
of restraint --two circular cuts on the ankles and wrists. 
Handcuffs, perhaps. And not the fur-trimmed brand, either." 

Patterson snorted, apparently appreciating Brown's touch of black 
humor. "Tell us about the burns, Doctor," he said, and Mulder 
watched as a cloud passed over Brown's otherwise remarkably clear 
and exotic green eyes. But before she could speak, a different 
voice interrupted. 

"Yes, please do." 

All three men and the doctor turned to see one petite and 
professional-looking woman walk down the hallway, cutting the 
masses of doctors and officers like a knife with her sharp, 
sturdy focus and intense blue eyes. The arrogant and attentive 
tilt of her chin was lifted high as she exited the elevator and 
strode toward the small cluttering of people. It was Scully, 
holding herself with the strength and calmness that seemed to 
have come from another woman. Mulder knew who she was in that 
moment, wearing a dark suit and glaring with every ounce of self- 
composure in her body. 

She was her other self. 

A curling smile touched Dr. Brown's face as she looked at Scully. 
"Didn't expect to see you here, Scully," she commented, and 
Mulder was surprised that the two women knew each other. Then it 
struck him - Ophelia Brown was the woman Scully had consulted with 
concerning the powder in the first victim's chest cavity. "I 
thought you'd be boarding up and heading out." 

A wry smile was tossed in Mulder's direction. "I was on my way to 
the gas station to beat the rush when I got a call I couldn't 
ignore," Scully said simply, and Mulder felt Patterson's angry 
glare on his back. He ignored it; let the old bastard be mad. 
Scully would help them solve this case before this guy took 
another life. The redhead crossed her arms over her chest and 
arched a ginger eyebrow at the burn specialist. "Please continue, 
Lia." 

"Lia" did as Scully asked, adjusting her tortoise-shell glasses 
on her nose and peering down at the words in front of her. "There 
were some serious third-degree burns on the left side of her 
face, stretching over her cheek and down to the jaw. The skin was 
literally stripped from her face there, and we're not quite sure 
how to repair the face, if we ever can. There's also a burn 
around three-quarters of her throat, as well as one patch of 
completely ruined skin behind her right ear. Some of her scalp 
has been burned as well, and her eyebrows were singed off. Also, 
there were burns trailing down across her clavicle, exposing the 
bone and burning the surface of the bone, and her breasts are 
fairly well burned. Assorted burns of varying degree were found 
on her arms and legs, some fairly serious, and the worst burn is 
on her back. We've tried to bandage it, but it keeps seeping..." 
The burn specialist shook her head, disturbed, and Patterson 
asked his next question. 

"What is her current condition?" he asked, and there was 
something needy and almost excited in his voice that made Dr. 
Brown sharply jerk her head in his direction. 

"If you're asking if there's any possibility of you interviewing 
Jean Edwards, I'm going to tell you right now that there's 
absolutely none," Brown said coldly, her eyes glinting at him 
like emeralds iced over. "It's quite physically impossible. When 
she's not knocked out from the drugs, she's catatonic. Absolutely 
mute. Miss Edwards won't say a word to save her life right now." 

A dark mutter came from Mulder's lips as he turned away, hands on 
his hips, thought swirling through his mind. "Unfortunately, 
that's what it might take to save her," Mulder murmured, and 
Scully tilted her head to look at her lover, furrowing her brow 
with concern. He was calculating mentally, silently piecing 
together what he had heard with what he knew about the killer. 
Quietly composing an unspoken profile... 

An exasperated sigh came from Patterson's direction. "Well, can 
we at least *see* her for Christ's sake?" he asked, and Lia 
coolly assessed the older agent. Scully remained leaning against 
the wall, half-concealed in shadow, and she silently nodded at 
Lia when Lia turned to get Scully's opinion. //Let him go,// 
Scully's nod said, and Lia smiled at him as though there was 
never any conflict or question to begin with. 

"Of *course* you can see her, Agent Patterson," Lia said, the 
sweetness and charm of her British accent a blistering mixture of 
sarcasm and scorn. "I wouldn't want to hinder a federal 
investigation, right? They might discover I don't have a green 
card." Her trilling peal of laughter, so wickedly 
uncharacteristic of cold Ophelia Brown, made Scully smirk as the 
burn specialist led two of the three agents into the small 
hospital room. 

Mulder had turned to follow them when he saw Scully still leaning 
against the wall. "You coming?" he asked, and Scully shook her 
head. 

"I can't," she said softly. "I'm not an FBI agent." 

The reminder of who and what she was disturbing and painful, and 
Mulder quietly hung back, waiting until the doctor and the other 
two agents were gone. 

The officers and medical workers had filed out of the hallway 
during their brief questioning of Lia Brown, and Mulder and 
Scully were left alone in the abandoned corridor. She leaned on 
one wall, and Mulder relaxed slightly against the other, dipping 
his hands into his pockets and retrieving a small plastic filled 
with salted sunflower seeds. Intense eyes scanned over her body, 
and she looked at him with dark eyes as well. 

This was their first reminder of their difference since their 
discovery yesterday, and it was the first time it hurt. Mulder 
couldn't call her up like the other Mulder had always been able 
to. She was a coroner, a woman who dealt strictly with the dead, 
not an investigator with the same access and ability that he 
possessed. They simply were not the same two people that they 
could have been in their other life, and they were not partners 
here. Only lovers, only for a week, meant to be separated at some 
point in time. 

Yet he didn't want the illusion broken. He had been blissfully 
unaware of her difference as she had strode so familiarly proud 
down the hall, her presence as powerful and as intense as her 
doppelganger's had always been, wearing that tailored suit with 
her hair in its demure sheaf of autumn fire. Yet she was not that 
other Scully, with her fire and her fever. She was a different 
woman, with different restrictions, still constructed of the same 
materials but built in a different manner. Her architecture was 
still magnificent though, in either life. 

But it was so much more painful to gaze at her here. 

A sad smile touched her berry-painted lips, and she spoke in a 
hushed voice. "You didn't think it would be the same, did you?" 
she said, her words yellowed and made brittle and brutal by her 
bitterness. No. He didn't think it would be the same. But he 
didn't think it would be this different. Or this painful. 

Eyelids drooping over his eyes, Mulder shook his head, gazing at 
the floor instead of at the quiet regret etched across her 
agonizingly remembered features. "I knew it would be different," 
he murmured back, his eyes scanning his slightly scuffed shoes as 
though they had answers. "I just didn't know that it would be so 
difficult." 

Bowing her head, she nodded in agreement, crossing her arms over 
her chest and letting a soft wing of vibrant crimson-gold fall 
over her eyes and obscure her vision. "You wanted more time where 
we could pretend otherwise," she said. "You wanted to make- 
believe that this was more than just a weeklong fling, some sort 
of fantasy fortnight, where we weren't bound by these 
restrictions and tethers." 

Her head lifted, and he had to drag his eyes from the floor to 
meet her steely cerulean gaze. "But we are bound. We're 
restricted. That's the fact." Intensity and resignation, cold and 
clear, punctuated her last word, and Mulder blanched at that. She 
always had been so staunch and stubborn, but this time, she was 
also very right. 

Make-believe and imagination weren't going to help either one of 
them in this world. They had fact to deal with, not the fantasy 
of what their lives could have become. Relying on what-ifs and 
maybes was just a diversion from the action that should be taken 
here, and pretending that things were right wouldn't 
automatically make them so. Mulder had a plan though, carefully 
formulated and constantly building, and it was hopefully the plan 
that would redeem him and lead him toward the truth. The truth 
about what the government was doing behind the American public's 
back. The truth about extraterrestrial life and the plans 
concerning colonization. 

And the truth about his sister's abduction. 

Yet before he pursued any of these truths, he had to deal with a 
painful one of his own: the truth that in less than a week, 
Scully would probably be out of his life. She was a Charlestonian 
and a pathologist, not an agent and not his partner. She had 
carved out a life of her own in the thick, resilient bark of the 
swaying palmettos and grandiose oaks, and had the safe, sturdy 
existence that the other Mulder had always wanted his Scully to 
have. And she should have it. He had firmly told himself this 
earlier. 

But that selfish part of him that loved her and wanted her for 
himself told him that she belonged with him. 

The door opened and the two agents and one doctor filed out. Both 
Patterson and Brentwood held expressionless faces, while Dr. 
Brown carried with her the grace and elegance of a truly 
professional doctor. "Agent Mulder, would you like to view Miss 
Edwards?" she asked, and Patterson answered for him. 

"Agent Mulder does not need to view Miss Edwards," Patterson 
replied, his voice as cold and sharp as an icicle. "The police 
photographs will serve the same purpose. If it's alright with 
you, Doctor, we'd best be leaving before the town shuts down." 

Ophelia Brown nodded and waved the three men off, so that she 
stood alone with Scully. Silently, she passed the medical chart 
to her friend and fellow physician, and Scully scanned past the 
medical notes, the bloodwork, and the various examinations and 
history known on Jean Edwards. A glossy black-and-white 
photograph of the woman prior to her injuries was clipped to the 
first sheet of paper, and Scully took a quiet moment to take in 
the firm, proud woman's face. "She was pretty," Lia agreed at 
Scully's silence. "I don't know how much reconstructive and 
plastic surgery are going to help her now though... This bastard 
got her *bad*, Scully." 

Wincing, Scully read through the medical file. "You say that Jean 
had lacerations caused by seashells on the feet?" she queried, 
and Lia nodded. "Do you suppose that if someone were to revisit 
the beach, someone could possibly find a path of broken shells on 
Folly that could lead to where the woman was kept captive?" 

Lia shook her head. "They found her at high tide, and judging by 
the lack of seashells on the beach when the police and paramedics 
first arrived, she probably escaped at low tide. I wouldn't count 
on there being a copious amount of broken shells." She smiled 
apologetically. "But it's a good thought." 

Snorting, Scully shook her head and continued glancing through 
the file. "Not good enough," she said crisply, furrowing her brow 
and reading through the medical exams. "Did you find any more of 
the black powder that I showed you earlier on any part of her 
body?" 

Again, Lia shook her head. "Nope. I'm guessing that it would come 
from the heart, and there was no damage to that. The heart was 
probably destroyed in all of the other victims post-mortem." 

"Yeah, he probably saved the heart for last. I'll ask Mulder 
about it." 

A nutmeg-colored eyebrow arched in Scully's direction, and Scully 
casually ignored the pointed glance at her in regard to Mulder's 
being mentioned. "The lanky one?" she asked, and Scully nodded, 
unable to keep a soft, endearing smile from her face. That was 
her Mulder - lanky and lean. "That's your friend at the FBI? The 
one you took to dinner at SNOB's?" SNOB's was the affectionate 
Charlestonian nickname for Slightly North of Broad, and not just 
for the snappy acronym. 

Avoiding Lia's gaze, Scully coolly nodded. "Yes, that's Agent 
Mulder," she said, her fingertips scanning along the various 
medications and test results for something of use. Lia remained 
staring at her over the tops of her oval-shaped glasses, that one 
brown eyebrow still cocked at her in interest and surprise. 
Finally, Scully sighed and returned the arched eyebrow with one 
of her own. "Can I ask you something, Lia? As a friend?" 

Concerned, Lia nodded. "Of course, Scully. What is it?" 

A frustrated look tightened Scully's face, and she placed one 
hand on her hip. A sheaf of red touched her shoulder as she 
tilted her head and looked at her companion and associate. "The 
other day, we were discussing the ifs and maybes of what life 
could be if we made different choices... Of who and what we could 
be if had done one seemingly insignificant thing differently. 
Remember?" 

A swarm of thick brown hair shook in the doctor's face as she 
shook her head. "I remember, Scully, but we both agreed that it 
was impractical as well as impossible to even guess at what those 
repercussions could be, not to mention the absolute impossibility 
of knowing for certain how your life would turn out if you made 
even one inconsequential decision differently." She shook her 
head. "The conversation was basically considered invalid." 

Furrowing her brow, Scully knitted her eyebrows together and 
thought of the events of the past couple of days. Three days ago, 
she would have come to the same conclusion that Ophelia Brown had 
just come to. It was the scientific, rational response, based on 
fact and circumstance, not to mention the limitations of the 
world and physics. Yet some other force had given her a window 
into both the beautiful and broken world that could have been 
hers if she had followed her heart. It had shown her the 
passionate lover and partner that could have been hers, along 
with all of the loss and tragedy that she might have had. 

But it also showed her all of the good that she had done as an 
investigator, especially on the X-Files. For everything she gave 
up, some sort of good was gained, and that was the important 
thing to remember. She had done some sort of good in her life, 
and that good was the good of the world. 

"Hypothetically," she restarted, setting the conversation into 
different terms. "If there was some definite, absolute way to 
know the way your life turned out because of one decision you 
made, and you knew that the life you would have lived was better 
than the one that you lead now, what would you do with that 
information? How would you deal with that knowledge? How could 
you possibly live out your life when you know that you made the 
wrong decision? And if there were some way to correct your 
previous error, would you do it? *Could* you do it?" 

There was a stricken expression on Lia's face, something troubled 
and worried, but it wasn't for Scully's sanity. No, only Scully 
herself seemed to be truly concerned about that. This was a 
discontent built on the ideas and questions that Scully was 
bringing up, on the "hypothesis" that she had proposed. The 
impossibility and the horror of knowing the differing outcomes of 
a singular life... "It would be horrid," Lia said, her voice 
hushed and disturbed. "Why would you ever want that information?" 

Scully didn't know. She never wanted it herself. She didn't want 
to know who she could have been and what she could have done if 
she had only followed her own heart instead of living out her 
father's wishes. She felt consumed by another person's dreams 
when her own would have taken her to importance and completion, 
and that she was now destined to live a regretful life of shadows 
and mediocrity. "You'd never want it," Scully whispered. "Never." 
With the snap of her wrist, she closed the medical file and 
walked toward Jean Edwards' room. "I'd like to see Miss Edwards, 
Lia." 

Silently, still staring at Scully as though she had just proposed 
that they revive the Nazi movement, Lia led her into the room and 
did not speak a word until she had left the room. 

Bound by white bandage and swathed in medical gauze, the formerly 
beautiful Jean Edwards lay surrounded by heart monitors and 
respirators, tethered to life only by electronic life support and 
the skilled work of a highly capable team of doctors. Nothing 
else, not her own will or strength, kept her alive. Blood seeped 
through the careful wrapping, staining the otherwise immaculate 
white with dark, treacherous red. A patch of coffee-colored skin 
was still intact over the left side of her smooth and 
aristocratic face, but bandages covered the other side. She knew 
what the medical team had discovered. A face peeled to the bone 
by heat and lightning and forever marred. 

"Christ," Scully muttered, looking at the damaged woman with a 
mixture of fear and trepidation. She was a woman who could unlock 
the mystery to the Southern Skinner, who possessed the knowledge 
and the insight that could save lives, and all that she could do 
was lie in bed, blanketed by bandages and medication, covered in 
blankets and slowly dying. She may never speak again, never 
reveal the important details of her near-death experience, and a 
thousand other women could follow her. 

All because this woman had escaped the bolt but not the 
electricity. 

Troubled beyond comprehension, Scully left the room, the metallic 
sound of Jean's respirator following her as she returned to her 
friend. "Jesus," Scully muttered, and Lia nodded, her mind still 
lost in the ideas and thoughts that Scully had earlier discussed. 

"It's awful," she agreed. "And God knows what's going to happen 
to the woman when she's transported tomorrow. She's in no 
condition to travel, that's for damn sure." All of the intensive 
care patients in critical condition were being transported to 
various inland hospitals all across the Southeast, kept out of 
danger of the storm and its deadly winds and surge. The hurricane 
was changing everything, making life more difficult and dangerous 
for everyone, and Scully would soon fall under its effects. 

Tomorrow, to be precise. 

"Scully, are you evacuating?" Lia asked, and Scully nodded. 

"I'm leaving early tomorrow morning," she said. "There's still 
work on this case that needs to be done before I go, not to 
mention I have to call my insurance company and board up the 
house, and find a hotel that'll take Duchess." 

Lia shook her head. "Don't worry about it - I found a hotel that 
accepts animals so that I can take Spaniard with me. It's in 
Augusta, so we should be safe there." Spaniard was Lia's enormous 
and highly energetic Golden Retriever. Dumb as a brick but happy 
as a lark - and absolutely adorable. "I can save you the trouble 
of finding a pet-friendly hotel and take Duchess with me, if you 
like." 

Gratefully, Scully smiled at Lia. "I'd really appreciate that," 
she said, and Lia smiled back. Sighing, she took one final look 
at Jean Edwards' room and shook her head. "I've gotta run and 
pick up some plywood and supplies. If there's any change in her 
condition, please give me a call. You've got my numbers and my e- 
mail." 

Lia nodded. "You bet, Scully. I'll call you later on to pick up 
Duchess. Take care." 

Sadly, Scully turned her head away and nodded to herself before 
walking away, her petite shadow dancing over the tile flooring as 
she exited the hospital. 

The emptiness and abandonment of the ICU unit was a relief to Lia 
as she leaned against the wall and sighed. Swinging vines of 
chestnut hair danced in her face like swaying curtains, and she 
closed her eyes, feeling the ends twist over her nose. The 
sterility of the burn unit was grounding, anchoring, as she 
momentarily turned her focus away from Jean Edwards and 
positioned it on Dana Scully. 

She recalled the disapproval her father had expressed at Lia's 
decision to leave England to study in America, particularly in 
the uneducated and primal Old South. Her obsession with burns had 
always pained him, as had her terrible fascination with fire. It 
tantalized her, its danger and beauty, in its almost liquid 
appearance when it rolled across wood or in its wild, ragged form 
when it spun on candles. Smoke always veiled it, protecting it 
from sight, yet fire always burned brighter than the mask it 
emitted. She needed to understand it, needed to defeat it, and so 
she spent all of her time studying it and treating its effects. 
The South was of no consequence or concern to her. It was simply 
where the best burn unit was, and so she would be stationed 
there. 

Lia Brown was in the South for a purpose - to treat burn victims. 
To save lives. This was the best way that she could do it. This 
was what completed her. What made her happy. She did not need 
anything more than a scalpel and a laser in her life. The 
palmetto trees, the marshes, the dunes... She would be sad if 
they were destroyed as so many predicted they would be in the 
magnificent hurricane approaching, but they were inconsequential 
to her existence. She was satisfied as long as she was alive and 
treating burns. 

The same could not be said for Dana Scully. 

The South had held a certain amount of allure for the young 
pathologist when she had first arrived in Charleston. Lia 
remembered her well - the brunette burn specialist had just 
completed her residency when proud, stubborn young Dana moved to 
South Carolina just a year after Hurricane Hugo. She'd had her 
head held high and her hopes equally strong, determined to like 
the people as much as she liked the place. Lia wisely deduced 
from her loneliness and stalwart cool that this had not been her 
dreamland. But what that fantasy was had always been lost on her, 
and it had always been lost on Scully, too. 

At first, she had tried to adapt to her surroundings and 
attempted to fit into the Southern culture, inheriting her grand 
lemon mansion from her former mentor and carving out a name for 
herself as a single Southerner. But Lia knew from the beginning 
that such an existence was impossible for both women. They were 
unacceptable by Southern standards - Yankees and foreigners, 
intent on conforming in a world that was already closed-off to 
the both of them. Lia didn't care about acceptance, and Scully 
really didn't either. But it had been someone's idea that she 
should lead a normal life, and when that didn't happen, Scully 
completely closed herself off to everything and everyone. 

For the past seven years, Scully had gone through the rituals and 
rites of her life mechanically, performing her job 
extraordinarily well as though she could focus all of her 
frustration and energy into her practice. But she had never 
really seemed alive. It was as though beneath all of the thick, 
impenetrable walls that she had built up around herself, she had 
simply ceased to enjoy living. She existed, but that was all. 
Automation, machination, and nothing more than that. 

Until four days ago. 

It was as though she had been awakened with the force of electric 
shock paddles, given first breath from a seven-year-long coma. 
She glowed now when she walked into the hospital corridor, and 
Lia had heard people at her work comment on the vibrancy that 
this formerly cool, reserved woman displayed. She was not 
boisterous or social; that wasn't Scully's nature. She was 
simply... Alive. Nobody could put a finger on it. Some people had 
the intelligence to suggest that she perhaps had found a lover, 
and others had the lack of tact to suggest that Good Ol' Dana the 
Dyke maybe got soundly fucked for once. But Lia knew. She knew 
*exactly* what had awakened the sleepwalking Scully. 

Purpose. 

She had finally discovered reason for living. A goal to work 
towards. Passion and possibility had been ignited inside of her 
since taking Mulder to her side (and possibly her bed), and even 
though Lia didn't know what that passion was for, she did know 
that she was grateful for it. Yet today, seeing the turmoil that 
stirred inside Scully like the winds of the circulating 
hurricane... And then that question, that damned proposed 
hypothesis... 

What *could* a woman do? Give up everything she had worked for in 
one life to go pursue a life elsewhere? She had a feeling that 
even if Scully's little conjecture on regret and different paths 
was wrong, Scully was debating doing that very thing. Choosing a 
different path. Abandoning Charleston and pathology for a more 
uncertain world. Could it be done? *Should* it be done? 

The scarred portion of Lia Brown's wrist itched against the 
cotton of her lab coat, and Lia absently scratched it before 
pausing, her fingers caressing the fine pink scars that lined the 
inside of her wrist. This scar had been on her body since she had 
been a child. Memories and meaning lay in the intricate networking 
of the rise and fall of her injured skin, and her fingernails 
traced over it like she was reading Braille. And in a way, she 
was. The scars told her everything that she needed to know about 
herself - what she was, who she was, who she was meant to be. Her 
wound was also her victory, and she realized that in spite of the 
tragedy she had suffered, from the loss of her mother to her 
father's permanent paralysis, she would not give up her scars for 
the world. They made her who and what she was. 

And life without them would not be the same either. 

Smiling softly to herself, Lia tucked a loose coil of spiraling 
brown hair behind her ear and knew what the answer to the 
hypothesis was. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 

***** 

Sermet's Café 
Charleston, South Carolina 
12:40 PM, August 18, 1999 

***** 

On a good day in Sermet's, finding a table would be next to 
impossible. Located on the right side of King Street so close to 
the Market and endorsed by an admirable number of newspapers and 
food magazines, it was an extremely difficult restaurant to get 
into and out of. The menu *was* exquisite, offering omelets 
filled with exotic but surprisingly palatable fillings, such as 
green peppers and salmon. Coffee and dessert was always a must at 
Sermet's, seeing as how it served some of the best desserts in 
town. Given these credentials, the cozy corner on King and 
Society was usually the hot spot in town. 

Today it was deserted. 

Fear rustled the begonias and magnolias, brushing the light and 
dainty petals of these gentle flowers into a silken frenzy before 
they finally exploded from their stems in a puff of ruined silk. 
The destruction of these delicacies was not the first in the day 
of the evacuation, nor would it be the last. Ancient facades, 
composed in glorious marble and pastel plasters, were now 
distorted and masked in plywood and boards. Stars of tape covered 
glass windows in a futile attempt to protect the insides from the 
mouth of the storm. Moving vans and U-Hauls rolled around the 
city and antiques and art were transported out as soon as 
possible. 

The streets were slowly emptying as Mulder walked over from MUSC 
to Sermet's to meet with James L. Bell, the lawyer for whom Jean 
Edwards worked. It had been a stroke of good luck, catching Bell, 
before the lawyer evacuated the city himself. Now the two men sat 
at a small round table in the corner, eyeing each other warily 
and wearily as they waited for their soup to be brought out. 

Jim Bell was an awkwardly interesting man, missing his left limb 
but operating so smoothly with his right that Mulder wondered if 
the lost limb was something he'd been dealing with since 
childhood. Sandy blonde hair fell across his furrowed brow as the 
lawyer loosened his tie and shook his head. "They won't let me in 
to see her," he muttered, his voice rich with a thick Southern 
accent that sounded more country than cultured. "I tried to get 
in, but I guess you've got to be a blood relation or a cop to get 
into ICU. Besides, y'all have her hidden behind all that yellow 
tape..." Jim shook his head again. "I just want to see her." 

A forlorn note in the lawyer's voice made Mulder wonder just how 
close Jean and Jim had been before her abduction and burning. 
There was deep misery in the thick accent, and Mulder felt 
sympathy for the man. "I'll see what I can do about that," Mulder 
said, knowing that there probably wasn't much he could do but 
offering him condolences anyway. "Mr. Bell, I realize you're 
probably very busy today, and I just wanted to let you know that 
I appreciate the time you've given me today." 

Tilting his head to the side, Jim nodded appreciatively. "Of 
course," he said. "Anything for Jean. What do you need to know?" 

"Everything." 

The story of Jean Edwards was not anything complex or 
particularly startling when compared to the file Mulder had 
received on her earlier. She was beautiful at the surprising age 
of forty-nine, ageless in her flawless skin and transcendent 
smile. A grandmother, too. She'd worked her way through law 
school and college, and had been working as a paralegal in Bell's 
firm for about eight years. Divorced, one daughter, who lived in 
Virginia and was torn by the knowledge that she couldn't come 
down to the evacuating city to visit her ailing mother. All in 
all, a woman with an average life. 

"But there's something different about Jeannie," Jim mused, 
stroking his chin with his remaining right hand. "She's a mystery 
and an enigma, always joyful, always stubborn... Hell, I'm a 
control freak but I know that Jean could get me any day." A 
chuckle escaped Bell's throat. "We fight like you wouldn't 
believe, boy. But she always manages to charm me back into 
good graces." He shook his head. "Christ, I hope y'all find this 
jackass. Put him where he belongs." 

Mulder wondered at the irony that if found, this killer might try 
to hire one of these suffering lawyers for the inevitable trial. 
Law was an interesting profession, filled with loopholes and 
endless possibilities. The legal system held a myriad of promises 
and pretexts for murderers. One convincing plea of insanity could 
lead to a good battery of drugs rather than a seat on Death Row. 
Disenchantment at the entire legal process, at the corrupt 
government and the chain of command that allowed such travesties 
to occur, was all a part of the scenery for Mulder. 

And he couldn't live this way much longer. 

An older man with a snow-white beard and a tweed suit walked over 
to the table, straightening a checkered bow tie as he smiled at 
Jim. "Jim, you old bastard, I thought you'd evacuated hours ago," 
the man said, a slight slur watering his already looping Southern 
voice. "Don't tell me you think you can whoop a hurricane's ass." 
Obviously, this man had been drinking his lunch. Not surprising 
and completely understandable given all of these people's hideous 
situation. 

But Jim's smile was weak and a little shaky when he looked up at 
the man who was obviously a good friend. "Naw, Herb, I'm gonna 
get the hell outta Dodge as soon as I finish up here," he said. 
"Something happened to Jean last night." 

Words were unnecessary to convey what had happened to Jean 
Edwards. Horrendous news stories and that awful tabloid nickname 
had spilled the gory details of the slayings to the public, and 
everyone in the legal community was afraid that the killer might 
be after their colleagues, their assistants, their interns and 
runners. Herb's eyes darkened and his skin paled visibly before 
Mulder's eyes, and his hands rung knots in the gray tweed cap he 
held in his hands. "Aw, Christ, Jim," Herb said, his voice 
instantly sober. "Not Jeannie." 

Mulder had seen this scene unfold a thousand times. The grieving 
widow or widower confronted for the first time with the unknowing 
normalcy of the world around him, forced to destroy that 
happiness by simply telling the truth. Morose lines wrinkled 
Bell's suntanned face, and he shook his head. "She's alive, Herb, 
but she's in Intensive Care," he said. "Burned so bad they don't 
think she'll ever be the same. Hell, they don't even know if 
she's gonna make it or not." He sighed, and then looked over at 
Mulder with the blank, startled eyes of a man who'd forgotten he 
wasn't dining alone. "Shit, pardon me. This is Agent Mulder of 
the FBI. He was just asking me some questions about Jean. Agent 
Mulder, Herb Wells, one of my associates and a damn good friend." 

The two men shook hands, and Herb apologetically smiled at both 
Mulder and Jim. "I've gotta run out and load up the car," he 
said. "I've got a hotel room reserved in Memphis." 

"Tennessee?" Jim asked. "Ain't that a little far to be running 
from a hurricane, Herb?" 

Shrugging, Herb gave his friend a wary look. "At this point, Jim, 
you ain't gonna find a hotel room until you get to Mobile, 
Alabama," he said, "and I'm not exaggerating. Everything's booked 
solid thanks to this bitch." A note of fear entered the older 
man's voice. "Jim, I just boarded up my house and abandoned it. 
What the hell is going on around here?" 

Dark eyes turned away from Mulder, and a flick of the lawyer's 
one wrist passed a vanilla-colored business card in Mulder's 
direction. "I've gotta run, Agent Mulder," Jim said, picking up 
his navy blue blazer and expertly tossing it in the air, catching 
it with his forearm so that the blazer was draped across his good 
arm. "I've gotta call my travel agent and see if she can do 
anything for me and I've gotta pack up my valuables. And..." His 
voice tightened. "I need to see Jeannie." 

Not another word was spoken as Jim dropped a twenty on the table 
for his uneaten and undelivered food. Silently, the two lawyers 
left the restaurant, barely sidestepping a petite redhead in a 
white linen shirt and black trousers, carrying a jacket draped 
carefully over her arm. 

Scully scanned the popular eatery with a twinge of regret. Her 
drive through the city had revealed a startling number of 
differences and desertions, turning the once-bustling peninsula 
into a moss-covered ghost town, while the wind slowly began 
blowing in a restless tumble of leaves and loosed blossoms. Yet 
the streets were filled to the brim with motorists preparing to 
leave, their vehicles loaded to the max with belongings and 
people. A mass exodus out of the city was beginning, leading to 
safety but not salvation. 

Nothing could save the city now. 

Tiredness and humidity flowed through her body as she crossed the 
restaurant to where Mulder sat in shirtsleeves, his long fingers 
nimbly loosening his striped silk tie. The heat was stifling 
today, almost suffocating in its nonstop assault on the city. The 
meteorology and science explained the sudden rise in moisture and 
heat, all thanks to the impending hurricane, and she knew that it 
would only worsen as the storm drew nearer. Becky glowered above 
them, glaring down menacingly through a thick veil of malevolent 
clouds. Rain occasionally dabbled across the cobblestone streets, 
but it was not enough to even puddle. She knew that it would soon 
be more than enough, and that the water would drown the city and 
every ounce of reality she had left. 

Sighing, she sat down in the seat that Jim Bell had just 
abandoned, and the embroidered cushion was still warm. "Sorry I'm 
late," she apologized. "Traffic's a real bitch." 

A hazel eye sparked at her with something resembling mirth. It 
had been a trying day; she barely remembered what mischief felt 
like. "You mean you actually drove somewhere?" Mulder said with a 
grin, and Scully shot him down with the arch of a slender copper 
eyebrow. 

"I had to go to a warehouse and pick up my plywood," she 
defended. "Not to mention gas up the Saturn, get money at the 
bank, try to find anything other than canned spinach in the 
canned goods section of *any* Lowcountry grocery store..." She 
shook her head. "A myriad of preparations and I still feel 
absolutely unprepared." 

Mulder understood her perfectly. Going through the motions of 
preparing was nothing, something that could be done automatically 
and based solely on logic. She obviously felt nothing but an 
eerie sense of uncertainty when gazing about the rapidly changing 
harbor. "I just finished interviewing Jim Bell, Jean's boss at 
the firm," Mulder said. "He ordered a bowl of she-crab soup if 
you're interested." 

Gratefully, she smiled at him and draped her jacket across the 
back of her chair. "Thanks," she said. "I haven't had much time 
to eat today, and I'll never refuse a free lunch." She did not 
mention the unspoken between them - this may be her last seafood 
lunch in the city of Charleston for a very, very long time. As 
far as they both knew, after tomorrow, there might not be any 
Sermet's. No Sermet's, no King Street, no city. 

They just didn't know. 

A waiter dressed casually in blue jeans, a flannel shirt, and a 
pair of thick tinted glassessmiled complacently at the two agents, 
presenting Mulder with his soup and then turning, apparently 
expecting to see Jim still sitting there, waiting for lunch. 
Instead, there was Scully, dressed to the nines and coolly 
waiting for her soup to be served. A startled expression flickered 
over the waiter's face momentarily, and then he mutely placed her 
soup and spoon in front of her. 

"I'm surprised you're still open," Scully commented, and the 
waiter shrugged casually. 

"Someone's gotta stay open for the media," he said. "Right now, I 
think we're one of six restaurants in the downtown area still 
open for business." That was saying a lot; downtown was strewn 
with excellent eateries. After taking one final, appreciative 
glance of Scully, the waiter turned away, leaving Mulder and 
Scully to their conversation and lunch. 

The sherry and shellfish in the soup was perfectly blended, still 
steaming as she dipped her spoon in. Clouds of steam stirred 
around her face, and Mulder watched her, as he tasted his own 
soup. "You look tired," he said, and she nodded silently, not 
wanting to elaborate on her exhaustion. Effortlessly, he changed 
the topic. "Bell said the same thing about Jean that was said 
about the other victims. Strong, independent, alluring." 

Scully tilted her head to the side, considering what he said. 
"While it gives them all a common link, it doesn't make for a 
good APB," she said, enjoying the rich combination of sultry 
flavors that were warming her throat and calming her down. 
"Anything else? And what was Jim Bell doing with Herb Wells as he 
walked out?" 

Mulder looked at her closely. "You know Herb Wells?" 

She nodded. "He used to date a friend of mine at the morgue for a 
short period of time. I think I had dinner with him and Marcie 
once or twice, but there's not much else to the relationship or 
friendship. But I can tell you that he's the previous employer of 
one of your victims." 

Mulder's eyebrows nearly shot through the roof. "You're kidding," 
he said, and Scully nodded, taking a sip of the sweet iced tea 
that Bell had recently abandoned. 

"I think her name was Caroline Brenneman," Scully said, stirring 
her spoon through her soup so that the amber brandy dissolved 
into the rich liquid and crab. "She was a paralegal for Herb 
before she decided to branch out and start her own business. Herb 
had a lot of respect for her, if I remember. They still went out 
and did Friday lunches and so on. Usual legal running work." She 
shook her head. "I don't know how much good that does you, but it 
does provide you with yet another connection." 

Furrowing his brow, Mulder frowned and looked down at his brown 
mug of soup with a thousand questions and frustrations. "It's a 
connection, but what does it connect to?" he asked, and Scully 
pursed her lips, deep in thought. 

"It could point to one of the lawyers," Scully said. "These were 
all women that these lawyers worked closely with, Mulder. The 
legal circle in Charleston is fairly close-knit. Attorneys often 
work with other attorneys on various cases, like civil suits or 
insurance fraud. Social security advocacy is a very different 
field from divorce court, and so referring clients to another 
lawyer is a common practice." 

But Mulder didn't think so. He was still stuck on his profile 
*and* on the lightning. "It's not a lawyer, Scully," he said. "A 
lawyer would work closely day in and day out with these women, 
but the killer kills because he doesn't understand the women. 
He's intrigued by them, in love with them, and he wants to own 
and dissect them. To him, they're specimens, butterflies he's 
watched and captured just so that he can break their wings. 

"He sees these women everyday, but he doesn't need to see them 
more than an hour or so at a time to select and kill. This man 
wastes no time on fantasizing or stalking, with the exception of 
Miss Lisa Sanford. She was probably the only one stalked over 
time, watched and cherished as the best of all the women he'd 
seen. Lisa was the only one he really loved, if you can consider 
his sick and twisted way of displaying his affections 'love'. 

"The others before Sanford were just practice. He used a knife or 
a medical scalpel, but I don't think that he's a practicing 
surgeon or doctor, though he could have been in a past 
profession. He was probably disbarred from the medical community 
and has a job where he started meeting female lawyers. The law 
keys somewhere into this, but I'm not sure yet. Perhaps it is the 
singular thrill of breaking it by murdering its practitioners; I 
don't know. In any case, the lightning was accidental. An added 
bonus." 

Scully interrupted his recited profile here, frowning at him and 
leaning forward. "Bonus? A bonus to what exactly?" she asked, and 
Mulder nodded. 

"I think that this man has the ability to sense things about his 
victims," Mulder said. "Most killers that fixate on women in the 
manner with which our killer does has spent a large amount of 
time researching his prey. He stalks. He captures. He tortures. 
He does not kill so quickly or efficiently. This man possesses 
some sort of psychic ability that allows him to get a glimmering 
of the woman he wants to kill before he kills her. He wants to 
get under their skin. Physically, spiritually, and mentally." 
Mulder's eyes stared at hers, trying to gauge her reaction to his 
profile. 

It was just as he'd expected. "Mulder, there's absolutely no 
evidence of psychic ability in this case," Scully whispered, her 
voice tight. "Reading something that wild and frivolous into this 
is completely unfounded. You have nothing to base that statement 
on." 

He shook his head. "What else motivates this man, Scully? He sees 
these women everyday from a distance but knows the inner secrets 
of their hearts. He knows how to kill them and they fascinate him 
by being stronger than he can be. He wants to defeat them. Prove 
his power. Cement his control." 

A drizzling of rain was beginning to fall outside, dusting the 
sidewalks and traffic-riddled streets with precipitation. The 
wind blew the cloudburst across the steaming city with nothing 
more than a sigh, but it belied the true nature of the storm 
underneath it. Wearily, Scully sighed and shook her head. "I 
don't know what we're going to be able to do about it until after 
the hurricane's over, Mulder," Scully said, gazing out at the 
rain shower. "I have to evacuate tomorrow, and the Bureau's going 
to pull y'all-" 

A wide, white grin stretched across Mulder's face. "Y'all?" he 
teased, and Scully stopped in the midst of her dreary monologue 
to look into his eyes. Hazel laced with green mischief and a 
cadet blue brightness looked back at her with amusement, and 
Scully realized what he was laughing at. 

Archly, Scully tipped her chin up and blinked her eyelids. "I've 
lived down here for ten years, Mulder," she said, her voice 
absent of any residual Southern accent she might have picked up, 
"and I'm entitled to a few Southernisms every now and then." A 
demure, subtle smile touched her berry-colored mouth as she 
decided to indulge herself in a little teasing enjoyment - 
moroseness was so difficult to maintain every now and then, and 
she had a feeling she should take this time to laugh before her 
ability to do so was completely ravaged. 

One slender, silk-sheathed calf stretched languidly over to 
caress Mulder's own trouser-covered leg. Smiling enigmatically 
and enticingly seductively, Scully's manicured fingers fanned out 
to cup his wrist, stroking the backs of his hands as she slid her 
leg between his. "And that's not the only Southernism I picked up 
over the years," Scully murmured, enjoying watching the embers of 
his eyes suddenly ignite. A slight Southern huskiness was tapped 
into her whiskey voice here, but it was by her will. She was 
actually trying to seduce him in this fallen world, and Mulder 
never loved this woman more than he did right now. 

Smirking, Mulder leaned forward, deciding to meet her in this 
little game she had decided to play. Plush, raspberry colored 
lips were curled into a knowing smile, the lower one protruding 
just enough to almost be considered a pout. He selected them as 
his target just as she had opted to use her leg as a weapon, and 
Mulder trailed his finger along the edge of his glass of iced 
tea, gathering moisture and liquid on the tip of his finger. "I'm 
sure you did, Scully," he said. "For instance, why is it that all 
Southerners always seem to be... Sweating?" 

Oh, Mulder. His voice was exquisite, dropping honey from velvet 
as he leaned closer toward her, beaded water from his glass of 
tea dripping from his fingertip. When the icy water was trailed 
across her lower lip, Scully had to abstain from whimpering. The 
sensation was like ice being dropped on a hot griddle - she 
sizzled beneath his touch. 

She was suddenly made extremely aware of eyes following her, and 
Scully was suddenly jerked back into the dark reality captured 
and tangled in Spanish moss. Licking her moistened lips, Scully 
withdrew from his seduction and leaned back in her chair, pulling 
her leg from in between his and feeling her face radiate with a 
little bit of embarrassment and not a little sadness. 

Indulgence. This little stolen seduction between them had been 
nothing more than a frivolity, something tempting but wholly 
impossible. Joy or happiness didn't seem to be a part of either 
of their worlds, and there was no time or place for it here. 
Quietly, she folded her hands in her lap and looked down at the 
fingers, slowly rotating over each other as Mulder sighed from 
across the table. 

"Why does it have to be difficult, Scully?" he asked, but it 
wasn't an irritated comment on her withdrawal. It was just a 
question. A plea, even. "For everything that we've gone through 
and endured, both in this life and in the other, what did we do 
to deserve penance and guilt here?" 

"It's not penance or guilt," Scully said softly. "It's just the 
fact that tomorrow night we'll both be gone, and we'll both 
eventually come home to nothing." She was right. Damn her, but 
she was right. Mulder's current existence held nothing in the 
first place, and the angry fist of a hurricane would destroy 
Scully's frustrating anxiety in pathology. The affair was ending, 
and all it would be was an indulgence yellowed in time. They 
would both continue on their lives separate. 

Or together. 

The prospect had been killing her all day long - what would 
happen if they decided to move forward together? If she abandoned 
her world in South Carolina for less certain territory elsewhere? 
Chasing pipe dreams and little gray men that she didn't even 
believe in... Could that existence fulfill her any more than her 
current one did? Yes. But was it worth the sacrifice? 

Her brief and fuzzy sighting of the cigarette-smoking man earlier 
had given the word "sacrifice" a thousand new hideous twists and 
dimensions. Sacrificing her Charleston domain was not as 
difficult as she thought it could be. She could continue on after 
that severance. But the sacrifices that the other Scully had made 
for the truth... The things that were stolen from her and done to 
her... These were the difficulties and the trappings that would 
bind her to the majestic oaks and endless marshes. Not only that, 
but the uncertainty of her own ability... 

Could she be that Scully? 

She didn't know. She just didn't know. 

The creak of turning wheels startled them both, and they turned 
around to see a television set being pulled out from the backroom 
and out into a corner of the restaurant. Two waiters were setting 
up cable, and once it was turned on, it displayed the local news 
and the latest forecast for Hurricane Becky. 

The projected path was damning. The hurricane would slide in late 
tomorrow night after airbrushing the Florida coast with its 
fingers, possibly continuing to strengthen past its grotesque 
165mph status once it hit the coast. She watched the weatherman's 
finger glide past the red-marked pathway, finally stopping just 
southeast of Charleston in Edisto Island. The eye would pass 
there, but the storm surge... 

She shuddered, and Mulder stood up. "You've got things to do," he 
said, trying to give her a task to take her mind off of the 
storm. "So do I. If Patterson's going to move us out tomorrow, 
then I don't have a lot of time to follow through on what needs 
to happen. I'll meet you back at your house at around seven- 
thirty, alright?" 

Still unfocused on him, Scully nodded, and Mulder started to walk 
away. The smell of simmering soup and coffee lingered in the 
restaurant as he walked into the waning shower outdoors. Faint 
sunlight filtered in through the cracks between the thin strips 
of clouds, and Mulder briefly turned around to look at her in the 
restaurant. 

She was lost in thought again, her distinct profile winged by a 
sheaf of autumn-colored hair that caressed her collar and hugged 
her jaw. Her fingers were fidgeting with a napkin, slowly 
destroying it. Scully rarely fidgeted, and Mulder knew what she 
was considering - how to leave him. 

And he understood. 

All his life, he had been plagued by failure. The failure to 
protect his sister, to keep her from the harm that had befallen 
her, was the heaviest weight he could ever bear. He paid his dues 
to society by trying to justify the loss of a thousand little 
girls by becoming these monsters and tracking them down, but 
nothing ever alleviated the intensity and immensity of his guilt. 
Even though he knew that he was another man's son, a devil's son, 
and that the abduction of Samantha had been orchestrated and 
plotted beyond his control, Mulder still knew that when the 
pivotal moment had occurred, he had not protected his sister. 

He had failed. 

Yet even that failure paled in comparison to the discovery of how 
his entire existence was an absolute disappointment. To him, to 
Scully, to the entire world. Instead of doing what was in his 
blood, seeking his sister and therefore finding the truth and 
possibly saving the world from impending disaster, he had 
squandered his life on false penance. It was gut wrenching, the 
knife that he'd put in his own back. Betraying himself, his 
purpose, his very *being*, all for what? He lived a shadow of a 
life when he was profiling, throwing parts of himself away for 
the wrong cause. 

