From: DashaK@aol.com
Date: Wed, 25 Aug 1999 00:45:25 EDT
Subject: Submission- The Professional
Source: direct

The Professional by Dasha K. and Plausible Deniability

Summary:  A woman from Mulder's past returns, desperately 
needing his and Scully's help.
Classification: XRA
Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sex, violence and language.  
This is most definitely not a story for underage readers.
Spoilers:  Cancer arc and abduction arc.
Archiving:  Gossamer is fine.  If you'd like to archive
anywhere else, please ask us.
Disclaimer:  They aren't ours, but sometimes we like to 
pretend they are.  We need the big psychotropic drugs.
Email:  Feedback gratefully received.  Please send to us 
both- dashak@aol.com and pdeniability@hotmail.com.

Note:  Okay, this is the part where we thoroughly confuse 
you.  This is a sequel to Dasha's stories "Increments" and 
"Keeping the Stars Apart," set a little while after both 
stories.  However, you do not need to have read either 
story to understand this one.  It is also a continuation of 
the universe from an old vignette of Dasha's, called 
"Musings of a Professional Girl."  Again, you don't need to 
have read it to get a grip on this story, but it might 
provide some background on the character of Amy.   All of 
these stories may be found at Dasha's site- 
http://dasha.simplenet.com. 

Again, we need to stress that this is a story for adults 
only.  Kids, please turn back now.




September, 1994

Amy buttoned up her navy suit jacket and appraised her 
reflection in the mirror over the bureau.  Perfect, as 
always.  She was the picture of a young, professional 
woman, just like he wanted her to be.  This was their 
second time together and now she had the image down.

The knock at the door came precisely at 8:00 pm.  She 
smiled, liking his punctuality.  

She opened the door.  "Hello," she said.

He walked in without a word and laid his coat down on one 
of the chairs near the windows.  It was a chilly night for 
early fall and the panes of the fourteenth floor hotel room 
rattled with the wind.

God, he was so unlike most of her clients.  No wedding 
ring, no gray hair, no paunch.  A good-looking man, who had 
an aura of sexuality and sorrow at the same time.  He was a 
pleasant enigma for her to ponder as she did her business 
with him.

He turned toward her and held a small gift bag he'd pulled 
from his briefcase.  "I got this for you," he said.

Amy smiled.  This was nothing new.  Sometimes her dates 
came with lingerie or toys for them to use during their 
sessions.  She opened the bag.  Inside was a small bottle 
of perfume, YSL's Paris.  She lifted it out and removed the 
cap, sniffing the violet aroma.  "I've always liked Paris," 
she said.

"There's something else," he said quietly.

There was a small black jewelry box inside.  She fought 
back a crack about marriage proposals and opened it.  It 
was a tiny gold cross on a chain, nearly like the one she'd 
gotten when she was confirmed.

Her client looked at the floor, his eyelashes fluttering a 
bit, a gesture that would seem almost effeminate on a man 
less masculine and handsome than he.  "I was wondering," he 
said in almost a monotone.  "I was wondering if you could 
wear them when we're . . . together . . ."

Laying her hand on his arm to reassure him, she nodded.  
"Of course," she said.  "I'm here to do whatever you want 
and be whomever you want me to be."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Present day


"Let's try something different this time," Mulder said, 
grinning at Scully as they lay in bed together, naked as 
the day they were born.  "Let's pretend I'm the teenager 
who mows your lawn, and you've invited me inside for some 
lemonade."

"The regular way is boring you already, then?" she asked, 
lifting one red eyebrow.

"The regular way?  Boring?  How could that be -- I'm only 
seventeen, Dr. Scully.  I just want some lemonade.  My, 
that's an awfully short skirt you're wearing."

She laughed.  "Mulder, you're nuts."

"I believe you owe me twenty-five dollars for the lawn 
work," he said.  "You do have twenty-five dollars on you, 
don't you, Dr. Scully?"

She folded the sheet aside and looked down at her nude 
body.  "No, actually I'm afraid I don't...not at the 
moment."

He grinned at her wolfishly.  "Hmmm, then I guess we'll 
have to think of some other arrangement."

"I made lots of lemonade," she suggested.

"Twenty-five dollars worth?"

She frowned.  "I see what you mean."

"Maybe there's something you could do for me, something 
worth twenty-five dollars," he said, glancing down 
meaningfully at his own naked form.  "Something I would 
appreciate very much, and that would guarantee you an 
extra-good job on your lawn from now on."

"That's only worth twenty-five dollars?" she asked, 
sounding slightly offended.

"Well, maybe you owe me from last week, too."

She laughed.  "Why are you still mowing my lawn if I didn't 
pay you last week?"

He leaned over her, and kissed her.  "Why do you think?"

She blinked up at him, and watched as the playful 
expression on his face changed gradually to something more 
serious and ardent.  "You like my lemonade?" she whispered.

He chuckled softly.  "Something like that."  He kissed her 
again, lingeringly.

He ran his hand up her side until it came to rest on her 
breast.  He circled her nipple with his thumb.  "Mmmm," he 
said against her mouth.  He felt her own hand stealing 
lower, moving past his waist. "Mmmm," he said again, when 
her fingers closed around him.

He closed his eyes.  This was the best part of being with 
Scully, he thought -- having her all to himself, knowing it 
was okay to concentrate on nothing but her, making her 
happy and letting her do the same for him.  

She turned her head to catch her breath and he nuzzled her 
ear, chuckling at the way she shivered when he kissed the 
spot where her jaw met her neck.  He worked his way down 
her neck, over her shoulder to her breast.  With his 
tongue, he teased one hardened nipple.

The phone rang.

"Damn," Mulder swore softly.

"Let the machine get it -- " 

"I can't.  I unplugged it to recharge my laptop."  With a 
sigh, he rolled over and reached for the phone, mumbling, 
"Just when things were getting interesting..."

Beside him, Scully sighed too.

"Mulder," he said into the telephone.

"Is this Fox Mulder?  The Fox Mulder who works for the 
FBI?" asked the voice on the other end.  It was a woman's 
voice, a Midwestern voice with a slightly nervous edge. 

"Yes."

"This is Amy Callahan.  You probably don't recognize that 
name, but you might remember me as Christy."

"I don't know any Chri -- " he began, and then caught 
himself.  His whole body tensed, and his mouth went dry.

"You remember me, don't you?" she asked, and waited for him 
to answer.

"Yes," he said after a pause.  "Yes, I remember."  

He looked across at Scully.  She had sat up and swung her 
legs over the side of the bed.  "I'll be right back," she 
mouthed and walked out the door.

"Agent Mulder, I need your help," said the woman on the 
phone.  "I'm in trouble and for reasons which I'm sure must 
be obvious to you, I don't feel comfortable going to the 
police."

Amy Callahan.  It was a voice he'd never thought he'd hear 
again.  

"I can't help you," he said.

"You have to."

"Have to -- why?" he asked.  "Are you threatening me?"

On the other end of the line, Amy Callahan gave a strained 
laugh.  "Please, nothing that gothic. I just need help, 
Agent Mulder.  I meant you have to help me because I have a 
serious problem, an FBI kind of problem."

"Then call the Bureau," he said.  "What makes you think -- 
"

"Agent Mulder, I'm not trying to get you into any kind of 
trouble.  I'm not that kind of person.  I'm not playing 
games or hinting at some dire consequences for you if you 
don't cooperate.  But, really, I'd think you'd want to be 
the one to help me.  Not to sound sinister, but I'd think 
it would be in both our best interests."

He shot a glance at the side of the bed where Scully had 
lain.  "Because of . . .our past association?"

"I don't want to go to the police with this, and if I have 
to, they're going to want a list of my clients.  I don't 
think either of us wants that."

"Lucky me," he muttered under his breath.