It pained him to think of how badly he had failed himself. 

Broken fragments of light poked through the constantly turning 
clouds, casting shards of sunlight down on the streets. They 
danced across his shoulders with occasional bits and bursts of 
summer warmth, lighter and airier than the oppressive humidity 
and sulking dampness, but the thick moisture continued pulsing 
through his veins, wearing him down as he walked down the street 
and toward the parking garage. Mulder knew that returning to his 
old life would kill him eventually. It was killing him now. Every 
dead child, every raped woman, and every mutilated human being 
was an affront to his very being, and becoming these monsters was 
turning him into a monster as well. The abyss that Patterson 
encouraged him to look into was swallowing him whole, and Mulder 
desperately wanted to break free. 

But God, what would he do if he did? 

He didn't know. He just didn't know. He didn't know if he had the 
courage, the dedication, to do what his other self had. While 
this Mulder felt just as strongly about the wrongdoing of his 
country, the very government that he had served for almost eleven 
years now, he doubted himself and his own ability to break the 
barriers. For all he knew, it could be too late for this world. 
Colonization could descend with the same sudden tragedy as Becky 
was preparing to do now, and there would be nothing that this 
useless man could do. 

And he still wanted to try. 

Pained by the decisions that swarmed before him like a cloud of 
the other Mulder's dreaded plague-bringing bees, the Fox Mulder 
of the BSU got into the rental car and closed the door behind 
him, numbly looking at his reflection. All that he saw before him 
was the same awkward visage that seemed to follow him in every 
lifetime, and oddly enough, the reflection was comforting. 
Perhaps the same reserves of strength and passion rested inside 
of his blood, ready to unleash their possibilities at the next 
heartbeat. 

Mulder certainly hoped so. Millions of lives depended on it. 

And not least of all was his own. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 

***** 

THIS SECTION RATED NC-17 FOR SEXUAL CONTENT 

***** 

Residence of Dana Scully 
Charleston, South Carolina 
9:03 PM, August 18, 1999 

***** 

With a sigh, she lowered herself into the rocking chair, and 
watched the stars ascend to the sky. 

They were not really stars. Yet the fireflies that twinkled and 
sparkled around her, swarming around the swaying grasses and over 
the cobalt Atlantic, were a comfort as she watched the cloud- 
covered and absolutely starless night churning above her. The 
moon was christened by a halo tonight, covered by a slowly 
revolving bracelet of rain-heavy clouds, which darkened the sky 
in a thick, impenetrable aura of forbidding precipitation. 

The wind was continuing, now whistling steadily through the trees 
in what was a deceptively refreshing breeze. Whispers of palmetto 
fronds gently brushing against each other sent shivers up and 
down her spine, as she watched the emptied city and felt no peace 
within her. The stars were unnerving, these insect embodiments of 
the universe, swirling around her in an eerie ballet. Fireflies 
were uncommon in the South, especially on the coast, but they had 
been rustled from their usual woodland resting-place by the 
turmoil stirring in the Carolina air. Now they swirled in a 
golden tornado outside of her door, glimmering and adding a 
surreal shimmer to the abandoned city. 

Most everybody had fled by now, jamming the Interstate with miles 
of bumper-to-bumper traffic in a mass exodus that had stretched 
from South Carolina to northern Florida in what was being 
declared the largest peacetime evacuation in United States 
history. Television crews and cameras displayed a scene of 
terrified Southerners parked on the roads, some crying at the 
thought of what they would never see again, others railing at the 
governor for his poor evacuation plans. Everything was a 
disaster, and the one shot that haunted Scully was that of a man 
sitting on the hood of his car, holding his head in his hands in 
defeat. He did not cry, and he did not speak - he just sat there, 
numb. 

She felt numb right now. 

The finery of her home had been packed into cartons and crates, 
already loaded into her car so that she could depart for a motel 
room in Augusta, Georgia early the next morning. The house seemed 
dreadfully empty now, devoid of its personality and cold with the 
furnishings that she could not transport. Every article that 
couldn't be fit into her trunk was left behind, abandoned for the 
storm, like her mahogany dresser or her beloved vanilla bed. 
Simple things, like photographs and medical journals, had been 
boxed away into cardboard containers, yet it was the absolute 
*lack* of mementos that hurt the most. 

She had few pictures, no journals, no cards or keepsakes that she 
really cared about. Nothing important. Sure, the house itself 
meant a lot for her, but as far as markings of her own 
personality, she was severely lacking. She had collected nothing 
to remember herself by, and only had a few precious items during 
her nine years in South Carolina. It hurt to realize that she 
left nothing here and nothing attached her to this place except 
for a violent love for her father and a worship of the land. 

And now, her responsibility to the life she had chosen. 

The wicker chair creaked beneath her as she slowly rocked back 
and forth, her head lolling back wearily to rest on the lemon- 
colored cushion. Strands of disarrayed auburn stroked her face 
gently, brushed out of place by the quickened wind. Abandoning 
neatness or sanity, she just laid back and let thought drift away 
from her mind while the licks of fire danced agilely over her 
face. Let worry and concern whisper away on the wind, dancing 
across the empty cobblestone streets, across the entwined rivers, 
through the towering oaks and plantations... Away from her front 
porch... 

She wanted to forget the events of the last week, even the rich 
redemption she had experienced when in Mulder's arms and in the 
intelligence and thought of her work. Simplicity and monotony had 
once been her curses; now she longed only for them. Of days when 
she could fall into slumber on her widow's walk and awaken to the 
sun rising from a pool of molten blush. She wistfully recalled 
days of drifting on a slender boat through marshes and murmuring 
dunes while the sunset exploded around her in liquid fire. These 
were the things that made life worth living to Scully then. The 
careful precision of a good autopsy. The smell of saltwater and 
pluff mud in the height of summer. She knew these things, could 
comprehend their unimportance and their significance. 

Conspiracies and colonization... Aliens and alienation... A 
cigarette-smoking devil without a conscience and hybrids created 
from bridged blood... And a tortured, determined agent with 
anguished eyes and an unending well of passion. 

They were more difficult things to comprehend. 

A lulling brush of wind swept over her face, and Scully 
remembered a moment like this. Sitting on her mother's front 
porch, willing the world that loomed so dangerously and closely 
beyond her, like the moon hanging ominously in the bejeweled sky. 
Wind had caressed her hair and soothed her aching wounds as 
gently then as it did now and she relished the memory of 
abandoning everything. Denial was a state in which she could 
occasionally meander off into, and she had done so then, rocking 
back and forth on her mother's front porch. The swollen moon had 
glimmered over her as it did tonight, and Scully had been 
watching it warily, thinking of how much the lunar phases 
paralleled the ever-growing tumor inside of her skull. Only that 
would never, ever wane... 

Grimacing, Scully turned her head in her Charlestonian rocking 
chair, loathing the memories that were invading her life and 
slowly agglomerating with her own memories. The line between the 
two women and their respective lives had been blurred, and now 
the memories intertwined to create a distorted, bloated history. 
Differentiating which life she had led was nearly impossible. 

Scully sighed and took another swig out of her bottle of beer. 
She was indulging in the age-old Southern tradition of watching 
the influx of the tides with a bottle of Coors or Budweiser by 
her side, and the dark ale that she drank here was thick and 
searing as it slid down her throat. It was still icy-cold, not 
warmed over by the smothering humidity of the August night, and 
Scully luxuriated in its taste. She wasn't drinking to get drunk. 
She was drinking... Well, she was drinking just because she 
deserved a drink. If she smoked, she'd indulge herself in a 
cigarette right about now. But a beer would suffice just fine. 

The linen collar of her sleeveless shirt brushed up against the 
nape of her neck, capturing the fine droplets of sweat that 
trailed down her throat and soaked the fabric. Absently, she 
swatted a mosquito that had chosen to suckle on her ear, and 
heard a slight scratching at the door. Scully turned expecting to 
see Duchess, but it was only the persistent wind. She'd almost 
forgotten that she'd handed the cat over to Lia just an hour 
earlier, when the ripe moon beginning to glimmer beneath a mass 
of circling clouds. She instantly missed Duchess; she missed her 
presence and her quiet loyalty. 

But she was letting her loneliness wash over her now, just to 
recapture the flavor of life when it was still simple. Of when 
she trimmed her rosebushes on the weekends with the same 
precision with which she autopsied bodies. Of when she could wade 
through the shallow tidal pools on Folly so that it seemed as 
though she were walking on water. Of when she curled up in quilts 
in winter with a mug of hot chocolate (with a dash of sherry) and 
read Conroy and Atwood. She yearned for those days when life was 
uncomplicated, even if she wasn't really alive. Sometimes apathy 
was a welcome solution to the trials and tribulations of living. 

And her latest tribulation was coming up the drive. 

Lime-colored headlights trailed up the winding driveway to her 
front porch, and the rental Taurus parked itself directly behind 
her loaded Saturn. Wary eyes watched the lean figure shaded 
beneath tinted windows and a sloped windshield, and Scully 
absently twirled the neck of her beer bottle, her fingertips 
tapping the amber-colored glass in a rhythm synchronized to his 
procession toward the porch. He still wore his tailored suit, 
with its expensive fabric and well-chosen tie. Spikes of light 
brown fell over his brow, sweeping over his quiet hazel eyes. She 
wondered what color they would be today - honey-colored brown? 
Forest green? But no. They were they quiet color of the hazing 
clouds overhead, bands thrown forward from Hurricane Becky. 
Pensive, musing, tired. 

His suit jacket was thrown over his slumped shoulders with an air 
that was more wearied than casual. The striped blue and black tie 
was loosened around his throat, revealing an appealing length of 
copper skin. It was stunning, how carelessly beautiful he was, 
from the awkward slope of his unique nose to the unnatural length 
of his dark lashes. Yet her favorite feature was his back. She'd 
always had a thing for men's backs. It was the gloss of his gold 
skin, the slender structure of his bone and muscle, all displayed 
in fine working order and sheathed in rich honey. 

Stretching out in the rocking chair, Scully propped one denim- 
clad leg up on a wicker table and cradled the beer in between her 
hands. He was quiet tonight; she could gauge his moods by the 
shade of stormy turbulence in his eyes. For the first time since 
her recollection, she was grateful for the knowledge that Scully 
had given her. Grateful because now she knew Mulder so intimately 
that words were a luxury they really didn't need. And she knew 
that he was in a massive amount of turmoil right now. 

She was the picture of languid beauty, stretched out on the 
wicker rocker in torn jeans and a sleeveless shirt, glistening 
sweat beading on her skin like glycerin. A dark beer rested in 
her slack, tired surgeon's hands, and her usually coifed hair was 
tied back in a half ponytail and curled from the humidity. 
Lethargic but still bright eyes followed him as he walked up to 
the porch, and her smile was demure and drained. Mulder silently 
admired the high arch of her small feet and the crimson toenails 
that reminded him of their first night together. 

And now they would remind him of their last night. 

"There's something I have to tell you," Mulder said, his voice 
dark and intensely serious. Pained, Scully closed her eyes. She 
didn't need to hear him say it. She already knew. "Today I put in 
a request for a transfer with the FBI. I've requested that I be 
assigned to the X-Files." There was a pause, letting her take in 
what she knew was inevitable. "I love you, and I want you to come 
with me." 

Ah, God. 

"I can't," she whispered, and the sigh that fell from his lips 
nearly broke her heart. It was the sigh of a man who had known 
this answer before he had asked the question, and that hurt as 
well. He had been banking on disappointment, a man who was so 
used to failing, and she had delivered yet another shortcoming. A 
betrayal. 

The quiet anguish that had been cooling inside of her since early 
that morning was now culminating richly and ripening inside of 
her heart, spreading throughout her body like a virus traveling 
through veins. She would never forget this moment, sitting on her 
front porch while her life disintegrated, listening to Fox Mulder 
kill her by giving her the impossible. Agony threatened to claim 
her in her darkness, and she opened her eyes to try to gain her 
bearings and formulate some sort of response that wouldn't kill 
him too. 

A spray of saltwater leapt over the raised seawall and shot into 
the air, throwing liquid foam onto the cement Battery. The ocean 
was a tumultuous tumble of cobalt and cadet, turning the color of 
rocky hematite underneath the spreading stain of night. A thick 
fog caused by the smoldering humidity was rolling in from the 
ocean to blanket the city, and those damned fireflies 
occasionally lit like defective stars. It was not the city she 
knew. This was not the world she trusted. 

And she had to get away from it. 

Abruptly, she stood up and walked into the house, abandoning her 
beer on the front porch and crossing her arms tightly over her 
chest, as though she could anchor herself to herself. That was 
all that she had left, and shreds of that were slipping away from 
her by the second. She heard him follow her in, wondered if he 
was angry or hurt, and hated herself for doing this to him in the 
same way that *she* always had. Disappoint him with the brutality 
of her truth. 

The screen door slammed behind her, and she left the wooden door 
open, letting the humidity and the stifling dampness seep in 
through the mesh to fill her home with meteorological tension. 
Quietly, Mulder followed her into the living room, where she 
swiped at her disheveled half-ponytail with a slightly trembling 
hand. It was so difficult, breaking her own heart. So very, very 
difficult. "I want to go," she said, trying to explain herself, 
trying to alleviate the hurt. "God, believe me, I want to go. 
There's nothing more in the world that I want than to go with you 
and do everything we could do. But... I *can't*." The desperation 
in her voice betrayed the intent that she had started with - the 
intent to be strong. To be firm. To be resolute enough for the 
both of them. 

When all she wanted was to break down. 

A gentle hand touched her arm, cupping it, as though he could 
prop her up somehow. "It doesn't have to be that way," he 
murmured, and her brow furrowed with anguish. 

"But it *does*," she whispered. "It does. Whatever I could have 
been with you, whatever *she* was, I can't be. I made a choice in 
my life at a pivotal point, and even though it was the wrong 
choice, I made it. I can't just take it back. I'm rooted here, 
Mulder. This city, this job, and this house... They're what I chose. 
And I have to live with that decision." Responsibility, loyalty, 
duty... They were the trappings and chains that Dana Scully wore. 
Not an implant, or a dead sister, or blackmail from a conspiracy 
of lies. Nothing so poetic or even romantic as that. Just an 
obligation borne of an ill decision and a delicate yellow house 
on a vulnerable peninsula, draped with Southern magnolias. 

With a sigh, she bowed her head and covered her face with her 
hands briefly, trying to compose herself enough to finish what 
she meant to say. "Tomorrow, I'm going to have to leave for 
Augusta," she said. "The hurricane's coming tomorrow night. The 
FBI will move you back to Washington, and that'll be the end of 
it. Even if you return to keep tracking the killer, and even if 
my home isn't destroyed, which is nearly impossible at this 
point, tonight's the last. I can't..." Scully flinched, choking 
on the words that she couldn't exhale. "I can't continue this." 

A slow intensity was burning inside of Mulder, a thick, low 
feeling of suspicion and anger. He knew that she would not come 
with him. That was not what upset him at all. What angered him 
was the fact that she was lying to him about *why* she was 
refusing him. 

A fragile curl of red fell from her half-ponytail and caressed 
her jaw, and Mulder felt some of that anger slow from him. He 
understood her. Knew her better than he knew anybody. She was a 
woman built on pride, and abandoning all that she had committed 
to doing would shame her. However, actually staying out the 
commitment could kill her. She was torn, ravaged, ripped apart by 
the lure of both worlds, and there was no choice for her. 

But lying to herself about why she was staying... 

"Excuse me," she murmured, and when Mulder moved to follow her, 
Scully stopped him by raising her hand. "I need a moment, Mulder. 
Just a moment for myself and I'll be fine." A weak smile crossed 
her face, something that he'd only seen on her a couple times 
before, in another lifetime where moments of weakness were 
allowed only after incredible shows of strength. "But I need to 
be alone right now." 

Without waiting to see his response, she turned her back on him, 
and he watched her slender body walk upstairs, a lick of gauze 
curtain stroking the small of her back where his fingers yearned 
to touch. 

The air was thick and muggy and the wind was blowing steadily 
now, not anywhere near the freight-train intensity of a 
hurricane, but definitely escalating to more than a mere breeze. 
It carried with it the distant aroma of the tropics and 
destruction, of battering winds and enormous waves, all spraying 
her senses with the tang of salt. She leaned against the painted 
plaster railing, her hands curling around the circular 
circumference, and breathed in the deep, briny aroma of the 
ocean. 

After all, tomorrow, this city would be a part of it. 

Scully bowed her head and felt her hair whip and thread in front 
of her face in a tangle of vermilion and copper, exhaling in a 
dark breath that was almost as low as Mulder's breathing behind 
her. He had defied her, walked up here to find her, as he always 
had and always would. "Please, Mulder," she asked, "I just want 
you to go and leave me alone. For just a little while, until I 
can get my thoughts straight..." 

"So you can compose a fit rebuttal?" Mulder countered, his voice 
and tongue as sharp as daggers as he kept his distance behind 
her. Anger and bitterness flooded from his mouth like a verbal 
tsunami, practically spitting at her in frustration. 

She flinched under his assault, not turning to look at him. "I 
already gave you my reasons, Mulder," she said tightly. 
"Responsibility, loyalty, and choice. Maybe my choice wasn't the 
best or the brightest, but it's all too late now." 

Exasperated, Mulder sighed and stared at the back of her neck. 
"So what are you gonna do, Scully? Just sit out here on your 
widow's walk for the rest of your life and watch sailboats, 
thinking about something you want but never allowing yourself to 
have it?" 

"Yes!" she spat, turning around to meet him with blazing blue 
eyes. "Christ, Mulder, you make it seem like this is an easy 
choice. Something uncomplicated and romantic. Like I actually 
*can* abandon all of this and go with you. Well, life's not easy. 
My life's not easy. And I'm going to have to stick it out." 
//Them's the breaks, kid,// her father's voice murmured in her 
head, and Scully damned it out. She didn't need his advice 
anymore. "You *can* do this, Mulder, and I wish you the best. But 
I can't join you." 

Desperately, he grabbed her wrist, seizing her arm with his 
strong, capable fingers, and she longed for the power and 
precision of his hands. "Don't you see, Scully? Living this life 
will kill you one day." 

"And who will it kill if I leave?" she shot back, and Mulder 
flinched. "Melissa? Your father? Or will there be new pawns to 
sacrifice? My mother, your mother, our entire families and 
friends?" Her voice dropped to a hushed, choked whisper. "Or will 
they just go about the way that they went about last time?" 
Suddenly, he knew exactly what she was talking about, and his 
heart tightened as though a fist was squeezing the life out of 
it. "What will her name be this time, Mulder? Mary? Ruth? Or will 
they just stick with Emily?" 

"God, Scully," he whispered, his other hand reaching up to stroke 
her agonized face with one brown, callused palm. Bitterness 
haunted her eyes, the eyes of a woman who'd had a child in 
another lifetime and lost her in less than a week. The eyes of an 
anguished, childless mother. "I know how difficult-" 

"No, you don't," she whispered, her voice not harsh or angry, but 
rather defeated and desolate. "Even if I could do it, if I could 
leave everything behind and go with you, I couldn't for the sake 
of everyone I hold dear to me. My sister. My mother. My brothers 
and their families. I could take whatever they did to me. The 
abduction, the cancer... I could handle that. But I couldn't live 
with what they could do to the people I love." Her hand stroked 
the side of his face suddenly, the first touch since his 
bittersweet request. "Including you." 

Pain closed his eyes, shutting the overly long lashes and taking 
away the raging fire of his hazel eyes. Words were suddenly 
secondary here; unnecessary offerings when each knew the other so 
well that sound would only cheapen the moment. Tapering fingers 
circled her slender wrist, lovingly tracing the line of her vein 
and the constant rhythm of her pulse. It had been wrong to ask 
her to come. All that she had suffered, from her thousands of 
brushes with death to the child she had loved and lost... 
Remembering that sacrifice was painful enough. Actually asking 
her to commit it again must be killing her. 

"I'm so sorry, Scully," Mulder murmured, leaning closer to her. 
"He never wanted... Never wanted any of that to happen to her. He 
loved her more than that. *I* love you more than that." 

Her face contorted with a tight smile at his words. "You don't 
know who you love, Mulder," she said, stepping back and turning 
away from him. The persistent wind blew her hair back from her 
face in a torrent of untamed vermilion, sharpening her profile 
until it was a silver blade of skin in the dim light of night. 
"I'm not her, you know." 

She was not Special Agent Dana Scully, the woman who had endured 
hell and always came out with a new layer of skin for it. She had 
gained strength every year, while this Scully lost it with every 
draining summer spent in the South. The seasons passed 
differently for this tired, numbed pathologist, a woman who lost 
parts of herself everyday. While the other Scully was a woman 
glorious and resplendent, this woman was nothing more than a 
wistful shadow, losing her dreams while poling a pirogue through 
the marshes or watching tides pass from her lonely widow's walk. 
There was nothing to love about this woman, nothing to admire, 
and she knew that the woman Mulder loved simply did not exist in 
this realm. 

And loving her for someone she could not be was wrong. 

Tender fingers caressed the pale nape of her neck, and a strong, 
soft voice whispered into her ear. "You're wrong," he murmured. 
"I know who I love, Scully. Don't ever tell me I don't know 
something as simple as that." 

Cool words floated into her ear, all murmured from a velveteen 
tenor, and a long hand started stroking her back in time with the 
fingers on the back of her neck. "I love the woman who outshone 
and outclassed every male agent in the Bureau." She flinched 
until she heard his next words. "But I also love the woman who 
watches hurricanes and knows the tides as well as she knows the 
lines on her hand." Soft, gentle hands... He had the most 
exquisite hands. "I love the woman who killed monsters she didn't 
even believe in, and I love the woman who flies on the Battery 
just to feel the wind." Both hands were now traveling down her 
back, descending the slender arch of her spine, until they cupped 
her waist. "And I love both women for saving a sorry bastard like 
me in both worlds." 

Breathlessly, she turned her head, still looking out over the 
mass expanse of the ocean. "I didn't save you, Mulder," she 
whispered, and those hands slowly turned her to face him, still 
remaining on her flat stomach while he spoke. 

"You did, Scully," he disagreed. "You saved me in one world a 
thousand times over, and you saved me in this world for the first 
time by showing me the one thing I didn't see. Myself." Gentle, 
burning eyes stared into hers as his fingers continued trailing 
fingers down her back, then they circled around to the waist of 
her torn, faded jeans. "I've lived through hell in the past few 
years, Scully. Pointless penance for a crime I didn't commit. And 
the things I've seen... I've felt like less of a person. Like 
life's been killing me. I go to sleep at night and dream about 
being in that abyss between killer and hunter, and when I wake 
up, it's harder and harder to come back to life. Until you." Deft 
fingers slowly slid the button open, and a set of tapering brown 
digits began unzipping her jeans. Dizzying rings of arousal 
started shimmering throughout her body, setting her skin on fire 
and turning her body into a pulsing magnet for his. 

"Mulder," she whispered, "not here..." 

"Sh," he murmured in reply, never taking his eyes off of hers. 
Then his hands fled her stomach, leaving her bared midriff open 
for exposure from the bitter wind. He threaded his fingers 
through hers and led her to the small wicker chair that she kept 
up here, still covered with a damp quilt from slumbering on her 
widow's walk on her final night before his arrival. "Just let 
me..." 

And nothing else was spoken as she wordlessly let him lead her. 

Denim slid down her legs in a slow peel of fabric against flesh, 
and her heated skin met the humid night in a slow melding of 
elemental warmth. All the while, lightning traveled over the sky 
in a network of violet veins, shattering the continuity of the 
black night with its talons colored vivid vermilion and pale 
white. Scully felt the same lightning flushing through her own 
veins, traveling through her body with the speed of electricity, 
while Mulder's hands removed her jeans and sneakers, and her own 
fingers undid the buttons on her sleeveless tank top. A 
cooperative seduction under an uncooperative sky, filled with 
foreboding weather and a forlorn farewell. 

Fingers slid over her bare thighs in a collision of skin that 
sent splintering shivers through her body, and Scully's hips 
undulated slightly, like rippling waves. Twilit lips opened to 
give what could have been words, but the slowly gathering 
pleasure made her language incomprehensible. And Scully did not 
want to understand it. All that she wanted was to *feel* and not 
think. To enjoy and not comprehend. For these precious minutes 
would pass and she would be forced into foresight again, but for 
now... 

For now there was abandon. 

Her own agile, skilled fingers undid the front clasp of her bra, 
hidden between the valley of her breasts, and the twin cups of 
cream cotton loosened and came undone. Shards of red fell in her 
eyes as she looked at Mulder, who was kneeling before her with a 
slender foot in his hand. Blazing brown and green stared back at 
her, devouring her slowly bared body with a carnal conflagration. 
Words could have passed, but they remained buried for now. Words 
would make it all real. Words would break their brief indulgence. 

A bough of wisteria broke free from its moorings in her front 
yard as a particularly powerful gust of wind blew in from the 
Atlantic, and a handful of lavender showered onto her body, 
teasing her ripe breasts with a dusting of lilac before 
whispering down to caress her hips. She arched her back at the 
sensation, and Mulder watched the light lily blossoms rain down 
on her like silken liquid. She was exquisite in that moment, 
slender curls of red falling in her eyes, cinnamon-tipped breasts 
arched toward the sky and hidden moon, covered in a drizzling of 
loosened flora. 

And so his hands moved to cover her as well. 

"Don't protest," he murmured, his hand cupping one lush, warm 
breast and his fingers kneading the sensitive, roseate nipple. 
"Whatever happens here, don't protest. I want to give you 
everything, Scully, because I'll never be able to give it to 
again after tonight." 

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and Mulder shook his head. 

"Never be sorry, Scully," he whispered back, his voice taut with 
unspoken emotion. "You're blameless. Guiltless." He was the 
guilty one for having asked her. "Anyway, I love you, and any 
wrong you made would be forgiven." 

Even a wrong against herself? Because that was the error she had 
committed. The worst sort of crime. Large, brown hands started 
slide between her thighs then, abandoning her breasts for more 
fascinating territory. "Mulder," she whispered, feeling herself 
quicken and intensify, like a hurricane was pulsing within her, 
always circling. "Oh, God, Mulder..." 

"Sh," was all he said. 

The first whisper of his tongue against the moisture-slicked 
region that beckoned for touch and begged for teasing was as 
light and airy as the brush of wisteria had been. Nothing more 
than a puff of wind, soft and intangible, rifling the auburn hair 
between her thighs and igniting the small coal that was beginning 
to throb and ache. Instantly, it exploded into flame, burning 
steadily and severely, and she arched her hips when his lower lip 
slowly swept across her wet, swollen lower lips in a dark, 
intense kiss. A cry was torn from her lips, ripped like paper, 
when he dipped his tongue inside of her, letting her juices 
tangle and tumble on his taste buds, and her fingers threaded 
through his hair in a plea for more. She tilted her hips forward, 
and her knees drew up with ecstasy. 

It all *felt* so good, so right... Mulder's tongue stroking her 
in that ultimately intimate kiss, his mouth moving over her while 
the wind touched the rest of her flesh, her fingers moving 
through his hair with escalating intensity and fervency. Her 
heart seemed to have lowered itself to beat between her legs, 
pulsing as if everything came from reckless sensation. No logic, 
no science, no rationality... Their lovemaking later would 
incorporate all three; she knew that instinctively, but for now 
it had no place in this sensory indulgence. 

He painted words on her body with his mouth, scripting poetry 
onto her warm canvas as though it were a sensual sort of 
Sanskrit. She arched her back, raising herself off the chair with 
the anguishing madness and beauty of it all, the insanity of 
being pleasured this way in the open globe of the world. Leaves 
blew from their branches, raining down on them in a hail of lush 
greenery, and Scully embraced the verdant caress. She took it all 
in, embraced it, inhaled it, allowed the storm entrance as she 
pulsed beneath his mouth and tongue. 

"Never..." she gasped, feeling her climax begin building in 
roseate folds of ecstasy beneath her skin. "Never... Never leave 
this." Never leave this feeling of freedom, of independence, of 
pleasure behind. Let this moment sustain her in the arduous years 
to come. When boredom devoured her, when the pointless of her 
existence consumed her, and when the wistful yearning for a world 
she just couldn't have claimed her, always remember this moment 
when all was right with the world. 

As Scully climaxed, her hips leaping off the chair and a raw cry 
flying from her lips in a rich exclamation of rapture, a shower 
of moonlight magnolias and twilight wisteria bathed her body in a 
storm of utter delicacy. The South was dying around her, the city 
crumbling even before the storm's impact, and the woman who'd let 
it defeat her for nine years slowly began to come together in a 
triumph of sheer humanity. All from the realization that she was 
better than anyone ever expected her to be. 

And yet as the climax slowed throughout her and her body began 
shimmering back to reality, she wished she'd never known that. It 
would make abandoning her dreams even more difficult than it 
already was. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 

***** 

THIS SECTION RATED NC-17 FOR SEXUAL CONTENT 

***** 

Residence of Dana Scully 
Charleston, South Carolina 
11:04 PM, August 18, 1999 

***** 

The television set shone a bright, almost blinding blue onto the 
room, radiating incandescent indigo. She lay spooned in his arms 
on the floor, his back leaning against the sofa, as they watched 
the latest advisory on the Weather Channel. A new package on the 
hurricane, a new forecast, and yet nothing was different. 

"Hurricane Becky is the third Category 5 hurricane that will make 
landfall on the United States shore in history, with winds of 
175mph and a potential storm surge of anywhere from 20 to 30 
feet, barreling toward the South Carolina coast at 12mph," Dr. 
Lyons said. "Right now, there is an incredible amount of damage 
in the Bahamas, which received the brunt of the storm earlier 
this morning. A mass exodus is taking place in Georgia, South 
Carolina, and even parts of southern North Carolina, creating 
enormous traffic jams as people desperately try to flee from the 
monster's path." 

Video footage from Becky's assault on the Bahamas played on the 
television set, showing roaring waves and quivering palmettos, 
while roofs blew off of houses like tuna fish can lids peeling 
back. An expensive yacht blew through the air like it weighed no 
more than a scrap of paper, and water soaked the land until there 
was no sand to be seen. This would be Charleston in no less than 
a day. Ruined, ravaged, and reduced to rubble. 

And so would she. 

Fingers raveled in her hair, threading through the red as though 
he could sew a tapestry with nothing more than her vermilion 
strands. Her denim-clad legs were folded in front of her as she 
leaned against him, and her palms were clasped as though she were 
caressing rosary beads in her lap. The woman who had released 
herself with a vengeance on the widow's walk now sat silently, 
until she picked up the remote control and pressed "mute". 

"I think I saw the smoking man today." 

She said it so casually, as though she had seen a neighbor or the 
postman and not the human equivalent of Satan himself. Like they 
were talking about the weather. Yet his skin crawled and his 
heart tightened in its cage, thinking of the bitter smell of 
cigarettes mingling with the fragrant aroma of flowers. 

Scully continued, her voice soft and almost dreamy, watching the 
local forecast and hurricane warning precautions scroll across 
the screen. "I can't be sure if it was him or not, Mulder," she 
murmured. "I was on the widow's walk, right after you left this 
morning, and he was on the Battery. I ran after him, but when I 
crossed the street, he was gone. But his cigarette was there." A 
pause, but enough to make his skin cool with fear. "A Morley." 

Christ. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the sofa 
cushions, letting the china light bounce over his closed eyelids 
in a brocaded pattern of indigos and blues. Her voice continued 
in an apologetic tone that he didn't want to hear or accept. 

"I didn't want to mention anything to you based on pure paranoia 
or speculation, but I think that it can explain to you better 
than anything I've said tonight why I can't go with you," she 
murmured. Her fingers played across the pair of faded blue jeans 
he'd fetched from the rental car. His first night here with an 
overnight bag. His last night here forever. "All of the dangers 
we've been discussing, the fears and concerns I've expressed... 
All of them were suddenly thrown before me in the reminder of 
that man." 

The man who had stolen everything from Mulder and everything from 
her. The man who had fathered and subsequently robbed Samantha 
and who'd probably fathered and broken Fox. The man without a 
conscience or a soul, the man who'd taken Scully's life, freedom, 
and child from her... This was the man who may have been standing 
outside of Scully's front door no less than twenty-four hours 
ago, smoking a cigarette and observing the puppets who'd 
transcended time for him. It was agonizing, the thought of this 
man traveling such a far distance, transcending space and time, 
all to destroy the world. 

When Mulder spoke, he kept his voice hushed and serious, yet not 
cruel enough to bait his words. "While that's a good reason for 
you to stay, Scully, it's a good reason for me to leave." She 
knew what he meant instantly: Mulder wanted to fight him. He 
would abandon profiling, Behavioral Sciences, Patterson, and his 
very existence, to prevent the world from ending. It was the sort 
of man he was, and the sort of woman Scully wanted to be. 

Yet she just couldn't. 

Silence hung between them and she sighed, resting her cheek 
against his knee and letting her hand cup his thigh. 
Affectionately, his fingers ran through the indigo-lit cap of 
crimson that hugged her jaw, and his fingertips combed through 
the fine threads that crisscrossed over her eyes. "Scully," 
Mulder murmured, "it's not too late. Everybody's leaving this 
city, scattering around the country. I have money set aside by my 
father. It's blood money, I know, but it's still money. We don't 
have to return to Washington or Charleston. We could just go 
somewhere... California or Utah... Europe, if you want. I have 
friends who could get us false identification and-" 

"And we could run away like cowards." 

Flinching, Mulder turned his head away, his hand stilling in her 
hair so that the fingers could touch the nape of her neck. "I 
didn't mean it that way, Scully," he muttered, and Scully laughed 
sharply, bitterly. 

"But it *is* cowardice, Mulder," she said, darkened blue eyes 
staring off at the soft rain beating against the long glass 
windows that led to the wraparound porch. Dampened buds of azalea 
and magnolia fell to pile around the door, as if begging for 
entrance to bedeck the inner house. "If we were to run away, to 
flee everything that binds us to this world, what would we be 
running from? Responsibility and dignity." 

"And it's not cowardice that keeps you here?" he retorted, and 
Scully drew back sharply and suddenly. Ah, so you could incite 
this Scully with passion and anger. Fury burned and blazed inside 
the rich blue orbs, darkly flaming at him underneath thick 
lashes. The sharp lines of her face were distinctly drawn and 
tense as she glared at him, daggers poised at him in that 
tension. 

Scully's words were knives as she spoke. "Don't ever accuse me of 
being a coward," she said, her voice steely and unflinching. 
"*Never* accuse me of that. You know that the reason I'm staying 
here is because I *can't* leave. If I were to join you in D.C. it 
would be the equivalent of running away from everything I've 
built in South Carolina. I made my choices and now I have to 
stick to them." She stood up then, and as if to punctuate her 
words, lightning flickered from the sultry sea and danced across 
her taut features. "So I'm no coward, Mulder. And neither are 
you." 

He stared up at her, this petite woman who now bore the presence 
of an amazon, her face colored in lightning. The rain beaded off 
the glass windows and reflected onto her face, so it looked as 
though tears were streaming down her cheeks in rivulets of purple 
liquid. Mulder wondered if she was crying on the inside, 
something that she would not allow herself to physically do, and 
it took all of the anger and frustration out of him. The anguish 
she was going through, the torment of choosing one life over 
another... 

Mulder rose, stepping closer to her to bridge the distance 
between them, and his hands rose to cup her upper arms. Gently, 
the palms of his hands caressed the flannel, his callused palms 
catching on the material and the strong fingers not gripping her, 
but just touching her. Connecting her to him. "You're right, 
Scully," he murmured, his voice dark and ragged. "You're not a 
coward." She was far from it, standing there with her face tilted 
upward, her jaw staunch and stalwart, shoulders squared and eyes 
defiant and proud. She was the strongest person he'd ever 
witnessed, a portrait of dignity and fury, and her eyes still 
flamed like lakes set afire. Like a Carolina river reflecting a 
sunset. 

A soft smile turned the corners of his mouth upwards as he looked 
at her, tinged with shades of sadness. He knew that this would be 
the last night together, the last night no matter what happened. 
If he ever returned to Charleston, he would not be able to return 
to her, for both their sakes. So he would have to let go of her 
tonight, learn to allow Dana Scully to slip out of his touch, and 
then walk away from both her and the South she loved. Tonight was 
it. His last dance with Scully. 

So he would make it a good one. 

Hunger crept into his body, tinted and yellowed by an ancient 
anguish, as he looked her up and down. The last time they had 
made love, he had made love to a woman brought to life from 
another world, and he had been a different man himself. A man 
with purpose. With identity. He wanted those things again 
tonight, but he wanted them for himself. For the Fox Mulder of 
*this* world and *this* realm. And he wanted to make love to the 
woman who possessed a strength, a passion, and a courage that 
crossed worlds and transcended time and space. 

He was looking into that woman's eyes right now. 

Slowly, his hands slid over her shoulders, toward the collar of 
her checked flannel shirt. The slender slope of her neck, masked 
by wispy tendrils of humidity-curled red, lay underneath cobwebs 
of crimson, and his tapering fingers caressed the nape of her 
neck lovingly and tenderly. "Scully," he murmured, and the anger 
slipped from her eyes. Yet they still blazed before him, still 
projecting an image of rivers of flame, and he wished for such 
passion and courage. He would need it in the months ahead. "I 
can't run away from what I have to do. And I know that you can't 
run away from what you've done." Pained, she flinched at his 
words, and his hands steadied her, cupping her face inside his 
copper palms. "And I can't run away from you, Scully. I don't 
want to." 

Agony besieged her body, he felt her tense inside of his hands, 
felt heat radiate from her as her face contorted with the pain of 
all that they would have to do. "You have to," she whispered, her 
voice tightly clenched inside a fist of pain. "Mulder, whatever 
it is between us, whatever always brings us together, it's not 
meant to be. They knew that in their world, and I know it in this 
one. Nothing good comes of us." A tear was welling up in her eye, 
liquefying the already fluid image of her burning river eyes. She 
met his eyes in a plea for some sort of mercy, and he wanted to 
give it to her. He wanted to give her reprieve or solace in the 
worst way. 

And yet all he could give her was him. 

"Meant to be?" he said, a soft smile touching his face. "Scully, 
I didn't think you believed in fate." A short, brutally bitter 
laugh was choked from her body, and the tear escaped her eye to 
catch on her eyelashes as she breathed it. Outside, the wind blew 
in a sudden window-rattling gust, and it seemed for a moment that 
the entire world was crashing around them. Maybe it was. 

That twisted laugh ended when he started speaking again. "I don't 
know whether or not fate exists. I don't know if our meeting was 
predestination or happenstance. But I do know that whatever 
brought us together brought us here for a reason and a purpose, 
and I think that purpose was to save each other." Tenderly, he 
stroked her cheek, a thumb gliding alone the planes of her 
elegant cheekbone until it reached the bridge of her Roman nose. 
"You did save me, Scully. I was dead before I met you. And I 
think that maybe you were dead before all of this, too." The 
thumb traced the arch of her nose until it outlined her auburn 
eyebrow, and then it smoothly dried the tear still clinging to 
her star-shaped lashes. "Whatever happens after we leave, we 
can't predict. But tonight is ours, Scully. It has to be." And 
then he found his own voice choked with tears. "Cause that's the 
only thing left..." 

She didn't allow him the air to breathe his next words and halted 
his lips with hers. 

The slope of her jaw, lit by the rain falling against the glass, 
curved upward so that her mouth could meet his and tangle her 
tongue with his. Red and violet, she was a portrait of those two 
colors. Slowly, gently, with painstaking thoroughness, she kissed 
him, trailing her tongue along the plush expanse of his mouth. It 
was as though she was painting a picture of him onto her memory, 
and her lips were her paintbrush. The approaching hurricane 
provided her with a palate of violets and blues to select from, 
and so his portrait would always be painted in chiaroscuro. 

The tips of her fingers rose to caress the side of his face, and 
neither one wanted to dwell on the slight tremor in her joints. 
It was not fear that shook her to the core, but the aching 
thought of living in agony and in South Carolina. 

"Scully," he murmured, breaking the kiss and murmuring the words 
onto the corner of her mouth. "Upstairs..." 

Silently, she threaded her fingers through his and led her to his 
bedroom, the rain still painting the window with streaks of 
watercolor cerulean. 

The rain was slowing as they ascended to the bedroom, stilling 
into a soft pebbling of precipitation as the rain band passed 
over the city. Fingers of clouds slimmed out to reveal faint 
fragments of moonlight, pouring through the parts in the clouds 
and allowing a sliver of sky to appear. The stars dusted the 
nightscape like sequins, and for a moment, the wind stilled. 
Everything calmed, everything slowed, to allow the moment of time 
that was beginning in Scully's bedroom to lengthen and intensify. 
It was as though fate and destiny, if those deities even existed, 
were allowing them mercy for the first time. 

Clothing slipped from each other's bodies, the sleeveless tank 
top floating to the floor and following its flannel predecessor. 
Mulder threw off his tee shirt, stepped out of his jeans and 
wrapped her partially nude body in his arms, a shaking hand 
running down the slender slope of her back. His fingers passed 
over every disc in her spinal cord, as though he could memorize 
the construction of her back, and then they dipped into the 
waistline of her tattered blue jeans. "Scully, Scully," he 
murmured, his fingers slipping around to undo her jeans. She 
surrendered herself over to him, staring him in the eyes while 
gentle tendrils of violet-lit red fell across her face. 

Splashed in hues of night, the two lovers threaded their limbs 
around each other, creating a bramble of skin that could not be 
deciphered or separated in the moonlight. She stood in front of 
him wearing nothing but cream-colored cotton, and his erection 
tented the front of his heather-colored boxers. She was a 
sculpture of impossible beauty, the likes of which he would never 
see again. Thumbs passed over her lips, a hand stroked her body; 
he could not touch her enough. The softness and steel of her skin 
was something he would never feel again after this night, and the 
memory of it set aflame by desire was something he needed in 
order to survive. 

A cry fell from her throat, like spilled wine, and he wrapped his 
long arms around her, pressing her body to his and thusly 
fastening her to him. Hungrily, he kissed the graceful column of 
her pale throat, as though he could feed on her like a vampire. 
Scully met his challenge, adding her own fuel to the fire, 
throwing it on like a harsh splash of sudden gasoline. Small, 
precise hands gripped his back as if she could rip his copper 
skin from his body and press it in a scrapbook, but all that she 
could do was feel its warmth and wish for more time. 

The small tortoiseshell clip that held her hair back from her 
face fell to the ground as Mulder set her hair free, and it 
cascaded around her face in an unruly mass of moisture-curled 
vermilion. One slender, waving wisp of red shimmered slightly in 
the moonlight, and Mulder wondered what she would do if he stole 
a lock of it in the middle of the night. But he wouldn't loot or 
plunder Scully; she was something sacred to him. Instead, he 
kissed her, pulling her closer to the bed while stripping her of 
her bra. The rose-tipped breasts that always tasted like vanilla 
and smelled like sultry magnolias were pressed against his chest, 
the nipples raking against his bare skin as she writhed against 
him. He wanted her so *badly* in that moment, wanted her forever, 
and knew he could only have her for tonight. 

The low rumblings of thunder and the gentle washing of rain had 
completely ceased at this point, and Scully was grateful for the 
silence that fell between them. Nothing to distract, no 
interference to come between them. She wanted nothing to replace 
or ruin the memories she would have to build tonight. 
Construction was underway, and she was remembering everything she 
could never ever have, all in the six hours between now and her 
evacuation. She had a mere six hours to weave her tapestry of 
Mulder and the Scully she would never be, and all concentration 
was needed here and now. 

She tilted her face upward so that she could memorize the 
structure of his unique face and the kaleidoscopic eyes that 
always displayed a varying myriad of color and emotion. Brown and 
gold, blue and gray, sensuality and anguish... Mulder was a 
surprise every time he opened his eyes. A memory from her other 
world drifted into her mind, of how she could always gauge his 
state of mind from one simple glance. Funny, how so much of her 
knowledge of him was stored in another woman's mind, but she knew 
that all of it was true. Like she knew the fine bone structure of 
his hands and the gentle way they touched, not invading, but 
stroking. 