"Agent Mulder," Amy said, "someone wants to kill me.  I 
know that sounds hysterical and melodramatic, but in this 
case it's the truth.  He's made threats, and I believe 
them."

"I can't talk about this now," Mulder said.  "Can we meet 
somewhere?"

"The bar at the Marriott?"

His stomach twisted, and he wished she'd picked anywhere 
but the Marriott.  "That's fine," he said.  "When?"

"Can you come on a weekday?  That's best for me.  Tomorrow 
afternoon, maybe?  Two o'clock?"

He sighed.  "I'll be there."

"I'm sorry to drag you into this," she said, sounding 
genuinely regretful. 

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, and hung up the phone.

Could it be a set-up?  Something told him it wasn't.  She 
could have threatened him with exposure, or picked some 
more secluded spot to meet him.  Instead she'd sounded 
frightened and desperate.

Scully walked back into the room with a glass of water.  
Her hair was disheveled in the  late-night way he loved and 
her lips were still slightly swollen from his kisses.

"Everything okay?" she asked him gently, sitting back down 
on the bed.  "Who was that?"

"Everything's fine."  He was a little surprised that he was 
able to make the words come out so casually.  "It was 
someone I used to know."

"An old friend?"

"No," he said, and reached over to draw her against him.  
He didn't want to look her in the eye.  "Just someone I 
used to have a business relationship with."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For the tenth time in seven minutes she checked the watch 
at her wrist.  She was early.  She always was; she was just 
wired that way.

The waiter drifted over.  "Do you need another?" he asked, 
gesturing towards her empty glass.

Amy nodded.  "Yes, I think so."  

He smiled.  "Watch out, it's still early in the day."  He 
whisked away the glass and walked to the bar.

She smiled at the waiter's comment.  She was only drinking 
San Pellegrino, not being much of a drinker, especially 
during the daytime.  There was nothing wrong with a glass 
of wine at the end of the day, or a margarita in the heat 
of the summer, but there was something seedy about drinking 
in the middle of the afternoon.

Idly, she brushed some dust off the black wool of her suit 
jacket.  It was crazy to be so nervous to see him again.  
After all, it had been merely a business transaction 
between them.  He showed up, she did her stuff, he paid and 
left.  Cut and dried.

It was different this time, though.  She needed him.  Sheer 
desperation had made her dredge up his full name and call 
him last night.  She would never contact a client like 
that, unless the situation was dire, indeed.

Now that she thought about it, perhaps it wasn't the best 
idea in the world to have Agent Mulder meet her in the bar 
of the hotel where they'd met so many times before.

Amy looked towards the bar entrance again and he was 
striding though, impressive in his beige trench coat.  He 
spotted her at the table in the far corner of the small 
lobby bar and an awkward smile formed on his handsome, if 
asymmetrical, face.  Even from where she was sitting she 
was able to notice he had a midwinter tan.

She rose as he approached her and extended her hand for him 
to shake it.  It was best for them to establish the 
boundaries, she thought.  Agent Mulder's grip was strong 
and confident, but the expression on his face told her 
something else.  "Thank you for meeting me on such short 
notice," she said, taking her seat again.

He shrugged off his coat to reveal a well-cut gray suit 
that said Calvin Klein to her experienced eyes.  
Interesting.  How did a federal employee afford a designer 
suit?

The bar was mostly empty at that late-afternoon hour and 
the waiter came over with her water.  The agent ordered the 
same for himself.

"I have a question for you, Amy, before we get started," he 
said.

"What's that?"

"How did you know I was with the FBI?"

She smiled.  "I saw your ID one time.  I'm good at spotting 
things like that."

"Okay, fair enough."  He sat back in his chair and 
appraised her with watchful gray-green eyes.  "What's going 
on?"

"I suppose we can dispose with the pleasantries, Agent 
Mulder."

His mouth twitched.  "It's just Mulder.  It seems too 
formal for you to call me Agent Mulder when . . ." His 
hands made an odd gesture.