They were stroking her now. Running over her breasts, lighting 
the sensitive skin aflame, as though her veins poured rich with 
flammable oil and he was the spark to her wick. She liked that 
image, of Mulder as a fire starter and her as the waiting 
kindling. She imagined the sparks burning through the thin layer 
of skin, setting her afire with a deep, thick flame. Scully 
sighed deep and slow when his hands slowly cupped her, the thumbs 
tracing the hardened nipple and forefingers stroking the 
undersides of her breasts. She arched into his touch as she 
always had, expectantly waiting for more, and he always gave it 
to her. Denied her nothing. And she would always do the same for 
him... 

With the exception of the life together that they could never 
have. 

Silver flooded in from outdoors, and she shifted her gaze from 
him to look out the French doors. Moonlight spilled onto the 
balcony from the clearing skies, and she sighed at the sight of 
it. How refreshing, to see everything so clearly again, and not 
through a thick haze of uncertainty. But when warm lips circled 
and encased her nipple, all attention was once again reverted to 
Mulder, and her hands flew to run through his dark hair. She 
luxuriated in both sensations: the softness of his spiky locks 
and the suckling on her breast. The Other Scully had always loved 
his hair, the wildness of it, and this one loved it too. They 
were both infatuated with him and attracted to him, to the 
wildness and recklessness and the tenderness that seemed engraved 
into his soul. 

The panties slipped down over her legs to pool on the floor, and 
she felt moisture between her thighs. Arousal and hunger, a deep 
want for Mulder, were sliding through her body like slow, thick 
honey and molasses. "Mulder," she moaned, her hands threading 
through his dark hair with increasing intensity, and he stepped 
out of his boxer shorts while pulling her onto the bed with him. 
Cream-colored glory surrounded the two, as if they were wading in 
a pale sea, and Scully lay beneath him, watching the hungry eyes 
that stared at her. She felt the hot, long length of him pressing 
against her thigh, and wondered how long his arousal had plagued 
him since their encounter and her pleasure on the widow's walk. 
Never removing her gaze from his face, she reached between them 
to stroke him, running her fingers lightly from the base of his 
cock to the tip, a fingertip breezing airily over the heated silk 
and skin. 

God, it felt like heaven to him. Blood pulsed through his body, 
centralizing in his groin, and he luxuriated in the sensations 
that she gave to him. His hips rolled as she stroked him, a thumb 
passing over the tip to slick the shaft with the small amount of 
precum that was collecting there, and her fingers were like 
little slender bits of gauze. Light as a feather, gentle as 
satin, and as hot as dancing fire. She would occasionally add 
pressure, intensifying the stroke in a tease of all that she 
could do, but it was always back to the gentleness within a 
matter of seconds. Skill and precision, that was Scully, and 
those skilled and precise hands touched him like he had never 
been touched before. 

Surges of sexuality began convulsing inside of him, heating his 
body and quickening him, sweat beading his skin as he felt the 
orgasm begin, but he quickly choked it back. No, not tonight. Not 
the last time. He wanted to spend himself inside of her, sinking 
into her in that ultimate union of flesh and heart, and Mulder 
would restrain himself until he was a part of Scully. He needed 
that last connection before disconnecting from her forever. 

A shaking hand pushed her hand away, and he looked up at her with 
eyes blazing sexuality and something that she thought could be 
love. He didn't need to tell her what he wanted. She wanted it 
too. With eyes that blazed of a thousand secrets, Scully leaned 
back on the bed and pushed him closer to her, taking him within 
her and feeling heat and want building inside of her like an 
escalating inferno. 

A memory floated to her then, a soft whisper that crossed the 
planes of space and time. A memory of sitting in their basement 
haven, Mulder wearied and anguished after the disastrous John Lee 
Roche case and the fragile cloth hearts, and how worn and 
distressed he had seemed. She had taken him within herself, made 
him smile, and the feeling of warming Mulder had been like 
turning on the sun. She felt that way now, as this pained and 
desperate man held himself over her, lanky limbs pinning her to 
the bed so that his face was positioned directly over hers. As he 
slowly sank into her, filling her with himself, she wondered if 
she would always feel empty after leaving. Not only empty from 
the lack of Mulder, but from the lack of Scully. The Scully she 
could have, should have been. The Scully she would always 
remember. 

"Oh, God," she whispered, watching those intense eyes watching 
hers as he slowly withdrew and thrust inside of her again. 
Fingers reached between them to stroke the pulsing bud of nerves 
that waited for the thick, luxurious bloom of orgasm. She wanted 
to blossom, wanted to unfurl, and knew that she would always 
remain in pupae for the rest of her existence. South Carolina 
bound her now to the peninsula and its fall of magnolias, even as 
Charleston was threatened with the destruction and disaster of 
Hurricane Becky. 

Red flushed through her body, as though her honey-blood had been 
melted and turned into lava, coursing through her veins and 
seeking eruption. She sought it too, desperately wanted to feel 
alive once more before dying forever. 

Mulder's hand fluttered over the swollen bundle that throbbed 
against his fingertips, like a little coal buried among moist 
folds. "Scully," he whispered, watching her body writhe under 
violet light. "Oh, Scully..." The sensation surrounding him, from 
the arch of her slender back to the sounds rasping from her 
throat... It all flooded through his system and shook him to the 
core. "Oh, GOD..." 

She came only milliseconds before he followed, waves crashing 
toward each other in crashes. She felt a storm surge within her, 
a flood of sensation welling up and pressing against a dam, and 
then it all exploded within her, crashing ashore. It consumed 
everything, broke everything, until she lay there, cooling in his 
arms as the air stilled around them. 

A great quiet fell, softened by the breathing passing between the 
two spent lovers, as Mulder slid out of her and then slipped next 
to her, his body wrapping around hers so that she lay spooned 
inside of his arms. Everything slowed, as though it were caught 
in freeze-frame, and shadows slowly descended to cover them in 
synchrony with the cream-colored bedsheets. 

Mulder took this one moment in time and caressed it as gently as 
if it were a precious stone. Carefully preserved and lovingly 
kept, he reveled in the stillness and seeming normalcy that was 
found at that moment. Here, he could pretend at least that all 
was normal, that no hurricane was barreling in from the Atlantic 
to take the city and that there was no need to leave this bed 
tomorrow. He could create his own world from the memories he held 
and it was a world where they were content. 

Yet a whistling of wind was rising again from the moonlit seas, 
breezing past the French doors in a manner that lightly rattled 
the glass. As gentle and slight as the wind was, it packed a 
force that shattered the illusion and brought him roaring back to 
reality, slamming him with the painful knowledge that sunset 
would soon rise and he would be shuttled off to the airport with 
his colleagues. From there on out, only God and fate knew, and 
they weren't planning on clueing Fox Mulder into their plans 
anytime soon. Everything was chance and unknown destiny after 
that, wandering blindly along a pre-carved path. 

But here... Here he knew everything. 

"I can't lose you," Scully whispered, her voice hoarse and tired. 
Pressed against her back the way he was, he could not tell if she 
was crying or not; he supposed that she probably was. He 
certainly felt the urge himself to shed some tears. "Mulder, I 
love you." 

With a sigh, he burrowed closer to her, desperately wanting to 
ingrain part of her into him so that he could always carry a 
piece of Scully with him for the rest of eternity. Yet all he had 
was a pocketful of memory and the everlasting smell of hibiscuses 
and winding wisteria. 

So he held her this way as the night wore on, until they both 
fell into troubled slumbers. Outside, the wind began to pick up 
speed and the waves crashed along the beaches and Battery, the 
storm swiftly approaching to shatter everything in its path. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 

***** 

Residence of Dana Scully 
Charleston, South Carolina 
3:40 AM, August 19, 1999 

***** 

Indigo light painted the house in delicate shades ranging from 
rich plum to serene cerulean, casting a violet light onto the 
cream-colored furnishings draped around the luxurious bedroom. 
Everything was cast in these fine watercolors and lit by the 
silvery full moon, as though her house had become a dwelling 
woven from sky and star. 

Tilting her head to her side, Scully gazed around her house at 
everything she had acquired and loved during her years in 
Charleston. The billowing vanilla curtains shook and shimmered 
under the hungry moon, fluttering into wisps of dark sapphire 
silk and gauze, and her fingertips caressed the fabric lightly. 
She remembered selecting these curtains alone, wandering through 
the Market until happening upon these simple, shimmering 
draperies that reminded her of some witheringly beautiful summer 
from decades or even centuries past. 

The fine fabric caught on the roughness of her hands as she 
picked up an edge and brought it to her nose, and she smiled 
softly and sadly at the memory the fragrance brought to her. 
Reminiscences of sunlight and saltwater, all sweetened by the 
occasional brush of daisies or bougainvillea, met her nose. She 
would always remember lounging on her balcony in the early 
evening, covering herself in twilight and reading a book, making 
herself believe that she enjoyed the solitude more than she would 
ever enjoy company. 

Sighing, Scully dropped the fabric and let it brush along the 
bare wood floor, padding barefoot through the rest of her house, 
her eyes constantly gazing around her. She wondered which 
belonging would be destroyed first as the hurricane pounded the 
shore. Would the wind ravage it or would the waters bury it? 
Which would consume her lemon hideaway first - ocean or air? Did 
it even matter which memories were drowned or suffocated first? 

The light linen of her hibiscus-print robe fluttered as she 
descended to the first floor, her hands passing over the strong, 
resilient wood. Knots and whorls were etched into the oak and 
pine, marking both the age of the wood and the age of the house. 
She knew its history well, knew that it had survived the march of 
Sherman, a fire, an earthquake, and dozens of hurricanes. Yet 
everything inside of her told her that this would be her last 
night inside of this house, for it would never exist again after 
tonight. 

The full moon would never shimmer on the glass again. The stars 
would never illuminate the text in a book as she read on the 
widow's walk again. She would never fall into still slumbers in 
the comfort of her cream-colored bed again. How awful that she 
was losing two lives in one night - her life as the Scully she 
could never be and her life as the Scully she had been forced to 
become. She felt heartbroken over both overwhelming losses. 

Quiet music flowed from the stereo system, letting whispers of 
Tori Amos purr through the lower story but not interrupt her 
slumbering lover's sleep. "You're already in me," she sang, her 
rich, haunting voice injected with anguish. "I'll be wearing your 
tattoo..." Scully allowed the liquid music to flow from the 
speakers, filling the lower room with pure piano and a tormented 
voice. She thought it rather appropriate. 

She was marked by him now. Marked by herself, in an odd way. 
Marked forever, tattooed, by the life she was abandoning and the 
life that was being stolen away. She would always be an odd 
mixture of sad, Southern Scully and the Scully who'd saved the 
world and gained an invaluable amount of suffering. These two 
women had been grafted into her until the two Scullys fused, 
creating a stronger, sadder woman. At least she hoped she was 
strong enough. Strong enough to endure the aftermath of both 
Mulder and a hurricane, and she wasn't sure which force was more 
destructive. 

And then she was reminded of Patterson's warning to her in the 
swamp gardens, when Becky was only a rumor and she knew nothing 
of everything she should have been. She had been warned that 
Mulder would destroy her, that he would plunder her and loot her 
and leave only the worst of her behind. That he would break her. 
Yet Scully did not feel broken in the least. In fact, every 
fragmented piece of her that never seemed to have a place before 
was now slid into place with this latest revelation. 

That she had once been important. 

Yet the part of her that had lived among the wisteria for nine 
years clung to the simple complexity that was the South. That 
woman longed for the utter ease of drifting through the riverbeds 
in a small pirogue or eating boiled shrimp that she had collected 
that day. She may have never been accepted by the Southerners in 
a way that Scully had always wanted, but she had always been 
loved by the land. And Scully loved it in return. She loved 
watching the sunsets shifting, whether they ended in a blaze of 
color in a pastel descent. She loved the smell of the saltwater 
marshes when the tide came in. She loved the scattered shells 
after the tide went out, all glistening and gleaming on the beach 
like treasures or prizes. 

The South was as deeply ingrained upon her as the memory of the 
Other Dana Scully. They were like two rivers converging, and she 
was the body of water that they emptied into. Scully was their 
harbor. 

And now both rivers were dying. 

Unbeknownst to Scully, Mulder watched her from the corner, 
watching her caress the carved wooden staircase and listened to 
the music that whispered around them. "I said, leave me the way I 
was before..." 

Violet streaked through her hair, turning her red locks into 
curled tendrils of lush purple and plum. Her skin looked like 
ice, her slender body transformed into a figure as slim and 
shadowy as a burning candle, and the expression upon her face was 
that of torn torment. She looked like taffy, pulled in every 
direction. He wondered what sort of agony she was enduring now - 
the pain of sacrificing one life or the pain of being robbed of 
another? 

Mulder was not blind, nor was he as self-centered as many of his 
colleagues thought he was. He knew how deeply the hurricane 
frightened and disturbed her. The South was a beautiful place to 
her, a haven of color and tradition that fascinated and riveted 
her. She loved the land and the sea, the flora and the fauna, and 
losing it would severely hurt her. And this house... It was her 
safe place. This world's equivalent to the basement office. 

Softly, so not to disturb her, he sighed at her, and she turned 
around to look at him. The deep, dark sadness inside of her 
pooling cerulean eyes looked at him with a magnitude of 
uncertainty and anguish, but she did not move closer to him. 
Scully leaned slightly on the back of the cream chaise, and 
Mulder leaned against the doorway, clad only in boxers so that 
his skin was brocaded in violet. "Hey," he murmured, and she 
smiled slightly back at him. Her smile contained no pleasure, no 
warmth, and only an attempt to appease him. "Penny for your 
thoughts." 

Scully chuckled softly. "I thought my thoughts were worth more 
than that," she remarked, and Mulder smiled a little at her, as 
if he would up the ante if that would coax an answer from her. 

Resigning herself to the conversation, Scully sighed and leaned 
back further, until she was poised on the chaise. Her slender 
legs were crossed in front of her, the lily skin tinted ice by 
the night. "McClellanville," Scully said, and Mulder tilted his 
head. "It's a small fishing and shrimping town about twenty, 
thirty miles north of Charleston, right up near Georgetown and 
Myrtle Beach." 

Mulder frowned and shook his head. "I've never heard of it," he 
said, and she shook her head sadly, her eyelashes falling softly 
to hood her blue eyes. 

"Of course you haven't," she said. "It doesn't exist anymore." 

Startled, Mulder looked up and she smiled a little. "Oh, don't 
get me wrong," she said. "It's still there. If you were to travel 
up on 17 North, you'd end up passing through a little town called 
McClellanville, but it's not really the same." She cleared her 
throat, relaxing slightly on the chaise, and he wondered if 
speaking helped clear out the cobwebs choking and suffocating her 
earlier. He hoped so. 

"I know that I told you earlier that the strongest part of the 
hurricane is the storm surge," Scully explained, and Mulder 
nodded. "Well, there's a little more to it than that. A hurricane 
can be divided up into four quadrants, like in simple algebra or 
geometry, and the strongest section is the northeast one. That 
contains the heavy sustained winds and the actual storm surge. 
When Hurricane Hugo passed through back in September of '89, 
Charleston did not experience the worst winds. The eye passed 
directly over the city and it only went through Category 2 force 
winds and surge. Now, if you've ever seen the pictures of the 
aftermath from that..." 

Her voice trailed off. *She* had seen the pictures. She knew 
about the expensive, magnificent yachts and sailboats that had 
been strewn about the streets like driftwood, and she knew how 
some of the regal, antiquated stores on King and Market had 
tumbled to the ground in crumbling ruins of pastel plaster. The 
towering oaks were still not the same, ten years after Hugo's 
wrath. The 135mph winds had never touched the city, only gusting 
to milder force, and tomorrow the city would experience something 
it had never withstood before. 

Quietly, Scully looked up to see Mulder gazing at her with 
startling intensity. Piercing hazel eyes were focused only on 
her, as though he could burrow beneath her skin and understood 
the course of blood through her veins. And maybe he did. Either 
way, it was comforting to have someone interested so deeply in 
her. She regained her composure and continued talking. 

"Anyway, McClellanville was ground zero for that northeast 
quadrant of Hugo," Scully said. "It received the sustained winds 
and the worst surge. The town was ruined, literally ruined, and 
the stories of what happened to the people who stayed... There 
was one famous one, about the hurricane shelter in the high 
school cafeteria." She cleared her throat. "When the surge comes 
through, it's not a subtle rise of water. It's sudden. The water 
can go from one foot above normal to seven in a matter of 
minutes, and that's what happened in McClellanville. The water 
started rising in a high school that was serving as a hurricane 
shelter, and the adults had to punch out the ceiling tiles in the 
cafeteria in order to get the children onto the roof. They barely 
escaped drowning." 

Her voice softened, and the captivated Mulder looked at her, 
eyeing her carefully as she finished her story. "The next day, a 
reporter went into McClellanville to assess the damage. He had 
one radio transmission, and this is what he said: 'I have seen 
McClellanville, and it is no more.'" 

A soft gust of wind chose that moment to brush through the leaves 
outside, rustling everything and causing gooseflesh to rise on 
Mulder's skin. There was a creeping noise to it, a slow laughter 
in the wind that caused chills and shackles to rise in his blood. 
There was something thick and dark in the air, something more 
cloistering than even the stifling humidity. It was as though 
everything was thickening and changing, and the faint sound of 
silvery wind chimes sung their eerie tune in the distance. 

"Come on," he murmured. "Come back to bed, Scully." 

Giving one final glance to the house she had labored over and 
loved, Scully stood up, her fingers trailing wistfully over the 
velvety chaise in a last caress. As she followed her lover 
upstairs to her bedroom, she knew that she would never spend 
another night in this house. 

She sat perched on the end of the bed while Mulder positioned 
himself on the cushions and pillows, looking down at her hands. 
She'd caught something unfamiliar in them earlier, something that 
she didn't understand. Tilting her head to the side, she examined 
the shape and sculpture in her hands, looking for the mark she 
had been looking for. A slender sliver of a scar, stretching 
across the back of her hand from her wrist to the ball of her 
palm. Something precise and deeply deliberate, caused by a very 
sharp scalpel, the blade that had eaten into her skin and spilled 
her cancerous blood onto the hospital linoleum... 

Oh... That was not her scar. That was a scar that had scratched 
across the Other Scully's hand, something that she often 
remembered as a pain felt during the wretched numbness of her 
cancer days. She used to look at it before she fell asleep, 
tracing the slender trail of puckered pink skin, shimmering in 
her lamplight, and remembered the sharp feeling of being alive. 
Pain could sometimes revivify even the nearest to dead. 

Despairing, Scully pulled her eyes away from her neat, flawless 
hands and wondered if she would go through this confusion for the 
rest of her life, forever trapped between two Scullys. The 
memories had merged so effortlessly in her mind that she felt 
covered in scar tissue. Would she always live confused like this, 
forever seeking things that had never existed? God, she hoped 
not. Nobody deserved that sort of curse. 

A hand stretched out to touch her from behind her, the fingers 
gently sliding over her collarbone. They were as warm and kind as 
Mulder's hands had always been, but they somehow felt like 
talons, creeping over her bones and skin to snare her to the life 
she didn't have but wanted desperately. Yet she realized 
something - Mulder wasn't trying to tether her to her other self. 
He was trying to free her from herself, trying to give her solace 
and refuge, even if there were only four hours left in their 
shared time together. 

Mulder watched as Scully's tense features loosened and relaxed, 
her eyes closing so that her lashes cast slender shadows over her 
skin. The fullness of her lips, colored as dark as blackberries 
in the nighttime, was infinitely sad and resigned to the life she 
would lead. Slow fingers undid the sash on her robe, and the 
fabric slid from her shoulders in a slow fall of light green 
gauze. The peach hibiscuses printed on the robe crumpled and 
wrinkled as she abandoned the fabric, baring her slim back to 
Mulder. Blue light tinted her skin until she was covered in a 
thin sheen of indigo, like a frozen Ophelia, tormented and turned 
to ice in her drifting river. 

Her face was turned in profile so that her features were carved 
out by the silver and plum moonlight, boysenberry coating her 
hair so that starlight streaked through it. She was ravishing and 
radiated, veiled in a fine sheen of moonbeam, and the very edge 
of her breast, the faint, tantalizing underside capped by a dark 
nipple, was visible through the discreet and modest view he had. 
It was almost as though she had found some sort of serenity now, 
as she leaned back into the bed and pressed her naked body 
against his semi-clad one, threading her slender legs through his 
and resting her head on his chest. 

Contentedly, Mulder pulled up the foam-colored blanket over the 
both of them, his mouth pressing a gentle kiss against her 
forehead. "Scully," he murmured, "when you go to the ocean, where 
do you go?" 

He'd asked her this question before and found her answer both 
enigmatic and unsatisfying. He wanted to understand something 
about her, wanted to take with him a memory of the woman who 
loved the wood of her house and the fabric of her curtains, and 
that woman also carried a deep love and a dark anger at the 
South. He yearned to understand that part of her, so that he 
could remember that Scully, too. 

Scully's mouth moved softly, her words as faint as the waning 
wind outside. "When I had to go run errands today, like getting 
plywood for the house or buying canned goods in the event that 
there's something to come back to, I also had to run an errand at 
the Charleston City Marina," she murmured. "I have a little boat, 
nothing complicated or very expensive, but I bought it after 
inheriting this house and selling my old apartment. My father 
always wanted to give me a boat, but he never could quite afford 
to do it, and so when I had the money, I did it myself." She 
remembered first purchasing it, the paint peeling from it in 
strips of white, so that she had to don overalls and repaint it 
by hand, a more subtle shade of golden brown. The color of the 
marshes in summertime or early autumn. 

Scully continued, her hand resting lightly over Mulder's heart, 
feeling his pulse beat through the fine layers of copper skin, 
like percussion that only her sensitive hands could feel. "I took 
that boat everywhere. Sometimes I took it into the harbor, 
sometimes in the waters near Savannah or Pawley's Island, but 
usually I kept it by Kiawah and Edisto." Memories of shards of 
light drifting onto her as she floated through the pristine blue 
water, the reed swaying around her and whistling like woodwinds, 
crept into her head and sang that primal tidal symphony to her. 
It sounded and acted as a lullaby, cradling her in its liquid 
arms and bringing her back to that small watercraft. "I'd go out 
there during the summer with a novel and a Discman, or I'd just 
drive..." Scully smiled softly. 

A wistful sound that reminded her of the quiet lapping waves that 
rolled through the small estuaries and marsh rivers out by Edisto 
came from Mulder. She felt the velvety vibration from inside of 
his chest, and wanted to hear that sound everyday for the rest of 
her life. "I wish I could have seen that with you, Scully," 
Mulder said, and she shook her head. 

"No," she sighed, her voice both light and heavy, "maybe it's 
better that I have that one for myself." 

Quietly, the two lay together in the thick luxury of the bed that 
they'd shared for three nights now, this being their fourth and 
final slumber together. Threaded together so that their skin 
seemed fused in casts of darker blues and sapphire, the two 
shared a soft, sweet silence, before Mulder spoke. "I'll leave 
early," he murmured, and a despairing claw tightened around her 
heart at his words. "I've got an early plane to catch, and you 
have to get out of the city before the weather turns." Tropical 
storm conditions were supposed to move in during the early 
evening, and the hurricane would be a night storm, but the feeder 
bands would push through the coast from the early afternoon on. 

"Alright," Scully murmured, threading her fingers through his 
hair and stroking his skin with her other hand. Warmth permeated 
through the layers of copper flesh, and she closed her eyes, 
listening to the strong beating of his heart. She admired him so 
much in that moment, wished for his bravery and courage, for 
facing an unknown future instead of the certainty of mediocrity. 
It was a quality Scully yearned for in herself, knew she 
possessed, but could never hold in her hand. Just like after 
tonight, when the sun started crowning the horizon, she would 
have to abandon this man for a life she didn't love. 

"I love you, Scully," Mulder murmured in her ear, and Scully 
quietly smiled. 

"I love you, too." 

***** 

The moon rose full and thick over the marshes, starlight 
surrounding it in a wistful veil of silver. They dotted the 
fathomless sky like sequins, while crickets sang their thin, high 
song and the waters gently swayed the little boat back and forth, 
rocking it as one might rock a child. 

Scully lay still in the boat, loosely anchored to the pluff mud 
that lay beneath the heavy saltwater of the tidal creek. Deer 
waded through the marshes and fed upon the cattails, chewing off 
the ripe heads and staring at her with their tan hides dotted 
with snow-colored spots. The moon's reflection had been cast onto 
the glassy waters, as if it had surfaced not in the sky but in 
the sea, and her bare feet hung off the side of the boat, her 
toes dipping into the lunar tide. 

It was not her boat, this tiny craft swaying back and forth in 
the shallow waters, but it did not seem to matter. There was an 
intimacy inside of this vessel, a comfort found in the certainty 
of its rocking motion. She heard the water slosh against the side 
from all around her, felt the tingle of cool saltwater against 
her bare skin, and felt a day's perspiration slowly cooling on 
her brow. Then she realized that she was not alone in this boat, 
and that another joined her inside of this little wooden 
watercraft. 

A velvety sigh came from underneath her, and she smiled when she 
realized that it was Mulder, lying beneath her body and cradling 
her slim form with arms more solid than the sturdy boat. Egrets 
and herons tiptoed around them, their slender, twig-like legs 
gracefully carrying their white bodies through the marsh in the 
night. 

No words passed between them in the stillness of the water, and 
Scully enjoyed the quietness of the scenery, lying in the boat, 
surrounded by water and Mulder, the two things she loved best. 
Moonlight engulfed them, painting their nude bodies with sweat 
and silver, and she wondered if the glistening of perspiration on 
them was from humidity or lovemaking. Maybe a little bit of both. 
It didn't matter; either way she was as tranquil and contented as 
she had ever been, anchored to the Carolina creek and attached 
forever to Mulder. 

Then the rope snapped, and they drifted on the waters again, 
easily following the myriad of paths and tiny creeks that 
threaded through the marshland. The spicy smell of saltwater, 
that pungent but pleasant aroma that only a true Southerner 
could ever love, wafted past her nose and pleased her immensely. 
The boat turned through the paths as though it knew the writing 
of the liquid labyrinth, the swollen moon endlessly shining 
above them and around them. Her toes glided along with the boat, 
dipping into the inky water. 

Her voice sounded blissfully lazy as she spoke, the drawl she'd 
picked up entering in to add a certain slow languidness to her 
words. "You know, I think it's been this way forever," she 
commented, and Mulder chuckled from beneath her. "Just us, 
drifting on the tides, never knowing where the waters will lead 
us but knowing that we'll always be together." 

His words were wonderfully familiar. "Sounds a little like fate 
to me, Scully," he said, a dreamy quality to his voice, and 
Scully sighed, watching the motionless stars above her. 

"Maybe it is..." 

***** 

Residence of Dana Scully 
Charleston, South Carolina 
5:31 AM, August 19, 1999 

***** 

She awoke alone in the bed, feeling a great emptiness consuming 
her and a yearning for the simplicity of drifting with Mulder 
through endless marshes in a creek composed of the moon. Where 
they had conversed so easily about fate and not finality, and 
where they faced a future together, gliding through time as 
though it were nothing more than a coastal creek. 

Her solitary bed reminded her that for this Mulder and Scully, 
their tide had just gone out. 

She heard noises below her on the ground level of her house, and 
Scully tucked errant threads of red behind her ear, slipping back 
into her thin robe and walking downstairs. Darkness still 
consumed Charleston, but she could tell that within an hour, the 
shades of night would lift and bring a final morning to the 
jeopardized city. 

Mulder stood in the silence of her living room, dressed in his 
suit and tie from the previous day, tiredness marking his face 
with a sadness that she understood wholeheartedly. How she 
dreaded this farewell, this letting go of a man she'd fallen so 
dangerously in love with. And Scully allowed herself one last 
look at him, one final memorization of everything she loved. That 
awkward, endearingly strange nose. The beautiful mouth 
constructed of silk and skin. The wild and wayward spikes of his 
unruly brown hair. The kaleidoscope eyes that shifted on whim and 
want, turning a thousand different colors that no artist could 
ever possibly name. She knew these features and facets and loved 
them deeply, and ached to hold them forever when she knew that 
she must let them go and let them go *now*. 

"Mulder," she murmured, and he turned around to look at her. 

There was the proud woman who'd redeemed him, he thought, looking 
at her with a painful longing that would never end within him. 
Draped in the simple sheerness of a green linen robe, the sash 
loosely belted at her waist, her skin so shadowed and sweet 
beneath the fabric... A thousand memories, both his and hers, 
were etched into that skin. Threads of red fell into her eyes, 
run through and through with copper and wine. He wouldn't ever 
forget the sight of it, so impossibly multifaceted and bright and 
so soft when piled into his hands. Scully was a memory that would 
never be forgotten or abandoned. 

Even if he must abandon the reality now. 

Brokenheartedly, Mulder approached her, his heart screaming for 
him to stay while his mind knew that he must go. Conflict and 
yearning seized him, stole away his thought, and he lifted a hand 
to cup her face in his palm. His fingers ran over her face, 
smoothing strands of curled red, chasing over the arches of her 
eyebrows and the proud line of her patriarchal nose, lingering 
longingly on the plush blossom of her mouth. It was as if he 
thought he could read her like Braille, memorizing her like his 
eidetic mind could memorize a novel, forever storing her away to 
recall for all the years to come. 

"Please come with me," he found himself whispering, and anguished 
eyelids shut beneath his fingertip. 

"God," she whispered. "Oh, God, Mulder, I can't." 

A drowning sensation screamed through his body, turning his heart 
and wringing it dry. A tear had slipped onto his fingertip from 
her eye, and another one fell after that. Scully was crying. He 
knew that he was too, felt the moisture on his cheeks, but the 
physical pain he was experiencing was nothing compared to what 
raged within him. There were no words for that. The closest 
description was the fall of the world itself. The fall of 
everything he could have and should have been. This was his 
punishment for all of his failures - living without Scully. 

Shaking lips captured his lips, and Mulder kissed her with an 
ache that threatened to consume them both. There would be nothing 
to follow this. Nothing but emptiness. When the excruciating 
ecstasy of kissing Scully this last time ended, they parted 
slowly, both memorizing each other with utter desolation. 
"I love you, Scully," he whispered hoarsely, his voice choked 
with tears, and Scully's heart cried out with a thousand 
protests. //God, don't stay,// one suffering voice whispered. 
//Just go, Scully. Don't let him walk *away*... Not *him*!// 

A quivering smile bravely crossed her face, and Scully murmured 
her reply. "I love you too, Mulder," she whispered. 

He seemed lost then, unsure as to what he must do next, and she 
desperately sought a way to lengthen this moment. To find more 
time, to find even the most miniscule of comforts inside of this 
last pocket of time spent with him. Then her hands lifted of 
their own volition and reached behind her neck, undoing the 
slender clasp of the cross necklace that had meant so much to the 
both of them in another time and place. "Here," Scully said, 
passing him the gold chain and its slender pendant and placing 
the necklace in his cupped palms. 

The brightness of the jewelry shimmered like metallic sunlight 
against his skin, and he smiled softly, sadly at it. "He wore 
this once when she was missing," Mulder murmured. "She had lost 
it when Duane Barry took her, and he found it when searching for 
her. He wore it as a sign of faith, the faith that she had always 
possessed and the faith that he possessed in her." Mulder smiled 
a ghostly smile at her, something ironic and bittersweet. "Faith 
was always important to them." 

She smiled through her tears back at him. "Faith's important to 
us, too," she said. "Wear it in faith, Mulder." 

The slender chain and cross slipped inside of his suit jacket, 
and Scully knew that she had made the right decision and given 
him the right part of herself to remember her by. "Be strong, 
Scully," he said softly, his hand brushing over her cheek, and 
Scully nodded. 

"I can do that." 

A grin lit his face briefly, warmed by love. He didn't need to 
say anything else to her, his face falling and the tears 
threatening to consume him. The torment of losing her forced his 
fingers to linger on her face, as though his body was begging him 
not to let her go, but there was nothing he could do. 

Tearing his eyes away from her and ripping his touch from her 
skin, Mulder backed away, forcing himself not to hear her choked 
sob, and walked out of the house while swallowing his tears. 

Broken, shattered, and tortured by memory, Scully watched him 
leave, and then wept for everything she would never have again, 
most of all, the love she had just let walk out of her life 
forever. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 

***** 

Residence of Dana Scully 
Charleston, South Carolina 
7:03 AM, August 19, 1999 

***** 

The lemon-colored house towered over the lush gardens; its 
majestic white balconies wrapping around the house like ivory 
arms. The oak trees shook gently in the wind while leaves dropped 
from the branches in dabbles of verdant greenery. Buds and 
blossoms of fragile flowers, ranging from pure magnolias to 
resplendent azalea, tumbled across her carefully kept front yard, 
the scraps of color littering her immaculate garden. Spanish moss 
blew in the wind like shadowed curtains, but it did not veil or 
conceal the innate, startling beauty of her canary mansion. 
Generations of Southerners had inhabited those rooms, lounged on 
that furniture, and enjoyed that view, and she had been one of 
them. While not a true daughter of the South by birth, she had 
been a daughter by heart, and now she stood in the front yard and 
bid it farewell. 

Scully stood in a thin cream-colored tank top and a pair of faded 
Levi's, her shoulders bared in the early light of dawn. The 
sunrise had been incredible this morning, radiant and rapturous, 
staining the seas with aureate bands of rose-tinted gold. The 
waters in the harbor and in the distant ocean had been so pure 
and blue, so rich that she thought that if she were to dip her 
fingers into it, they would have been dyed the exact shade. 
Canary and lavender edged the thick, circulating clouds that 
curled over the city, the heavier rain bands still off of the 
coast but approaching swiftly. 

This morning, she had prayed for the first time in eight years. 
It had been difficult at first, kneeling on the widow's walk with 
a rosary woven through her fingers, trying to recall the words to 
the prayers she'd had memorized through her childhood and 
adolescence. But eventually she abandoned the litanies taught to 
her and gave a more honest plea to God. She'd asked for strength 
and mercy, nothing more. Strength enough to survive what the 
storm would destroy, and strength enough to survive the life that 
she would lead after that. A darker, more sinful wish had 
lingered near the back of her mind, but Scully had dismissed it 
instantly. Asking God to erase her memories of Mulder and her 
other life was wrong. 

Wistfully, she looked up at her house. This was where she'd lived 
and loved for the past nine years. This was where she'd dreamed 
her dreams in a world where she had abandoned most of them. Her 
refuge, her sanctuary. Her port of call. How vulnerable it was to 
destruction, perched on the corner of the rivers and the ocean, 
as though it was begging the fates to swallow it whole. Scully 
hoped that it was swallowed whole. She had enough pieces to pick 
up as it was. 

A gust of wind rushed past her and blew a sprig of wisteria into 
her hair, the rich and fresh aroma wafting to her nose. Scully 
plucked the blossoms from her smooth cap of bright auburn and 
smiled softly. Her favorite flower. Carefully, she placed the 
wisteria into her pocket and turned her back on her house. There 
was nothing she could do now. Nothing at all. 

As she drove her Saturn through the streets of downtown 
Charleston, she drove slowly, memorizing the sight of the city 
before it fell. She would have these memories years from now, 
carefully preserved inside of her mind, to reminisce upon 
whenever wondering why she was where she was. They would not take 
away the anguish of missing her other self, but they would give 
her some sort of comfort and solace. Remembering the South before 
its fall... 

The Battery was covered in reporters, anchormen, and cameras. 
Everyone wanted to document the occasion, to take video and audio 
of how the historic city buckled to the winds and the surge. She 
had her own documentation of a greater fall, all replaying 
constantly in her head. Footage taped from her previous night, 
the last night spent with Fox Mulder. The last night spent 
complete and content. As much as she tried to banish the images 
from her mind, they kept resurfacing to roll through her head. 
Over and over, tongues and teeth, legs and lips... 

And one moment of ecstasy while showered with kisses and magnolia 
petals on her widow's walk. 

Another shower was going on now as she drove and it was a shower 
of flora. Delicate remnants of flowers were raining onto the 
windshield of her car, so that she was under a constant hail of 
yellow jasmine, violet wisteria, magenta azalea, and ivory 
magnolia. They gusted onto the glass in a rain of color and hue, 
as though a painting had come alive and shattered around her. It 
was stunningly beautiful to watch the flowers fall against the 
darkness of the storm clouds, and yet with every whisper of the 
flowerets against the glass, she felt herself dying more and 
more. 

She would never see any of this again. 

Flinching, Scully forced herself to swallow her sorrows for now. 
Everything was too much right now, and she was too raw. She 
couldn't let herself think or feel anything about what was going 
on around her yet. A creeping shudder danced up her spine as she 
drove over the bridge, her eyes slowly taking in the familiar 
sights of the marina, now emptied of so many of its beautiful 
yachts and sailboats. Most had been taken to safer harbors, but 
others were still docked here, braving out the storm. How noble, 
these fragile frames, tied to the docks when their destruction 
was so imminent. 

The sign indicating the exit that would take her toward Highway 
61 and a solid evacuation route was dead ahead, but Scully passed 
it by. The silver Saturn curved over the long, sloping bridge, 
heading toward Folly Beach. She wanted to see the sea again, 
wanted to drink in the smell of saltwater and marsh, and then she 
would leave it all behind and go. 

It was difficult not to inhale the sights that surrounded her as 
she drove through the abandoned beachside town. Memories of 
summers spent at favorite seafood restaurants or driving her boat 
through these small inlets were now tainted by plywood boards and 
abandoned marinas. There was a heaviness in the air, a cloak that 
had fallen around her shoulders ever since Mulder had left and 
only gained more weight as the day went on. Even as the sun began 
rising slow and orange over the sky, there was no daylight for 
Dana Scully. 

Camera crews and network vans from CNN, MSNBC, and The Weather 
Channel were crowded around the Holiday Inn that sat at the 
summit of Folly Beach, and Scully avoided them easily. She was 
headed out to that secluded strip of beach where surfers usually 
reigned and the waves crashed with an untamed wildness. She 
wanted to see that wildness for herself. Wanted to hold it in her 
hand once before time swept her away. 

Red stained the sky with blood and fire as she pulled up to the 
beach, and it was an incredible ruby shade that she had never 
seen before. Whether it was related to the massive hurricane 
hovering off the coast or just a fluke of nature, it was gorgeous 
nonetheless. Breathtaking even. She sighed as she stepped out of 
the car, and the wind instantly tugging at her hair so that it 
blew around her face in a wild tumble of hair so red that it 
rivaled the vermilion sky. 

The tide was low, but the ferocity of the ocean gave only a small 
strip of sand between the rocks and the sea. She stepped down 
onto the wet sand pebbled with broken seashells and looked around 
her. Not a single living soul was in sight. Everyone had fled, 
and she would flee too. But she needed this final connection to 
the ocean her father had loved and she had lived on. 

Scully never took her eyes off of the garnet-colored sky as she 
sat down on the sand, looking out over where the sky met the sea 
in a blend of rose and red. The clouds loomed overhead in thicker 
incarnations of the circular rings she had seen yesterday, 
threatening the land with their intensity. The wind blew around 
her, humidity instantly turning her carefully coifed hair into a 
mass of tangled curls. 

The waves crashed against the shore in repeated tumbles of water, 
and Scully looked out to where the swells were forming. It was a 
surfer's paradise out there, if only there were surfers to be 
found. Even the bravest daredevils had left, and she felt a 
sudden and stunning isolation out on this beach. Everyone had 
left this city behind, cutting their ties and breaking their 
chains, and Scully still remained tethered to it. Tethered by 
what? By duty? By love? By some terrible sense of martyrdom? What 
made her love this place in spite of everything she had given up 
for it? 

Oh, God, what *had* she given up for this city? A place in the 
world. A purpose. A chance to become someone more than an empty 
shell living in a glorious house. A chance to save the world and 
save herself, and live in the arms of the man she loved. The past 
days had been a window into the life she wanted, a taste of the 
irresistible, and yet Scully had resisted it. She had chained 
herself to the South forever, all because she could not leave the 
life she had started, and God, what a life she had. Solitude, 
numbness, and a view of the sea. 

And she had lost everything else. 

Distraught, Scully drew her knees up to her chest, resting her 
chin on her kneecaps as she gazed out at the sea. The red in the 
sky was settling, fading, like a fire that was slowly dying. A 
swell was building out in the distance, beginning as a slight 
ripple of roseate water and then gaining momentum as it came near 
the shore. A wave was like a dream, she realized then. Something 
that began as a glimmer of thought and possibility but became 
something more and more important as the years went by. It grew 
to near-mammoth size, quickening and swelling, becoming more and 
more beautiful, until... 

The swell crashed on the shore in an explosion of white seafoam 
that looked like scattered bits of lace, and the mild, dying wave 
brushed against her bare toes before retreating back out the 
ocean. Bitterly, Scully turned her face away from it, closing her 
eyes and wishing that some things didn't have to die. And then 
she realized that there *was* something that didn't die, and she 
ached from its immortality. 

Love. 

The stoic and stalwart Scully was no fool. Denial may be a weapon 
and a favorite choice of armor, but she knew that she had fallen 
in love with Fox Mulder over the past week. Both Mulders had 
enchanted and entranced her as the days passed, because they were 
both built of the same determination and passion. They were the 
same man with different paths, and one man was intent on setting 
his wrong right. She yearned for that freedom, wished that she 
could so easily abandon her life, but she was kept in Charleston 
by tighter chains. 

Bound here forever, tied here by the life she had chosen... And 
she would spend the rest of her life here alone. Without him. 

Some sort of masochistic part of her imagination painted a 
picture for her of everything they could have had together. Days 
spent working toward a cause with great meaning and possibility 
and nights spent in tangles of passion. A man who would never let 
her break herself. A love that had revived everything she had 
severed in the past nine years. Everything that Dana Scully had 
convinced herself that she could live without had been given to 
her in the past few days, and God, she wanted it all so badly. It 
was a selfish wish, one built on pure want and not need, but she 
couldn't help but feel it. Just for a brief moment as the birds 
flew across the horizon, fleeing the coastline as the storm made 
its approach. 

Tears welled up in her eyes, and Scully furiously fought them 
off. She couldn't cry away everything. She couldn't sob out her 
anger and her despair. She had to swallow it all, consume it, 
take it all in and devour her desolation. Make it all disappear. 
Then it wouldn't matter that the storm was going to destroy her 
land. It wouldn't matter that she was going to live out half of a 
life. It wouldn't matter that she had just lost the only man she 
had ever truly loved. 

No, none of it would matter at all. 

A choked sob shattered the quiet in the air as Scully began to 
cry, wrapping her arms tightly around her legs as her shoulder 
shook and tears stained her jeans. No matter how many times she 
tried to tell herself that none of it made any difference, she 
would never forget the touch of his hands, the power of his 
words, and the memories that were never hers to begin with. She 
would always live in that shadow, and God, it *mattered*. 

So Dana Scully the impenetrable cried, wept, sobbed, and she had 
no qualms about doing it. No qualms whatsoever. 

The sound of helicopter blades ripped through her bout of tears, 
and Scully lifted her tearstained face to the sky in confusion 
and pain. Five helicopters cut through the sky, flying low over 
the beach and ocean, and it was the final eerie reminder that the 
city no longer belonged to her anymore. How odd, that it took 
these tears to force her to let it all go. She had bid her lives 
farewell, and now she could pick it all up and go. She had cried 
over her father's sea, and now she would drive away from the life 
she had chosen and the life she had rejected. 

Her father... 

"Shit," Scully muttered, getting to her feet and quickly wiping 
tears off of her face. She had forgotten her father's picture, 
abandoned it at the morgue, and she could get it if she hurried. 
She needed that photograph, needed it like she needed air. It was 
the only thing that kept her going most days, and Scully wouldn't 
let the storm take that away from her. 

She climbed into her car and slammed the door shut behind her, 
driving quickly off toward the morgue. 

***** 

Charleston International Airport 
Charleston, South Carolina 
8:01 AM, August 19, 1999 

***** 

Silently, Mulder sat in the backseat of the rental car, feeling 
Patterson's glare radiate at him from the rearview window. It was 
a glare thick with betrayal and anger, searing through Mulder's 
skin in the guilt trip of the century. 

Patterson had not been pleased upon receiving the transfer 
notification. 

Brentwood seemed to have expected Spooky Mulder to snap sometime 
or another, and sat coolly in the bucket seat, staring out the 
window with a look of dispassionate detachment as Patterson 
turned all of his rage onto the younger agent. Mulder met the 
older man's glare with a defiant stare of his own, feeling proud 
of himself for finally meeting Patterson in the eye and spitting 
in his face, rather than taking the abuse as a deserved 
punishment. He knew what he deserved now, and he'd left that 
behind in Charleston. 

Patterson had not yelled at him at the hotel. There had been 
little time to yell. There was a cold, frosty debriefing of 
everything that Mulder had missed during his stay at Scully's and 
a railing out for his unprofessional behavior during the case. "I 
can revoke this transfer if I want to, Mulder," Patterson had 
threatened. "Your behavior on this case was reckless in the worst 
sense. Spending nights at the county coroner's house, coming and 
going as you please, putting shoddy effort into a shoddy profile 
on an *extremely* important case... This is unsatisfactory and I 
can have OPR decline this request faster than you can fall on 
your ass." 

Mulder had just stared Patterson down with the cold detachment 
that Scully had perfected and Brentwood practiced. 

The truth was that he knew his behavior had been impractical, and 
he did feel guilty for that. He had done a shitty, sloppy job on 
the Southern Skinner, and he calmly assured Patterson that upon 
their return to the city, he would shape up his act and track 
down the killer using more standard methodology. Yet he regretted 
nothing. Scully had given him his life back, and he held no 
remorse for that. 

He had a lot of remorse about leaving her behind though. 

The airport was crowded with people anxious to leave the city 
behind, and it was there that Mulder saw the city fall apart. 
People bearing suitcases brimming with belongings stood anxiously 
in lines, desperately seeking tickets on standby flights or 
pleading with various representatives to get them *some* sort of 
way out of town. One woman sat on her suitcase in the middle of 
the Delta line, holding her head in her hands, her eyes glazed 
over with numbness. A man and a woman embraced each other, 
silently finding solace in each other while the world crumbled 
around them. Mulder understood them perfectly. 

Calmly, Patterson looked at Brentwood and Mulder. "I'm going to 
go get in line to drop off the rental," he said, gesturing at a 
tangled line of people. "Get in line to check our baggage and I'll 
be over there in a minute." Without another word or glance at 
either one, he turned his back on both agents and walked toward 
the Avis line. 

Sighing, Mulder took his cue from the others gathered around the 
airport and sat down on his suitcase, wearily pinching his temple 
and wishing he'd found more slumber last night. Another moment 
resting in Scully's arms, entwined with her body... Don't think 
about Scully. Don't. 

Brentwood cleared his throat from behind him, and Mulder turned 
his head to look at the older agent. "You're transferring to the 
X-Files," he said, his voice conversational and neutral. 

Mulder looked up to nod confirmation to him. "Hopefully," he 
said, and Brentwood snorted a bitter variation on a laugh. 

"The X-Files is a joke, Mulder," he said. "You're better than 
that." Mulder gave his own bitter laugh. The X-Files was no 
laughing matter whatsoever. Not when so many people had died from 
it and because of it, and so many lies were wrapped up in the 
truths of the files. Brentwood's voice lowered, looking over 
Mulder. "You're worried about her, aren't you." Startled, Mulder 
looked up, and Brentwood chuckled again. "No need to elaborate on 
that, Mulder. Your face just gave it all away." 

Mulder looked up at Brentwood, a wince pinching his features. 
"Look, Brentwood, I really don't want to talk about it," he said, 
and Brentwood held up a hand, cutting him off. 

"I don't want to hear about it," he said. "I'm just going to 
relate an experience to you. All you have to do is sit there and 
listen. And it's not rehearsed, something Patterson asked me to 
tell you." Brentwood had been a good profiler back in his day: 
that was the first thought to run through Mulder's untrusting and 
paranoid mind. 

Clearing his throat one more time, Brentwood loosened his necktie 
and spoke. "About six years ago, when I was about three or four 
years older than you, I met a girl on the Yearwood case in Utah," 
he said. "She was a field agent in Salt Lake City, pretty as they 
come, and smarter than she was pretty. I met her and bedded her 
within two days of working the case. Patterson understood and let 
me have some time with her in the nights, as long as I kept my 
work up. Life's difficult for profilers, Mulder. It's lonely and 
it's isolating. So Patterson let me stay with her, and I ended up 
falling in love with her." 

Mulder was fascinated by this tale that Brentwood was weaving. 
Brentwood was notoriously impersonal, a man who reserved his 
words only for when they dealt with working a case. He had no 
friends, no wife, and no children of his own. He was a man solely 
focused on what was good for the FBI and how to catch a killer. 

There was no distanced nostalgia resting in Brentwood's cool, 
assessing eyes as he spoke. "After about a week on the case and 
six days in her bed, I was ready to give everything up to be with 
her," Brentwood said. "I was fully prepared to transfer to Salt 
Lake City and give up my career as a profiler with VCS, which 
wasn't a good idea at the time, considering how new and young the 
art of profiling was. But she made me think differently, made me 
want to live my life out in ways I'd never considered before, and 
I was willing to give it all up. So I put in a request for a 
transfer to Salt Lake City and waited for it to be approved. 
Patterson tried to talk me out of it but I wouldn't listen to 
reason. I wouldn't listen to anything at all but my own heart." 

Then he looked down at Mulder with those hideously cold and dead 
eyes. "At the end of the week, we tracked down Yearwood and he 
shot her. She died in a hospital three days later." A dry smile 
tugged at his mouth. "Or so I heard. By that time I was back in 
Washington, prepping to track down a man in Wisconsin who raped 
and beheaded young boys." His monotonous voice darkened a shade. 
"I was going to give up everything for her. I was going to stop 
profiling and live out my life with her. I was on the edge, 
Mulder, ready to give up my career for some woman. If this had 
happened after I'd made that sacrifice..." He shook his head. 
"The only thing I regret is that I was once that naïve." 

The line began moving, and Brentwood sighed, tightening his dull 
tie around his neck, his wrinkled face once again settling into 
that emotionless, bland mask that it was always melded into. 
Still terribly disturbed by the tale that Brentwood had just told 
and desperately missing Scully, Mulder stood up and picked up his 
suitcase. "Brentwood," Mulder said, and the older agent turned 
around, one eyebrow arched. "What was her name?" 

An ironic smile slipped across Brentwood's face. It didn't touch 
his eyes. "I don't remember," he said, and then turned back 
around to wait for his turn with the attendant. 

Fear struck Mulder's heart at that. My God. This was who he could 
have become. A man without life, without passion or purpose, dead 
on the inside. A man who didn't even remember his first love's 
name. God, this was what his future could have been. Well, he 
wasn't going to ever forget Dana Scully. She was a woman burned 
onto his memory. No matter what they had discussed, no matter 
what they had said to each other this morning about cutting ties 
or letting go, he wasn't going to let this woman pass him by. 

Turning his back on the chaos and melee of the airport, Mulder 
dialed her number on his cell phone, waiting for her own portable 
to ring. 

***** 

Charleston County Morgue 
Charleston, South Carolina 
8:20 AM, August 19, 1999 

***** 

He always liked the silence of morgues. 

Creeping through the darkened hallways of the mortuary, he took 
in the sterility of the place, its metal and steel that was so 
out of place in a town built on plaster and wood. He liked the 
beauty of Charleston, but there was something tranquil and 
undisturbed about the morgue that was comforting. Every secret of 
the human body had been exposed in this place, through a scalpel 
or a bone saw, documented and catalogued, all in the soft murmur 
of the coroner's contralto. 

Dana did have a beautiful voice. 

He had listened to the tapes earlier, sitting in her office with 
a pair of headphones and a series of tapes. "The heart is in a 
condition very similar to the heart of the previous victim, 
Claire Banks," her voice said, thick with concentration. The 
sound of a camera's flashbulb accompanied her voice on the mini- 
recorder. "I am documenting the state of the body and the heart 
at this time, as the heart will most likely crumble upon 
attempted removal." 

Lisa's autopsy. Beautiful Lisa, with the eyes that sparkled like 
emeralds. How he had loved Lisa, desired Lisa, and eventually 
possessed Lisa. She had tantalized him for years, teased him with 
her mouth and the wildness in her body. She had appeared so cool, 
so aloof and elusive, proud and independent, until he unearthed 
everything about her and discovered the truth behind Lisa 
Sanford. She was a woman, complex and yet utterly simple. He had 
respected her for her stoic exterior and for her intricate mind, 
and he liked how she had never cried during her ordeal. She was a 
proud woman, and yet he was better than she was. 

Because he had loved her and owned her. 

Dana's voice murmured on, the cool voice detachedly reading off 
the description of Lisa's insides. Dana was a lot like him - a 
dissector. Someone who could cut through skin and bone and 
discover the truths hidden within the confines of the human body, 
and did so with calculation and fascination. She was exceptional. 
Better than Claire or Jean or even Lisa. Better than the others 
he had loved. 

All because of the two lives that lived under her skin. 

He had been watching her since first seeing her, dreaming of her, 
writing about her. His obsession with the "enigmatic Dr. Scully" 
was unfurling like a dark rose, blossoming as he learned more and 
more about her. She was alluring, this lovely Dana. She was like 
a frozen lake - cool on the surface but tumultuous underneath. 
And she was beautiful... 

He'd never had a redhead before. Blondes and brunettes, except 
for Jean and Claire, with their darker beauty. But Dana was 
another exception, with her coifed vermilion hair. So tamed and 
professional, except for when curled by the deep humidity of the 
South and coast. She was carved out of ivory, dashed with a 
spotting of freckles across her face, small and petite but with a 
spine made of steel. She was also a Yankee, something else 
unusual for him. Unprecedented. He usually preferred that they be 
inherently Southern; Southern women were so alluring and strong. 
This woman captured both, and tinted it with anguish. 
Not to mention her other life... 

God, how remarkable. He'd been dreaming of her ever since that 
first encounter. She had memories of a life she had never lived, 
and those memories were fascinating. She remembered working for 
the FBI, searching for science and truth among a mass of 
paranormal occurrences. She had been challenged, abducted, 
poisoned with cancer, given a child and then had that child taken 
away, and had been broken and tortured more times than any man or 
woman should ever possibly be. And she had fallen in love with a 
man built on passion and who had experienced his own fair share 
of pain. And she had met that man in this life, in this city, and 
he was the one who had triggered her sudden memory. 
It was all so exquisitely excruciating. God. 

With a sigh, he snapped off the tape recorder and quietly 
pocketed the tape. It would make a nice souvenir, as would the 
other mementos he had taken. Little keepsakes of the women he'd 
loved. 

Then the sound of footsteps rang down the hall, and he stilled. 
Until a smile crept across his face and he realized who it was. 

"Dana..." 

***** 

The ringing of her cellular phone startled her from the silence 
as she approached her office. Sighing, Scully reached into her 
backpack and procured her cellular phone from the front pocket of 
the Jansport. "Scully," she said, and she was met with a 
blissful, velvet-coated sigh. 

"Ah, Scully," the brokenhearted tenor sighed, and the connection 
was so sudden and close, so *real*, that she felt tears sting her 
eyes again. Pained, Scully stopped and leaned against the wall, 
the cool metal penetrating her thin tank top and chilling her 
skin. "Scully, I missed you." 

A harsh laugh echoed down the halls. "Mulder, you have no idea," 
she whispered, and she closed her eyes, relieved that he had 
called her even though they were never supposed to have talked 
again. All conversation was to have ended when he left her house 
this morning, and yet she should have known that that would have 
never lasted. Mulder was never a man who obeyed the rules. "Where 
are you?" 

"Waiting in line at the airport," he said, and she heard the 
noise and hysteria behind him. "Look, Scully, I can't just leave 
you behind in Charleston. I know that you can't go and I can't 
stay, but I'm not going to just forget about you. That's not what 
they were ever about, and it's not what we're about." His voice 
lowered to a whisper so ragged with emotion that it was almost 
inaudible. "I *love* you, Scully." 

Pained, she flinched at his words, and yet they were beautifully 
comforting. "I love you too," she whispered. They both enjoyed a 
soft quiet, her surrounded by silence and him surrounded by 
chaos. Yet it didn't matter, all because of the connection 
between them, linking them together by satellite and softness. 

But something was breaking the silence on her end... A rustling 
noise. Like papers falling. Frowning, Scully opened her eyes and 
looked around her. The morgue had been empty when she had 
returned; she'd had to use her key to get in. There was another 
shuffling sound, and Scully was startled to hear it coming from 
her office. "What are you doing in the city, Scully?" Mulder 
asked, and she murmured back her reply, concentrating on getting 
to the office. 

"I forgot my father's picture," she replied. She opened up the 
door to her office, turned on the light, and frowned, finding a 
stack of files on the floor. "That's odd... Someone's broken into 
my office." 

"What?" Mulder said, concerned, and Scully approached the mass of 
shuffled paper strewn on her floor. She kneeled down and picked 
up the papers, glancing over them. 

"These are the autopsy reports on the Southern Skinner," she 
said. "Someone's been reading my reports." Troubled, she stood up 
and walked to the metal filing cabinets stacked against the wall. 
"Jesus Christ, Mulder, the tapes are missing. All of my cassettes 
that I made during the autopsies during this case... They're 
*gone*." Another rustling sounded behind her, and Scully turned 
around. "Mulder... There's someone *in* my office..." She yearned 
for the weapon that her other self had always carried, would have 
killed for something to defend herself with... 

Mulder's fearful voice sounded from across the line. "Scully, I'm 
on my way," he said. 

Then a hand darted out from underneath her desk and grabbed her 
calf, an iron fist gripping her leg and dragging her to the 
ground. She cried out, her cell phone clattering to the ground, 
where Mulder's frantic voice shouted out to her as she struggled 
against the fingers clutching her leg. "MULDER!" Scully screamed, 
but her attacker had caught her off-guard and off-balance. The 
phone slid away from her, and she desperately reached for it, 
screaming for Mulder as his voice cried out to her. //Oh shit,// 
she thought to herself, desperation setting in as she fought and 
kicked her assailant. 

An iron-strong fist seized her bare upper arm and turned her onto 
her stomach. A weight settled on her lower back, and she felt him 
straddling her, one hand grabbing her wrists and crossing them, 
keeping her immobile on the floor as his other hand reached for 
something... "NO!" Scully cried, feeling the distinct pinch of a 
needle sink into her arm. "Mulder, help me! Help!" She hated 
crying to him, but she knew that there was no other chance. He 
was the only link to the outside world she had. 

And then the drug hazed over her mind, a thick fog distorting her 
vision and taking over her body. Weakly, Scully's eyes fell shut, 
and her limbs deadened. "Ohhh," she mumbled. "Mulder..." Then she 
slowly closed her eyes, falling into the embrace that the 
tranquilizer had given her. All the while, Mulder screamed for 
her over the cell phone, his voice breaking as he cried for her. 

But she was gone. 

A gentle, loving hand smoothed the luxurious red hair that curled 
over the sleeping woman's neck. "Dana," he murmured softly, his 
fingers caressing the vermilion locks. 

She had such beautiful skin. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 

***** 

Charleston International Airport 
Charleston, South Carolina 
8:32 AM, August 19, 1999 

***** 

//Oh my God.// 

Dazedly, Mulder held the cellular phone in his hand, listening to 
the disconnected dial tone drone on where her screaming voice had 
once cried out for him. A silence had fallen over the airport as 
he had screamed to her over the cellular connection, and all eyes 
were still on him as he looked at his phone, as though it might 
hold the answers to what had just happened. 

Then the reality set in, and fear flooded his body. The missing 
tapes on the Southern Skinner. The autopsy reports. And then... 
"Oh shit," he whispered, his voice raspy with fear. It had been 
him. The Skinner. He had gone to the morgue to destroy evidence 
and had discovered Scully there. No, no, God, no. It was worse 
than that. He had focused on Scully, found her fascinating, and 
had gone to the morgue to investigate her. And had happened upon 
her there. "Jesus Christ." 

A dismayed Brentwood slammed a hand on Mulder's shoulder, 
spinning him around. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he asked, 
and it was the first sign of passion he'd ever seen in Brentwood. 
Confused passion, angry passion, but it was still a spark of 
something. 

Setting his jaw, he looked at Brentwood with a look of 
determination combined with fear. "Scully was just assaulted in 
the county morgue by our suspect," he said. A new voice 
interrupted. 

"And that is why you've just caused a scene in the middle of an 
airport?" 

Mulder snapped his head around to look at Patterson, who stood in 
front of him with an assessing look upon his face. "Sir, I've got 
to go back," he said, a note of desperation entering into his 
voice. "She was on the telephone with me. Someone broke into the 
morgue, stole cassette tapes that had autopsy notes recorded onto 
them and every report associated with this case. While she was in 
the office and while I was on the phone with her, someone 
assaulted her and either knocked her unconscious or..." He 
swallowed. Hard. He wouldn't acknowledge that next idea and he 
knew that she wasn't dead. Not yet. Mulder knew exactly which 
fate awaited Dana Scully. 

His superior's eyes stared at him with cold assessment. "You 
can't go back for her, Mulder," he said. "There's a hurricane on 
its way. You won't be able to find her before it comes in, and if 
you get stuck there-" 

Mulder did not cut Patterson off with his words. It was the older 
SAC who stopped himself, staring at Mulder with sudden surprise. 
The younger agent stood there, eyes burning with a mixture of 
fury and panic, a look that Patterson had not ever seen in Mulder 
before. He had always assumed that the younger man had been 
nothing more than a promising agent, overly emotional when it 
came to the cases, brilliant and drowning in his work. Yet here 
he was standing, frustrated and defiant, willing to risk 
everything for something. 

And that earned Mulder Patterson's respect. 

Quietly, Patterson placed a set of keys in Mulder's hand. "Get to 
her before the storm comes," he muttered. "If you're in the city 
when that happens, then there's nothing anyone can do for either 
one of you." Without another glance to his younger agent, 
Patterson stood by his suitcase as though he had done nothing out 
of the ordinary. 

Shocked, Mulder stared at his superior for a moment before 
smiling softly and then pushing it all behind him, grabbing his 
suitcase and running out of the airport. 

The drive back into Charleston was clear and quick, unlike the 
congested lanes slowly drudging out of the city. Only a couple 
scattered cars drove down one lane, as the others had been 
reversed to allow traffic to move quicker. Only media vans and 
military vehicles were heading back into Charleston, and Mulder 
knew that soon they would flee as well. No one wanted to be 
caught in the Holy City once the storm came in. 

Gritting his teeth and gripping the steering wheel tightly, 
Mulder drove past the crowds of people jammed into traffic. Some 
stood on the sides of the road by cars that had overheated from 
sitting in traffic for so long. Others had simply run out of gas. 
One woman sat on the hood of her dead car crying, her shoulders 
shaking as she wept. There was a smell of desperation mixed among 
the burning gasoline, and he felt that same despair sink into his 
blood as he drove toward the morgue. 

The little gray Saturn that Scully claimed as her own was parked 
illegally in front of the morgue, but Mulder doubted that there 
was a single traffic cop on duty today. He joined the Saturn with 
his rented Taurus and jumped out of the car, running toward the 
morgue with panicked, feverish eyes. Not another car was in 
sight, except for the dark silver Saturn that Scully had 
nicknamed Lucy. 

Lucy held no answers for him though, so Mulder burst into the 
morgue, his weapon drawn and his eyes darting through the halls. 
The silence was as stifling as the rapidly rising humidity, 
swooping down upon him like a great weight. It was almost 
suffocating, this intense quiet, and he recalled this feeling 
with sickness. It was the feeling of a place after some terrible 
crime or violation had occurred. The feeling of leftover tension. 

Fingers flexing over the handle of his Sig Sauer, Mulder stepped 
slowly and carefully through the morgue, assessing the shadowed 
halls for anything unusual. The morgue's normalcy was 
disheartening and eerie - he hated the sense of abandonment here. 
"FBI!" he shouted, his voice reverberating off the walls and 
echoing down the hall. "I'm armed!" 

No answer. 

He approached her office with a note of hope in his heart. He 
hoped that she was still here, still inside this room, still 
alive. Mulder tensed, preparing himself for whatever he saw 
inside, and then kicked in the door to Scully's office, his 
finger hugging the trigger in anticipation of killing the man who 
had taken Scully. 

But there was no one there. 

Papers were strewn about the office in a ticker-tape party of 
autopsy findings and medical journals. Magnetic audiotape was 
tossed around like amber streamers. Her desk was a wreck, a sweep 
of memory and neatness disarrayed into a jumble of various items. 
Blood clung to the corner of her desk, and Mulder reached out to 
touch it with a trembling finger before pulling back. Evidence. 
This was all police evidence. 

But there was no police now. They were busied with other things. 
There was no time to set up a proper investigation or to dust the 
office for fingerprints. There would be no blood analysis and no 
time to track down the killer. So he would have to resort to less 
high-tech or scientific aspects of the chase. The hunt had taken 
a more primal turn out of time, necessity, and the fact that he 
was in love with the victim. He would be honest with himself 
about that - it meant volumes more because it was her. Because it 
was Scully. 

Gritting his teeth, Mulder reached out and touched the droplet of 
blood clinging to the oak corner of her desk. Still wet and still 
warm. It was impossible to tell whose blood it was, but he knew 
that the struggle had been recent. There were streaks of blood on 
the papers scattered on her floor, and her cellular phone lay 
across the room, still turned on but only blaring a constant dial 
tone at him. "Jesus Christ," Mulder muttered, walking over to 
turn the cell phone off. It silenced instantly, and once again 
Mulder was burdened by the heaviness of dark, malicious tension. 

Mulder winced and lifted his hands to the bridge of his nose, 
preparing to massage his temples in some sort of attempt to calm 
himself down. Warm moisture painted his skin, and Mulder pulled 
his fingers away, startled. Dark crimson was ingrained into the 
whorls of his fingerprints now, creeping into the crevices and 
staining his skin, and Mulder suddenly realized everything that 
had happened in this office. The picture painted itself just as 
the fresh blood had painted his skin. 

She had come into this office, looking for her father's picture. 
Her office had been ransacked; papers were scattered all over the 
floors and her tapes were missing as well. She had been looking 
at the tapes when he'd heard the tussle over the cell phone, and 
then she'd dropped the phone. He'd heard the clatter of hard 
plastic against tile from the other end of the line. He'd heard 
her screaming his name, heard her begging for help, and then 
heard a sharp cry before her voice drifted and faded off and the 
struggle ended. There had been slurring in her voice... The man 
had drugged her. He liked drugging the victims that weren't 
complacent. Three of the women had been drugged. 

Now it was four. 

And now she was gone. Blood was smeared onto her neatly typed 
autopsy reports, and the tapes that had recorded her voice had 
been effectively destroyed. Slowly, painfully, Mulder sifted 
through the scattered papers, discovering that not all of these 
papers were related to the Skinner. Some were memorandums, some 
were notes, some were autopsy reports from completely different 
cases. He had not come in here to destroy evidence - he'd come in 
here to be closer to Scully. He had seen her somewhere, found 
her, and done exactly what Mulder had done - fallen in love with 
her. Only love for this man had different end results. 

Destruction. 

He knew what the killer wanted. There were enormous amounts of 
electricity in hurricanes, power that the Skinner could use. A 
lightning storm at his fingertips, brushing against the coast 
before gliding ashore, throwing hell in its path. So he had until 
landfall to find her, to seek her out, and less time to save her 
from whatever the killer was preparing for her. 

Agonized by what she was going through, by what he could not 
prevent, Mulder stood up and walked to the desk, looking for some 
sort of clue, something that might have been left behind in this 
wreckage and tussle. A scrap of clothing, shreds of skin, a note 
or a strand of hair... 

But instead he found himself looking at the picture of Captain 
Scully. 

The stern, proud face of the Navy captain stared out at him under 
the layer of glass with an intensity so startling that the 
photograph almost seemed alive in his hands. Mulder knew that 
intensity at first glance - it was the same intensity his 
youngest daughter possessed. The same intensity that Mulder knew 
and loved. And there was no way in hell that anyone was going to 
destroy that part of Scully. No way. 

Gritting his teeth, Mulder placed the framed photograph in his 
suit jacket pocket and took another glance around the room. 
Silently, he resolved to find her, to save her, no matter what. 
Let the hurricane come and sweep the entire city away if 
necessary, but Scully would live and so would he. After that was 
an entirely different issue; he would go to Washington and she 
would stay here. But she would be *alive*. 

After taking one final glance around the room, his eyes painfully 
lingering on the smear of blood on the floor, Mulder turned his 
back on her destroyed office and went back to his car. There was 
little time left. A countdown had begun, a sort of face-off, 
between him and the Skinner, and between him and the hurricane. 
One would cross the Carolina coast before the night was over, and 
both could kill them. 

Outside, a gust of fervent wind brushed against the street, 
blowing fallen leaves and buds of flowers along the pavement and 
catching on Mulder's clothes. A delicate wisp of wisteria tugged 
insistently on his silk necktie, and Mulder remembered that it 
was her favorite flower. "Christ, Scully," he muttered. "Jesus 
Christ." 

He had no time to linger on her. He had very little time left 
indeed. 

Mulder drove down Broad Street and toward the canary-colored 
house seated on the Battery, praying that she could be strong 
enough to hold on until he got there. 

***** 

Residence of Dana Scully 
Charleston, South Carolina 
12:30 PM, August 19, 1999 

***** 

The wind was picking up in earnest now, blowing across the 
Lowcountry in a dark hum of electric air. The humidity had become 
muggy and stifling, suffocating even, and everyone left in the 
city wore a ring of sweat around the collar. Every house 
including the pretty yellow one had been boarded up, and yet 
Mulder had broken into it with ease. 

Scrawling handwriting ripped across the page of the legal pad, 
staining the yellow paper black with ink, as Mulder wrote a 
ragged, rough profile of the man who had abducted Scully. He 
wrote feverishly as the Weather Channel blared information on 
Becky behind him, feeding him the latest updates and giving him a 
crash course in hurricane education. Mulder needed to know as 
much as the killer did on the subject of the tropics, and he 
desperately wished that he had Scully around to fill him in. 

He just desperately wanted Scully. 

Gritting his teeth, Mulder's pen bit into the page as he 
feverishly wrote, his words desperately trying to keep pace with 
his mind. The Southern Skinner was not a lawyer, someone who 
would have easy access to these women. He was a man who looked at 
these proud women from a distance and lusted after their spirits. 
They all puzzled him with their beautiful faces and strong souls, 
and he had been gazing upon them from afar. 

The Skinner had never been given a chance with women. He was 
probably not ugly and he was probably not handsome, just a man 
without any luck with the ladies. He was young, that was for 
certain, and he was an accidental magician. Mulder knew that the 
ability to lasso lightning had been only recently acquired, and 
the man did not question its gift or think twice about using it. 
The gap between women and the methodology had been such a smooth 
transition; it was obvious that the killer did not want to know 
if his ability was a gift from God or from Lucifer. 

He did not murder for revenge. Vengeance was not his goal. He 
murdered because he wanted them and knew that he could never have 
them. They were possessions that he could not purchase, and so he 
stole them instead. The flawed logic of killing them was classic 
- a man who would break what he loved best so that no other man 
could ever enjoy them as he had. It was a lesson he was teaching 
the world - that nobody could have everything when he could have 
nothing. The Skinner was angry, yet it was not fury or rage that 
motivated these murders. 

No, it was sheer greed. 

Mulder paused there to look over his notes. A man who'd seen 
these women dozens of times before, had admired their beauty from 
a distance and had fallen in love with them all. A man who was 
not a lawyer but knew them all well. Someone of a lower class, 
someone not good enough for the women in life. He had not been a 
gentleman; he had not been an aristocrat. An average man. He had 
known these women, even though most of them had been fairly 
antisocial. Like Claire and Ashley. They had rarely gone out, 
except... 

Pretty Ashley Sullivan's voice murmured in her lulling 
Charlestonian accent. "But we did meet for lunch every Friday at 
the local legal café." Her wink was still vivid in his mind. "If 
you're ever looking for a good meal, go to Sermet's on King 
Street. Order the shrimp and grits." 

Sermet's... The local legal café. All of these people knew each 
other through Friday lunches at Sermet's. And what was it that 
Scully had said, about Herb and his girlfriend? "Herb had a lot 
of respect for her, if I remember. They still went out and did 
Friday lunches and so on. Usual legal running work." 

Dear God... It all made sense. The Skinner worked at Sermet's, 
had been working there for years, scouting out his victims as 
they all filed in for Friday lunch. He'd picked his targets and 
laid in wait while he honed his skills, learned his craft. He was 
probably a chef, an artist of some sort, perhaps even a medical 
student who needed the cash. Someone sick and twisted. And Mulder 
had met Scully at Sermet's only yesterday... 

"Fuck," Mulder muttered, dashing to the telephone that hung from 
Scully's canary-colored wall. Quickly, he dialed information for 
the number and then hoped to God that they hadn't evacuated yet. 

"Sermet's," a male voice answered, and Mulder jumped at the cord. 

"Yes, this is Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI," he said, 
his words rapid from the need to get information *fast*. "I need 
to speak to the manager or the owner, someone in charge." 

"This is Sermet, the owner of this restaurant," a Mediterranean 
voice said into the telephone. "Can I help you, Agent Mulder?" 

Relieved, Mulder took the phone to the desk and sat down. "I need 
a list of everyone who was on the staff yesterday working a shift 
from around 12:30 to 1:00 in the afternoon." 

There was a nervous pause from Sermet's end, as though he was 
unsure as to how to reply to Mulder's odd request. "Ah, I can't 
do that, Mr. Mulder," he said. "I can't be sure that this is a 
federal agent and information like this confidential and private 
as a courtesy to our employees." 

Frustration seized Mulder as his voice rose and his words spat 
into the receiver. "Listen, a woman has just been abducted and I 
think that one of your employees is the culprit." He gritted his 
teeth. "Not to mention the fact that a rather violent hurricane 
is coming ashore in less than twelve hours, meaning that I have 
less than twelve hours to find her before somebody ends up 
*dead*." 

Sermet paused again on the other line, and he heard the bustle of 
commotion behind him. Papers shuffled, and Mulder waited 
anxiously for some sort of break here. "There were eight people 
working that shift," Sermet said, his voice calm and his accent 
dark with concentration and worry. "We had five people back in 
the kitchen and three waiting tables, not including myself." 
Briefly, Mulder considered Sermet as a suspect, but instantly 
dismissed the notion. If Sermet was the Skinner, he'd be with 
Scully right now and not working the restaurant. The restaurant 
was nothing to the killer, just a good way to seek out prey. The 
owner clearly stayed to look after his business and get a buck 
off of visiting journalists. 

"Can you read those names to me?" Mulder asked. 

"Ah, we had Sarah Orvin, Morgan Whiteside, Kathryn Novy, Bill 
Lauren and Danny McCormick working in the kitchen that day," 
Sermet said. "Jonathan Perry, Jenny Dillon, and Jack Cooper were 
waiting tables." Mulder nodded, writing the names down on the 
legal pad. 

"Do the workers in the kitchen ever interact with the customers?" 
Mulder asked, and Sermet laughed dryly and humorlessly into the 
receiver. 

"Agent Mulder, you obviously know very little about running a 
good eatery," Sermet said, his voice going suddenly stiff with 
pride. "The customers interact only with the waiters in my 
establishment. The cooks cannot even see the customers that they 
are serving." 

A good investigation would require interviews with all of the 
staff, but there were no laws and guidelines in a world that 
seemed to be collapsing. Martial law had taken over in 
Charleston, and Mulder had to act quickly. He scratched out the 
names of the kitchen help and focused on the servers. "Tell me 
about Jonathan Perry and Jack Cooper," the profiler said over the 
phone, and Sermet cleared his throat. 

"Jonathan Perry... A good kid, high school age, graduating this 
year near the top of his class," Sermet said. "He seems to be 
very popular; he always has friends coming in and out of the 
restaurant. Has a steady girlfriend named Francesca, pretty girl. 
Reminds me of my wife, Celia." Sermet was obviously blathering on 
for some sort of distraction. 

"And Jack?" 

"Jack's a good guy. He's older than Johnny is, in his mid- 
twenties, going to school at MUSC, working odd jobs to get his 
way through it. The kid's been learning some culinary techniques 
lately in the kitchen, like how to make radish roses and little 
artsy things like that." Mulder's blood raced at the description 
that Sermet was giving him. "He's been working for me for about 
six years now. He's always done a good job. He even volunteers to 
work the Friday lunch rush hour." 

"Where did Jack work before he worked for you?" Mulder asked, 
frantically scrawling almost illegible notes on his yellow legal 
pad. Sermet paused, and he heard the sound of papers being 
shuffled again in the background. 

"Ah, he worked as a groundskeeper at Magnolia Plantations." 

Bingo. That was it. Jack Cooper. "I need to get an address on 
Jack Cooper and a telephone number right now, sir," Mulder said 
and Sermet read out the address and telephone number over the 
phone. 

"You think it's Jack?" he said, and Mulder hung up before he 
could answer. He didn't think it was Jack. He knew that it was. 
Grabbing his briefcase and shrugging quickly into his suit 
jacket, Mulder procured the street map of Charleston from the 
file on the Skinner and spread it across the table. Magnolia 
Plantations... The Cooper River... The Ashley River... All of 
them were unrelated to his small residence on King Street. 
Except... 

He took the women to the ocean; all of them had been found near 
bodies of water. Perhaps he owned a boat, but there had been tire 
tracks found near some of the crime scenes. The method of 
transportation probably fluctuated depending on the different 
locales. The locations always changed as well, perhaps as a way 
to throw off the cops. But this was going to be a big show, his 
deal with Scully. He waned to kill her in somewhere special for 
the approaching hurricane. Mulder was wise enough to know that 
much for sure. The Skinner would take her to someplace emotional, 
so that she could be on display for him. Her body stretched in 
front of him, all that glistening white skin, painted in rain and 
light, while those tantalizing and frustrating eyes glared 
endlessly at him. Oh, she would be beautiful to break, to strip 
and skin, to ruin. 

The thoughts and desires seeped slowly into his mind, like a slow 
I.V. drip of morphine, and Mulder welcomed it. He let his hand 
write as everything came to mind, of the images that the killer 
presented him with. The images of the storm, of its claws 
destroying the city, turning the peninsula into rubble while she 
struggled against her ropes, her body arched in a bow of agony 
while her skin burned from her bones. Of how her face would melt 
under the heat, how her hair would go up in a quick rash of red 
before disintegrating into ash. She would be a poem written in 
flaming ink, invoking images of broken porcelain dolls and a 
woman etched in flame. God, she would burn so exquisitely, like a 
human pyre. A human torch. His own personal match. 

Desperately, Mulder's eyes scanned the map for a site. Somewhere 
important to both the killer and the victim. It would not be 
Jack's apartment because it was not located near a direct body of 
water. He had no time to make any contacts and get any access to 
anywhere new, but he would not revisit old crime scenes. The high 
was gone; he'd conquered those locations and the women he'd 
murdered there. Besides, he needed somewhere that would mean 
something to Scully. And Scully loved the ocean, just like those 
other poor women had. 

//"I have a small boat..."// 

With a jerk, Mulder lifted his head and widened his eyes. God, 
yes. The Charleston City Marina. She had her boat there. Even 
though Mulder doubted that he would take her aboard the vessel, 
he knew that the man would be attracted to the marina itself. The 
map told him that there was a large convention center at the 
marina, and it seemed like the perfect place to stage one final 
swan song. 

The wind hit him in the face as he raced out of the house, his 
suit jacket billowing in the wind as he ran toward the rental 
parked in her driveway. A sigh echoed through the trees as he 
walked, and the sound was so achingly similar to the breath that 
Scully exhaled whenever anguish overtook her. A picture of her 
face, so calm and still in the indigo light, entered his mind 
from their last night together and lingered there. Her skin had 
been so warm and yet so cool inside of his arms, and when he had 
kissed her in her sleep, she had tasted like ripened 
boysenberries, coated in light of a similar hue. 

Ah, God, what kind of game was being played out here? What kind 
of creator would write this kind of excruciating ecstasy? Were 
they forever haunted by their mistakes, their errors, and the 
pain that seemed to follow them through multiple dimensions? As 
Mulder turned the key in the ignition, he prayed to whatever God 
watched over them, begging him for a mercy that he had never 
shown before. The mercy of compassion. The mercy of 
understanding. The mercies that their other incarnations had 
never been shown. 

He needed them all now. 

***** 

Charleston City Marina 
Charleston, South Carolina 
1:02 PM, August 19, 1999 

***** 

Slits of light peeked through the boarded up windows, letting 
only shards of darkening sunlight filter in and hit the halls of 
the abandoned marina. Folding chairs cast stilted shadows along 
the halls, and piles of sandbags were leaning against the doors. 
He'd had a difficult time breaking in, and an even more difficult 
time driving over. His status as a federal agent only entitled 
him to so much road access in a city that was becoming blocked 
off section by section by the National Guardsmen, and while his 
badge had gotten him as far as the marina, he'd lost valuable 
time doing so. 

The cool metal of the gun was like ice in his palms, and Mulder 
flexed his fingers over the trigger as he stealthily made his way 
down the halls. Fragments of fading daylight filtered in through 
the cracks between plywood and the wall, and that was all the 
illumination he could afford. He knew that Jack and Scully were 
in this place somewhere, and he knew that he would kill Jack if 
it would mean he could save Scully. No guilty conscience plagued 
him now. 

A fine patina of sweat glistened on his brow as he slunk down the 
halls, and the perspiration was a mixture of both humidity and 
anxiety. Every step had to be calculated and every motion had to 
be carefully plotted. Otherwise he would be discovered and there 
would be no hope for either one of them; the storm would claim 
him and the Skinner would claim Scully. 

"Scully," he whispered under his breath. "God, I hope you're 
here." 

The sound of creaking fan blades startled Mulder from his 
tension, and he paused in his path, carefully listening to what 
went on around him. Someone had activated an air conditioning 
system in the sweltering marina, but the power had been 
disconnected to prevent any fires from starting during Becky. 
That meant that someone had either reconnected the power or 
started up the generator. And the noise was coming from... 

The grand ballroom of the city marina was draped in shadows and 
fallen crepe paper banners that had been left up from a wedding 
party. "Congratulations Julie and Colby - August 17, 1999" one 
crumpled banner proclaimed, the tip of the banner dangling and 
brushing the marble floor. The gentle sound of the banner 
rustling in the great fans was eerie and unsettling, and Mulder 
felt gooseflesh rise on his arms as he entered the ballroom, gun 
drawn and eyes wide. The room was dark, and Mulder wondered how 
much energy was powering the fans. Not enough to power the 
lights, unless... 

Multicolored balloons in different shades of blue and white were 
littered around the floor, creating a sort of helium swamp that 
Mulder had to wade through. The sea of balloons shifted as he 
walked across the ballroom, sweat beading his brow in a fine 
sheen as he concentrated. //Come on, you son of a bitch,// Mulder 
thought to himself, his palms beginning to sweat. It was hotter 
than hell in the ballroom, in spite of the massive fans that were 
trying to pump cooler air through the marina. He'd never been so 
hot in his life, but he couldn't risk losing enough concentration 
to shed his jacket or loosen his tie. Every molecule in his body 
was focused on not getting Scully killed. 

And not getting himself killed, too. 

A large oak door was tucked in the corner of the ballroom, and 
Mulder's fingers fanned over the trigger as he opened the 
doorknob, swiftly entering a sterile, large kitchen. Fan blades 
rotated above him, and Mulder gritted his teeth, pushing the door 
shut. A sound came from in front of him, and his blood jumped 
with eagerness and anticipation. Here it was, here was 
everything. Hold on, Scully, here- 

CRACK! 

The blow to his head was so sudden that he had no time to 
register it, and Mulder was plummeted into a thick, muggy 
darkness, dropping his gun so that it fell to the metal floor 
with a loud clatter. Groaning, his knees collapsed beneath him, 
and he crumbled to the floor, his vision blurring and his 
thoughts fogging. //Oh, Scully,// he weakly thought, before the 
darkness swallowed him. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER THIRTY 

***** 

Charleston City Marina 
Charleston, South Carolina 
???, August 19, 1999 

***** 

Through many layers of gauze and liquid, she surfaced, rising to 
the top of the sea of disorientation to wake into consciousness 
tinted black by a hell she was not even aware of yet. 

With a moan, Scully awoke, her limbs weighted down by grogginess 
and stiff with discomfort. Blurry eyes took in her surroundings 
as she opened them, looking around the small, dark room in which 
she was kept. Her mouth was dry, as though all of the moisture 
had been removed with cotton, and she swallowed, grimacing when 
she tasted a bitter flavor in the back of her throat. It was 
strong enough to make her cough, but when she tried to, she felt 
a piece of cloth inside of her mouth. A gag. She had been bound; 
she felt the scratchiness of rope around her wrists, chafing the 
sensitive skin. Instantly, the drowsiness lifted when she 
realized what had happened. 

She had been abducted. 

Not by one of Mulder's little green men; she could have handled 
that much easier than she could handle this. Frantically, her 
mind pieced together the memories of what had happened to her. 
Scully had gone back to the morgue to get her father's 
photograph. She had seen her files on the Southern Skinner 
scattered on the floor, the result of a very focused vandal. The 
autopsy tapes had been stolen. Then a man had attacked her, 
tackled her to the ground, and there had been the sharp pinch of 
a needle... Oh, Christ, she had been drugged. That explained the 
grogginess and disorientation, and the funny taste in the back of 
her throat. And her arm was sore from the injection, but it 
didn't bother her nearly as much as her head. 

Wetness trickled down from her temple, and Scully felt 
stiffening, drying blood on the side of her face. It ached and it 
stung, and Scully wished that there were a way to wipe the oozing 
blood from her face. Yet she was completely immobile, bound at 
the wrists and ankles, and gagged. 

And she was not alone. 

The lights flipped on with a sudden intense brightness that 
startled her and stung her eyes, and Scully flinched against the 
brightness of the lighting. A sticky coat of sweat clung to her 
skin, and she felt wrapped in moisture. It had had burrowed 
beneath her, settling into her veins, flowing through her and 
weighting her down with a thickness that rivaled her earthly 
constrictions. 

Footsteps approached her, and Scully looked around frenetically 
at her surroundings. She was in a small room painted in all sorts 
of different shades of blue and green, as though the room had 
been painted in aquamarine. It was lovely, but with the shadows 
all around, drifting down over it in pillars of dark, malignant 
gray, it became an ominous pastel dungeon. 

And in the corner, a figure stirred... 

But she had no time to look that way, for a voice spoke with a 
soft inquisitiveness that was as disarming as it was disturbing. 
"Hello, Dana," it said, distinctly male and distinctly Southern. 
"You slept for a while. But I'm glad you woke up." 

The Southern Skinner towered over her, wearing a thin tee shirt 
and a pair of baggy khakis. A shock of sandy hair fell over his 
brow in jagged, ill-cut bangs, and eyes so blue that they were 
almost clear looked into hers with a calculating hunger that made 
her blood boil. They devoured her whole, consuming her, as though 
he'd already eaten and digested her, and she was nothing. She 
could look into his eyes and see her death written there in the 
almost colorless shocks of pupil and lens. Yet he was vaguely 
familiar... 

And she was hot. Really hot. The man's entrance into the room had 
suddenly shot the temperature up several degrees, and the 
humidity inside of her growled with fury. Her skin broke out into 
a thick sweat, and she wondered if it was from heat or sheer 
terror. 

One finger ran down her collarbone, trailing over the strap of 
her cream-colored tank top, and then traveled to caress her 
shoulder. "You smell like peaches," the man said, still admiring 
her skin with his fingertips. His touch burned, like his fingers 
were callused with coals. Her sweat intensified, and she felt a 
sliver of perspiration slide down her cheek like a smoldering 
tear. 

He abandoned her shoulder briefly to reach around the back of her 
head, his fingers combing through her hair in a way that made 
Scully's skin crawl. It was as though she was his pet. Fingertips 
caressed the knot of her gag, and Scully squirmed in discomfort 
and anxiety. "I want to have a talk with you, Dana," he said, 
"but we won't get a lot accomplished if you try and scream for 
help. Besides, you know as well as I do that no one's around to 
hear you. The city's abandoned." 