Briefly, she remembered easing navy dress pants and boxers 
off his hips to settle between his knees and take him in 
her mouth.  Business, she reminded herself, and shut the 
memory away.

She cleared her throat.  "For the last few weeks, I've been 
getting some disturbing phone calls on my private line, 
which is unlisted."

"What kind of calls?"

"The voice has been filtered through a voice synthesizer, 
but I'm assuming it's a man."  A wave of nausea rolled 
through her stomach and she swallowed some water.  "Filthy, 
disgusting calls, about what a whore I am, how I need to be 
punished. He says he's going to slit my throat and fuck me 
while I bleed to death."

Mulder nodded, a sympathetic look in his sleepy eyes.   
"How many calls have you gotten?  Do you have Caller ID?"

"I'd say there's been a call every two or three days.  And 
yes, I have Caller ID, but the number is blocked, of 
course.  If it was just phone calls, I'd ignore it . . ."

The waiter handed Mulder his water and set down the bottle 
and a bowl of peanuts and pretzels.  "There's something 
else?" Mulder asked.

"Yes."  She reached under the table and pulled out her 
black leather Coach briefcase.  Opening it, she brought out 
a large white envelope and handed it to him.

Inside were six black and white photographs, each 
individually sealed in a Ziploc bag.

Mulder looked up at her in surprise.  "Nice touch, those 
bags.  Was that so you don't get fingerprints on them?"

"I like to read detective novels."

He put on a pair of reading glasses that made him look like 
a young history professor, and examined the pictures.  They 
had obviously been taken with a telephoto lens.  Amy, 
leaving her apartment building.  Having coffee at a table 
on the sidewalk outside of a cafe.  Standing in the lobby 
of the Four Seasons, in conversation with a gray-haired man 
in a business suit.  Driving her car.  On the Stairmaster 
in a sports bra and a pair of bike shorts.

Mulder set the photos down.  "I can see why you're 
frightened."

She gulped.  "He's been following me; he knows my routine."

Always, she'd been the model of caution.  Her clients never 
knew her real name, her personal phone number, her address.  
She never revealed the slightest scrap of her personal life 
when she was working.  There was Christy's life and then 
there was Amy's.

He crunched some ice between his teeth.  "Could he be one 
of your clients?  Is there anyone who has acted 
particularly bizarre or has seemed obsessed?"

Amy shook her head.  "I've tried to think of someone, but 
they're all so normal.  You know, just suits, married 
businessmen from Chevy Chase.  I've only had a few bad 
experiences and they were . . . taken care of."

"Have you recorded any of the calls?"  Mulder drained his 
glass of fizzy water.

"Yes, I have.  Like I said, I like detective novels.  
They're relaxing."  She pulled two mini-cassettes from her 
briefcase and set them on the table.

"Any spurned lovers?"

"No."  She felt a smile spreading on her face.  "There's 
only been Michael for the past five years."

"And you don't think-"

She cut him off.  "Not at all.  He's the most wonderful man 
in the world.  He's an artist, very open-minded and it 
doesn't bother him that I'm a working woman."

The agent made an unreadable noise in the back of his 
throat.  "If I need to, could I talk to Michael?"

"Oh, sure.  He's terribly upset about this, too."

Mulder nodded.  "Okay, Amy, I'll see what I can do, but 
there's just one thing that makes me reluctant to help 
you."

She raised an eyebrow.

"I have a partner," he continued.  "A woman.  But she's 
more than my partner now.  She's my-"

"Your lover?" she asked, interrupting as always.  It was a 
bad habit left over from growing up in a family of five 
children.

"Yes.  If I help you, I have to bring her in, because we 
always work together.  But I don't know how she'll take the 
news that I was one of your . . . clients."

Amy sighed.  "There's a big difference between paid sex and 
making love."

"Not everyone sees it like that, and I don't think she 
will.  And there's the matter of--," he grimaced, "--how 
you look."