Scully's groggy mind hadn't even remembered that. Becky. The 
storm was coming tonight, and she had no measurement of time 
since her abduction. Wide-eyed, Scully looked around in desperate 
search of a window, but the large windows had all been boarded 
up, and all that she could hear was a constant assault of rain on 
the window. Her abductor leaned closer, a fragment of ragged 
dirty blonde falling over those startling colorless eyes, and 
smiled. "I like your hair, Dana." 

Nimble fingers reached back to untie the knot at the base of her 
skull, and the square piece of white cloth fell from her face. 
Gasping for untainted breath, Scully threw her head back, and 
coughed from the dry and bitter taste still lingering from the 
drugs. A thick, hard pounding of rain pelted the windows, and a 
sudden gust of wind shorted out the lights, drowning the room in 
sudden darkness. "Shit," her killer muttered, dropping the cloth 
back into her lap. "I'm going to go turn the lights back on." He 
grinned dryly. "Don't go anywhere." 

And he turned his back on her and left. 

"Christ," Scully muttered, a splash of red clinging to her sticky 
cheek. Then determination and dignity lifted her chin and forced 
one eyebrow to arch. She had to think. Had to think fast. She 
knew what was happening to her and what this man wanted. He was 
the Southern Skinner, the man who'd destroyed eight women in the 
Lowcountry and now had his sights set on her as his next 
delectable target. He had caressed her skin as though it were a 
pelt he already owned, and looked at her like she was a pretty 
new toy he had just acquired and couldn't wait to play with. And 
he devoured and killed her with every possessive glance... 

A shudder ran down her spine and Scully felt panic start to slide 
up and claim her. //No!// a voice said forcefully from within 
her, and Scully stiffened. She couldn't do this. She couldn't 
afford luxuries like fear or hysteria now. She was in the worst 
situation of her life, and she had to do the last thing that she 
wanted to do in order to survive it. 

She had to deal with her abductor. 

It was the lesson that her Other self had been taught during her 
training at Quantico and during her experience out in the field 
with the X-Files. She had been taught it firsthand with Donnie 
Pfaster, Duane Barry, and Gerry Schnauz, to name a few. She had 
listened to them, talked to them, conversed to them in a 
desperate attempt to squelch her own fears as well as keep them 
calm. All of those cool resources were at her fingertips, and she 
would need to utilize every one of them before this disaster was 
over. Stall death as long as humanly possible and pray for 
rescue. Pray for anything. 

Pray for Mulder. 

Bitterly, Scully closed her eyes, feeling unwanted and unneeded 
tears spring to her eyes as she thought of him. She wondered 
where he was now. How many miles away he was from her... Gone to 
Washington, gone away from the storm... And how he had heard her 
plea for help but had to turn them away because of the storm and 
his departure for Washington. She turned her face to the side, 
choking back despair. Even if he had come back for her, he would 
be gone by now. The rain pounding against the walls and the wind 
screaming through the air confirmed that. They would usher him 
out if necessary. 

What would he do when they found her body? Would he investigate 
it with the distanced knowledge of a profiler? Who would autopsy 
her mangled corpse, cutting through the muscle and bone with the 
scalpel and saw? Her poor mother... It would have to be a closed- 
casket funeral. 

Then she choked back everything, her tears and her terrors 
included. She could not lose her composure at a time like this, 
when everything was so crucial. 

Gritting her teeth, Scully stiffened as she heard her abductor 
fiddling with something mechanical from another room, and then 
there was a shifting again. That same corner... Whatever was over 
there was making an awful lot of noise. The darkness that the 
room had been plunged into heightened her anxiety, and she peered 
over to the corner, hoping for a glimpse of something. 

A hand. 

It was a long, slender hand, with tapering fingers that loosely 
cupped the air, as though it were searching for an object that 
had been taken from its grasp. Ragged nails worked down to the 
quick by anxiety or simply a bad habit glimmered slightly in the 
indigo rain that filtered in through the cracks between the 
boards and the walls, and she admired their comely shape. Yet the 
hand was so still, so limp and loose, that she feared it was a 
corpse propped up in the corner. Another dead body would join it 
soon. 

Then she realized that it was not a corpse, but her lover. 

"Mulder," she whispered, her eyes widening with fear for him. 
Jesus Christ, he'd come back for her. Of course he'd come back 
for her. This was the man who'd crossed continents for her in 
another life, foolishly braving Antarctic plains and destructive 
plague to save her life, and now this man could add defying a 
hurricane for her. "Oh, God, Mulder..." 

Blood trickled down the side of his still, shadowed face, oozing 
out from a wound near the top of his skull. Anguish froze on his 
face, quieting into milder torment, but even in the darkness and 
the obscurity of indigo light, she knew that he had been torn by 
what he had heard. Pained that she could not comfort him and 
afraid that he was dying, Scully struggled against her ties in 
frustration. The utter *helplessness* of being captured, the 
inability to battle against her enemies, was always what had 
frightened the Other Scully most about abduction, and now this 
Scully understood it perfectly and implicitly. Mulder lay there 
in a corner, bleeding from the head, and she could do absolutely 
*nothing* about it. 

The door opened again and her captor entered, carrying a tray 
filled with small jars of citronella candles, each one adding a 
different scent to the room. It instantly became a cornucopia of 
aroma, from tart lime to lush mulberry, but nothing was able to 
cleanse the heat from the room or the smell of suffocating sweat. 
Her abductor walked around the room, positioning candles in 
different places, adding firelight to the turquoise room. "The 
storm's getting closer," her abductor said. "The generator's run 
out of oil and the electricity's been cut off, so I suppose we'll 
have to make do with the candles." 

Calmly, she jutted her jaw outward and looked at him in the eye. 
"Where are we?" she asked as her kidnapper put a candle on a 
windowsill. 

"We're at the city marina," he replied calmly, his voice never 
breaking. One candle's fragile flame flickered out, and he 
procured a match. Then something odd happened - something 
incredibly odd. He held the match between his first two fingers 
and the head sparked to life, exploding in a fire so high and so 
sudden that their silhouettes splashed against the walls. Calmly, 
as though nothing extraordinary had happened, he bent over to 
light the jar, and then puffed out the match with a breath of 
air. 

"How did you do that?" Scully asked. 

He shrugged his shoulders, looking down at the flame. "My 
hypothesis is that it's a result from the lightning," he said, 
and Scully was surprised. He was intelligent. Of course he was 
intelligent. He was attracted to intelligence, to strength 
founded in beauty. He appreciated it but wanted to destroy it. He 
was probably the kind of kid who read three books in a week when 
he was a child, not because he loved reading, but because he 
wanted to be the best at it. "It doesn't really matter though. 
It's just a candle. I don't question the things that I can't 
control." 

"No, you just try to kill the things you can't control," Scully 
said, her voice barely masking the anger and fear simmering below 
the surface of her skin. 

Tilting his head to the side, he looked down pointedly at her. "I 
thought control was your domain of preference, Dana," he said, 
ragged bangs of dirty blonde falling over to shield his 
achromatic eyes. "Always have to rule the world with an iron 
fist... Always so in control of your emotions to the point where 
it's rumored that you don't have any. However, you feel as though 
your life is controlled by another force, is that not so?" 

She felt as though she were beginning to regain composure and 
dignity. A certain calmness and control was soothing her, and she 
took his comments and probing as they were: attempts at 
manipulation. "Can I ask your name? Something to call you?" 

He nodded. "Sure. My name's Jack. Jack Cooper." With that, he 
turned his head and started pulling at a stack of metal folding 
chairs, trying to pull one out of a jumbled mess, obviously 
thrown together in a hasty attempt to prepare for evacuation. 
Realizing that she had an open space, Scully looked over at her 
unconscious lover, becoming horribly fascinated by a spill of 
blood that slipped down his face, seeping from the wound in his 
temple in a thick fountain of slow-moving crimson. Her doctor's 
fingers itched, wanting to tend to the injury and desperately 
frustrated with her absolute helplessness. 

Yet she had to keep him talking. Keep him interested in her; keep 
trying to figure him out while he figured her out. "Jack, don't 
we all feel controlled by other forces at some time or another?" 
she said. "Whether it's God, or authority, or fate, there are all 
times where we feel powerless." She certainly felt powerless now, 
watching her lover's blood pooling on the floor in a pile of 
liquid as thick as lava under the fiery candles. 

Jack approached her, carrying a blue-tinted candle in a small jar 
that smelled like blueberries. "Are you a religious woman, Dana?" 
Jack asked, those unsettling eyes focused on her again. He sat 
down in the folding chair that he had procured from the pile, and 
scooted closer to where she was sitting. She suddenly realized 
where that smothering heat was coming from. It was coming from 
Jack Cooper. It radiated off of him, as though magma ran through 
his veins and he was exhaling toxic fumes. //That's impossible,// 
she thought, her scientist's mind dismissing the notion. //Human 
biology doesn't radiate that much heat without an extremely high 
fever, but this man isn't feverish at all...// 

"Don't try and ponder the little things, Dana," Jack advised, 
crossing his arms over his chest. "I recognize the differences in 
me. I'm a doctor, just like you. A scientist in many respects." 
//A mad scientist,// Scully thought bitterly. Out of the corner 
of her eye, she glanced in the corner at her fallen partner, 
desperately trying to watch and monitor the slow rise and fall of 
his breath underneath the thick layers of dark maroon shadows and 
copper light. "You are religious. You're a Catholic. Lapsed 
Catholic, as you don't attend church regularly, but it's puzzling 
that you can possess so much faith in mythology and spirituality 
but so staunchly doubt and deny everything that you see right in 
front of you." 

"Isn't that the essence of faith?" Scully said. "Placing belief 
and trust into something that seems impossible?" 

Jack considered this and then nodded, pulling out a flat gold 
cigarette box from his jeans pocket. Using the same trick he had 
demonstrated earlier, Jack lit a match and began smoking, clouds 
of smoke fluttering away from his mouth as though he was steaming 
from heat. "It's just unusual that a woman can believe in a 
Messiah who could walk on water and transform water into wine but 
cannot believe that a man like me, sitting in front of her and 
demonstrating abnormalities she can recognize as a doctor, could 
light matches with touch." He shrugged. 

Narrowing her eyes, Scully stared at him coldly. "You're 
comparing yourself to Christ?" she said, and Jack shook his head. 

"Blasphemy is not the aim of this conversation, and neither is 
sacrilege," Jack said. "I'm simply showing you that your 
skepticism and solid science is not as solid as you would like to 
think it." He leaned in closer, a sickening smile on his face. 
"Do you believe in extreme possibilities, Scully?" 

There was something eerily familiar in the words he spoke, 
something disturbing and unsettling in his posture, and it made 
her skin crawl and her blood curl. The chafed skin of her wrists 
rubbed unpleasantly against the ropes binding her, and Scully 
watched him with a sick expression on her face. "I've seen you 
somewhere before," Scully said, and Jack nodded. 

"I'm a resident at MUSC," he said. "You've probably seen me 
walking those very halls over the past two years. And I waited 
your table yesterday at Sermet's." 

Bingo. The pieces came together. "That's where you find your 
women, isn't it," she said. "From the legal lunches on Fridays." 

Jack nodded. "Very perceptive, Agent Scully." 

She almost smiled at the compliment when the hideous error in his 
phrasing hit her with the force of a freight train. Agent 
Scully... Before she even had time to process the thousands of 
implications in that false title, he started speaking again, 
standing up to pace briefly in front of her in a style blatantly 
mocking a police interrogation. "I want to move onto another 
subject," he said. "Something more important than debating 
religion or Jesus. I want to talk about fate." 

Fate. Destiny. The plans written in constellations and painful 
predestination. "I don't believe in fate," she lied, and Jack 
frowned at her, glaring at her. 

"This conversation will be honest, Dana," he said. "I don't 
appreciate dishonesty. Besides, you can't try and conceal the 
truth from me. I know how you lie and I know how you deceive. 
You're not a good liar. Especially about something like this." 

Tightly, Scully clenched her jaw and looked up at him, squaring 
her slim shoulders and arching an eyebrow. "What do you want to 
know about fate, Jack?" Scully said. "Why is fate more important 
than God?" 

"Because fate is what makes you so fascinating to me," he said. 
"Fate is what brought us here today. I was not seeking you out 
when I went to your office. You were exquisite when I first saw 
you, so beautiful and alluring, and so trapped between something 
you knew and something you couldn't believe. I saw you and saw 
something incredible. But I knew that you would leave the city, 
that you were going to flee, and so I figured I would never get 
another chance at you. But I wanted you so badly, even more than 
I wanted Lisa, because of that incredible *something* about you. 
I read everything about you, went to your office, and then there 
you were." He smiled, approaching her. "Fate." 

Scully recoiled as he touched her, his fingers traveling over her 
face, touching her eyelids and tracing the proud but pained 
arches of her ginger eyebrows, sliding down the bridge of her 
nose. Then he smiled and tilted his head. "He's right, you know," 
he said, and Scully frowned. "She didn't have freckles." 

Horror sank into her bones as she registered all that he was 
saying and all that he knew. He looked at her and saw both 
Scullys, the one in this world and the one from the other. He 
knew her secrets, knew her pain, and if he knew that, then he 
knew how to destroy her. How to break her. But it was impossible; 
it was absolutely unfeasible, for him to know these things. They 
were hushed mysteries breathed only between Mulder and herself, 
and how could this terrible man know that? 

"Oh my God," Scully whispered, feeling his fingers slide over her 
face until he had cupped her face in his hands, thumbs circling 
her temples in a manner that painfully parodied the soothing 
caresses Mulder liked to give her. She felt nothing soothing in 
this touch though - only malice and evil. It was like being 
caressed by a demon. In that instant, with that realization that 
he knew her from her heart to her hair, she knew that she was 
going to die in this room. 

//Mulder,// she thought desperately, glancing over at the still 
figure lying slumped against the wall. //Oh, Mulder, I'm so sorry 
you came back for this...// 

Still wearing that horrible look of taunting affection, Jack 
leaned in and kissed her brutally, his mouth sliding over hers 
and his tongue snaking between her resistant lips, tasting her 
and stealing her flavor. And it *burned*, being kissed by him, as 
though he could incinerate her with the harsh electricity that 
seemed to shoot through his veins. And she felt as though he 
might just do that, start a fire in her mouth until she was 
charred from the inside out, and her heart beat faster, fear and 
despair choking and suffocating her just as much as Jack's 
hungry, hateful mouth. 

His fingertips moved through her hair, the tips weaving through 
the red until they gripped the base of her skull, and she felt 
something burning on the nape of her neck. It was painful, it 
hurt like a bitch, and she cried out into his mouth, struggling 
frantically as her skin started to blister and the stench of 
charred flesh filled the humid air. 

Finally, he pulled off of her, and released his grip on her skin. 
Panting from the agonizing pain that was still seizing her body, 
Scully felt tears well up in her eyes from the awful wound on her 
neck. He had *burned* her. Burned her with nothing more than his 
touch. Her mouth felt hot as well, just like it would feel after 
drinking a cup of coffee that was too hot and needed to cool. 
Right now Scully felt as though *she* needed to cool, and there 
was nothing so hot as this oven-like room. 

"Let me see it," Jack said, and Scully angrily turned her body 
away from him, glaring up at him with rage and spite. Like *fuck* 
he was going to touch her now. But she had no control; she was 
tied and bound, and Jack pushed her down and bunched up her hair, 
looking down at her burned neck. She wondered if he would burn 
her hair, burn everything he touched, but all she felt was 
warmth, not blistering heat. "Do you know where it's burned, 
Dana?" She did not answer. "It's not the first time you've been 
burned here. She was burned here too once. A drill, hovering over 
her, the blades spinning and she was helpless too. She couldn't 
move, strapped to the table, afraid and angry at what was being 
done to her, as the drill entered the back of her neck and-" 

"Stop!" Scully yelled, wresting her body away from his, misery 
creeping into her voice in a way that she didn't want to reveal. 
Those memories, foggy from the trauma and their long burial 
inside of the Other Scully's mind, were unwanted here. She didn't 
want to deal with them; they weren't her memories. 

"But they *are* your memories, Dana," Jack said, stepping away 
and looking down at her. "That's the thing that you don't 
understand. You deny so much and admit so little, but the truth 
is that you own those memories now, whether you want them or not. 
They're the memories that haunt you when you go to sleep at 
night. They're the memories of a woman you wanted to be but 
didn't become. So you claim that they're not yours, you bury them 
and try to go on with your life, staying in a city you hate just 
because you still can't believe the truth." 

"And what *is* the truth, you bastard?" Scully spat, and Jack 
raised an eyebrow at her. 

"The truth is that you're afraid to believe," he said. "You've 
been living your life out of fear, and that's something that she 
never did. She fought for everything she believed in and you run 
away from it all. You're too afraid to leave this city and become 
that woman because of what happened to her, and you're too afraid 
to live with it. That's what makes you tick, Dana my dear. Fear." 

"You're a liar." 

Both heads turned at the sound of this new voice, gravelly and a 
little slurred, but it was distinct exactly who and what had 
spoken. 

With a sigh, Scully turned her head to him and whispered his name 
on a ragged breath: "Mulder." 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 

***** 
Charleston City Marina 
Charleston, South Carolina 
???, August 19, 1999 

***** 

Electricity sparked inside of the room, as though the entire 
marina was crackling with lightning. Tension burned and sizzled 
through invisible wiring, and outside, the first bolt of 
lightning seared through the sky, illuminating the turquoise room 
through the thin cracks between board and wall. 

"Mulder," Scully sighed, relief flooding through her body as he 
glared intensely at Jack Cooper, and her shoulders sank as some 
of the anxiety and fear fell away from her body. He was alive, 
wonderfully alive, and absolutely furious at what was going on 
around him. Blood still oozed from the wound at the back of his 
head, and he was pale from the loss of blood, but the intense 
glow of his amber and green eyes assured her that he was okay. 

Those radiant, blissfully kaleidoscopic eyes shifted away from 
their abductor to her, running over her face in a gesture far 
more reassuring than the caresses Jack had bestowed upon her 
earlier. "You okay, Scully?" he asked, his voice gently 
concerned, and Scully nodded. The burn at the nape of her neck 
still ached sharply, but it didn't matter. She was alive and so 
was he. For now, at least. 

"I'm alright," she replied, looking only at him. "Are you okay?" 

Silently, Mulder nodded, a soft smile touching his mouth. He had 
not expected to find her alive, and seeing her here, angry and 
hurt, tears staining her cheeks from pain, was like witnessing a 
miracle. 

Woozy from the blow to his head and shaky from the blood he'd 
lost, Mulder looked up to see Jack Cooper, the Southern Skinner, 
looking down at him with frightening pleasure. "Did you ever 
expect to find her here, Mulder?" Jack asked, and Mulder was 
shocked to see a set of watery, colorless eyes looking down at 
him. Then there was a hideous heat, so muggy and suppressive, 
that Mulder felt like he might pass out again. It was as though 
something had released molten lead into his veins and let it 
circulate, and he thought he might die just from a glance. //If 
looks could kill,// an ironic bit of black humor said inside of 
him, and Mulder shuddered. 

"I knew you'd take her to the marina, Jack," Mulder said, 
withering underneath the heat of Jack's bleached eyes. "You're 
not entirely unpredictable." 

Amused, Jack sat down in his chair again, crossing one khaki-clad 
leg over the other as though he was giving a lecture and not 
plotting a murder. "Actually, I was referring to your finding her 
in Charleston," he said. "It's the last place he'd think to find 
her, isn't it? A little Southern city in a large lemon mansion 
with a cat?" 

Holy shit... Stunned and shocked beyond belief, Mulder slowly 
turned his head to look at Scully. Her eyes were closed, a tight 
look of pain painted over her face, and he knew then what she 
knew. This man, this asshole murderer, knew everything there was 
to know about the both of them. About the dual lives that existed 
within them. About who they were in a different world and what 
they meant to each other now. The secrets shared between them 
were exposed now, and he instantly wanted to kill Jack Cooper 
more than he had before. 

But Mulder didn't even need to glance down to know that his gun 
had been taken, and his hands were chained to a metal pipe behind 
him, with his own set of handcuffs. "Fuck," Mulder muttered, and 
Jack nodded. 

"Pretty much says it all, doesn't it?" he said, and Mulder glared 
up at him. "Funny, I've never been much interested in men, but 
you're just as fascinating as she is. The idea that the two of 
you met in a different life, on a different plane of reality and 
existence, is certainly unique. And it must hurt like a bitch to 
know everything you could have been if you hadn't fucked up your 
lives so badly." 

Neither Mulder nor Scully said a single word. Her eyes opened and 
looked at him like torn twin blue skies and the weariness of 
exhaustion and frustration shadowed them like thunderheads. His 
heart seemed to chip inside of his chest, breaking at the ache to 
touch her and the knowledge that she was out of his reach. They 
were both failures, shadows of their other selves, and maybe Jack 
Cooper was right. Maybe they had been cowards, indulging 
themselves in self-pity rather than trying to become the best 
that they could. Wallowing in mediocrity... 

"Don't listen to him, Mulder," Scully said from across the room, 
and her eyes pleaded with him to stay strong, to resist the 
truthful barbs that Jack was throwing at them. "Just ignore it." 

Spitefully, Jack turned his back on Mulder and returned his 
attention and focus to Scully, smirking as he did so. "That's 
right, Scully," he said encouragingly, "just tell him to deny the 
truth. It's what you've become so an expert at, right? Pretending 
that the answers aren't really the answers but only complications 
for your problems. What a wonderfully ignorant way to go through 
life." 

"Leave her alone, Cooper," Mulder said, struggling with the 
handcuffs that kept him away from her. The metal of the cuffs bit 
into his skin, but he ignored the pain, dashing it away in the 
melee of trying to get to Scully. 

Jack laughed shortly, his wheat-colored hair falling into his 
eyes as he looked back and forth between his two struggling 
captives. "You both are so blind," he said. "You think that you 
can deny everything you know to be true and continue living life 
as you were. He thinks he can save the world without her and she 
thinks she can numb herself the point where nothing matters at 
all. You're both wrong." 

Again silence filled the room. He had nothing to say and neither 
did she - so much of what Jack Cooper was telling them was 
bitingly accurate. They were fools, the both of them, thinking 
that they could deny each other. Thinking that their meeting in 
Charleston and all of the pleasure and pain that had followed 
could be buried beneath the surface was incredibly naïve and 
ignorant. 

Mulder heard the wind howl from outside in a strong gust of angry 
air, and he knew from the look on her face that Scully had heard 
it too. The wind was beginning to rise, and the storm was 
probably nearing landfall. He wondered briefly if they would live 
to see Becky's wrath, and their current situation didn't look 
promising. There was no chance that the metal would slide from 
his wrists at any given moment, and Jack had his weapon. He saw 
it now, barely discernable underneath the fabric of his Polo 
shirt, tucked into the waistband of his baggy khakis. 

"You're young, Jack," Mulder commented, trying to engage Jack in 
conversation about himself rather than about the two agents. 
"What makes you think you understand us any better than we 
understand ourselves?" 

"Because I'm not you," Jack said simply. "People have this 
strange sort of blindness - tunnel vision, I suppose. They can 
look around them and point out the thousands of things wrong with 
other human beings and know exactly how those people should solve 
them. However, when they look inside of themselves, they find a 
mess that they just can't untangle or understand. Tunnel vision, 
you see?" 

Scully took her turn from across the room, turning her glance 
away from Mulder and onto their captor. "Then the same tunnel 
vision applies to you, Jack," Scully said, and Mulder nodded. 

"You think that you're doing us a service now, don't you," Mulder 
stated, his eyes cool and contemplative. Maybe Jack's tunnel 
vision theory wasn't so off-target after all - it was a lot 
easier focusing on Jack than it was on himself and Scully. "But 
you've got a pretty big problem of your own." 

"Do I?" Jack said, smirking at them. "I don't think so. I know 
exactly what I'm doing." 

Scully snorted. "And what's that?" 

Those bland eyes looked at her and smiled. "Falling in love." 

A creeping sensation started underneath her skin, rippling 
through her veins like velvet terror. Scully sucked in her 
breath, warily eyeing the man towering over her with a look of 
fascination and captivation on his face. In the corner, she heard 
Mulder squirming, and one glance told him the sheer anxiety on 
his face as Jack approached her. "You don't know what love is, 
Jack," Scully smoothly said, priding herself in keeping that 
ripple out of her voice, and Jack nodded. 

"You're right," Jack said. "Nobody has ever loved me." It would 
have been pathetic or whiny if not spoken with contemplation and 
cold detachment, as though he was examining a piece of evidence 
and not making a statement about himself. "But this isn't about 
me. None of this is about me." 

"Then what is it about, Jack?" she asked, and Jack arched an 
eyebrow, as if admonishing a student who should know better than 
to ask such an obvious question. "So it's about me." 

"Not anymore," Jack said, sweeping his white-eyed glance to where 
Mulder sat against the wall, still struggling futilely with his 
handcuffs. "Now it's about the both of you. Who you are... Who 
you were... Who you wanted to be but didn't become." 

He sighed and started pacing the room like a caged jungle cat, 
his milky eyes emotionless and yet predatory. Her fingers started 
caressing the ropes, searching for weaknesses. This Scully had an 
advantage that the Other Scully would not have had in a situation 
like this - a practiced knowledge of ropes and knots. She may 
have been a Navy captain's daughter, but she did not own a 
sailboat like this woman did. Carefully, making sure that her 
minute motions were undetectable, Scully started examining the 
knots, and did something she never thought she would do. She 
began protecting herself against the paranormal. 

It was impossible for him to know her secrets, such as how Mulder 
had marveled at her freckles and the intricacies of her Other 
self's mind. The theory Mulder had proposed on the man's psychic 
abilities had been one she'd initially scoffed at and rejected, 
but now she had to forcibly accept the supernatural and guard her 
mind against his probing psychic ability. So while she worked at 
the knots with her fingers, she kept her mind on different 
things, masking her mental workings. 

"So why exactly did you target on us, Jack?" Scully asked, her 
voice calm as she selected her question while testing her ropes. 
Mulder mentally praised her for her calmness, for her reserve and 
her poise. Currently, Mulder felt like he had very little 
restraint left in his body. 

"You were the strongest woman I'd ever seen," Jack said. "Coping 
with losing your city, which upsets you more than you let on, and 
then coping with the decision as to whether or not you uproot 
your life for a life that was never yours to begin with. And all 
the while, you're worrying about what your decision will do to 
Mulder." That was all true, from her concerns about Mulder to her 
anxiety about Becky. "You think you're a weak woman, Scully, but 
you're far from it." 

"Earlier you were calling me a coward," Scully said. "Isn't that 
a bit of a contradiction?" She had caught the tip of a knot in 
her fingertips, one minor error in his near flawless knotting, 
but it was going to be enough of a miscalculation. Enough for her 
to be able to escape. 

Pensively, still not noticing Scully's efforts to untie herself, 
Jack shook his head. "Not at all," he said. "Part of you is 
cowardly, for not having the initial guts to disobey your father 
and do what you wanted anyway. But the parts of you that can 
juggle these two lives and delude yourself into thinking that you 
can live without yourself... That takes some willpower, Dana." 

The end of the rope began slipping through the knot, her skin 
rubbing raw on the careful ties and bleeding onto the thick 
ropes. But the blood provided a lubrication of sorts, the wetness 
making the rope slide through the knot with greater ease. If that 
was what it took, Scully would pour her blood onto her bondage 
freely and willingly, because that sacrifice would eventually buy 
her her freedom. 

"There's another thing I don't understand about you," Jack said, 
his brow furrowed. "You people look at these lives as though 
they're perfect, and they're far from it. People died for these 
ridiculous causes. Truth and aliens..." Jack grinned. "It's like 
_Independence Day_ without the box office income." 

Wryly, Mulder smiled at Jack, and then turned his attention back 
to Scully. She was up to something; he could tell that by the 
sudden focus she had gained and by the way she was glaring so 
coldly at Jack. 

"Dana, your Other self, as you like to call her, lost everything 
in that battle," Jack said, turning his focus and concentration 
always to Scully. "She lost a daughter, a sister, her memories 
and her ability to ever bear children, and yet you envy the life 
that she led and wish that it was yours." He tilted his head to 
the side. "Did you ever consider that maybe she would want your 
life? That she would want to abandon the X-Files and her insane 
partner and settle down in a pretty yellow house with a boat?" 

It stung to hear that question spoken, for it was the question 
that had eaten at the Other Mulder for years. He had taken so 
much from Scully in their quest for the intangible and the 
impossible, and had given her nothing but heartache and skeletons 
for her closet in return. Did she resent him? Did she want to 
leave him and become what this Scully was now? A woman alone, 
with no madman to break her and no insanity to unravel her... 

"Never," Scully said with utmost certainty and conviction. "She 
sometimes wondered what her life would have been, but always knew 
that there was nowhere else on earth she'd rather be than there." 
The rope was coming loose; she could feel the air start touching 
her raw, bleeding wrists... 

Jack frowned. "You couldn't possibly know how she really felt, 
Dana. *She* didn't know how she felt." 

An ironic smile lit Scully's face. "Oh, yes she did, Jack. And so 
do I." 

And the rope broke. 

With suddenness so startling and strange, the ropes fell from her 
wrists to land on the floor like thick brown coils, and Scully 
lunged at her captor, her ankles still bound but her hands freed. 
That was all that mattered anyway, that she could move her hands, 
and she knew exactly what she was grabbing for. 

"CUNT!" Jack screamed as her fist squeezed around his dick in an 
angry vise, and he fell to the ground, writhing in agony as her 
fingers bit into his skin. "Goddamn little CUNT!" 

Still clutching Jack's penis in her tight fist, Scully reached 
down with her free hand and quickly unknotted her ankles, freeing 
herself in an instant. "Scully!" Mulder called, and she looked 
over at him, her fingers tightening on Jack in a desperate 
attempt to keep him immobile. "Get the gun! The gun!" She saw it; 
saw the faint outline of Mulder's weapon through the rumpled 
fabric of Jack's shirt, and Scully lunged for the weapon, pulling 
it out and shoving it in his face. 

"Freeze!" Scully yelled, cocking the hammer. At the same time 
that Scully's finger removed the safety on the gun, a sudden bolt 
of lightning splintered through the sky, and Jack Cooper smiled 
beneath her. 

Strong, searing hot fists gripped her slender shoulders, and his 
touch burned through her skin as she screamed in agony. "MULDER!" 
she yelled, her face contorted with pain as Jack clamped his 
hands on her with the same intensity and force as she had earlier 
gripped his dick. She could smell her skin burning, could feel 
fire in her veins, and blood oozed down her arms as Jack burned 
her with his mere touch. "Oh, GOD!" 

Roaring with rage, Jack pushed her onto her back, releasing her 
skin. Scully also released the gun, and it slid across the floor 
into a corner. Her wounds ached, they throbbed and screamed, like 
demons clinging to her arms and chewing off her flesh. Every 
muscle and bone inside of her screamed with the agonizing pain of 
her burns, and she rolled into a ball, defeated. 

Jack smirked with the glee of his victory as he stood, and an 
anguished Mulder looked at her. Blood covered her skin, and he 
could smell the hideous, bitter stench of burned humanity, as 
though a conflagration had just occurred in the middle of this 
tiny aquamarine room. Then a tinkling of metal keys caught his 
attention, and Mulder saw his set of handcuff keys lying on the 
floor, just within reach of his unbound legs. Carefully, Mulder 
stretched his leg out to get the keys, warily eyeing Jack as he 
approached Scully. He wanted to kill that bastard, wanted to get 
him as far away from Scully as possible, and was terrified for 
her life if his plan failed or if Jack killed her before Mulder 
could kill Jack. 

"They all fought back, Dana Scully," Jack taunted, his gravelly 
voice taking on a singsong tone, haunting and heated as her 
seared skin. "From the first one to the last one, they all fought 
back. You think you can escape, little Southern Scully, and they 
thought they could too, even Jean. But Jean's dying on her own, 
and you'll die here in this storm, another casualty buried 
beneath rubble and wreckage, and your lover will watch you die 
before he follows you to Hell!" 

Unable to keep herself from being stoic or dignified or hopeful, 
a despairing Scully screamed as Jack's hands lowered upon her, 
and then chains encircled Jack Cooper's neck as Mulder began to 
strangle their captor. 

Gritting his teeth and grunting from the exertion, Mulder 
wrestled with the tall younger man, his hands gripping the 
handcuffs as he wrung the strong chains around Jack's neck. The 
links cut into the Southern Skinner's skin, creating a jagged 
pattern of bloody cuts as Mulder worked at suffocating and 
killing Jack Cooper. Growling with indignation and outrage, Jack 
threw all of his weight into the lanky agent, trying to throw him 
to the floor. Lightning sizzled from outside, illuminating the 
room, and suddenly the metal links wrapped tightly around Jack's 
neck began burning red-hot, hissing like hot griddles. Smiling, 
Jack lifted his hands and gripped Mulder's strong fingers, and 
Mulder yelped from the heat as Jack began burning the agent's 
hands. 

Gasping, Scully moved backwards, clambering for the gun that she 
had dropped earlier after her failed scuffle with Cooper. The 
burns on her upper arms and shoulders screamed at her to stop and 
let them rest, but there was no time for comfort or healing. Not 
when the battle wasn't even nearly over. She scampered for the 
corners, her head snapping back to look at the two men after 
hearing Mulder fall to the ground, and her heart tore into a 
thousand ripped fragments of fear, watching Jack's strong, 
searing hands wrap around Mulder's throat and begin wringing. She 
had no time; she *had* to find the gun... 

"You'll never make it, Mulder," Jack hissed, his hands wrapped 
tightly around Mulder's neck and his fingerprints branding 
Mulder's skin. "You'll never become what they became, and you'll 
die a failure to yourself and a failure to her, you goddamn son 
of a *bitch*." As Mulder gasped, his lungs screaming for air and 
the burns on his neck just plain *screaming*, Jack leaned in 
closer, sensing how close the FBI agent was to death. "And you'll 
never find your sister." 

A crack of lightning sounded, and he was still. 

Jack Cooper fell to the ground, his eyes wide from the shock of 
the shot, and four more cracks of lightning sounded after the 
first. But it *wasn't* lightning, Mulder realized as he pulled 
himself off of the ground, painfully turning his head to look at 
what had saved his life. 

A cool, powerful woman stood over him, burns blistering on her 
arms like a goddess who had crossed the rings of Hell, wielding 
his gun like a professional. Mussed red hair hung in her face in 
limp locks of red, and her face was smudged from crying and dirty 
from dried sweat. In other words, Scully was glorious. 
The weapon fell to the floor with a clatter that rung out through 
the silence of the room, and all of the candles died along with 
Jack, plunging Mulder and Scully into darkness lit only by 
occasional flickers of gold lightning, a hollow reminder of Jack 
Cooper's brutal life. 

"Mulder," Scully said, her words rushed with a need to see him, 
to touch him and check him, to make sure that he was safe and 
that she had been able to save him. She knelt beside him and 
brushed damp hair from his forehead, instantly looking at the 
burns encircling his neck like a charred garland. "Oh, Mulder..." 
Gently, her skilled fingers touched the outer rings of the burns, 
instantly feeling guilty when he sucked in his breath from pain. 

"It's okay," he whispered tightly. "They hurt like a bitch, but 
I'll be alright." Scully shook her head, reaching for his hands, 
looking at the blistering skin peeling from his knuckles and from 
the backs of his hands. The skin had once been golden and tanned, 
like bronze stroking her in the middle of a humid summer's night, 
and now they were red and purple from the burns he had suffered. 

"You need medical attention, Mulder," Scully murmured, her 
fingers passing over his burned hands gently and softly, 
carefully probing at the wounds in the darkness. It was difficult 
to discern just how severe the burns were in the shadows and 
umbra of the darkened marina, but she knew how bad they could get 
without treatment. 

He lifted his wounded hands to her burned shoulders, tenderly 
touching the burns with the backs of his own blistered hands. 
"You need attention too, Scully," he murmured, frowning at the 
severity of her injuries. 

A howl of wind sounded from outside, and Scully sucked in her 
breath. "Shit," she muttered, quickly getting to her feet and 
helping Mulder get to his. The boards and windows rattled with 
the force of Becky's breath, and she heard rain slamming at the 
windowpanes with intense force. "What time is it, Mulder?" 

The Indiglo light on his watch lit up like a little circle of 
deep purple, lending the room a meager amount of illumination as 
he looked at the hands on his watch. "8:03 PM, he reported, and 
Scully closed her eyes, pained by how little time they had before 
the entire city crumbled before Becky. 

"We've got to get out of here, Mulder," Scully said, grabbing his 
wrist instead of his hand and looking him straight in the eye. 
"In less than four hours, this hurricane's gonna make landfall, 
and you and I are gonna be trapped right here on the riverside if 
we don't get to MUSC *now*." 

As if to punctuate the urgency of her message, the wind slammed 
against the building in a low growl, and the two both felt the 
walls of the marina shudder and shake as the wind gusted into a 
charred streak of rage. "All right," Mulder said, touching her 
face with his unburned fingertips. "Let's get out of here." 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 

***** 

Hurricane Becky 
Charleston, South Carolina 
August 19, 1999 

***** 

As the sun set in the distance, masked by an impenetrable mass of 
cobalt clouds, the remaining citizens of Charleston began 
watching as Hurricane Becky began pummeling the coast with a 
barrage of extreme winds and thrashing rain, unleashing a 
meteorological fury never seen on the United States coast before. 
The lights flickered inside of their homes as curious and 
courageous people watched the storm arrive through their boarded- 
up windows, and shudders shook against the houses as the first 
squalls started beating against the coast. 

The waves started battering against the shores, drowning the 
dunes and causing the tides to run so high that they crept onto 
the streets, flooding the roads and seeping into cars. The 
furious waves began beating at the beachfront property, and at 
9:00, the first house succumbed to the storm and sank into the 
ocean, wood splintering and glass shattering as the Atlantic 
devoured it whole. 

The myriad of television crews from all across the country, from 
a local station to CNN, had been watching the skies darken with 
clouds and the first droplets of rain began falling. But when the 
winds began tugging at the tarps and one crew lost their camera 
to the furious seas, they retreated into the mainland, running 
away fearfully from the fury of the storm. These were men who had 
witnessed wars atop roof buildings and who had seen presidents 
resign, and all were humbled before the great equalizer of man - 
nature. 

House siding was stripped away from the grand mansions of 
Charleston, and ancient shudders were torn off like dragonfly 
wings, just as brittle as paper. One television team caught 
images of a rocking horse flying through the air with the ease of 
dried leaves, and another showed a minivan floating down the 
flooded streets of Folly Beach. The most devastating image came 
when an amateur cameraman caught footage of the beautiful Folly 
Pier collapsing into the ocean like a sacrifice falling to its 
knees. Everything was crumbling, disintegrating, and the storm 
had only begun rearing its ugly head. 

And in the middle of it were Scully and Mulder. 

Struggling against the roaring wind, the two made their way from 
the hell encased in the Charleston City Marina, rain pelting 
their skin like liquid needles. Scully's hand wrapped around 
Mulder's upper arm, and his other arm was threaded around her 
waist, securing the two to each other as they tried to stay 
afoot. The wind blew from all around, pushing them one way one 
minute and another way the next, and the rain was a constant, 
drowning enemy. 

And then there were the floodwaters... 

With a gasp, Scully struggled to maintain her footing as she 
waded through water that was knee-high for her. She gasped and 
turned her head downward, trying to shield her eyes from the 
driving rains and wind. Everything was darkened by storm clouds 
and night, covered with a thick adumbration and obscured by the 
storm's rage. Becky had arrived with a vengeance, screaming at 
the coast with an unexpected but damning anger. As Scully trudged 
through the floodwaters, her burned shoulders aching from the 
constant barrage of rain, she could not help but feel heartsick, 
thinking of the murky water pouring onto the floors of the old 
homes she had grown to love. 

Mulder's hand tightened around her waist as another gust of wind 
shot through the night, keeping her steadied and anchored to him 
as the squall ripped around them, whipping her sodden hair into a 
frenzied tumble of dark vermilion, and the short strands slapped 
him in the face. "Jesus Christ," Mulder muttered, and his words 
were stolen from his body and scattered into the destroyed night. 
Everything was deafened and dwarfed by the constant battery of 
weather, as though they were standing in the middle of a giant 
motor. 

As soon as the gust died down, an even more vicious one rose, 
slamming Scully and Mulder backwards until they were thrown into 
the floodwaters, saltwater seeping into their fresh burns with a 
pain that was bitingly brutal. With a gasp, Scully rose her head 
from the water, eyes wide and startled from the sheer force of 
the wind. "God!" she heaved, struggling for breath, and then a 
loosened palmetto frond slapped her in the side of her face, 
gashing her cheek with a bright streak of deep red. Surprised, 
she raised her hand to her face and came away with fingers 
dripping dark sanguine. 

"Scully!" Mulder said, and she turned her face, her palm cupping 
her wounded cheek and her fingers touching the bridge of her 
nose, feeling the blood drip down her face. 

"We're not going to make it to the hospital!" Scully yelled, her 
voice rising over the whip of the wind. "We need to get indoors! 
Now!" She could see debris larger than palmetto fronds flying 
through the air, and at this speed, a soda pop bottle could kill. 
"Come on!" 

Linking hands, the two ran through the waters, trudging through 
the city until the floodwater leveled out and they could walk, 
but the wind was rising with every passing minute. There was no 
hope of reaching MUSC before the storm arrived, and barely enough 
to hope for somewhere to stay during the storm's rampage through 
Charleston. 

A strong-looking blue house sat on the corner, towering over the 
street with Greek columns and boarded-up windows. "There!" Mulder 
yelled, taking her arm and pulling her along with him as the two 
headed toward the house. Mulder pulled a small metal tool from 
his jacket pocket and broke the lock on the house, running inside 
and quickly ushering Scully inside, pulling the door shut behind 
them. 

Shadows were draped over the house along with tarps and sheets in 
a futile attempt to protect antique furniture from rain and wind. 
It was as though ghosts had inhabited the house and were lounging 
in every corner. Shivering from being soaked to the skin, Scully 
looked around the house, her damp hair hanging in her eyes in 
sodden brambles of crimson. The walls did not buffer the sound 
outside, and the roar of the endless wind still pushed and raged 
against the house, but it was safe. Things were safe. 

With a sigh, Scully sank onto the covered couch, closing her eyes 
and breathing heavily. She heard Mulder rustling in the 
background, but let him tend to his business. She needed to rest. 
A chill had settled into her bones and blood, and she wrapped her 
arms tightly around herself, clenching her teeth and biting back 
the burning pain in her blistered shoulders. Everything seemed to 
hurt, from her heart to her skin, and she was exhausted by 
everything that had happened to her in less than a week. The 
murders, her lover, her other life, her abduction, and now the 
hurricane... It was as though she was merely a container of 
water, and every event was a hole poked inside of her, releasing 
fluid until she was drained and empty. 

A cool washcloth gently ran down the jagged cut on her cheek, and 
the motion was so comforting and soothing that Scully sighed, 
giving herself over to Mulder's attentiveness. "Thanks," she 
murmured, and he swiped at her nose with the washcloth in reply. 
Typical. Scully opened her eyes and arched her eyebrow at him, 
carefully tucking in the corners of her mouth so not to smirk, 
but she was secretly grateful for the brief lighthearted moment. 
Their night was not finished yet, not by far. 

She opened her eyes to find Mulder's concerned face hovering over 
hers, brow furrowed in concentration and skin laced in warm 
candlelight. The room was beginning to fill with the pleasant, 
summery smells of lemon, lime, and orange peel as various citrus- 
scented candles sat on the coffee table. "I found them in a 
closet," Mulder explained. "Someone did their preparatory 
shopping." 

"Bravo," Scully mumbled, relinquishing herself to Mulder's soft, 
cautious touch. "Did you find anything else?" 

He nodded, the washcloth gliding down her features. "This 
washcloth and a first-aid kit," he said. Scully let her eyes 
wander away from his to glance at the small tin box filled with 
medical supplies. She leaned forward and rifled through the box, 
using their medical needs as an excuse to take her mind off of 
what had happened earlier. 