What about how I look, she thought defensively, and then it 
all clicked into place.  A year ago she and Michael had 
been out for Sunday breakfast when she'd seen Mulder at the 
restaurant with a woman.  A small, slender woman with 
bobbed red hair and blue eyes.  A woman who easily could 
have passed for one of Amy's own sisters.

"My looks?" she asked, deciding not to tell Mulder about 
seeing his partner.

His face turned a faint pink and he looked down at the 
table.  "You look like her, Amy."

"I see," she said, clasping her hands in her lap.  "That is 
complicated.  Perhaps you could tell her you met me some 
other way?"

"I wish I could, but I don't think so."  His voice was 
hoarse.  "I don't lie to Scully."

The last time he'd rented her, he'd cried out that name, 
Scully, as he'd bucked against her with his orgasm.

Amy tilted her head.  "I'd say you've already done a fair 
amount of lying, if only by omission."

"I know and I regret that.  I've wondered, from time to 
time, if my experiences with you might come back to haunt 
me."

His face was so full of regret that she felt a stab of 
empathy.   Usually, she figured her clients got what they 
deserved if caught by their wives or girlfriends, but 
Mulder reminded her of her own difficulty living a double 
life.

"I don't want to ruin your life, Mulder," she said.  "I can 
try to find help elsewhere."

"No."  He shook his head.  "You need my help."  He gathered 
up the envelopes and the photos.  "I'll see what I can do, 
Amy."

She scribbled her number on a bar napkin and handed it to 
him.  "Give me a call if you find anything out."

"I will."  He stood and put on his coat.  "In the meantime, 
be careful.  Maybe you should stop working for a while." 

"I'll give it some thought.  And I have a gun and I know 
how to use it."

"I'll call you in a day or so."  He turned to leave and she 
noticed how his shoulders were slumped, as if in defeat.

"Mulder?" she called out, her voice sounding tremulous to 
her own ears.

He turned around.  "Yeah?"  

She smiled.  "Thank you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder paid the garage attendant and pulled out into the 
afternoon traffic.  It felt strange, driving in the middle 
of the workday without Scully beside him.  He'd told her as 
he left the office that he had an appointment and was 
taking the rest of the afternoon off, allowing her to 
assume he was seeing his dentist or his doctor.  Just 
another lie of omission, he thought unhappily.

What was he going to tell Scully?  His hands tightened on 
the steering wheel.  Amy had offered him an out, suggesting 
that he could say he'd met her in some other way.  He had 
to admit, despite his protestations of honesty, that the 
offer was tempting.  He could say she was a former 
neighbor, maybe, or someone he'd met while working a case 
for the VCS.

He wished he could say that.  Driving home through the 
harsh afternoon sun, he wished it with all his might.

He could still remember the call that had begun it all.  
Scully had been missing.  He'd dragged himself through the 
days, trying not to think about her.  He'd cried, too, more 
times than he was willing to admit, cried brokenly in the 
small hours of the morning.  Finally, one night as he'd 
been lying dry-eyed and hollow on his couch, the emptiness 
and the unhappiness had all seemed too much.  He couldn't 
be alone any more.  In a moment of weakness, he'd reached 
for the telephone book.

He knew what he was looking for.  When he couldn't sleep, 
when he was feeling restless and edgy and unhappy, he often 
turned to sex as a way of coping.  Masturbating relaxed 
him, even if it didn't make his problems go away.  He'd put 
in one of his videos, watching with glazed eyes while he 
jerked off.  Sometimes he'd even call a 900 number, and 
talk to someone real while he did it.  The release always 
helped to make him feel relieved and sleepy.  Or, at least, 
it used to do that.  For some reason the videos and the 900 
numbers just weren't doing it for him any more.

He'd found the Tiger Lilies agency in the yellow pages, 
under "Escorts."  Their ad, discreet and tasteful, had 
promised "attractive, understanding companionship."  Yes, 
he'd thought -- maybe that's what I need.  Maybe that's 
what would make me forget all this for a little while.

So he had dialed the number, his heart beginning to pound 
nervously as he'd counted the rings.  Hang up, he'd told 
himself.  No, don't hang up.  Oh, God...

He'd heard a click on the other end, and a refined female 
voice had cut short his internal struggles.  "Tiger Lilies, 
may I help you?" 

"I'd like a -- a date," he'd stammered, desperation 
thrusting him into the void.

They'd traded information: the agency's prices, his 
references, their rules.  Finally the woman had asked, "And 
just what kind of companion were you looking for?"

He'd stopped short.  What exactly was he looking for?  "A 
redhead," he'd blurted out, the words coming forth 
unbidden.  "Petite -- one with a bob haircut, if that's 
possible."

"I think we can accommodate you there," the woman had said 
with seeming approval.  "In fact, I feel certain you'll be 
pleased."

Those words had kept him going for the seemingly endless 
hours until his first assignation at the Marriott:  "I feel 
certain you'll be pleased."  Every time he'd felt a flutter 
of panic and thought about backing out, he'd repeated them 
like a mantra to himself.  He'd wanted so badly to be 
pleased about something again.  

He had to admit, too, that it wasn't only panic he had 
felt.  He'd had his second thoughts, his doubts and his 
compunctions, but he'd felt strangely excited, too.  Sex.  
No strings, no complications, no insecure second-guessing.  
He'd get exactly what he paid for.  The thought had brought 
an unfamiliar exhilaration.

Maybe that's why he felt so guilty now.

Scully would never understand.  He didn't understand it 
himself.  He'd realized from the very first time how empty 
and meaningless the sex really was, and yet he had not been 
able to stop himself from going back.  Amy Callahan had 
looked so much like Scully, and for those few moments in 
that hotel room he'd been able to imagine that she really 
*was* Scully, that he'd been making love to the only woman 
he really wanted.  He could still feel the softness of her 
hair under his fingertips, still sense the heat of her body 
as he slid gratefully inside her.

It was empty and meaningless, but the truth was, he'd never 
really felt the letdown until afterward, when he was 
leaving the hotel.  When he was with her he could lose 
himself in her, drown in her, focus on what her mouth and 
her hands and her body were doing to him.  He could look 
down at her face, pretty and acquiescent under him, and 
imagine for a moment that he was loved and desired.  When 
he came, he could even pretend that he was coming inside 
Scully.  That was the feeling that drove him to go back 
again and again, even when he swore to himself he wouldn't.

God, he was sick.  He was sick to need someone that badly, 
to trade his honesty and his self-respect for delusive, 
impersonal sex.  He hated himself sometimes.  What was 
wrong with him, that he had such little self-control?

He didn't know how he was going to tell Scully -- 
forthright, principled, trusting Scully.  It was so far 
beneath her -- *he* was so far beneath her -- that it 
physically hurt him to imagine the expression on her face 
when he broke the news.  She would be shocked, he thought.  
Disgusted.  She would know what a terrible person he was, 
how weak and fucked up he'd always been at heart.

But he had to tell her. He owed her that.  Scully was the 
reason he looked forward to going in to work each day -- 
more importantly, the reason he'd actually begun to look 
forward to those times when he wasn't working.  She meant 
everything to him.

God, how maudlin he was becoming, he thought, and laughed 
shortly.  He'd paid a hooker for sex and suddenly that made 
him Doctor Fucking Zhivago.  Boo-hoo, his past had caught 
up with him.  He'd suspected all along that someday this 
was going to happen.  It had always been just a matter of 
time.

But...

Still...he really wished he knew what he was supposed to 
say to her.

An SUV cut suddenly in front of him, and he had to hit the 
brakes.  "You're not the only fucking car on the road," he 
said aloud to the other driver.

He was almost home, he realized, looking at the street 
around him.  He'd been so caught up in his thoughts that he 
couldn't even remember covering the distance from the 
hotel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He heard the key in the lock as he was filing his bank 
statements.  He'd been too nervous to sit still, and so had 
occupied himself by organizing the stack of mail that had 
been gathering dust on his desk for a couple of months now.