Frowning, Scully leaned forward to examine his red-lit face, 
lifting her hands to the burns on his throat. The edges of his 
shirt collar had been burned as though an iron had been left on 
them too long, and she winced in synchrony with him at the sight 
of the burns. "They're not as bad as I thought," Scully murmured, 
"only first degree. He didn't get his hands on you long enough to 
do anything other than give you something that, oddly enough, 
resembles a steam burn. A scalding." 

Mulder frowned, his jaw tense with the pain of how delicate and 
sensitive the burns were. "Bet it'll still scar," Mulder said, 
and Scully sadly smiled. 

"Funny," she murmured. "Our first scars." 

Neither one of them wanted to comment on that. 

Scully sighed, pushing back her wet hair onto her head, running 
through the tangled tumble of soaked ruby until it regained some 
sort of order, and she felt the small burn on the back of her 
neck shriek from the motion. "Ouch," she muttered, and Mulder 
turned to her, his eyes a concerned jumble of verdant honey. 

"You okay?" he asked, and Scully nodded. 

"Yeah, I've just got a burn on the nape of my neck," she said. 
Gently, avoiding the larger burns on her upper arms, Mulder 
turned her around, his tapering fingers brushing back her 
dripping carmine hair until the burn was exposed to him. 

"It's not bad," he murmured, examining it. "Just about the size 
of a dime. Jesus, how the hell did you get this one, Scully?" 

The blistering hunger and holocaust of Jack Cooper's kiss still 
lingered on her lips and she felt her mouth burn from the memory 
of his looting lips on hers. Her taste buds were still numb from 
the scorching embrace, and Scully longed to rid herself of that 
memory for the rest of her life. "You were unconscious," Scully 
said, and the bitterness in her voice told him that she would not 
elaborate further on her experience. 

A loud crack of debris hitting the house startled the both of 
them, and once they realized what had happened, they both 
relaxed. Warily, Mulder wished that there was a way to look out 
the windows, but the plywood nailed to the house prevented all 
sight. Running a hand through his mussed and damp hair, he sighed 
and closed his eyes. "This isn't the safest place for us, 
Scully," he muttered, and Scully laughed shortly in agreement. 
But where else could they go? The winds were intensifying by the 
minute and the rainwater had flooded the streets. MUSC was too 
far away, and even then there was no guaranteed protection. 

He heard a soft puff of air and then smelled the soft, husky 
scent of smoke and burned wick, and opened his eyes to see her 
blowing out the candles. "What are you doing?" he asked, and 
Scully tossed him a wry glance while crossing the room to a 
tangerine-scented candle perched on a dresser. 

"Would you like a fire to go along with that hurricane, Mulder?" 
she pointed out, and he conceded her point. Placing her hands on 
her thighs, Scully bent down and lowered her lashes, pursing her 
lips and prepared to snuff out the final candle. 

For a moment, he was caught by how different she was from the 
cold, frosty coroner he had encountered in the morgue on that 
first day. There was a soft benevolence on her face now; her 
eyelashes drooping over her soft cornflower eyes and her mouth 
stained the sweet color of raspberries in the firelight. Her hair 
glowed like damp silk, one slice of sanguine hair escaping the 
smooth helmet of ruby and falling across her cheek. This Dana 
Scully was a different woman, beautiful but tainted, as though a 
small part of her had been chipped at from the ordeal of the past 
week. 

Then a sigh fell from her lips and the flame died out, plunging 
her profile into thick umbra, wisps of smoke unfurling to wind 
around her face like moving lace. Silently, aching for the damage 
he had already done to her, Mulder stood up and walked into the 
kitchen, thirsty from the chase and needing to take a breath of 
air to contemplate all that he had done and all that he had been 
foolishly willing to do. 

He had been prepared to destroy her. 

The ceaseless wind refused to surrender, wailing at the windows 
and whipping around the house, the gusts shrieking like banshees 
and causing the house to shudder. The pounding rain was 
ridiculously loud, and Mulder wished for some sort of quietude in 
the middle of it. But he had nothing; nothing but darkened 
corners in a foreign house perched on the merge of two large 
tidal rivers. 

Mulder raked his hands through his hair, undoubtedly sending the 
damp brown spikes into an unruly frenzy, and leaned against the 
counter of the kitchen. Good God... All that had gone on 
tonight... And the horrible truths that a madman and a murderer 
had uttered, with the clarity of a psychologist and the cruelty 
of a vicious killer... Not to mention the truths that he had 
realized on his own, while watching a woman he had loved in two 
lifetimes extinguish a candle by simply exhaling. 

Scully had almost died tonight. She had been left at the hands of 
a murderer, a man who could burn with a simple touch, and had not 
come away entirely unscathed, mentally or physically. She had 
been targeted and taken, abducted and almost murdered, and it was 
only by the hand of God that they both survived the ordeal alive. 
It was their cruel lot in life, always traveling through Hell but 
never being allowed the luxury of Death. God, fate, destiny... No 
entity was ever so kind as to allow their constant misery to end. 

Before tonight, he'd only had a handful of memories from a life 
that was not really his to illustrate that to him. Vicariously 
living through another Fox Mulder's grief was difficult, but 
experiencing it firsthand was absolutely anguishing. Seeing her 
bound, bleeding, crying, and all because of him, was 
heartbreaking. Every ideal he'd held about the life that his 
Other self had led with the X-Files and his self-possessed 
partner had been shattered. Naivete destroyed. It was not a noble 
crusade, a quest where the sacrifices could be difficult but 
manageable. It was horrifyingly real, where layers of the self 
were broken with every passing day. 

And less than twenty-four hours ago, he had stood before her and 
called her a coward for not wanting to live that kind of life. 

How could he ask that of her? How could he possibly have thought 
it noble or courageous to be burned by psychopathic mutants or be 
genetically altered and experimented upon by a governmental 
conspiracy cloaked in shadows? Oh, how exotic and alluring it all 
seemed from a distance, but tonight he'd tasted its substance and 
knew it to be something real and not grounded in fantasy. All of 
his counterpart's actions, his protectiveness of his partner and 
his fears and anguish surrounding all he had done to her, were 
now understood. He knew now why the Other Mulder had harbored 
feelings for her but kept them encased in his heart, wishing that 
she would leave but still yearning for her loyalty. She was the 
best of him, and as much as he loved her, he couldn't stand to 
see her damaged. And that Scully was much more than merely 
damaged... In so many ways, she had been ruined. 

Covering his face with his hands, the Mulder who had lived a life 
of self-punishment for twenty-seven years gave himself yet 
another penalty to suffer: he would have to let her go because of 
his crime of falling in love with her. This was a woman who was 
too exceptional to be mangled by the life he had to lead. Mulder 
knew that he loved her; the evidence of that was the clawing 
anguish that tore his heart into ribbons and threw them into the 
hurricane, raw and bleeding. But he also knew that his love was 
destructive. 

Everyone close to him had fallen because of it, and he couldn't 
wish that fate on the woman who meant more to him than any other 
human being alive. The Other Mulder had known this too, but he 
had been too much in love with her and too attached to be without 
her. Breathing became difficult, like trying to inhale water, but 
this Mulder had a small advantage - he had only known her for a 
matter of days. He could still detach himself from her, run from 
her, and force himself to separate from her so that she could be 
safe. The Other Scully would have called this the ultimate ditch. 
He knew that this one would just smile sadly and call it fate. 

A soft expulsion of breath interrupted his mental torment, and he 
opened his eyes, uncovering his face to see her standing there, 
draped in shadows and wielding a small flashlight. "We need to 
clean our wounds," Scully said softly, and he nodded mutely. An 
awkwardness had settled over them, concealing the best of them, 
and Mulder knew why. They had already said their good-byes at the 
house earlier that morning, trying to let go, and now they were 
both reunited for the duration of this storm. Nowhere to run now. 

The wind bellowed from outside, shaking the house as it slammed 
through the city, but he ignored the hurricane for a moment, 
turning all of his attention over to the slender, precise redhead 
twisting on the faucet. The water ran cool and clear, and Scully 
dipped a clean washcloth under the nozzle. Beads of moisture ran 
down her hands in rivulets, making her skin glisten like a fresh 
peach, and he longed to touch her. But touching her suddenly 
seemed wrong, unfounded, as though he had signed away all rights 
to her body by kissing her goodbye this morning. And he shouldn't 
touch her. Shouldn't want her. Not when he would have to leave 
her. 

"You'll need to take off your jacket and shirt," Scully said, her 
voice not carrying one hint of sexuality. She was the doctor, 
cool and reserved, preparing to treat an injured patient. But 
there was something about those damp hands that touched him in a 
very raw place, arousing him in spite of his reservations and the 
restrictions he had placed on himself. Every simple motion that 
she made, every indiscriminate gesture, was alluring and 
inviting, all because it was her. 

Quietly, hoping that the darkness would mask the beginning 
erection in his pants, Mulder stripped to the waist and looked 
down at her. She had paused, stealing a moment to drink him in, 
and he watched as her eyes trailed down his body, like little 
footprints of flame igniting his nerves. That lingering gaze, 
nothing more than a stolen glance, hurt more than any of the 
burns on his body. So she did love him. She had fallen in love 
with him. God, how he wished that she hadn't. How he wished that 
none of this had happened in the first place. 

A burning pain sizzled in his arm, and he hissed as Scully 
dragged the washcloth over his wound, searing and irritating the 
already flaming burn. Droplets of water and liquid dripped down 
his chest, and Mulder hissed in pain. "Sorry," Scully murmured. 
"It's really not as bad as I thought it was. It looked worse back 
at the marina." 

"Well, it feels pretty bad," Mulder remarked, and she snorted 
softly. She was sure it did. 

"What was it that we saw back there, Mulder?" she murmured, her 
voice soft and disturbed. "Jack Cooper... What he did..." Her 
lashes covered her aquamarine eyes, heavy with the weight of her 
concern and her fear of all that she had seen. Instantly, regret 
poured through his body like fresh wine, a new wound that he 
could add to the others he had collected on this night. The solid 
science that this Scully carried, her infallible knowledge and 
confidence in the world, had been greatly shaken. The Other 
Mulder had always regretted taking that part of her away and 
replacing it with nothing more than a slim shadow of truth, and 
now Mulder felt the same anxiety sweep over him like a 
hurricane's gust. 

"I can't tell you what we saw," Mulder said honestly, looking 
down at her confused, shattered eyes cautiously and carefully. 
"Drawing conclusions from the experience we just had would take a 
vast amount of scientific research, and maybe we'll understand it 
after recovering the body-" 

"We won't." Her words were short, sharp, and harsh, and Mulder 
was startled by the bitterness behind them. A wry look sparked in 
her eyes when she saw the surprise on his face, and she twisted 
her mouth in a dry smile. "The fact of the matter is that Jack 
Cooper's body will probably be lost when the storm surge comes. I 
doubt we will ever be able to perform an autopsy or find a 
scientific basis for what we experienced." 

Copper shot through her hair as she bowed her head, and Mulder 
lifted his hand, rifling through her damp locks with a touch that 
sent her skin tingling, warming her in spite of the chill that 
had set in from the cold rain and water outdoors. His fingertips 
sloped down until he cradled her cheek with his palm, his thumb 
tracing the bridge of her nose lovingly, memorizing her very 
structure and being. This was the basis of Scully, her 
construction and her very core. The softness of her skin, so 
light and warm, colored cream and indigo by the night and shadow, 
was as soft as velvet underneath his rougher, callused 
fingertips, and he realized that this, this slight slip of 
vulnerability, was the essence of Scully. The hope and the hurt, 
the tiredness and the tenacity, the bravery and the beauty, all 
existed in that little strip of skin. 

"I'm so sorry, Scully," he murmured, his voice caught on the 
emotion of his words and tripped up by the simple beauty of her 
very existence. "I wish... I wish that you hadn't had to go 
through all of this. You don't deserve it." His words faded into 
a whisper, and she strained to hear them. "You deserve more." 

Scully's face tightened with sadness and empathy, lifting her 
hand to trace his exposed collarbone. "What's wrong, Mulder?" she 
murmured, soft concern and confusion residing inside the hollows 
of her words. 

It was strange, how she had come so far in a week. In the 
beginning, set in the harsh sterility of an autopsy lab, she 
thought that he held no emotion or expression, but now she knew 
that every nuance of his face held a different shade of passion. 
A hue of gold could enter his eyes and change him from impassive 
to aroused. A tug of his mouth could reveal secret amusement. Or 
a soft tremor in his hands, just like the soft tremble she felt 
now, exposed how very overwhelmed by life itself he could 
sometimes be. 

"Do you regret this, Scully?" he asked, his other hand now rising 
to rest on her upper arms, carefully avoiding the tender and 
burned patches of skin. "This entire week, from meeting to 
leaving... Do you wish that it had never happened? That you never 
knew all of what happened in that other world, that your science 
or self hadn't been challenged or that your very world hadn't 
been damaged?" When she did not speak, Mulder did, his voice 
pained and darkened by grief. "Well, I wish that for you, Scully. 
I wish you'd never known me." 

The violence in her reaction startled him and almost scared him. 
Angry, hurt, betrayed and dismayed... She was all of these 
things, embodied in a slender lick of a woman topped by a crown 
of damp red, pushing him backward and glaring at him with more 
anguished passion than fury. "Don't *say* that," Scully raged, 
pain contorting her face into a twist of agony. "Whatever you 
say, don't *ever* say that. I was *dead* before I met you, 
Mulder. Dead to the world and dead to myself. I felt nothing, 
lived nothing. I was so shut off and closed off that I couldn't 
do anything but keep breathing, and God, how hard it was to even 
do that sometimes." 

"At least you were breathing," Mulder said, his voice now taut 
and frayed with emotion. "Christ, Scully, you almost *died* 
tonight! Don't you understand that? That none of this would have 
happened if it wasn't for me?" 

A proud, dignified clench of her jaw showed him how furious that 
statement made her. "Has it ever occurred to you, Mulder, that I 
have a mind and a will of my own?" she spat, her vehemence 
punctuated and pungent as she glared at him. "You know that I 
chose to stay with you. I chose to be with you. I'm not some 
mindless puppet, selflessly and mindlessly following you like you 
were the Pied Piper leading me to a cliff. I trusted you and I 
fucking *love* you - so don't take blame that isn't yours to 
take." 

It was a statement made from the hearts of both women - a 
passionate declaration of independence and of deep, undying 
affection for two men built of the same fiber and finery. 
Hoarsely, he whispered his last argument to her. "I only want the 
best for you," he confessed, and Scully's face softened, her 
anger draining and her heart aching. 

"God, Mulder, you *are* the best for me," she whispered, her 
heart aching. The bright gold of the cross necklace she had given 
him suddenly glinted, catching a bright flicker of lightning from 
outside, and Scully hooked her finger through the chain, smiling 
softly. "When I gave this to you, I gave it to you as a token of 
faith. Something you could take with you to keep you strong 
throughout the years. Yet it's not just a suggestion that you 
should keep faith - it's a reminder of the faith that I have in 
you." Mulder was shocked at the first glimmering of tears in her 
eyes - how rare and beautiful to see Scully moved enough to cry. 
"You're the best thing I've ever known, Mulder. The person who 
brought me back to life. And there is nothing within you that 
could ever hurt me - you're the person I have placed my faith 
in." 

Everything inside of him, every fear and every piece of guilt, 
crumbled and fell, and Mulder leaned forward, fervently and 
thoroughly kissing her, his hands wrapped around her neck and his 
mouth hungrily devouring hers. She was so wonderful, so 
powerfully beautiful, that she drowned him, but living underwater 
with a woman like her was exceptional in and of itself. Startled, 
she softly responded, and when the kiss broke, he smiled at her 
and said the two words that undid her. 

"Thank you." 

Linking her arms around his neck, carefully avoiding the burns on 
his neck, Scully turned his head down and ravished his mouth with 
a kiss that burned brighter than any lightning-inspired form of 
heat. It seared away the layers of anguish and agony that had 
formed tonight, incinerating everything but the heart of the 
matter - how fate had brought them together but life was tearing 
them apart. //There is no such thing as perfection,// Scully 
thought as she burned inside of his mouth. //Perfection exists 
only in the confines of heaven, and here on earth, we only burn 
from wanting it...// 

A soft, sorrowful sigh tumbled from her mouth as she realized 
that this was only a stolen moment, a minute spent in ecstasy as 
the world literally crumbled around the both of them. She 
tightened her arms around him, hungrily enrapturing him with her 
tongue and teeth, memorizing how his mouth tasted and the way he 
kissed, like he was reading Braille with his tongue. It was so 
intimate; this fire between them, like a slender candle that only 
warmed the two of them. "God," she whispered, pleading with 
anything and anyone that this moment could last forever, tangled 
up in his embrace and kept safe from the hells of the world 
falling around them. Defy the Apocalypse and defy Fate itself - 
she would live here and write her own future. 

A screaming tear of wind shrieked outside, and the entire house 
shuddered around them, shaking and quaking as the wind 
intensified and screamed. Shocked, the kiss was shattered by the 
sudden potency and ferocity of the winds outside, the two 
separated and looked down at the floors. Everything shook, from 
both around and beneath them, and a low, growling roar began. 
"What the hell is that?" Mulder muttered, his mouth dry from 
lingering hunger and beginning fear. 

Another burst of wind whipped around the house, and Scully jumped 
back as she heard and *felt* something being ripped off of the 
house. "Jesus!" she exclaimed, and light burst in through a 
window in the living room. The plywood had been torn off by the 
wind, literally cleaved from the house. 

Tightly, she grabbed his wrist and looked him in the eye. "We 
have to get somewhere safe," Scully said, her voice tight with 
fear and tension. "The hurricane's *here*." 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 

***** 

Hurricane Becky 
Charleston, South Carolina 
10:13 PM, August 19, 1999 

***** 

It was like being caught in a freight train engine shaking in the 
epicenter of an earthquake. Sensation shook around the entire 
city, setting the foundations of solid homes quaking and 
literally shattering houses. The wind crept in through cracks in 
windows or through tiny crevices, and swirled around until the 
pressure was so great that a house would explode, leaving nothing 
but splintered bits of wood and stone. Trees fell silently, their 
crash drowned out by the constant roar of the hurricane, and it 
was a screaming so loud and senseless that it seemed to be 
unending. Minutes passed like hours and the world crumbled so 
very quickly... 

The wind crashed against the window as Scully and Mulder raced 
through the house, seeking a closet or a bathroom, somewhere 
where they could wait out the storm. "There!" he yelled, his 
voice being tossed about and lost in the swelling sound of the 
storm. He pointed to a small, darkened room, arching his 
flashlight beam in that direction. Gritting her teeth, Scully ran 
with him to the small room. 

It was nothing more than a linen closet, barely able to hold 
them, but it was safer than the outer structure. Ducking under 
the door, Mulder followed her inside, slamming the door shut 
behind them. A muffled sort of bellowing continued moaning from 
outside, and the floors shook beneath them. "This is what it's 
supposed to be like," Scully whispered, her words lost in the 
constant melange of sound and quaking. "Oh, God..." 

She had read the literature, done the research, but there was 
nothing like a firsthand experience to teach the absolute truth, 
and the truth was that she was terrified, huddled in the closet 
and clutching Mulder's wrist for dear life. Everything was so 
*loud*, so loud that it was deafening, and the sound of her 
rapidly beating heart was suffocated by sound as she scrunched 
into the corner, trying to make room for Mulder's lean and lanky 
body. 

Wincing, he folded himself into the small space with her, their 
flashlights dancing across the slanted ceiling in a pattern of 
circular glowing blue. "Jesus Christ," Mulder muttered, and he 
couldn't even hear himself over the roar of the hurricane's 
raging winds. He laid the flashlight on the floor and put on his 
shirt and jacket, tucking his necktie into his trouser pockets. 
Quickly, Mulder reached up and procured a peach-colored sweater 
from the linen rack, passing it to her and gesturing for her to 
wear it. She only wore the thin cream-colored spaghetti-strapped 
top, and it was soaked heavy and cold with water. She couldn't 
get sick. 

Gratefully, Scully tugged the too-big sweater over her head, and 
tendrils of disarrayed cerise flopped in her face like wet 
threads. She gasped as the house trembled beneath them, and her 
hand reached out to grip Mulder's shirt, clutching him to her as 
the convulsion continued, widening her eyes. //This is it,// she 
thought fearfully. //This is the way the world ends...// 

The low roar of the hurricane's winds moaned around them, 
growling like a lion and pouncing like a tiger. Frightened, she 
scrambled closer to him, and he drew her up, terrified himself. 
He rarely liked to admit fear and neither did she, but there was 
an element at work here that they could not control or defeat. 
Defeat was, in fact, impossible. There was nothing to stop the 
assault of Hurricane Becky, and she would rip the city to shreds 
before the night ended. All they could do was huddle in this 
closet and pray to some sort of God that they would survive. That 
they would walk away from all of this alive. 

Everything *shook*, like the house itself was breaking to pieces. 
It was like being captured in glass, slowly shattering glass. She 
could hear the splintering, feel the fragmentation, breaking into 
pieces all around her, and this was ground zero. Holding onto him 
and screaming as the house shuddered and shook, Scully tightened 
into herself, her muscles and bones drawing out into long lines 
of lean, taut skin. "MULDER!" she yelled, and he grabbed onto her 
for dear life, wrapping himself around her in a desperate attempt 
to cover her with himself as rain mercilessly pounded and the 
wind howled like a banshee. 

Then it all ceased, slowing, not to silence or even rage, but 
just... It lost the intensity. The force. The gust had passed, 
and the house had survived another powerful squall. 

"Is it over?" Mulder gasped, his voice finally regaining some 
volume, and Scully sighed, tired and trembling from the close 
call that they had just experienced. 

"Far from it," she murmured. "These storms... They can last for 
hours on end. Hours." Sighing from the exhaustion and exertion of 
holding on, so tense and taut, she crumbled up next to him, her 
eyes closing and her breathing slowing. 

The closet was not a large place at all. It was more of a lean- 
to, slanting drastically from the floor to the ceiling like a 
right triangle. Stacks of various blankets, towels, and old 
clothes were placed in the little closet, leaving very little 
floor room for two adults, no matter how compact one of those 
adults might have been. Mulder was crammed himself into the 
corner, ducking his head underneath the low ceiling and bunching 
his knees up, wrapping his arms around them. Scully's fingers 
clutched his shirt, balling the fine material into a damp ball of 
fabric, and he let her. Softly, so not to startle her, he wrapped 
a hand in her moist red hair, the threads dampened and darkened 
into a mass of mulberry in the shadowed light of the closet. "You 
okay, Scully?" he murmured, and she nodded, leaning her head on 
his shoulder. 

"I'll be fine," she whispered, in the soft tone of a woman who 
had just witnessed death and narrowly avoided it. 

Another screeching gale tore through the world, and Mulder 
bunched her up into his arms yet again. She appreciated the 
warmth of his body and the languid gestures of his hands; of how 
tender and kind he was while comforting her fears. She wished 
that she knew what was going on outside and yet dreaded seeing 
the city in the calmer light of day. Everything that she loved 
about it, from the long, slender steeples to the pastel houses on 
Rainbow Row, were going through the same agony that she felt all 
around her, and she knew that not everything would survive 
tonight. In fact, there would be very little left indeed. 

The gale passed, and she relaxed. "Jesus, Scully, you're 
practically shaking," Mulder commented, and she closed her eyes. 
He knew nothing, had listened to none of the accounts of 
surviving hurricanes that she had heard. Hurricane Hugo stories 
were the most common tales told in the Lowcountry, where memories 
of huddling up in closets or clinging to furniture, crying, were 
universal. She had listened attentively, creating clear mental 
pictures, bringing these accounts to life and wishing that she 
had never heard them. 

"You haven't read the things I've read," she murmured into his 
jacket lapel, the peach-colored sweater swallowing her slender 
body in its light cream depths. "You have no idea how close we 
are to death itself." 

But as the night endured, he gained a larger gleaning. A *very* 
large gleaning indeed. 

The city of Charleston had always been extremely connected, as 
most small cities are. The downtown area was the heart, and every 
other section was an artery pumping forward from it, like the 
Barrier Islands of Kiawah, Folly, and Seabrook, or the suburban 
areas in West Ashley or Mt. Pleasant. All were interlaced with 
the same rivers, the same tidal flows, and all were connected by 
a series of bridges and roadways. These were only the physical 
ties, stretching throughout the extended city of Charleston, and 
the physical connections were nothing in comparison to the 
metaphysical ones - the ties that truly do bind. 

As Hurricane Becky made her ferocious assault on the city, these 
connections slowly broke, tethers snapping and veins slitting, 
bleeding over the city in a slowly rising tide of the Southern 
city's lifeblood. 

What had begun with only one house falling into the ocean now 
became an entire cluster of million-dollar homes crumbling into 
the ravenous Atlantic, blisters of boards scattering along the 
rocks lining the beaches. Fearful evacuees watched footage from 
television sets, holding hands and crying as the realization that 
their city had been forever changed finally dawned. 

But dawn was a long ways away. The clouds that covered the night 
sky and the swollen moon would not shift from foreboding black to 
lighter rose for hours to come. The entire state of South 
Carolina was covered in a concentrated roar of wind and rain, 
pounding the land with fists constructed of liquid wrapped in 
gales. Houses crumbled, trees snapped like twigs, and boats 
tilted and overturned as they yielded to the acrimonious Atlantic 
and its whims. 

And then, as midnight passed, the eye crossed over Edisto Island. 

An eerie silence assuaged the assault, lending a strange, 
supernatural sort of tranquility to the island stretching just 
southwest of Charleston. The island had been evacuated, but there 
was one young couple that had stayed, fearful for the beautiful 
house they had just constructed by the fish market. Against her 
husband's wishes, the pretty young woman who had insisted on 
staying wanted to see the sky, and stepped out onto the back 
porch. 

What she saw was a sky painted in every delicious shade of red 
ever created and some new variations as well. Deep, riveting hues 
of black cherry arched over the sky, and dots of silver starts 
glimmered peacefully at her, assuring her that life would still 
go on. The rich, pregnant moon hung heavily in the deep ruby sky, 
so low and large that it seemed within her grasp. "Oh my, how 
beautiful," the young woman murmured, her eyes wide with rapture 
as they scanned the sky for some sort of hope. 

Instead, a small dinghy that had been sent airborne by the storm 
finally fell from the sky, crashing onto the porch and crushing 
the young bride. Later, they would find her lying there, eyes 
still wide but dull and glassy, and her fingertips still fanned 
out as though she could reach the moon. 

It was the storm's first casualty, but it would not be the last. 

A similar couple held on for dear life as the storm still raged 
around Charleston, for there was no slender halo of peace to pass 
over the ravaged old city. The storm was relentless over the Holy 
City, its torrential rain never ceasing and the howling winds 
refusing to silence. 

His legs were cramping and his head pounded from the anxiety of 
never knowing which gust or gale would destroy the house, but 
Mulder was still alive, and so was the slender redhead tumbled up 
in his arms. Another shrill squall of wind railed around the 
house, wailing and crying, but then it stopped, and there was a 
softness. "What the hell..." Scully murmured, lifting her head 
from Mulder's chest, eyes wide as she took in the darkness of the 
linen closet. With an audible "click", she turned on a flashlight 
and glided the slender beam around, taking in their surroundings. 

"It's not over yet, right?" Mulder asked, his voice breathless 
and ragged from the fear of sitting out this storm. Lank locks of 
red swung around her jaw as she looked around, and she shook her 
head. 

"No," she murmured. "God, I wouldn't think-" 

And then a soft, slow trickling of water interrupted her words 
and struck them both cold with fear. 

The water was unbearably cold and also shallow, just trailing 
languidly underneath the crack in the door and soaking the carpet 
and floor. Scully hissed in her breath, knowing that the worst 
had come and now it was time to react. "It's the surge," she said 
quickly. "We have to get to higher ground - fast!" 

Wide-eyed, Mulder looked down at the half-inch of water beginning 
to pool on the floor of the linen closet, and nodded. "Oh, yeah." 

The entire house was beginning to fill with water, and a fine 
gloss of it covered every inch of the downstairs floor. It was 
not deep, only an inch or so, but it would get deeper as the 
surge began. "Good Christ," Mulder muttered, looking around, and 
Scully tilted her head. There was the oddest sound from outside, 
like a gentle sloshing, as though there was a muffling going on. 
Like all sound was being buffered and they were captured inside 
of a soundproof bottle. 

Slowly, her feet making soft splashes in the rising water, Scully 
approached the window that had lost its board earlier. She could 
hear something through the glass. It was a soft rushing, a gentle 
lapping noise, getting louder and somehow... higher. Frail 
fragments of damp cherry hung in her face, and the oversized 
shoulder of her peach sweater drooped over her shoulder, exposing 
her freckled skin. She couldn't figure it out, what sounded so 
odd and yet soothing against the window. 

Curiosity flooding through her, Scully lifted the flashlight to 
the window... 

Water. 

Water, glowing green and bright, lapping against the window with 
gently sloshing waves, as clear as jade but not crystalline. Her 
eyes widened; words became difficult, as she saw that there was 
debris floating in the water. And one of the pieces of debris was 
the body of a small child, her eyes wide with startled and glassy 
death, blonde hair floating in the water like gold seaweed. And 
the child was rising, ascending, as the water level rose as 
well... 

"Mulder," Scully rasped hoarsely, her fingers shaking as she 
stumbled backwards from the window. 

Mulder was kneeling at the door, stuffing towels and washcloths 
into the crack between the door and the floor. Hearing the 
absolute terror in her voice, he looked up and saw shadows under 
her eyes; her skin had become so white so quickly. Instantly 
concerned, he stood up and went to her, brushing her hair out of 
her eyes with a gentle hand. "Scully?" he murmured softly, and 
then turned his head to the window to look at what had scared 
her. 

And the dead child's eyes stared dully back at him. 

Vomit rose in his throat and he barely swallowed it back, his 
legs shaking. "Oh, *God*," he whispered weakly, and Scully 
suddenly heard the sharp, definite sound of glass splintering. 

"Mulder," she said, her voice intense with urgency. "Get 
upstairs. Now!" 

Another crack appeared in the glass, and Mulder's eyes widened as 
well. "Fuck," he hissed, grabbing her hand and dragging her 
toward the set of spiral stairs. 

As they ran toward the stairs, flashlights sending jagged beams 
of intermittent light around the pale-colored house and water 
slogging around their ankles, the sound of the window cracking 
became louder and louder as the water rose higher. "RUN!" Scully 
screamed, feeling as though she was caught in a nightmare where 
speed became slower and she couldn't outrun the enemy. Everything 
was caught in a freeze-frame of horror, like living in slow 
motion, and she struggled to run up the stairs. 

Then as they got to the midway point of the stairs, the window 
shattered, and a deluge of water flooded into the house with an 
intensity that neither of them could have ever expected. 

The water roared, rushing through the delicate finery of the 
house, tearing wallpaper from the walls and knocking both Mulder 
and Scully to the floor. Mulder stumbled, shocked by the 
brutality of the water and the power of its punch, tumbling down 
the stairs and falling beneath the surface of the rising flood. 

"Mulder!" Scully gasped, turning her flashlight beam back down to 
the flooding second story in desperate hopes of finding her 
partner. Yet all she saw was aquamarine water pouring in from 
every crevice and every crack, filling the first story with clear 
seawater and swallowing everything that had once made the house 
beautiful and unique. Mahogany bookcases filled with antique 
volumes and antebellum diaries tumbled into the lake that had 
once been the first floor of a divine Charleston house, and 
brittle paper floated on the surface of the water, the ink 
running and disappearing. These were relics and treasures that 
once meant everything to Scully, and the old Scully would have 
been heartbroken to see them swallowed by the voracious tide. 

But this woman cared only for the man who had been devoured by 
the floods as well. 

Fear surged through her body, fear and concern for the man she 
had fallen in love with in a small matter of days, as she watched 
the water swirl madly but without being able to discern where her 
lost lover had gone. She couldn't leave him. She couldn't lose 
him here. Terrified, Scully dove into the rapidly moving waters, 
opening her eyes underneath the depths and only finding darkness 
beneath the water's surface. 

The saltwater stung her wounds through the thin and worn sweater, 
but Scully disregarded her discomfort and desperately stroked her 
arms through the waters, trying to grasp at anything that floated 
past her. Her mind painted terrible pictures of dead children and 
books with paper so soaked with water that they would feel like 
sodden skin. But the worst of these images drifting through her 
imagined jumble of death and debris was the image of Mulder, 
floating lifelessly and aimlessly through the waters, his hazel 
eyes drained of their multicolored passion and his skin grayed 
with the unmistakable pallor of death. Oh God, she had to find 
him. 

Then a firm hand gripped her upper arm, the palm searing against 
the burns she had suffered, and dragged her to the surface. 
Scully gasped for air and from fear, and looked straight into 
Mulder's own fearful set of clear green eyes. "Jesus Christ, 
Scully, you scared the shit out of me!" he gasped. "I went under 
but I came back up, and then you were gone... God, I thought-" 

A sharp tug of water pushed at her as she struggled to stay 
afloat, and she cut him off abruptly. "Save it for later," Scully 
said. "We've got to get upstairs!" 

Tightly gripping the other's hand, Scully and Mulder swam through 
the water until they reached the stairs, soaked to the bone but 
not caring as they managed to get to steady ground. The brutal 
wind was now beginning to whip through the house, and Scully 
couldn't deal with that aspect of the storm now. Not when the 
storm surge was pouring through the broken window and the others 
would not be able to hold out through the night. Mud and broken 
dunes were beginning to flood through the waters as well, 
dirtying the formerly clear waters and sending stirred sand to 
the floor of the once beautiful house. Scully felt an aching 
sadness weigh down her sharp fear gnawing at her heart, but she 
could not focus on the sorrow of the wreckage yet. Survival was 
her main locus now. 

The waters chased their feet as they stumbled up the stairs, and 
Mulder made a careful effort not to look behind them. What he 
would have seen would have been a wall of water, swiftly rising 
and quickly overtaking everything in its path, and Mulder and 
Scully were its next target. Scully's cold fingers were twined 
tightly through his, and he led her to a large bedroom at the end 
of the hall, bedecked in rose-colored draperies and satin 
tapestries. "Here," Mulder said, shutting the door tightly behind 
them as they entered the bedroom together. 

Gasping, Scully leaned against the wall, the sweater clinging to 
every curve of her body and her hair hanging in lank locks that 
curled from the humidity and from the tangles and brambles 
forming in her hair. "Oh God," Scully whispered, looking around 
at the gorgeous bedroom that she saw before her. Soft champagne- 
colored wallpaper brocaded with tiny rosebuds hung on the walls, 
and curtains of the finest embroidered lace billowed hauntingly. 
This was the next room that the hurricane would take, the next 
bit of Southern beauty that would crumble to the bottom of the 
ocean. 

Mulder saw her anguish over the destruction of Charleston and 
placed his hands on her face, running his fingers through her 
hair in an effort to tame the wild cloud of drenched cerise. 
"It'll be alright, Scully," Mulder murmured, and then he bowed 
down to lay a soft, tender kiss on her cheekbone, the stubble on 
his chin rasping pleasantly against her soft, damp face. She 
yearned to have that sandpapery touch all over her body, if only 
because it was undoubtedly real and wonderful. 

Then a soft trickling sounded... 

Water rushed underneath the door, and the lovers parted, jumping 
backwards as though the floodwaters were made of acid and not of 
tidal liquid and debris. "Fuck!" Mulder hissed, and Scully ran to 
the window, peering out between the board and the glass to see if 
she could discern how high the surge had become. 

"I can't say how high it is," Scully yelled, "but I think it's 
pretty damn safe to say that we aren't safe here." 

The door began creaking and moaning, and Mulder realized that a 
virtual deluge resided behind the makeshift dam of the door. The 
weight of the water pressing on the other side was actually 
*breaking* down the door, and soon the floods would enter this 
carnation-colored room as well, consuming the room and both of 
its inhabitants. 

Despairingly, Mulder looked up at the ceiling, as though to pray 
to a God he didn't really believe in for mercy. And instead, he 
found a way out. A small rectangular door cut into the ceiling, 
from which a string dangled. An attic. 

"There!" Mulder yelled, jumping up for the string. He caught the 
small gold ball between his fingertips and yanked. Hard. The 
string snapped off and the attic door shuddered, stubbornly 
remaining closed tightly without any give. A knife of fear and 
desolation stabbed his heart, and Mulder felt it bleeding with 
terror. "Oh, *no*..." 

The color drained from her face as Scully stared darkly at the 
door, listening to the pine door groan with the burden of the 
water pushing insistently against it. "This door's not going to 
hold much longer!" Scully yelled, and Mulder gritted his teeth, 
desperately looking around the room for something that he could 
climb on. He had to open the attic door, he *had* to get them 
both to higher ground before the door broke. 

A large cedar dresser was pressed against the far wall of the 
master bedroom, covered with various knick-knacks and a long 
satin roseate cloth. It would be a stretch, but it would do; he 
could climb on top of it and open the attic from there. Mulder 
scrambled across the room and shoved off all of the knick-knacks 
with a brisk sweep of his arm, and the china collectibles 
shattered instantly as they hit the hardwood floor. Mulder went 
to one side and leaned into it with all of his weight, but the 
dresser wouldn't budge. "Goddammit," Mulder cursed, and Scully 
raced across the room to help him. 

The cedar dresser was heavy, *remarkably* heavy, but as the two 
of them worked on it, they made some progress. Throwing her hair 
back so that the tendrils tossed droplets of water onto the 
dresser and onto Mulder, Scully pushed the dresser while Mulder 
pulled, and the water began rising around their ankles as the 
floodwaters crept in underneath the door. The wooden door keened 
and the waters pushed harder, and Scully constantly stared at the 
door, her mouth numb and her heart full of fear. "We've got to 
move faster, Mulder," Scully rasped, and Mulder tugged harder on 
the stubborn dresser. "Hurry... Oh, God, hurry...!" 

Staring fiercely up at the attic door, Mulder grimaced and 
pulled. He was almost there. Thank God, they were almost there... 

And with one last low, moaning growl, the door broke and water 
flooded into the room. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR 

***** 

Hurricane Becky 
Charleston, South Carolina 
12:35 AM, August 20, 1999 

***** 

Gasping, Mulder fell under the waters, dragged under by the force 
of the flood, and Scully stumbled in after him, also pulled under 
by the power behind the waves. She was so caught off guard that 
she found herself screaming underwater, her breath escaping her 
along with her words. Flailing underwater, Scully rose to the 
surface, throwing back her hair and sucking in breath furiously. 
"MULDER!" she screamed, and Mulder surfaced as well, heaving from 
the shock of the surge. 

"SCULLY!" he yelled back, and the two swam toward each other. The 
water was rushing into the room, and Scully found it nearly up to 
her shoulders, while it pooled around Mulder's chest. She wrapped 
her arms around him, pushing her hair back and out of her face 
with her hand while her eyes danced across the room, terrified. 
The cedar chest of drawers had overturned, and Scully bitterly 
wished that it had been so easily maneuverable when they had been 
pushing it toward their safety. 

"The chest turned over," Scully said, her voice loud and rough 
over the roar of the water, which was beginning to rise over her 
shoulders and toward her chin. "What are we going to do?" 

Pained, Mulder looked up toward the ceiling, and a horrible, 
almost hopeless idea came to mind. "We wait," he said. "We wait 
for the water to rise, float to the ceiling, open up the attic 
hatch and get into the attic." Scully's jaw dropped. It was 
probably the stupidest plan she'd ever heard. The water pushed 
and pulled at them constantly, and it was rising so rapidly that 
it would soon be over her head and she would have to tread water. 
And the attic hatch was broken; the string had snapped. That 
meant that they would have to run their fingers along the cracks 
and hope to *God* that they could open it before they drowned... 

"Oh, *God*," Scully moaned, and Mulder pleaded with her with his 
eyes. 

"What other options do we have, Scully?" he asked desperately. 
The water now lapped against her chin and swamped around his 
shoulders, swallowing them both with every passing minute. 
Despondently, she looked around her, feeling herself lose faith 
in ever surviving the hurricane. Then strong hands gripped her 
shoulders, and Mulder looked at her with those incredibly clear 
eyes that had entranced her from first glance and sent her into a 
constant state of rapture for the past seven days. "Trust me, 
Scully. Just trust me." 

Then he kissed her fiercely, ravishing her mouth with his, his 
lips roughly sliding over hers in a kiss that claimed her mouth 
with a savagery sugared with sweetness, and Scully desperately 
responded. This might be the last kiss, the last embrace for both 
of them, for the wind howled and the floods rose, as though God's 
final trial was not through fire as the Bible had prophesied but 
rather through water as it had first been. She felt the world 
liquefying and swallowing her, and the lost foothold to cling to 
was Mulder's fiery kiss. 

Saltwater soured the kiss as it poured over their mouths, and 
Mulder pulled back sharply, glancing down at her with a 
heartbroken expression. Gasping, Scully lifted her head above the 
water, realizing that she could no longer touch the floor without 
the water flooding into her mouth or blocking air through her 
nose. Terrified, Mulder lifted her above him, and Scully wrapped 
her legs around his waist in a position that was incredibly 
intimate but for a dire reason. Threading her arms around his 
neck, Scully was surprised to discover that she had to look down 
to see him. For once she was at the higher vantage point, and she 
found that she was crying. 

"Scully," Mulder whispered, his voice tight and hoarse as the 
water rose over his shoulders. "If this doesn't work..." She 
closed her eyes, cutting him off in an instant. She didn't want 
to think of the inevitable demise they would both meet if their 
timing wasn't precise and exact. Mulder caressed the side of her 
face, fingers lovingly trailing down from her hairline to the 
corner of her mouth. She leaned down and laid a kiss on his 
mouth, and Mulder craned his neck upward to meet her lips with 
his. 

"Shh," Scully whispered, her forehead leaning against his and her 
eyes closed, blinking out the water that was ever swiftly rising. 
"It'll be alright..." 

And then the water was over him too, and he could no longer keep 
her afloat. 

The two parted from their previously entwined position, but 
Scully still held onto his hand to make sure that she wasn't 
separated from him. The water was rising, inching its way toward 
the ceiling, and Mulder looked up at the small rectangle in the 
ceiling with rising fear and desolation. "Come on..." Mulder 
muttered, staring at the ceiling desperately. "Oh, come on..." 

The water rose, bringing them higher, and Mulder reached for the 
attic, his fingertips brushing the ceiling as they treaded water 
for their lives. Scully's mouth was dry as she watched Mulder's 
long arms and fingers reach toward the attic hatch, and the 
floods began pushing them higher, forcing them to near the 
ceiling. "Almost there," he muttered, reaching up again. He 
caught the attic hatch with his fingers, and they frenetically 
started searching for a way to open them before he lost his grip 
again. "Dammit!" 

Scully's head went under and she surfaced again, finding that her 
head now touched the top of the ceiling. "Mulder," she gasped, 
tilting her head back so that she could breathe. "Mulder, 
*hurry*..." 

Mulder frantically tried to get the hatch open, but his fingers 
were slippery and numb from being immersed in the rising waters. 
"Scully, oh, God, I'm trying..." 

As all of this had occurred, the room had been methodically and 
totally destroyed. The pine bed remained underwater, weighted 
down by the thickness of the wood, but its dressings had been 
loosened and now drifted to the water's surface. Marvelous silk 
rosebud sheets wafted elegantly through the water like dusk- 
colored banners tugged this way and that by the undertow swirling 
through the waters. Heavier velvet blankets and drapes tinted the 
color of sunrise also floated through the flooded room, with such 
poignant prettiness that they could take a person's breath away. 

And that is exactly what one drifting roseate cloth did to Dana 
Scully. 

It had fallen from the dresser they had been struggling with and 
had then wafted prettily through the waters, its gold fringe 
rippling like tiny fingers. As Scully kicked her legs to keep 
herself afloat, the slender length of rose had tangled itself 
around her legs until it was twisted around her body, preventing 
her from rising to the surface and breathe. Without making a 
sound, Scully was dragged under, kicking and struggling against 
her beautiful bindings, until her lungs screamed for air and she 
blacked out, becoming another piece of human debris. 

As Scully stopped breathing, the attic hatch opened. 

"Got it!" Mulder cried triumphantly, pulling the hatch open to 
reveal a long ladder that stretched into the watery room. 
Quickly, he turned to find Scully and bring her up, and... 