"Mulder?" Scully's voice called.  "Mulder, it's me."

"Over here.  Just a second."  He swept the little pile of 
credit card statements into the desk drawer.

Before he could get up, though, he felt Scully's hands on 
his shoulders.

Behind him, she leaned down and whispered in his ear, 
"Clean bill of health?"

"Huh?"

"Your appointment.  Everything check out okay?"

He swallowed.  "I'm fine," he said stiffly.  "Scully, we 
need to talk about something."

"I missed you this afternoon," she said.  She ran her hand 
over his chest in a caress.  After a pause, her fingers 
began moving down his abdomen.

He grabbed her hand to stop its progress south. "Scully -- 
"

She came around to slip between him and the desk.  "Let's 
skip dinner," she said, straddling his lap.  Her tone was 
suggestive, almost kittenish.  "It was so quiet in the 
office without you, I kept having the most distracting 
thoughts . . ."

"Scully," he said again, and set her at arm's length.  He 
looked gravely into her eyes.  "Scully, we really need to 
talk.  I think you should sit down."

Her smile disappeared, the look of invitation on her face 
fading to apprehension.  "What's wrong?"

"Go sit down," he said.

She rose and moved to the couch, to sit with her hands 
folded in her lap.  He got to his feet and stood before 
her.  She looked like a schoolgirl called into the 
principal's office, he thought.

He cleared his throat.  "Scully, do you remember that phone 
call I had last night?" he began.  "The one when we were in 
bed?"  His voice was reasonably composed, he thought.  He'd 
rehearsed this part of his confession in his head.

She nodded solemnly.  "The business acquaintance."

"Yes."  He bit his lip.  "That appointment I had today 
wasn't with a doctor.  I had a meeting with the person who 
called me.  It was a woman, a woman named Amy Callahan."

She waited for him to continue.

"She asked to talk to me about threats she's been 
receiving.  Someone has been stalking her," he said, 
beginning to pace.  "The reason she asked for my help 
instead of going to the police is that we have some history 
together."

"You were lovers?"  Her voice was calm.

He stopped and turned to her.  "In a manner of speaking.  
There's also another reason she didn't go to the police.  
Amy Callahan is a prostitute."

He waited for Scully to make the inference.  He could tell 
the exact moment when she did: the look of wariness on her 
face turned to a look of shock, and then outright horror.  
Her naturally pale complexion turned paper-white.

"I haven't seen her for a long time," he pressed on.  "The 
whole thing started years ago -- when you were missing, in 
fact.  I was so unhappy, Scully.  I was lonely and 
restless, and one night I just couldn't take it any more.  
I phoned an escort service called Tiger Lilies.  I asked 
them to set me up with someone."

Scully sat absolutely still, but he could sense her tension 
in the tight grip of her clasped hands.

"There's more," he said, determined not to lose his 
resolve.  "The agency asked what kind of -- of girl I 
wanted.  I requested someone like you."

"Like me..." she repeated in a disbelieving whisper.

"Like you.  A redhead, and small.  Pretty.  The girl they 
sent was Amy Callahan."

Scully sat on the worn leather couch with her knees tightly 
pressed together, her back ramrod straight.  Her face was 
so white he swore he could see the veins under the skin.

"Scully, I'm sorry," he said.  "I never meant for you to 
find out.  Not because I wanted to hide anything from you, 
but because I didn't think it mattered.  It was over with 
long before we got together.  I never wanted to hurt you."

She stared down at her hands.

He stood before her silently, wondering if there was 
something he ought to add.  No, he'd said enough, he 
suspected.  He'd given her a lot to absorb for now.  He 
waited for the feeling he'd been hoping for, the feeling of 
a weight having been lifted from his shoulders.  It didn't 
come.

If only she'd say something, he thought, maybe then the 
relief would hit him. He'd admitted his weakness.  He'd 
told her he was sorry.  She knew everything, or almost 
everything.

Suddenly she found her voice.  "Was it good?"