There was nothing. 

Confused, he looked around him, scanning the shadowy surface for 
the vivacious redhead that had been with him for what seemed like 
aeons. "Scully?" he whispered, his voice twisting and tearing as 
the sound of rushing water drowned him out. When he saw nothing 
and heard nothing in reply, he felt himself swallowing so much 
fear at once that he felt as though he was drowning in it. "Sc... 
Scully?" 

Then three slender, pale fingers bobbed up toward the surface, 
limply cupped into a soft fan, and Mulder watched as they 
lifelessly fell back below the surface, falling towards the 
floor. 

"Oh, God... Scully!" Mulder cried, taking one long breath and 
diving underneath the waters in desperate hopes of saving her. 

Books and broken knick-knacks littered the waters, all blanketed 
by pretty pink blankets and cream-colored woven quilts. Blinking 
through the sting of the saltwater and the grime that drifted 
through the water, Mulder desperately looked for her, for 
anything that could be her, feeling his lungs screaming for air 
and his body tired from his ordeal. But he had to keep going. He 
couldn't leave her in this house, another casualty to the 
hurricane, like some Southern relic left to shatter under the 
force of the tide. So much of hers had been lost this past week 
and during this storm. Mulder couldn't let her lose herself as 
well. 

And God, he couldn't lose her. 

Then an eerie shape drifted past his eyes, and Mulder narrowed 
his eyes, looking at the dawn-colored object that he could not 
identify. Horrified, Mulder began to realize that it was not a 
thing floating softly through the water, but Scully. 

Fine wisps of morning-colored fabric were intertwined through her 
limbs, wrapping through her legs and keeping them tightly 
confined, so that she could not struggle against the thin shreds 
of silk that bound her. A cloud of dark red hair fluttered away 
from her pale face, and Mulder could only discern the brighter 
colors in the dark. He did not know if she was still breathing, 
if her heart was still beating, or if thought still fluttered 
through her mind with the sharp intensity that had always 
belonged to Dana Katherine Scully. All that he knew was that 
Scully was slipping through the aquamarine waters, with the wings 
of an angel hovering around her. 

And he wasn't going to let her go. 

With a gasp, Mulder emerged from the waters, pulling the still 
form of Dana Scully behind him, heaving for precious oxygen as he 
dragged them both up the ladder and into the area he had thought 
to be an attic. It turned out that it was simply a platform with 
another set of stairs leading to another floor, but the 
architecture and structure of this house was not of his current 
concern. What he was worried about was the fact that the redhead 
lying in a tangled mass of bedsheets wasn't breathing. 

"Scully," Mulder gasped, stretching her out on the small platform 
on her back. Lifting her neck back, Mulder tilted his ear to her 
lips, trying to hear for breath. Nothing pushed through her 
mouth. Her pulse was silent when he pressed his fingers to her 
throat. She was... Dead. Scully was dead. //No... Oh, God, 
no...// 

Suddenly, his mind seemed to split, as though he was viewing one 
object with a different object laid over the first, like reading 
a transparency. There was this Scully, lying on the floor in a 
soaking mess of red hair and pink sheets, and then there was her, 
the Other Scully, covered in beads of ice, lying on the floor of 
a spaceship in a soaking mess of red hair and his too-big 
snowsuit. Neither woman was breathing. One had died in an 
Antarctic prison of alien incubation and viruses, and the other 
had died in a room filled with floodwaters in the middle of a 
hurricane. 

Mulder had saved one. He could save this woman too. 

Breathing in deeply, Mulder lowered his mouth to hers and exhaled 
into her, performing the CPR that he had been taught as if his 
life depended on it. The storm roared outside of him, its 
deafening winds as loud and deadly as ever, but the sound of him 
breathing air into Scully's waterlogged lungs was louder than any 
gust or gale. He raised his head and began massaging her chest, 
desperately watching her face for a sign of life. "Please," he 
whispered, feeling his heart fill with fear as she did not move. 
"Oh, Scully, please..." 

And then both women's eyes opened wide, and they both hacked up 
water as they began breathing his breath. 

The Antarctic Scully faded away to the Charlestonian one, and 
Mulder blinked as she coughed up murky-looking saltwater, color 
returning to her cheeks from the exertion of her gagging. Red 
hair flopped in her eyes, brushing against the tip of her nose as 
she hacked and wheezed, and Mulder cupped the back of her neck 
with his hand, smoothing back her soaked hair until her hacking 
stopped. "Scully?" he asked softly, and she gripped his shoulder 
with fingers so tight and strong that he knew she would be all 
right. 

"I'm fine," Scully whispered in a gravely voice, roughened and 
made hoarse from ingesting the silt in the water. "Don't worry 
about me... I'll be okay." Her chest ached and her limbs felt 
weak, and her memory was blanked from when she had been tugged 
under the water's surface until she had coughed up filthy water 
here on a wooden platform. Still coughing, Scully tried to sit 
up, only to be weighted down by the rose cloths that had dragged 
her under and drowned her to begin with. When she realized that 
her murderers still clung insistently to her body, she scrambled 
to tear them off of her; the fine fabric ripping underneath her 
frantic fingers until Mulder agilely removed her silken chains. 
"Christ..." 

"You're going to be fine, Scully," Mulder said reassuringly, 
leaving the sunrise-colored silks in a soft pile on the platform. 
"But I don't know how safe it is here. The water was still-" 

She felt the hatch rumbling beneath her body as she sat there, 
and knew that it would only be a short amount of time before the 
water flowed into this area of the house and tried to drown them 
again. She recalled the tightness in her chest, the burning that 
made her lungs want to explode before being forced to surrender 
to her own demise, and then how everything seemed to tighten and 
explode, and then her memory ceased to exist. She shuddered, 
knowing that she could not go through that experience again, and 
she couldn't let that happen to Mulder. 

But she also knew what was above them... Oh, God, she knew... 

"Mulder, this isn't an attic hatch," Scully slowly said. "It's a 
passageway to a widow's walk." The only way up was out, and going 
outdoors meant trying to brave a storm with sustained winds of 
175mph that was currently in full bloom. Yet their choices were 
limited - definitely die from drowning or maybe die from a 
thousand different things. Placed in that sort of perspective, 
there was no other choice than to climb this last ladder and wage 
the final battle against the hurricane and fate itself. 

Gritting her teeth and ignoring the pains of her tired and 
battered body, Scully sat up and started up the ladder, knowing 
that this was a decision that she could make only for herself. 
She did not know what awaited her on the widow's walk, what sort 
of hell could be screaming outside, but she did know what was 
below her. Drowning in a carefully preserved aquarium of 
antiques... Floating like a lifeless relic of a dying city... 
These were things not meant for Dana Scully. She would fight for 
what she wanted: 

Life. 

As she climbed the ladder to the widow's walk, she heard him take 
the rungs and start climbing as well, always behind her, always 
watching her back, and knew without a doubt that she would never 
fall out of love with him. She would never forget him. Leaving 
him behind was an absurdity, because Mulder would never let her 
ditch him. It was the same as always - chasing after each other 
either physically or emotionally, but always ending up together. 
Always. 

And it should be so in this life, too. 

Wind crept in through the cracks in the small rectangular door 
leading to this house's widow's walk, and Scully hesitated one 
last moment, her hand curling around the handle but not finding 
the ability to open the door. "It's okay, Scully," Mulder said 
softly from below, a hand reaching up to touch her ankle 
reassuringly. Stricken with his sweetness, Scully closed her 
eyes, her lashes beating softly against her cheek as she relished 
the sensation of his fingers sliding over her delicate Achilles' 
tendon. "Just open it." 

Every reservation was thrown to the rough wind as Scully opened 
up the hatch and climbed out onto the widow's walk, Mulder 
steadfastly following her into the great unknown. 

The wind rushed with a violence that literally knocked her over 
as she emerged from the house, and Scully turned her head to help 
Mulder out onto the walk. Rain pelted her body like driving 
needles, pricking her and almost drawing blood. There was no 
light; nothing illuminated the city, and everything was draped in 
a thick shadow of absolute darkness and rain. It was like a wall, 
pushing her as though she weighed nothing more than paper, and 
Scully ducked her head, trying desperately to protect her face 
from the debris flying through the air. 

Mulder stumbled atop her as he struggled to get onto the widow's 
walk, his hands reaching for her in an attempt to balance himself 
and keep himself steady, fingers outstretched for her help as she 
pulled him out. God, how *harsh* the hurricane was, thrusting 
rain into his skin so that it did not only rain, it *stabbed* 
with liquid daggers. And the wind... The sheer force of the wind 
was mind-boggling. He could not speak, could not breathe; he 
could not feel anything but a constant barrage of pain as the 
hurricane raged on. 

The wrath of Becky had come upon them, pounding them with fists 
and clawing at them with watery fingernails, and he was instantly 
soaked in a way that he didn't think possible, so wet and 
miserable, not to mention stinging with pain. Leaves pelted him 
as he struggled to get closer to her, and then the wind began 
pushing at him, as though the wind had its fists jammed in his 
chest and was shoving him backwards. Gasping, Mulder's hands 
anxiously reached out to anything he could grip in an attempt to 
make sure that he could stay atop the widow's walk. 

They both ended up pressed against the balcony railing, 
constantly assaulted by an aquatic army, and Scully gritted her 
teeth, gripping the rails so tightly that she felt the metal 
cutting into her palms. The wind caught the blood that poured 
from her wounds and flew out into the ravaged city, like some 
sort of sacrifice thrown to the wind. Her face contorted in a 
grimace of pain, Scully turned away from the wind, closing her 
eyes and ducking her head. Mulder slid over her, protecting her 
smaller form with his larger body and acting as a human shield 
against the raging wind. 

Tucking her head under his chin, Mulder winced against the 
assault of raindrops on his back, the tiny droplets turning into 
fluid bullets propelled by the force of the wind. He bit his lip 
in an effort to staunch the pain, his burned hands exposed to the 
severity of the assault. She shook underneath him as the 
combination of the cold wind and the harsh weather attacked them 
both, weariness and exhaustion slipping through her body, but 
fear shrilly keeping her from passing out. 

Then a sudden horrid curiosity swam through her system, a need to 
see the storm. The destructive force of hurricanes had fascinated 
her for the past nine years, and here she was, literally sitting 
in the middle of the strongest breed of hurricanes. Her land and 
her life was falling to this beast, and Scully needed to see her 
enemy. Years from now, when all of her memories of Charleston 
were buried deep inside of her heart, she would always wonder at 
what had destroyed it, and she needed to have a visualization of 
Becky's victory over Scully. 

Slowly, cautiously, Scully opened her eyes, her hair whipping 
against her cheek in damp chains of crimson, the oversized 
sweater clinging to the curvature of her body just as Scully 
clung to the widow's walk. She flinched against the raindrops but 
then found herself painfully riveted by the utter havoc that the 
hurricane had created. 

Everything was underwater. 

Water rushed around her, massive waves of seafoam rising from the 
gigantic ocean that had flooded Charleston and swallowed the city 
whole, devouring the pastel walls and consuming the rich, ancient 
oaks that had forever lived on the land. Steeples from churches 
had crumbled into this makeshift sea, and debris washed through 
the streets of the city. Corpses, cradles, cars and clocks... 
There was no distinction and no definition, only shards of 
reality being tossed thoughtlessly through the spinning mass of 
desolation that Becky had created. 

And she knew her house was gone. 

The wind screamed inside of her ears, and she felt them shriek 
with pain, as though she had been deafened by this storm and all 
of its massive anger. She screamed as well, Mulder never hearing 
a word out of her because of the cacophony of sheer volume 
howling around them. She screamed for everything she had lost, 
for everything she was losing, for the very person that she was 
and the way that she had been laid out as a human sacrifice in 
the face of this storm. 

She screamed for the life that she wanted and could never have. 
She screamed for the death of the city that had survived 
everything and anything but could not possibly survive this. She 
screamed for Mulder, for his lost sister and for the tarnished 
parts of him that she could never heal. She screamed for the 
unfairness of it all, for the blinding anger that she harbored 
towards fate. God, she had never even believed in fate or destiny 
until this week, and now she hated the fact that there was such a 
force keeping her in misery, no matter what life or choice she 
made. Dana Scully screamed until her voice was raw, because that 
was how she felt. Raw and bleeding. 

"Oh, God!" Scully screamed, unbound tears spilling into the wind 
and shooting through the air like pinpricks of pain. "Oh, GOD!" 

And then a child's spinning top sailed through the air to strike 
her in the face, and she blacked out, unconscious, as blood oozed 
from an angry wound on her forehead. 

Mulder felt her grow limp in his arms, and held onto her tighter. 
He was so tired, so scared, and now Scully had blacked out. 
Anxiously, he felt for her breath, and was relieved to feel the 
slow but steady rise and fall of her chest. Gathering her tightly 
inside of himself, Mulder cradled her as he clung to the widow's 
walk. 

God, why did it have to be a widow's walk? There were so many 
memories of Scully's own walk, of its painted wooden rails and 
the sunrise bringing canary and cerise to the Atlantic while her 
body was outlined in pastel shades, silhouetted in a thin linen 
robe printed with hibiscuses. The memory of her back arched in 
ecstasy as he brought her to orgasm under the simple brush of his 
lips, a rush of lush leaves blowing onto them as she came... Of 
how she had been a portrait of rapturous anguish, torn between 
two worlds and split into pieces. Now he felt like he was being 
split apart, shattered from the inside out, as the storm stole 
him and ravished him. 

"Scully," Mulder moaned, holding her tightly and shielding her 
from the hurricane's ruin. "Oh, God..." 

And as the storm raged on, Mulder numbly held her, waiting as the 
winds beat him and bruised him, feeling the sting of raindrops 
and the ripping sensation that shattered him through and through. 

The winds raged on in a constant battery of the hurricane's fury, 
lashing him with a thousand strokes of punishment and penance for 
everything that had led up to this moment, and he held her 
tightly in his arms through the rest of the night and the 
remainder of the storm. 

***** 

The Morning After 
Charleston, South Carolina 
6:02 AM, August 20, 1999 

***** 

Eventually, the rains subsided and the winds softened to a subtle 
breeze, flowing through the destroyed city with a hallowed lull 
of air that seemed more like a litany than a lashing. Water 
drizzled from the sky in an effort to cleanse the tainted South, 
skimming across the water from the great floods that had roared 
through the streets and flooded the houses. Hurricane Becky had 
passed, her breath quieting from a rapacious roar to a murmur 
until it was nothing more than a whisper. 

The floodwaters still rushed with a deadly speed, propelled by 
the confusion of flowing over surfaces that were unknown and 
foreign. Cobblestone streets and cedar floors were far different 
from the pluff mud and sand that these waters were accustomed to, 
and winding down city streets were far different than slithering 
through broad rivers or vast oceans. The waters had accumulated 
to form a deep river of death, and it would further be forged by 
more tears in the days to come as survivors and evacuees returned 
to find their belongings destroyed and their dreams shattered. 

On the barrier islands, the devastation was massive. Summer homes 
and spindling beach residences had buckled to the pressure of the 
waves and winds, shattering on their long foundations and leaving 
nothing more than long poles that had once held houses on their 
thick, strong legs. The beautiful, golden sand dunes were ripped 
by the roots and now floated dreamily on the surface of the water 
like harvested wheat and grain. And vicious riptides had forever 
changed the dreamy creek on Edisto Island where a bold redhead 
once sailed her boat. 

The heart of the Lowcountry was now a shell of its former beauty. 
Charleston, a city that had survived an earthquake, a fire, a 
Civil War and another hurricane named Hugo, had crumbled into 
pastel rubble and watery ruin over the past twelve hours. Places 
were debutantes wearing pale white lace decked with magnolias 
were now nothing more than ballrooms filled with water. The open 
city market where old black women had sat weaving baskets made 
from ripe green sweetgrass had been reduced to crumbled brick. 
Rainbow Row, a street of houses painted in cheerful colors of 
mint, canary, carnation and plum, had been stripped of its color 
and its construction during the duration of the storm's passing. 

And on the ancient Battery, a delicately colored lemon house with 
a wraparound balcony and a widow's walk simply ceased to exist, 
as though it had never been there in the first place. 

Hurricane Becky had passed through the city, taking the ancient 
ritualistic beauty of the South and all of its legacy with it, 
leaving a deluge of death in its wake. 

Now, as the first frail pastels of dawn tinted the clearing 
skies, a soft fall of rain quietly descended from the heavens, as 
though God Himself was weeping for an era that was finally over. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE 

***** 

She dreamed of when she had drowned. 

Of how she had floated through water, been filled with it and had 
inhaled it, water passing through her lips like a liquefied kiss, 
drinking it in and accepting it as a part of herself, arms 
outstretched so that she was at the mercy of the tides. 

She floated like a ghost, without substance or matter, drifting 
through walls and objects, yet completely contained within the 
confines of the house. Her house. Her house, filled with water, 
so that the rich watercolor portraits of creeks and marshes faded 
and drifted into oily spills of paint, like gasoline in puddles. 
She watched everything clearly, observing but not caring, as she 
watched the watery ruin of her life. 

Swathed in white scraps of cloth like a magnolia-colored death 
shroud, she floated, the thin material rippling like petals in 
water from the soft fluttering of the waters. Aimlessly, she 
continued her journey throughout her house, half-lidded eyes 
drinking in the sight of her underwater paradise while her mouth 
drank in gallons of seawater. The fine linen curtains that she 
had hung with such care were now tattered fingers, gently 
caressing her nude skin like a lover should. Cedar coffee tables 
were shattered into splinters, ruined by the touch of the water, 
but she cared not. It was only furniture after all. 

Papers and autopsy photographs streamed past slowly, and she 
wondered who would photograph her body. Who would make the 
incisions and remove her organs. It didn't really matter, for she 
owned nothing and cared for nothing anymore. She was merely a 
drowned Ophelia, a soft tangle of woman and white, purified in 
the floods and redeemed by a primal baptism. A Bible floated by 
her vision next, the gold-trimmed papers marred forever by the 
touch of the tide, and their litanies lulled into a constant and 
permanent slumber. 

All of her clothing swirled around her in a tumble of wrinkled 
linen and dark mocha. She remembered the feeling of wearing these 
ensembles; of how the silk had caressed her body and of how she 
had looked so frozen in them. She was now melted, now a puddle of 
her former icy beauty, but there was something comforting about 
thawing out and evaporating into thin air. Something so wonderful 
about the sensation of dying... 

She drifted further upward, ascending higher, until she passed 
into her bedroom. The grandiose cream-colored bed where she had 
recently spent a week of pleasure with the only man she had ever 
loved was now a tattered ruin of vanilla, soiled by silt and 
pluff mud, stained with the storm, and here was where she felt 
her first twinge of heartbreak. She recalled their second morning 
together, of lying on his chest and admiring the brocaded copper 
of his body. He always looked like melted gold, so rich that she 
could dip her fingers into him, with threads of mahogany falling 
luxuriously across his brow. He had been so absently beautiful... 
She knew he would cry for the body they would never recover and 
the woman he had lost in a submerged South. 

Then she was floating upward faster, through the roof of her 
house and onto the widow's walk, shooting to the surface while 
her body twisted and her silk rippled rapidly. She was flying 
through the water, her face tilting upward to the sky. She saw 
light there, something pure and gold, and she could feel the 
first glimmerings of pain start to ache through her previously 
numb body, as she rose up past the buried city of Charleston and 
into the light... 

***** 

Atlanta City Hospital 
Atlanta, Georgia 
10:03 AM, August 21, 1999 

***** 

Slowly, Scully opened her eyes and then instantly closed them, 
momentarily blinded by the brightness of the room after the 
darkness she had been existing in. Everything was white, so 
bright that it pained her to see anything at all, and so she 
closed her eyes again until she could open her eyes and 
distinguish shapes and color. 

And the first thing she saw was Mulder. 

Smiling softly, bandages on his brow and around his throat, 
wearing a kelly-green sweater with a gray Henley and a pair of 
blue jeans, he looked battered but beautiful in the way that only 
Mulder could pull off. Spikes of soft brown hair were disheveled 
but clean, and she realized that his formerly muddied skin had 
also been bathed. Mulder's hand was wrapped around hers loosely, 
and she realized how badly every part of her body ached. Her 
upper arms, the back of her neck, her lungs, her forehead, the 
side of her face... Everything hurt in one way or another, and 
she felt the itch of bandages covering her various wounds. She 
must be in a hospital. 

"Mulder," she murmured, her voice soft and tired, "where are we?" 

He scooted forward in his uncomfortable-looking standard hospital 
chair, cupping her hand in his. His voice was low and raspy, as 
if he was as tired as she was. "We're in Atlanta," he murmured, 
and she frowned, wondering why they were in Georgia, when all of 
it came back to her memory. The Skinner, the hurricane, the storm 
surge... 

"Oh, God," she sighed, closing her eyes and leaning back on the 
pillows. She could still taste saltwater on her lips, could still 
feel the searing burns of lightning and fingers on her arms and 
the back of her neck. "Christ, what happened?" 

Soothing fingers drew languid circles on the back of her hand, 
tracing dainty figurines and doodles on her skin. "You were hit 
by flying debris when we were on the widow's walk," Mulder gently 
explained, illustrating the events that they had endured from the 
time se had passed out to the time she had awoken. "You were 
knocked unconscious. I tried my best to protect you during the 
storm, and after it was over, the National Guard found us on top 
of the widow's walk. We were taken to the Atlanta City Hospital, 
where we were treated for our burns and for exposure, and you 
were unconscious for a while because of your head injury and, 
well, sheer exhaustion." Mulder looked at her warmly, his clear 
eyes unclouded and soft as he smoothed stray strands of red from 
her face. "But you're going to be fine." 

"Yes," Scully murmured softly. "I am." She felt better already, 
stronger, fortified from every waking moment. And her memory was 
regaining clarity; she could recall events that were previously 
foggy in her memory, and along with those events came the strong, 
hard emotions that accompanied them. Such as a harsh sadness that 
came from acknowledging the fact that her home had been ruined 
and her city had been destroyed, now residing under a thick swamp 
of water. 

"How is the city, Mulder?" Scully murmured, her fingers escaping 
his to knot the bedsheets quietly, knowing the answer but not the 
specifics. She needed to know all of it, needed to have all of 
the facts, if only to torture herself further for the massive 
losses she had suffered in the past week. 

With a deep sigh, Mulder looked down. He had seen the footage 
taken of the formerly beautiful city of Charleston, South 
Carolina. While he had recovered in his bed from the severity of 
his own wounds, he had watched the nonstop coverage on CNN and 
local channels in Atlanta and thought of how it would affect 
Scully. She had lived in this city for nine years and developed a 
profound affinity for it that he could appreciate but never fully 
understand. He knew from listening to her rapturous words about 
the South, about driving her boat through tidal creeks under 
canopies constructed of Spanish moss while crickets played their 
biological strings that she was in love with the South in a way 
that only a Southerner could be. She may not have been a 
Charlestonian by birth, but in her heart, she was tethered to it 
in a remarkably intimate way. 

Witnessing its fall would crush her in a way that she did not 
deserve. Not after all of the cruelties she had endured in the 
past week. 

"There are a few more things you need to know," Mulder murmured 
softly, catching her fingers in his. "After I was discharged 
yesterday from the hospital, I contacted the FBI and let them 
know about our experience in the city marina with Jack Cooper." 
Scully nodded; she had expected as much. Legalities and proper 
channels... These were all routine events. "I don't think I need 
to tell you that the FBI will want to take your statement 
regarding these events... But I do think you need to know that 
the press will also be hounding you for a statement." 

Widening her eyes, Scully tilted her head to look at him. "The 
media?" she asked. Then all of the puzzle pieces began 
interlocking. He Southern Skinner case had been a major event in 
the press, as had Hurricane Becky and her impending landfall. 
Figure in a federal agent, the county coroner, a confrontation in 
the marina during the storm and a perilous struggle to survive a 
Category 5 hurricane, and it stunk of a human-interest story. And 
if they knew about the relationship that Mulder and Scully 
shared... 

"They don't know about us," Mulder said softly, and Scully turned 
away, not wanting to see how he knew her so well without her ever 
having to verbalize anything. "That part of the story managed to 
stay out of the press release, thank God. But I'm sure that it 
eventually will - the media wants the story and they've been 
swamping the hospital trying to get to you before anyone else. 
Exclusivity is a big draw in the news." His fingertips softly 
danced over her smooth fingernails. "But I got here first." 

Sincerity and soft green glowed in his eyes, and Scully wondered 
at how his eyes could be so luminous after such a difficult 
ordeal. She was worn and battered, as if a little part of her had 
died and another larger part was in the process of dying. And 
that part of her was the only part she had ever known. 

Mulder's enchanting eyes glimmered with a thousand variations on 
the color green, from light jade to vibrant emerald. "I did 
manage to use our budding celebrity for a good cause though," he 
said, and Scully arched her eyebrow. "Several teams of federal 
agents and National Guardsmen are going into the city to try and 
recover the body of Jack Cooper. The city is still fairly 
impossible to get into other than through military or federal 
government." He paused. "I pulled some strings, and we're both 
cleared to return. You don't have to if you don't-" 

"I do." 

A veil of deep red hair fell away from her cheek as she looked up 
from her fidgeting hands, and Mulder looked at the long bruise on 
her cheek and the white bandage on her forehead from where the 
last blow of debris had struck. Her color was bland, pale and 
almost transparent, and her freckles stood out starkly on her 
white face. Yet there was a strange strength in her eyes, a proud 
dignity in the tilt of her chin and the broad strength of her 
shoulders, and her hair fell down around her face in wavy curls 
of vermilion. "I need to see my house, Mulder," Scully said 
boldly. "I know that it's gone, but I still need to see it." 

Mulder nodded, squeezing her fingers tightly. "I understand, 
Scully," he murmured. Then he slowly stood, a stiffness in his 
limbs that Scully had not noticed before. His injuries must have 
been worse than he seemed; there were bandages on his face and 
small cuts on his brow, as well as bright bandages swathed around 
his slender throat. Instantly, her heart ached for him, to see 
him so wounded and suddenly older in front of her. They had both 
aged decades in a matter of hours, and it hurt her to see a 
battered sort of look that was sorely reminiscent of another 
similarly worn Mulder from a different reality. Her other self 
had always blamed the creases in his brow or the softness around 
his eyes on herself and knew that every silver hair around his 
brow was because of her. Scully knew now that these latest wounds 
were her fault as well, and she caught his hand with hers before 
he could turn to leave. 

"No kiss goodbye, eh?" she said softly, her fingers wrapping 
around his longer ones, lovingly caressing the knots in the 
knuckles and lightly smoothing the white gauze covering his 
burned hands. "Shame on you, Fox Mulder." 

Quietly, he leaned down and kissed her mouth, and Scully felt 
weakened and humbled by the mixture of hunger and torment with 
which he kissed her, as if the very act of loving her ripped him 
to shreds inside. "I'll be around," Mulder murmured, touching her 
bruised face once more. With a sigh, she turned on her side and 
closed her eyes, letting weariness overtake her for some much- 
deserved sleep. 

Shame on him for everything, Mulder miserably thought, looking 
down at the wan-looking redhead propped up by a mass of pillows 
with a dark moon-shaped bruise on her cheek and a bandage wrapped 
around her head like a garland of gauze one last time before 
leaving. He had been watching over her for hours, just watching 
her sleep, eyelashes as dark as small crescents of silk against 
her papery skin. Memories of a similar Scully floated through his 
head as he watched her. Memories of her burned after an encounter 
on a bridge. Memories of her hooked up to a mass of machinery, 
hovering near death after three hellish months without her. And 
memories of her riddled with cancer, exhausted from a fight she 
was losing day by day, painted in moonlight as he held her hand 
and silently screamed for all that he had done to her and 
everything he couldn't give her. 

Last night, Mulder knew how his other self had felt that night, 
holding her hand and waiting for the dawn to rise and take her 
away. Death was an unavoidable foe who haunted them both no 
matter what choices they made, and fate was a cruel mistress 
intent on berating them until there was nothing left but skin and 
bone. 

Tomorrow, he would have to take her through her ravaged heaven, 
show her the ruins of her life, and then leave her there as he 
returned home to Washington. It would be the greatest betrayal 
ever, and that was what Mulder could not forgive himself of. 
Abandoning Scully when she so badly needed him for a life he 
didn't want to live without her. 

Mulder shoved his hands into his pockets, his wounds burning but 
the pain something that he embraced as punishment for his 
upcoming deception. 

***** 

The Downtown Ruins 
Charleston, South Carolina 
7:05 AM, August 23, 1999 

***** 

If she closed her eyes, she could see the city as it was. Images 
of the palmetto trees rustling and shifting with the wind. Images 
of her house in all of its alabaster and lemon glory, towering 
over the Battery with the majesty that only Southern homes 
possessed. All of these familiar pictures were imprinted on the 
backs of her eyelids like a film on an endless loop, and if she 
just kept her eyes closed, she could believe that the South had 
never died. 

Yet it was the smell that destroyed the fantasy. 

Ah, what beautiful scents destruction sometimes foddered. The air 
was thick with the lush, rich aroma of pine, caused by the 
thousands of trees that had snapped in two like toothpicks from 
the ferocious winds of the gigantic storm. This dark, succulent 
smell permeated the air and blended with the more familiar aroma 
of saltwater marshes and rivers, adding an alien and foreign 
cologne to the gentle perfume of the South. 

And so Scully opened her eyes and saw the city for what it was, 
and was reminded of all it once had been. 

She stood where the great Market of Charleston had once stood, on 
a day where it would be bustling with tourists and citizens 
alike, and was instead surrounded by piles of rubble and ruin. 
All around her was similar destruction. King Street and Meeting 
Street were both demolished. They were only identifiable by the 
street signs that marked where the elaborate stores, restaurants, 
and homes had once stood. The entire city was changed, hideously 
morphed, and Scully found herself alienated and distressed by the 
fact that she was standing in the middle of a city she had lived 
in for nine years and could not recognize her location without 
the aid of a map. 

Churches had toppled, spilling stained glass of saints and Christ 
onto the streets in multicolored confetti. Steeples topped with 
elaborate golden crosses were scattered in the roads along with 
majestic oaks and willows. Large bodies of leftover floodwater 
had congregated with downed trees, creating miniature swamps in 
the middle of the city. The library had been destroyed, and 
volumes of novels were ruined by water, their delicate paper 
pages folded and yellowed from filthy water and raw sewage. 
Everything stunk from the polluted waters and overturned pluff 
mud, and it the hauntingly delectable scent of pine caressed 
everything but cured nothing. Nothing could ever heal the wounds 
that had been etched onto the Holy City. 

"I have been to Charleston," Scully murmured, "and it is no 
more." 

Her words drifted to him with ambient anguish, and Mulder turned 
away, pained by the agony inside of her voice. He could not bear 
the sight of her any longer. The image of Scully, her hair 
fluttering in the air like a spill of rubies, looking around at 
the city that she been tethered to and finding nothing familiar, 
would haunt him for the rest of his life. The desolation and 
sorrow in her muted contralto was enough to drive him mad from 
the helplessness of it all. The despondency of loving her and 
being unable to heal her would kill him. 

Bitterly, she turned away from the city that she had loved, and 
looked at Mulder. "I need to see my house," she said quietly, not 
asking, not demanding, just letting him know. This was what she 
needed. To glance at the past one more time before starting over 
again. 

Quietly, Mulder nodded, placing his hand on the small of her back 
and guiding her toward the army Jeep that would take them through 
the hazardous streets and toward the Battery. 

It was impossible not to touch her as she sat next to him in the 
backseat. Clinging to her while unconscious and in the middle of 
a hurricane induced that effect. So he draped his arm around her, 
not suffocating her, but simply offering her comfort and solace 
for the tragedy that she was living. For the loss that she had 
suffered. 

Looking around the city was heartbreaking. Odd, how he could 
collect such a love for a city within less than a week's time, 
but he felt a strange sort of sorrow as he recalled discovering 
this city with a woman who loved it as much as she loved life. 
There was the place where they had first enjoyed dinner together, 
now nothing more than twisted steel and tumbled bricks. There was 
the stretch of Battery where they had walked afterward, her in 
her bare feet and him with his Samantha-induced grief. And now, 
there was only a long, crumbling and weather-battered walkway of 
cement, littered with the shredded remnants of leaves and flora. 

With a sigh, Scully turned her head toward the ocean just past 
the battered Battery, looking out to the horizon between sea and 
sky. A light tint of rose and peach hued the skies and sea, 
brightening the edges of the clouds with a sweet sort of honey- 
colored gold. How pretty it all was, like a sweet portrait of 
what heaven aspired to be, glowing gorgeously over a city that 
had been seared and destroyed by Hell. Maybe this was God's 
apology for the trials that the city had endured. Some sort of 
peace offering for those survivors left wondering if He existed 
at all. Ah, what a sad justification God had provided if this was 
so, for no amount of beautiful colors could replace years of 
memories buried underneath piles of rubble and tumbled brick. 

"How much do you love this city, Scully?" Mulder suddenly 
murmured beside her. Startled, Scully tore her eyes away from the 
ripening sunrise to look at her lover sitting beside her. His 
eyes were downcast, as though the sight of the shattered South 
pained him like it pained her. The question unnerved her for so 
many reasons, and it momentarily threw her off her balance. 

"I love it very deeply," Scully honestly answered, her voice 
hushed and quiet. She did love it. She had thought that she had 
hated it once, hated the stubbornness of the people who inhabited 
it and despised their firm opposition to change of any kind. She 
was a member of a common breed of Southerners - those who 
despised and yet could not escape it. And Charleston with Mulder 
had been enchanting. Walking the Battery while sweat crept down 
the nape of her neck from the humidity of his hazel eyes had been 
worth nine years of heartache, and the lovemaking underneath a 
hail of magnolia blossoms... She would give anything to hold 
those moments once again. 

Still trying to catch his eye, Scully ducked her head and tried 
to capture his gaze. "Why are you asking me this, Mulder?" she 
asked, and Mulder shook his head. 

"No reason at all..." 

The humidity began to soar as the sun crested over the horizon, 
and Mulder felt beads of sweat break out on his brow. He wished 
he had not worn his standard-issue FBI jacket, and shrugged it 
off of his shoulders, preferring the gray tee-shirt underneath. 
He caught the glance that Scully tossed at him because of the 
blood that seeped through the bandages on his throat and for the 
many minor wounds that marred his skin. "What happened to you, 
Mulder?" she softly asked, and Mulder shook his head darkly. 

"It happened on the widow's walk while you were unconscious," he 
said, leaving it at that. He had his own set of bad memories to 
cope with before this ordeal was fully over, and one set included 
holding her limp body in his arms, wondering if she would die 
before they were rescued, shielding her from further injuries. He 
was battered in ways that she was best off now knowing. 

//It'll make the break easier...// 

She chose silence after that, simply taking his hand in her own 
and threading her fingers through his, wishing that there was a 
way to touch the skin that rested beneath the bandages. 

As they approached the end of the Battery, Scully turned and 
looked at Mulder. "I'm not expecting anything, Mulder," she said, 
and his fingers slowly slipped up to touch her wrist. 

"I know." 

Finally, the Jeep turned down the final length of the Battery, 
and Scully looked at the ruins of her former haven. 

The rows of pastel houses were toppled, their multicolored brick 
and plaster spilled onto the street in piles of light floral 
roman bricks. The tall Greek columns had been toppled by the 
ferocity of the winds and surge, and roofs had succumbed to the 
floods. Furniture that had been bestowed upon generations of 
Southerners now lay in torn and broken bits of mahogany or ivory, 
and some rested forever under the seas and swollen Ashley River. 
Everything familiar to her was gone. Absolutely gone. 

Including her house. 

Scully had been expecting splinters or perhaps a rusted, ravaged 
widow's walk, but where Scully's house had once towered with its 
rounded balconies and vivid canary color was now an empty lot. It 
was as though the house had never existed in the first place, and 
the last nine years of her life had been nothing but a humid 
hallucination. Just as if she had never lived here at all... 

Shell-shocked and despaired, Scully opened the door of the Jeep 
and stepped out, and Mulder's breath caught in his throat as she 
walked toward where her house had once been. Slowly, as though 
she was sleepwalking, she approached the vacant lot where her 
house had once stood, the breeze tossing her carmine hair in a 
shattered splay of ruby. Quickly, Mulder got out of the Jeep and 
followed her, until he stood behind her. 

"Scully," Mulder hoarsely whispered, and Scully turned her head, 
suddenly shocked to realize that Mulder was heartbroken by the 
sights around him. She had not expected this - that he had built 
his own memories in the past five days. Memories of kissing her 
softly under a weeping willow in a swamp garden, or of breaking 
down in her arms on the Battery had become valuable to him, 
cherished in spite of their brief time together in the historic 
and ruined city. Images of this Southern Scully had existed in 
the proud architecture and elusive Spanish moss, and now there 
was nothing to remind him of their passion except for his own 
memory. And the woman sitting here in his arms, of course, but 
she would be out of his life too soon. 

A light fan of fingers swept over her cheek, comforting her 
absently, and Scully closed her eyes grateful, her eyelashes 
fluttering across his fingers in a mock butterfly kiss. "How old 
was this house?" he murmured, and Scully looked at the dark, 
overturned earth where the foundation should have been. All of 
her brightly colored azaleas and alabaster magnolias were nothing 
more than scattered petals tossed into the tides now. 

"Over two hundred years," Scully replied. "It was built around 
the end of the eighteenth century, when downtown Charleston was 
first inhabited. Most of the furniture was either as old as or 
older than the house, too." The wind nipped at her hair, blowing 
it into a tousled tantrum of red, and Mulder smoothed it with his 
hands, watching the rebellious crimson threads settle under his 
touch. He wished that he could comfort her so easily, soothing 
her until she had found a spot of tranquility. If only all wounds 
could be healed so effortlessly... 

"You can rebuild," Mulder suggested, knowing that there would 
never be a house quite like the one that had been constructed of 
gorgeous arches and painted with liquid sunlight. A modern shadow 
of a glorious former beauty would stand in its place, a pale 
imitation of what had once been a genuine marvel. Yet what else 
could she do? Scully was essentially homeless now. She owned 
nothing; all of her clothes had gone down with her house and all 
that she had packed up had been lost with her car in the storm 
surge. 

Narrowing her eyes, Scully continued to gaze at the plot of land 
where her paradise had once stood. So many memories rested under 
gallons of seawater and splintered debris... She had her good 
memories of the South, in spite of her isolation and mediocrity. 
Nothing could ever replace the anamnesis of watching sailboats 
decked out in tiny glowing bulbs of electric light glide across 
the waters like moving constellations. She could not rebuild the 
remembrance of a swim through the Atlantic, catching a gigantic 
wave off of Folly Beach and riding it in until she crashed ashore 
with an explosion of seafoam. These were things that were lost to 
her and irreplaceable. 

But still... 

Silently, she walked across the plot of land, and something 
caught her eye. A small drizzle of discarded flower petals rested 
where her great oak tree had once stood. They were a clutter of 
color, ranging from vivid tangerine to delicate ivory, with 
splashes of magenta and indigo thrown in. They created a sweet 
perfume better than the aroma of snapped pine that filled the air 
from all of the downed trees - they were the perfume of a South 
that she remembered. 

Scully kneeled down and gathered the scattered petals in her 
hand, quietly pocketing them. She remembered a night atop her 
now-submerged widow's walk, where Mulder had confessed his life 
for both women and brought one of them to ecstasy under a hail of 
blossoms, and she wanted to commemorate that night forever. A 
souvenir of the South. 

"I could rebuild," Scully murmured, caressing the curled petals 
with her thumb, "but I won't." She turned her head to the side 
and looked him boldly and sternly in the eyes. "I'm not staying 
in Charleston, Mulder. I'm going to Washington with you." 

Stunned, Mulder felt his heart skip a beat. Everything dulled and 
dimmed except for the controlled blue of her eyes, and Mulder 
shook his head. "You, you can't," Mulder stuttered hoarsely. 
"You've got a job here and responsibilities, and..." 

Scully laughed and cupped his cheek in her hand, a soft smile on 
her face and a loving look in her blue eyes. "Mulder, after all 
that we've gone through in the past few days and all that you've 
said, that response was just..." She shook her head. "Perfectly 
you." She understood everything, and her fingertips smoothed his 
earlobe. "I know that you feel responsible for everything that 
has happened. You probably blame the hurricane on your 
appearance, which is ridiculously characteristic of yourself. But 
I know this much - if I have saved you at all during the last few 
days, you have saved me ten times over." Her voice softened to 
nothing more than a whisper of Spanish moss in the wind. "I was 
dead before I met you, Mulder. Dead to the world. And now... I'm 
alive. More alive than I've been in years. My mind and beliefs 
have been challenged. My life has been changed, all because of 
these last few days, and mostly because of you." 

Scully softly brushed her cheek with her fingertip, her eyes 
glowing with a light he wanted to see for the rest of his life. 
"I know how treacherous the road ahead is. But I also know that 
her life is as much a part of mine as these last nine years in 
South Carolina. She achieved so much in her work with him, 
putting all of her medical skills and her science to the test, 
and I think that people's lives were impacted because of her. 
That's what I want. Not just to be with you, though that *does* 
play a big part in this decision, but to make the difference that 
I should have made years ago." Her chin rose proudly. "So I'm 
going with you, Mulder." 

And he kissed her so hard that she thought she would never 
surface, and that wasn't such a bad thing at all. 

The wind gently rustled around them, carrying with it the old, 
haunting smell of marsh and saltwater. What once would have 
perturbed Scully now pleased her, and she smiled softly at him. 
"I do have one question for you, Mulder," she said, and he arched 
his eyebrows. "Does your apartment building allow pets?" 

When he chuckled, it sounded like velvet, and when she kissed 
him, he tasted like heaven. A heaven she would soon live, even if 
it would oftentimes be darkened by hell. As long as she had him 
and as long as she was fighting, it would be all right. 
Everything would be all right. 

The first light of radiant dawn shot over the ravished city with 
glorious beams of rose and gold, and two embraced, watching their 
last Carolina sunrise. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX 

THIS CHAPTER RATED NC-17 FOR SEXUAL CONTENT 

***** 

Apartment of Fox Mulder 
Arlington, Virginia 
7:40 PM, September 19, 1999 

***** 

With a contented purr, Duchess situated herself on the leather 
couch, curling herself into a coil of fur tinted the multicolored 
shades of a tiger's eye. She shimmered in the fiery sunlight, the 
many hues of oranges and blacks glittering beguilingly as she 
rested her patched face on her dainty white toes. The slender 
calico had been baking in the sunlight all day, warmed by what 
had been filtering through the apartment window, and her long 
ringed tail twitched happily back and forth as she slowly closed 
her eyes and went to sleep. 

As she passed through the living room and into the kitchen, the 
cat's equally contented mistress ran her manicured fingers 
through Duchess's glistening fur, smiling at the calico's instant 
tranquility. She understood the feeling well. 

Scully adjusted the sleeve of her thin indigo top, the three- 
quarter sleeves inching above her elbows as she worked in the 
kitchen. Delicious smells wafted from Mulder's stove throughout 
the apartment, and Scully smiled as she listened to the crackle 
and sizzle of a pan of hash browns, and then she sighed as she 
deeply inhaled the aroma of fried potatoes and searing spices. 
Hash browns were a favorite indulgence of hers, with potatoes 
sliced thin and then fried in smoked bacon grease. She never made 
them, given the absolutely devastating calories and fat, but 
today was an exception. Correction - today was a celebration. 

A long-fingered hand suddenly wrapped around her waist, creeping 
across her flat stomach with a hunger that was definitely not 
meant for food. Slowly, Scully smiled, pausing in her cooking to 
lean back into the warm body that had pressed itself suggestively 
against hers. The roving hand inched upward on her torso with a 
pace that was lazily arousing, as though he was striking little 
matches on her skin with his fingertips. 

"What's cookin'?" Mulder murmured into her ear, and Scully 
carefully hid her grin and her shudder. She was starting to get 
warm under the collar, and light wisps of vermilion tumbled out 
from the tight clasp in her hair, springing into curls from the 
humidity and the heat in the kitchen. Not to mention the heat he 
was generating just by touching her stomach... 

"A little bit of everything," Scully replied, her voice low and 
husky from the effect his touch was having on her. Mulder grinned 
at the slight roughness in her voice, as if she had consumed too 
much whiskey in too little time. Yet all they'd consumed was each 
other, fast and frequent, in a constant collage of sex and 
discovery that had lasted for over a month now. 

But tonight was their first night in his apartment, and so Scully 
had wanted to make it special. Fondly, he nuzzled the nape of her 
neck with his mouth, catching a droplet of perspiration with his 
tongue and savoring the salty tang of her sexuality and sweat. 
Silly rabbit. She should know that it was already special just 
from her presence. 

As his lips trailed down the column of her spine, tasting the 
salt of her skin and inhaling the humid perfume of peaches and 
passion, Mulder murmured another question to her. "What exactly 
is in 'a little bit of everything'?" 

Scully wondered if he would notice the slight tremor in her hand 
as she reached for another pot. "Hash browns, pan-fried chicken, 
and grits," she replied, lifting the lid off of the grits to stir 
the cream up and add butter. Mulder wrinkled his nose behind her, 
his fingers constantly moving across her taut torso. "And don't 
you say a damn thing about grits, Mulder. Not until you've had 
real grits." 

Another hand began wandering over her body, this one landing on 
her right hip near the juncture of her blue jeans and her deep 
blue shirt. "I take it that my offering of Quaker Instant Grits 
is still inadequate," he said, and Scully finally turned around, 
her eyes glittering as rich and as blue as the indigo top that 
she wore. 

Smirking, she leaned back on a kitchen cabinet, looping her 
fingers through his belt loops on his dark wool trousers. She 
looked incredible to him at that moment, surrounded by a halo of 
steam and smelling like peaches and good country cooking. Scully 
seemed to crackle with heat, her hair a wild tumble of windblown 
curls barely tamed into a tortoiseshell clip at the nape of her 
neck, wispy tendrils of coppery crimson falling around her face 
and a decidedly sensual leer on her usually stoic lips. She 
ducked her fiery head underneath his chin, making him meet her 
smoky indigo eyes, moving her body to his so that his hips met 
hers. "Your grits were decidedly inadequate," Scully conceded, 
"but since you're very adequate in other areas, you're forgiven 
for that one inconsequential error in judgment." 

With that, she craned her head upward and Mulder closed his eyes, 
smirking and waiting for her kiss. Instead, she nipped his chin 
with her tongue and chuckled beneath his mouth, lowering herself 
back down and flashing her twilight eyes at him again. "You're 
not spoiling another dinner, Mulder," she scolded, reminding him 
of their second night, where she had tried to cook stuffed 
chicken and they had devoured each other instead. "I'm making you 
eat." 

A slender, bronzed finger trailed down the length of her face, 
caressing her cheekbone and then sliding down the straight slope 
of her nose to rest on her berry-colored lips. "I hope that 
dinner's soon, Scully," he murmured, "cause I'm getting pretty 
hungry." 

She flashed her bejeweled eyes at him, her skin glowing like 
unfurled azaleas. "I suspected that someone was working up an 
appetite," she murmured, suggestively grinding her hips against 
his, enjoying the contact and coarseness of his her rough jeans 
against his black wool trousers. She also enjoyed the distinct 
hardness tenting his trousers, feeling a similar sort of heat 
building between her legs as she teased his body with hers. 

Mulder looked so appetizing here, wearing the dark trousers and a 
long-sleeved black tee shirt that hugged his trim body in all the 
right places. Not to mention the pair of wire-rimmed glasses that 
seemed to make him look sexy and smart all at the same time - her 
lucky night. His copper skin seemed lit afire by the sunset 
glimmering around them, as bright and gold as Duchess's tiger's 
eye body. And God, his eyes... They burned through her body like 
twin coals of jade, too tumultuous and esurient for the typical 
tranquil shade of green. They almost smoldered through the round 
lenses of his glasses, flickering verdant and honey flame onto 
her. Sliding her hands over his firm torso and over the soft 
fabric of his shirt, Scully hummed low to herself, smiling 
appreciatively as something hot and humid burned between her 
legs. Mulder was such an edible man - she could feast her eyes 
upon his dark and unusual good looks and instantly feel ravenous 
for him. The smell of him was warm and spicy, like honey and 
saltwater marshes, and the taste of him... Oh, but she could 
taste him forever. Mulder was a never-ending banquet of 
comestible comeliness. 

A sudden spark of sexuality and mischief lit his burning emerald 
eyes with a shot of melted sunlight. "Dare I say that you might 
also be getting a tad... voracious yourself, Scully?" Mulder 
said, his voice low and incredibly appealing. "Or is that just my 
imagination?" 

Oh, he wasn't playing fair. His hands had started up again, those 
constantly moving and roving instruments of sensuality, and 
Scully hummed contentedly beneath his touch, stepping closer to 
him in spite of the firm note of restraint she had tried to live 
under earlier. She could not resist the touch his body, the heat 
of his hands sliding underneath the indigo shirt as if he could 
reveal dawn underneath dusk, and for a moment, Scully believed 
that he could. Mulder could do anything. He could set her on fire 
with a glance and let her be redeemed and completed through his 
carnal conflagration. It was the most exquisite and intimate 
inferno possible. 

Tilting her head back, Scully leaned against the kitchen 
cabinets, exposing her long swan's throat and the strings of tiny 
seed pearls that seemed to hover over her skin. It was the 
necklace that he had bought her in Atlanta, a compensation for 
the necklace that she had given to him, and a constant memory of 
the sea that she had loved and lived by for nine years. The seed 
pearls were minute and slender and were strung together by 
invisible wire, so that it seemed as though the little pearls 
were magically floating over her skin. Scully loved it. 

So did Mulder. His tongue darted over the pearls as he tasted 
tiny beads of her sweat, his hands reaching under her shirt to 
trace the outlines of her breasts. Her body was a constant voyage 
for him, something he could crusade for, if only because she was 
worthy of all sorts of different types of worship. Each day was a 
pilgrimage with Scully, and the journey itself was the reward. 
Now, he wanted his journey to start in his formerly lonely little 
kitchen, where food fried and a Scully decked in pearls and 
indigo let him place his hands on her breasts and bring her to 
ecstasy. 

A moan escaped her lips, and Scully's eyes widened as his fingers 
started drawing languid circles around the place where her areola 
met the smooth skin of her breasts. Attentively, Mulder watched 
her face as she slowly became undone beneath his hands, and he 
knew everything that she wanted from him. One of the most 
sensitive places on her body was right around this area, 
something he had gleefully learned only nights ago and was now 
using to an unfair advantage. There was a small ring of rosy 
sexuality around her nipple, where he could do nothing more than 
blow a puff of air and she would cry out. 

Then her hands pushed him off of her, and she swatted his 
shoulder with mock anger. "You're distracting me from dinner 
again," Scully scolded, but his punishment was more pleasurable 
than painful. Her voice was hoarse from his ministrations, and 
Mulder liked the rough gravel that caught her usually smooth 
caramel voice. Still glaring at him, she turned around and 
checked in on dinner, and Mulder playfully ran a finger down the 
nape of her neck, pleased when she shuddered against her own 
volition. 

"Is dinner ready?" Mulder asked, and he restrained a smirk at the 
lowness in her voice as she spoke. 

"Oh yeah. It's ready." 

The Other Mulder had a kitchen table. It was a present from a 
friend at VCS when he had transferred to the X-Files, sort of a 
going-away present. However, this Mulder only had his leather 
sofa and some chipped plates, something that Scully had earlier 
commented on. He would let her pick out the table if she wanted 
to, just as long as she stayed. 

Mulder sighed as he reclined onto the couch, shifting himself 
around so that his erection wasn't so damn uncomfortable. She was 
a big damn tease sometimes, rocking her hips against his obvious 
hard-on or letting her coal-black lashes fall like soot over her 
sensual, deliciously aroused eyes. But he liked the flirt in her. 
It was a side he hadn't seen since their first night at Slightly 
North of Broad, before every complication known to man and a few 
new ones worked their way into their lives. Before the 
complexities and roadblocks of two other people infiltrated into 
their own complicated world. 

Beth Orton murmured through his stereo, singing the same song 
that he had heard from their first night together. "What's the 
use in regrets, they're just things we haven't done yet," Beth 
sang, her husky voice reminding him of Scully's. "All our regrets 
are just lessons we haven't learned yet..." 

A cloud of steam rose from the kitchen as Scully walked into the 
living room, bearing two plates loaded with food that looked as 
appetizing as she did in her indigo shirt and jeans that hung low 
on her slender hips. "Dinner is served," Scully said, placing his 
plate on his lap and effectively concealing his erection. She 
also passed him a small glass of sparkling white wine, and Mulder 
accepted his drink as she situated herself on the couch next to 
him. 

Funny, the little differences between this Scully and the one 
from the Other Mulder's life. The haunted FBI agent from the 
other realm sometimes indulged herself in ribs or chicken but 
usually stuck to low-cal yogurt or veggie dishes. This woman 
cooked like she was planning on giving herself a heart attack - 
hash browns, grits, not to mention the fried chicken. God 
almighty. Warily, Mulder took a taste of Scully's beloved 
Southern dish, and found the taste startlingly scrumptious, 
something warm and rich, and he settled back to enjoy the first 
cooked meal he'd had in a month. 

It was odd how much he had missed his claustrophobic little 
apartment in Virginia, but now that he was back for the first 
time since mid-August, he was glad to be back home. The vacation 
time he had spent in Atlanta helping Scully replace her 
belongings and clothing had been relaxing and nice (particularly 
replacing her lingerie), but there was something to be said about 
the comforts of home. Which was exactly why he had never 
mentioned his minor homesickness to Scully during their stay in 
Georgia - he had no right to complain compared to the loss she 
had just suffered. 

Yet it was still a relief to return home to this little apartment 
with a beautiful freckled redhead on his arm, eager to cook 
dinner and even more eager to save the world. A lighthearted mood 
and prevailed as they drove her brand new Jeep Cherokee up from 
Atlanta, making love in the hotel room they stayed in overnight 
and even having a little explosive passion pulled over at a rest 
area. "Roomy interior, Scully," Mulder had commented in post- 
coital bliss, and she had thrown back her head and laughed in a 
way that Mulder had always wanted to hear. 

A troubled feeling passed through him though, as he wondered just 
how long paradise could last for the two of them. Fate always 
seemed a cruel mistress, giving them a blissful taste of 
perfection before rotting it away. He knew how difficult their 
lives would be, especially after undertaking a charge like this. 
They were going to face disasters together, and Death had only 
just begun stalking them. He hated throwing morbidity over the 
joyous mood they had been indulging in for the last week or so, 
but he knew that the little differences in this life were only 
little differences to the Consortium and their cigarette-smoking 
nemesis. 

There were small differences, too. Scully was not a federal agent 
in this world; Quantico training was not an option for her as a 
thirty-five year old woman with extensive training in forensic 
pathology. However, she had found a cushy position as the 
District of Columbia coroner, which would give her access to many 
of the bodies that he would encounter in the X-Files. She was 
also offering her services as a consulting pathologist, meaning 
that she would be able to travel. While they would probably not 
be united on the smaller cases, for the larger, darker matters, 
she could be there. 

Another difference was their living conditions. Scully could have 
afforded another beautiful masterpiece in the wealthier areas of 
Washington, possibly in Crystal City, but Scully decided to save 
her money for the many rainy days they would inevitably face. She 
did not ask and he did not mind - she simply packed up the 
belongings she had bought in Atlanta into her new car and they 
drove up to live together in his apartment. 

Chewing thoughtfully on the crunchy, flaky fried chicken, Mulder 
tossed his new roommate a sideways glance. Fine wisps of ruby 
hair brushed her cheeks and curled down over the nape of her 
neck, brushing against the tiny garland of seed pearls that 
loosely circled her throat. He marveled at how good she looked in 
indigo. Only Scully could mix twilight and fire so elegantly. 

"You know, this is delicious, Scully," he commented, and Scully 
looked up, her eyes warm orbs of heated sapphire. The skies were 
darkening outside, and it seemed to him that as the sky deepened, 
so did her eyes. Amazing, how her eyes could shift color so 
smoothly. 

"I knew you'd like that," she remarked, taking a ladylike sip of 
wine before starting in on her fried chicken. "I got the recipe 
from one of the chefs at Magnolia's, one of the best restaurants 
in town. He perfected grits. While he did more complicated and 
maverick dishes at the restaurant, he had a secret fondness for 
country-fried foods and the traditional Southern cuisine." 

Mulder grinned as he looked over at her. "You dated this guy, 
didn't you," he accused, and Scully shrugged, feigning innocence. 

"Only for a couple of weeks," she replied, spearing hot hash 
browns with her fork and letting them cool in the air. "They were 
a great couple of weeks though - every night he'd come over to my 
house and make me something different for dinner, and while he 
was cooking he'd tell me how he cooked it. The only problem was 
that he *only* talked about food. Great chef, but a little 
preoccupied." Scully pursed her mouth into a little "o" and began 
blowing cool air on her sizzling hash browns, and Mulder found 
himself absolutely fascinated by the plush roundness of her 
raspberry-colored lips. 

"Scully, I don't know how any chef could look at you and not find 
you more edible than the food," he said honestly, and Scully 
rewarded him for that comment with a long, lingering kiss. Mulder 
could taste spices and wine on her tongue, and he relished the 
taste and texture more than any dish any chef could have ever 
prepared. Suddenly, the food that she had painstakingly prepared 
seemed bland and tasteless when compared to the jubilee of flavor 
inside of her mouth and on her skin. 

Hungrily, he swept his tongue over the roof of her mouth, and 
Scully hummed low in her throat, adding a soft honeyed flavor of 
desire to the miscellany of seasonings and flavors, like the iced 
beer or the creamy richness of the grits. She was a more 
appealing meal than anything she could have ever cooked, even 
more sumptuous than the meal she had so carefully prepared. Her 
skin was covered in the spicy sweat that summer and cooking had 
lent her, and so Mulder fled her mouth to devour the rest of her. 
He couldn't taste enough of her. 

A sudden laugh escaped her lips as he bent his head to her 
throat, like some kind of vampire, only instead of draining her 
he was filling her with blood. Blood rushed to her skin, flushing 
her rosy with heat and arousal. His lips were warm from food, and 
his hands... He had to be the most fidgety person alive, because 
those hands were *always* moving. Running along her collarbone, 
trailing down to her breasts, circling her belly button... And 
soon her hands were moving as well, running down his back to cup 
his shoulders in her hands, enjoying the way his skin burned 
through his shirt and warmed her hands. 

Lowly, Mulder murmured against her skin, his mouth pressing 
against the juncture between her neck and her shoulder. "You 
know, I think I'm finished with the appetizers," he said, and 
Scully arched an eyebrow, feeling sweat bead on her skin as his 
hands roved underneath her indigo top. 

Scully put her plate of half-eaten food on the floor, resigning 
herself to the fact that she would probably never be able to 
enjoy a full meal with Mulder around. "Ah, the main course," she 
replied. "I think I'm ready for that, too." 

Smirking, he stood up and prepared to take her into his bedroom, 
but Scully stopped him by tugging on his hand. Mulder looked down 
at her to see a sight that took his breath away. 

It was the sight of Scully, sitting on his couch; her skin tinted 
the light color of carnations and her hair unruly and wild around 
her face. She looked up at him with bedroom eyes that were so 
dilated that they seemed the color of midnight, with only small 
rings of lapis lazuli circling the pupils. Sooty eyelashes hung 
languidly over her hooded eyes, and a slow, curling smile curved 
the corners of her red raspberry lips upward into a sultry smirk. 
And the most incredible part of it was the way that Scully 
reclined back onto his couch, resting her head against the back 
of it so that the length of her slim throat was revealed to him, 
the seed pearls glistening against her flushed skin. "The couch 
will do just fine," Scully purred. And slowly, ever so slowly, 
her legs parted on the sofa, her hips undulating in a final 
persuasion to get him to stay. 

The erection that he had managed to stave off during dinner had 
resurfaced with a vengeance, and Mulder wanted to place himself 
within her so deeply that he could share her blood. The sight of 
her legs spread on the couch, knowing what glistened between 
them, only barely burning through the faded denim, made his hard- 
on so painful that his blood seemed to boil. "Yeah," he hoarsely 
said. "The couch will be great." 

A rich rippling chuckle fell from her throat in a waterfall of 
pleasure, and Mulder practically leapt for her, kneeling down on 
the floor in a position of eternal worship. "Oh, Scully," he 
murmured, running his hands up and down her thighs, watching as 
her hips arched in an effort to keep up with his hands. "You 
know, this couch doesn't have a whole lot of room..." 

Mulder's hand snaked up to slowly caress the arch of her mons, 
and Scully moaned, looking down at her lover crouched on the 
floor, his hands beginning to unbutton her blue jeans. 
"Creativity is the key, Mulder," she rasped, lifting her hips so 
that he could pull down her pants and in time with a spasm of 
arousal that pulsed inside of her. "And I've got... A surprising 
imagination. Now... Get naked and get... Oh... Right here..." 

A cross between a shudder and a sigh rumbled deep inside of her 
chest, and the sound was unnerving as well as beautiful. He 
pulled down her jeans and the pair of thistle silk panties, 
revealing her slender, slightly golden legs. He loved the color 
in her, the rose and the ripeness of her skin, slightly freckled 
and dusted with summer sunlight. Swiftly, he peppered kisses up 
her thigh, feeling her hips rise and hearing her cry out when he 
let one kiss linger on the center of heat and moisture, kissing 
her inner lips deeply before pulling away and grinning. Raking 
his hands through his hair, Mulder pulled off the glasses that 
had been enchanting and enticing her all evening, then pulled off 
his shirt and stepped out of his trousers and boxers. Eager to 
meet him, Scully removed her pretty twilight shirt and slipped 
off her thistle-colored bra, revealing her sun-kissed breasts. 

Darkness and shadow did nothing to mask the arousal so evident in 
both of them, and Mulder sat down on the couch, warming the 
leather with his sweating skin. "C'mere," he murmured, and Scully 
eased herself onto his lap, just barely avoiding his erection so 
that she could straddle his thighs. She would get to that matter 
soon. Right now she wanted to luxuriate in his hands and his 
touch. Mulder was so much right now, so much sex and so much 
sweetness, that she wanted to luxuriate in all of it. 

Slowly, his hands crept up past her thighs, his eyes watching as 
her heavy lashes fell languorously over her jewel-colored eyes. 
"Scully, I love watching you like this," Mulder murmured, his 
hands rising over her flat torso, his erection throbbing. He 
could feel her warmth, feel the moisture pooling onto his thighs, 
and Scully's body was constantly moving, her arousal occasionally 
brushing against his in her motions. 

Her azalea-stained cheeks flushed deeper, not with embarrassment 
but with heat. She felt the strain of his hardened cock, the tip 
straining for her, and she felt her own body gravitating toward 
him. She had always been attracted to him like a magnet to metal, 
and now was no difference whatsoever. "Like what, Mulder?" Scully 
breathed, her voice ragged and her body overheated with desire. 
Luxuriating in the sensation of his body beneath hers, of the 
pinpricks of desire exciting her skin, Scully rocked her hips, 
rubbing her warmth on his thigh. "Like this?" She raised her 
hands to her own breasts, the balls of her hands caressing her 
rose-colored nipples, reveling in the sensuality that he had 
inspired inside of her. 

"No," Mulder whispered, even though he would watch her pleasure 
herself any day of the week. "Like *this*." Gently, he lifted her 
hands from her breasts and replaced them with his own, his 
fingers trailing over her nipples. And then he grinned wolfishly 
at her, bending his mouth to her breasts and finally circling 
that sensitive ring of skin with his tongue. 

Heat flooded through her body, setting her skin alight and 
inspiring moisture to pool between her legs. "Ah, God!" she 
cried, bracing herself on his thighs. "No more..." And then she 
lifted herself bringing him into her slowly, taking him inside 
until he was up to the hilt. 

Being surrounded by Scully was like no other experience on Earth. 
It was like being inside of sultry heat, as if paradise was a 
Southern hothouse in June. She reached up to release her hair 
from its tortoiseshell clip, and wild curls of vibrant vermilion 
fell around her face in a tumultuous tumble of damp silk. Right 
now, he was concentrating on a different patch of moist softness, 
feeling her clench around him. He anchored his hands on her 
breasts, licking the undersides with his tongue as he began 
thrusting within her. Wildly, she moved atop of him, and he 
watched as she snaked one hand between her thighs, her fingers 
moving in synchrony with his hands on her breasts. 

"Mulder, Mulder," Scully moaned, her fingertips running over 
where her slick folds and his length were joined. The combination 
of his hard sexuality and her own softer moisture was a union of 
perfect eroticism, and she rocked against her fingertips and 
around his thick cock, contracting around him and pulsing against 
her. She was alight with fire, her breasts heavy under his hands 
and her clitoris swollen and almost erect with want and need. 
This was an experience she loved, this carnal juncture of flesh, 
and she felt herself quickening, her body reaching the breaking 
point. "Faster, God, Mulder..." 

Panting, sweat beading on his brow and then falling in his eyes, 
Mulder's hands frantically caressed her body, running down her 
back, touching the slope of her ass, while she writhed atop him 
and contracted around him. He felt her speeding up, felt her 
muscles tightening and listened to the sound of her cries as 
their tempo increased, knowing that she was near the brink of 
orgasm. He was too, his erection so painful and yet so sheathed 
in damp moisture that he could hardly stand such humidity. With a 
moan, he buried his head in her chest, his tongue winding around 
that juncture of pebbled flesh and smooth skin, and Scully's 
fingers pressed hard against herself as he thrust himself upward 
so deep that she could hardly stand it - and Scully came undone 
with a shattering intensity. 

"Oh, GOD!" 

And the sound of her cry undid him as well, and Mulder pumped 
inside of her, his ragged moans landing against her breasts, as 
the sun fell in the sky and they became stars themselves. 

***** 

SKIN: CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN 

***** 

Apartment of Fox Mulder 
Alexandria, Virginia 
12:05 AM, September 20, 1999 

***** 

Softly, slowly, a leaf as red as rubies broke free of its branch 
on an elm tree and glided softly down toward the ground, its 
papery structure lending it to the currents of air that allowed 
it to descend so gracefully toward the moonlit grass. Mulder 
watched it as it fell, listening to it crackling crisply until 
it was nothing more than a perfect splash of red, lit by a 
combination of moonlight and streetlight. It was the first sign 
of autumn that he had seen, even though they were approaching 
October and fall would soon be here. 

Yet a more perfect spill of red shifted on his couch behind him, 
and Mulder turned around, his hair falling in his eyes as he 
focused in on the slender cocoon of a woman who had been 
slumbering so peacefully on his couch. She propped herself up on 
his pillows, her creamy nudity barely covered by the Aztec throw 
blanket that he slept with. Her hair fell from around her face in 
a shower of copper-lit red, so shockingly beautiful in the pretty 
candlelight. The tips of it brushed her slim, straight shoulders, 
and the blanket dropped low on her right breast, revealing a soft 
mound of flawless peach skin. "Come back to bed," Scully 
beckoned, her eyes dark and yet clear in the nighttime light. 

And of course, he could not resist. 

Mulder climbed over her and then under her until they were 
positioned comfortably, him propped up on the pillows with his 
back to the couch and her spooned up next to him, his arms 
wrapped around her lithe body and his hands brushing the 
undersides of her breasts. His legs were tangled through hers in 
a threading of copper masculinity and milky femininity. Her hair 
pooled around her in a pile of wavy red, and Mulder inhaled its 
scent deeply. Funny, how she could smell like peaches and 
magnolias even when the South was destroyed. Perhaps it had found 
a way to live on inside of the pores of Dana Scully's skin - it 
certainly was an agreeable climate. 

"Autumn will be here soon," Mulder murmured, and Scully made a 
soft noise of contentment, her hands moving around to clasp over 
his locked hands. "The foliage up here is beautiful, and 
Washington in October is a sight to see. All of those white 
monuments covered in fallen leaves..." 

Quietly, Scully smiled, recognizing what Mulder was trying to do 
for her. He could comfort her with himself, but he did not think 
that he could ever compensate for her losing Charleston to the 
hurricane. He seemed to think that there was some part of her 
that longed for the South, that could not be satisfied without 
it, and he was trying to give her something to hold onto in this 
painting of an explosive capitol in fall. 

Burrowing her back deeper into him, Scully cupped his hands 
within hers, tracing their shape with her fingertips. She loved 
the structure of his hands with a passion - so slender and 
gentle, with the power to do greatness. "You know, it never snows 
in the Lowcountry," Scully said pensively, her fingers running 
down his fingers sweetly, as if she could paint them with a 
thousand different shades of light. "It's a rare event that 
occurs every sixty to seventy years, according to statistics and 
history. Sometimes it is more frequent, and sometimes less. The 
upstate regions will get regular snowfalls, some of them over a 
foot, but never the Lowcountry. Only freezing rain and sleet for 
Charleston - dangerous and miserable." She smiled. "But in 1989, 
right after I moved to Charleston and in the same year as 
Hurricane Hugo, it snowed more than it had in years. Seven 
inches, all around Charleston." 

"Did you see it?" Mulder asked, and Scully nodded, her fingers 
passing over his callused thumb and remembering how his hands had 
stroked her so elegantly earlier, as if his entire vocabulary 
could have been expressed in the verbosity of his hands. 

"Oh, yes," Scully said. "It was... Incredible. All of the palm 
trees were painted white, and the islands were covered with a 
mixture of sand and snow. There were icicles hanging from all of 
the iron-wrought gates and wraparound porches, and the Battery 
had to be shoveled so that you could walk on it. All of the 
bridges were iced over from the cold, and they had to dig sand 
from the beaches to use as a substitute for salt. But it was so 
incredibly beautiful, Mulder - it snowed day and night, and all 
of the ancient plantations were covered in it. It was probably 
one of the most exquisite sights I have seen in my life." 
Lovingly, her fingers trailed over the slenderness of his wrists, 
basking in the knowledge that his face was one of the other most 
beautiful things she had ever seen. "Yet the strangest part of it 
all to me is how the snowstorm came the same year as the 
hurricane, giving all of us coastal victims a white Christmas." 

"How so?" Mulder asked, his breath soft and sweet on the nape of 
her neck. 

Tilting her head to the side so that the tips of her hair would 
brush against his silken mouth, Scully trailed her fingers down 
the unique lines in his palms, as if she could bridge the gaps in 
his broken lifeline. "After all of the destruction that they had 
witnessed, everything they had lost, the snow came like some sort 
of reassurance from God," she said. "Maybe it was a little 
display to show them that there was still beauty in life. A 
little snow shower of redemption." 

Mulder could envision it inside of his mind. All of the slender 
icicles dangling with a delicacy and strength from the boughs of 
weeping willows, and miniscule ice crystals clinging to the 
Spanish moss, embedded inside the shadows like glittering 
diamonds. The snow sloping up and down the beaches so that the 
seafoam would gather on top of it in a rare juncture between tide 
and frost. And yet the most enchanting image was the fantasia of 
Scully, lounging on her velvet chaise, wrapped up in quilts and 
socked feet, looking at the snow and seeing the beauty of winter 
in a place meant for summertime. She would have been so young 
then, only twenty-five, and still untouched by the cruelties of 
the world. He painfully wished that there was some way for her to 
be down there again, some way for her to be wrapped up in linen 
and lace in the intact South, when it rose from the ruins with a 
subtlety and mystery that was enigmatically elegant. 

"I wonder if it will snow again this year," Mulder said instead, 
and Scully locked her hands in his, joining them with her 
fingers. 

"I think it already has for me." 

She did not require such an extravagant display as a blizzard in 
the Lowcountry to shower her with redemption or to show her that 
she could survive all that had been destroyed. No palmetto trees 
blanketed in white, no icicles sparkling from oaks. She could 
find comfort and solace inside of these hands, or gazing upon the 
ravishing radiance of his plush, soft mouth. Her South may have 
been destroyed, but its memory could linger within her, with its 
summertime wisteria and the softness of its people and its 
rivers. She could take those things within herself and live in 
something even more rare than a Southern snowstorm - a love that 
could cross time. 

Softly, his arms turned her around until she was facing him. What 
he saw on her face was a tranquility that the Other Scully had 
rarely shown, and then he realized that her calm had only come 
when his other self had touched her. It was comforting to know 
that there was something salving in their touch. It would 
probably be their primary medicine over the years to come. 

"I wonder how bad things will get," Mulder said, and Scully 
furrowed her brow at him. She looked pretty when she was 
perplexed, her gingery eyebrows arched and her turquoise eyes 
darkening to the color of choppy Atlantic waters. 

"There's no way to determine that, Mulder," Scully said, her hair 
falling in her eyes like starlit crimson. "There's no way to 
predict what we will experience or what tricks they may try on 
us. There's a lot of sense in being afraid, and even more sense 
in being cautious, but there's none whatsoever in trying to give 
up before we've even begun." 

"I agree," Mulder said, and then an impish grin crossed his 
luxurious mouth. "Remember those words, Scully - it's probably 
one of the last times that you'll hear them in the next several 
years." 

Her eyes flashed like sparkling jewels and then she laughed, her 
laughter spilling from her throat like raindrops falling on tin 
in a pretty cascade of natural music. Her fingers toyed with the 
slender cross that could not possibly compare with the lush gold 
of his skin, admiring how it glinted and glistened in the light. 

Mulder traced the chain along with hers, his eyes looking up at 
hers adoringly. That necklace had meant so much to the Other 
Mulder and Scully, and he found that it was beginning to have a 
similarly profound effect on him. His abandoned Judaism made no 
difference to the cross's symbolism - all that it meant to him 
was that someone had faith in him, and he had faith in the 
previous wearer. And that was enough for him to have faith in. 

"Do you wonder what other differences are in this world?" Scully 
murmured thoughtfully, resting her cheek on his chest and 
trailing her fingers up and down his strong shoulders. "If there 
areany other differences in this realm, aside from how we turned 
out." 

"Naturally," Mulder replied, his hands running up and down her 
slender back, marveling at the tautness of her muscles in spite 
of her slim hourglass shape. "And when I do, I find doubts about 
my sister's disappearance and her abduction." Startled, Scully 
opened her eyes and searched his face, and Mulder shrugged 
quietly. "It's only natural for me to wonder if my memories were 
my own or just memories stolen from him. Our lives were so 
intertwined, so similar, but I can't help wondering if that was 
simply a borrowed remembrance." 

Scully's heart ached for the man who was still so broken in many 
ways lying beneath her nude body. There were so many fragmented 
colors and emotions inside of his kaleidoscopic eyes, so many 
traumas and tortures that he had suffered. Such hideous demons 
for Mulder... "I can't lie to you and tell you that your memories 
of your sister's abduction were wholly accurate," Scully said 
honestly. "She never fully invested faith in them either, and as 
a scientist, I can't help but reserve my own doubts." Then her 
finger slid down the unique and awkward shape of his slightly 
too-big nose. "But she always had faith in his faith in them. She 
admired his passion and loved him for it. And that's the best 
advice that I could ever receive." Tenderly, she brushed the soft 
spikes of brown away from his troubled brow, aching that she 
could not relieve him of all of his pain. "You will one day know 
the truth about her, Mulder. She always knew that, and I know the 
same thing. Your determination, your passion, and your quest will 
not be fruitless or go without reward." 

Suddenly and sweetly, Mulder lifted his head from the pillows and 
kissed her, his mouth sliding over hers with a sweetness and 
chastity that she was startled by. There was still a soft flavor 
of sensuality in his plush mouth, and he loved how her mouth 
still tasted of the rich rhapsody of the South. Gently, he closed 
his eyes and reveled in the length and lightness of the kiss, 
until she pulled away and smiled at him lovingly. Contentedly, 
she rested her cheek on his chest again, her hair pooling over 
his chest. He began combing it with his fingers, brushing out the 
humidity-inspired tangles until it was a soft mass of vermilion. 

"It's rather sad that they never told each other how much in love 
they were," Scully mused aloud, and Mulder nodded, his heart sore 
with the knowledge that they had always been alone, revolving 
around each other but never meeting. "They deserved that sort of 
comfort more than anyone and they never got it." 

Mulder brushed her hair with her fingers, and he wondered what 
his life would be without her. Still emptily searching for 
monsters, still haunted by a memory that would always escape him, 
still dying on the inside out from becoming part of the darkness 
until there was nothing but a husk of a man who could have been 
great. She had saved him from such a horrid fate, and he owed his 
very existence to hers. 

"I think that they were afraid of happiness," he said softly. 
"They had become so accustomed to pain and suffering that they 
thought even one moment of pleasure would eventually result in a 
lifetime of suffering - that agony was their consequence for 
bliss." His mouth twisted painfully. "They thought that it could 
be tantamount to the end of the world." 

"How sad," Scully murmured, her fingers tracing the union of his 
neck and his shoulder. How flawed they both were, these anguished 
and haunted agents, fighting to save the world but unable to find 
even a moment of happiness in that world. After all that they had 
done, all that they had accomplished, they merited happiness. 
They deserved the kind of love that she was basking in right now. 

Silently, Mulder held her for a few moments, listening to the 
sound of her breath and running one hand up and down her back 
soothingly while the other smoothed out the few brambles still 
remaining in her ruby-colored hair. There were other autumn 
leaves falling after that first bright cherry scrap of foliage, 
all in varying shades of September fire. Bright tangerine, 
brilliant gold the color of Granny Smith apples and then those 
magnificent banners of bright red, just the color of Scully's 
hair. Her breathing was slowing, and he wondered if she was 
finally beginning to fall asleep. 

Kindly, his fingers trailed butterfly steps up her body until his 
fingers were linked through the hovering garland of seed pearls 
that were still circling her throat. He had had a difficult time 
selecting that particular piece of jewelry, trying to find 
something that she would like and something that would remind her 
of who she was. And figuring out who Scully was had taken him a 
while anyway. 

She was a combination of women, just as he was a combination of 
men. They were both forever ingrained with the lives of their 
counterparts, trying to compensate for years of torture and 
mediocrity and trying to save themselves through each other. He 
had years of dying through profiling to overcome, and he knew 
that his demons would one day surface to claim him. She would 
always be haunted of the city she had lost and the South she had 
both loathed and loved. 

And they were both desperately trying to save a world from 
certain death. 

Everything seemed to require redemption - compensating for their 
years of inactivity and failure. Perhaps redemption came in a 
variety of different forms, from a South Carolina snowstorm to a 
slender woman with two sets of memories harbored within her. 

She would hold two different lives within her for the rest of 
time. One life would hold memories of sailing down the Ashley 
River through marshes and dunes, and another would be of losing 
children and family to a global conspiracy. He held his own 
memories - of his years losing himself to the absence of memory 
and also of losing himself to the faint unreliability of it. Yet 
they were all beautiful in their own intricacies, and he accepted 
both lives as his own. They were beautiful, rich memories, all 
existing under a fine coating of skin, and as he stroked her bare 
body, he knew that he would love both parts of her as much as he 
loved the body that held her. 

"Mulder, I do want you to know something," Scully murmured 
suddenly, and for a moment he caught the charming lull of a 
Southern accent in her voice, as though her words had been slowed 
by molasses. "That whatever happens over the next few years, I'll 
love you through it and because of it." 

Gratefully, he hugged her close to him, stilling his hands and 
letting them rest on the slender slope of her back. "Thank you, 
Scully," he murmured. "Thank you for everything." With that, 
Mulder landed a soft kiss on the crown of her auburn hair, and 
whispered softly to her. "I'll love you, too." 

And together, they drifted into sleep, their bodies tangled in a 
mesh of copper and cream skin. 

***** 

That night, they both had a dream more vivid than any dream 
either of them had ever experienced, even more clear and lifelike 
than those flashes of memory that had haunted them in the South. 
This dream was also different from those glimpses into a 
different realm, for in those dreams they were actors reciting 
lines and feeling anguish. But in this dream, she realized that 
she was watching and not participating, for though she was 
looking through her counterpart's eyes, she merely listened to 
her other self's thoughts rather than feeling or thinking them 
herself. She wondered if this was the same for Mulder, if he was 
standing there in this other Mulder's body, and decided not to 
worry. She chose instead to just listen and experience. 

They were standing in a small waiting room in a hospital, the 
smell of antiseptic sterility pungent and familiar to both of 
them. There were wounds on her throat that were still fresh and 
stinging, and his arm hung broken and wounded in a sling. He 
looked beautiful and shadowed to her, with a rough patch of 
stubble on his chin and a weary look that hung over him like a 
shroud. She also felt exhausted, though she could not identify 
the source of her weariness. A smile rested on his face, as 
though something had just been satisfied, and Scully realized 
that she loved that look dearly and deeply. How rare for him to 
be so happy. 

Across from her, Mulder watched silently inside of his other 
self, taking in their cool and colorless surroundings. The Other 
Mulder was quiet, relieved to be alive and somewhat contented at 
how well everything had turned out. They had survived another day 
and another year, both of them alive though somewhat battered. 
Bruises and cuts were normal occurrences for them though - they 
would be fine. 

Music and cheering suddenly distracted this Other Mulder, and he 
turned to the television screen in the hospital room. It was New 
Year's Eve, and there was Dick Clark, counting down the minutes 
to a new millennium or year, depending on how much of a math geek 
the observer was. Smiling, he watched as the numbers fell, until 
the year 2000 had arrived and gallons of confetti spilled onto 
the masses in Times Square, covering the celebration with scraps 
of color and glitter. How beautiful it was, and how wonderful it 
was that there was a world to celebrate. 

Then the old New Year's tradition was filmed, showing couples of 
different ages and races meeting in a soft or passionate kiss, 
laughing joyously at the sheer exhilaration of being alive and 
showered with color and glee. Laughing, singing, loving... It was 
all a jubilee of humanity in the streets, celebrating all of the 
glory and rapture that existed inside of the simple act of being 
human. It was incredible, to glimpse the revelry of humanity, all 
under the glitter and glow of the skyline of New York City, one 
of the greatest accomplishments of modern man. Yet here was the 
true beauty, the true accomplishment, all held in the passion and 
rapture of these simple kisses. 

The Mulder within a Mulder watched through his other, darker 
self's eyes, and felt the same sort of wonder and love brimming 
inside of his own heart. God, this was what was so incredibly 
brilliant about being alive. Watching this festivity of 
civilization and marvel kissing and dancing in the streets, a 
song swelling throughout the millions of people crowding Times 
Square: "Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to 
mind..." 

Then the view shifted, moving away from the greatest party on 
Earth on the television screen to the greatest woman on Earth, 
standing before him with a smile of equal joy setting on her 
beautiful face. A sudden fancy entered the Other Mulder's mind, 
and the spying Mulder inside was surprised by it. It was the 
sudden notion that he wanted to kiss Dana Scully. The sudden 
stirring of passion inside was something incredible and fierce, a 
desperate and powerful sort of love, and if Mulder had ever had 
any questions about how their love had transcended time to follow 
them, they were all at rest now. For the sort of passion that 
this man felt for the woman facing him was unbelievably deep and 
heartfelt, forged by years of fighting and loss into something 
despairingly beautiful. 

She tilted her oval-shaped face, and Mulder sighed at the beauty 
inside of her. Those china eyes, framed by heavy lashes the color 
of ink and soot, set in a slender face that was a shade paler 
than the Scully he loved, and Mulder realized then and there that 
he loved her freckles and her sun-kissed cheeks. This was not his 
Scully, not his Southern beauty, and he knew that he loved her as 
a separate entity. There was the same intelligence in her eyes 
though, and the same warmth and brilliance of her soul. Both 
Mulders sighed inwardly in tandem out of love for their 
respective Scullys, and then as the fancy to kiss her began being 
rationalized back into the depths of his sad heart, the observer 
Mulder pushed forward, determined to make his counterpart's dream 
come true. 

Suddenly, he was in control, looking down at her through his 
other self's eyes, and he leaned in for the kiss, smiling 
brilliantly and radiantly at her. For a moment, he saw surprise 
on her face, and then she closed her eyes with a sudden 
benevolence and bliss, and their lips met in a sweet, soft first 
kiss. Color and confetti sparked on the television screen behind 
them, but it was nothing compared to the rainbow arching between 
their lips, as he kissed her lightly and she bent her head in a 
sweet show of rose and glory. The kiss was long and yet not deep, 
but he could feel the sensuality and the romance burning below 
their skin. He would save that for the Other Mulder, leaving him 
that much-deserved experience. 

They pulled away together, and he looked down to find a wonderful 
surprise in the Other Scully's eyes. There was his honeyed 
Scully, the woman who had sailed her boat through the marshes and 
had loved him in the ancient city of Charleston. Smiling 
radiantly at her, he watched as she recognized him as well, and 
these two smiled at each other through their stolen skins. 

How wonderful, Scully thought as she looked at the man she loved 
through her complement's eyes. There was her Mulder, looking at 
her through looted hazel eyes, and he said something to her that 
broke her heart and made her tremble with the magic of this love. 

"The world didn't end," he said, a smile on his face, and Scully 
smiled softly at him. Their moment of happiness, their little 
slip of bliss, and nothing to follow it but more rapture and joy. 

"No, it didn't," she said, her eyes glistening at him before 
telling him that it was time to leave it to their other selves. 
Let them take it from there. It was just a first kiss, but it was 
a start. It was definitely a start. 

They slipped outside of themselves quietly, and watched as they 
reacted. 

Special Agent Fox Mulder was full of shock and sweetness, looking 
down at the glowing face of his reserved partner, seeing an 
unusual bloom of flowery flush on her typically pale and cool 
features, as if the sunlight had touched its lips to her cheeks. 
For a moment, he had a glimpse of a Scully floating down a boat 
in a tidal creek, surrounded by dunes and herons, while crickets 
and marsh birds sang to her, and freckles dotted her haunted and 
lonely face with a softness that was unlike the hardened woman he 
knew. How strange, he thought, but it didn't matter. He had 
kissed her, kissed her solidly and definitely, and the flush 
still radiated through her body. It was wonderful, though, how 
her lips tasted faintly of something rich and spicy, like the 
South and sex. 

Special Agent Dana Scully was reeling slightly from the kiss her 
partner had given her, feeling warmth glow inside of her like a 
candle. Funny, but she could swear that she had a memory of 
another kiss, bestowed to her on a seawall on a street of glowing 
architecture and underneath a star-studded sky, while her bare 
feet touched the pavement and the humid air rustled her hair. It 
was a strangely enchanting memory, but it didn't compare to the 
chaste kiss her partner of seven years had just given her. That 
had been magic, pure magic, and it made her body glow even though 
she kept it inside. 

They began walking away, Mulder linking his good arm around her 
shoulders, leaving the celebration on the television screen back 
in the waiting room. Their counterparts from another world 
watched back in the distance, smiling, their hands linked, as 
visions of a future for them came to mind. Visions of bodies 
entwined on this night, of a lovemaking so powerful and 
passionate that they would cry afterwards, and though there would 
be unbelievable difficulties to come, they would always have each 
other and this love that had crossed worlds to survive. 

As the Other Mulder and Scully walked back to their world, the 
haunted Mulder and the sun-kissed Scully returned to theirs, 
returning to their embraced skins and the world that would meet 
them tomorrow. 

And in the background, a world celebrated on into the wee hours 
of the morning, singing of merriment and revelry as a brand new 
year began. 

***** 

(end) 

***** 

Again, my eternal thanks go to those who have supported this work 
from its conception to its completion - Kristin and Heather. 
Heather, this one is for you, for without you, this would have 
never been finished. You supported me through doubts and through 
joy, and I want you to know that this work is for you. :-) 

This story is also for the South, for I love it more than even I 
know, even when I hate it and wish for something better. As Pat 
Conroy wrote in "The Prince of Tides", "My wound is geography". 
Indeed, it is. 

Also, this is for all of the victims of Hurricanes Hugo and 
Floyd, which stormed North and South Carolina in September of 
1989 and 1999, respectively. Many events in this story were taken 
from both Floyd and Hugo, and I want to dedicate it to those who 
lost homes, loved ones, and memories. And yes, we did receive 
snow this year - maybe it is a little slice of redemption and a 
sign that beauty never really dies. 

Thank you again, and feedback on this piece is very, very welcome 
at Auralissa@aol.com. Thanks for reading this very long, but 
hopefully very satisfying piece of work. :)