He stared at her.  "What?"

"I said, was it good?  Was it worth it?"

"It was -- " He stopped, thought, tried again.  "I felt -- 
"

No, he thought; I've got to get this right.  It's got to be 
absolutely honest, and I've got to get it right.

"It was a relief," he said finally.  "Like taking a 
painkiller when you hurt all over.  I won't deny I felt 
better physically, at least for a little while.  But it 
didn't make me happy.  *She* didn't make me happy.  It was 
just a temporary measure, something to take the edge off, 
to make the worst part of wanting you bearable."

"But the sex was good."

"No, Scully, it wasn't good.  It was just better than 
nothing.  It was sex that I paid for.  I'm not proud of 
it."

She took a deep breath.  "But you did it more than once."

"Yes."

She frowned, blinked rapidly, looked like she might be 
fighting back tears.  "It must have been good, if you kept 
doing it."

"No."  He shook his head.  "It wasn't.  I was weak and I 
wanted somebody.  That doesn't make it good.  What makes 
sex good is the combination: the combination of the 
physical and of knowing that the woman wants it, that she 
wants me.  And what makes it better than good, a hundred 
million times better than good, is if you're that woman."

"How long?" she rasped.

"How long?" he repeated, but he knew what she was asking.

"How long did this go on?"  The little line between her 
brows was deeper than he'd ever seen it.

Mulder bowed his head.  "Until you got sick."

He wanted to sit next to her on the couch and take her 
hand, to comfort her, but he knew that was the last thing 
he should do.  Scully's body language shouted, "keep the 
hell away from me."

"Mulder -- "

"Scully, I fucked up.  You don't have to tell me that.  And 
you don't have to worry that I got away with something, or 
that I don't know how wrong it was, because that isn't the 
case.  I feel like shit.  I feel guilty and dishonest and 
like I'm the biggest loser in the world, paying a woman so 
I could fantasize she was you and she wanted me.  I'll get 
down on my knees and ask you to forgive me if that's what 
it's going to take.  But I want you to understand that she 
didn't mean anything to me.  I just needed to be with 
someone, and at the time she seemed like the easiest 
solution.  It was weakness and stupidity, that's all."

"You didn't 'just need to be with someone,' Mulder.  You 
could have 'just been with' Frohike, or Langly, or Byers.  
You were having sex with this woman.  Sex with a 
prostitute."

He looked down at his shoes.  "Yes," he said in a whisper. 

"You could have given me a disease, Mulder," she said.  
"Did you ever think of that?  You could have caught 
something yourself, and you could have given it to me."

He shook his head.  "It wasn't like that.  The agency she 
worked for had rules, and she insisted on condoms."

Scully raised a hand to stop him.  "Please, I don't want to 
know the details."

"But I want to tell you, Scully," he said, looking at her 
earnestly, almost beseechingly.  "I want you to know 
everything.  If I don't get it all out, it's going to eat 
me up inside."

"That's your problem, Mulder.  If it's so hard to live with 
your conscience, then maybe you shouldn't do things you 
know are wrong."  Her chin lifted in a proud gesture.

His heart was thumping painfully.  "Scully -- "

"Mulder, I can't deal with this right now."  Her voice was 
clipped, icy.  "You want me to tell you that it's okay and 
that everything will be fine.  Well, I don't think I can 
tell you that right now.  Frankly, I don't know if I'll 
ever be able to tell you that."

She stood stiffly and gathered her purse from the couch.

"Scully -- "

Without looking back at him, she turned and walked out of 
the apartment, the door shutting behind her with a decisive 
thunk.

He stared after the closed door with a lump in his throat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully found herself almost instinctively drawn, not to her 
own home, but to the office.  And not her cubbyhole on the 
sixth floor, but the basement lair that ostensibly belonged 
to just Mulder.

It was their office, though, even if she didn't have a desk 
or a nameplate on the door.  Her office was just where she 
received voice-mail messages and stored pathology 
textbooks.  Even her computer had somehow migrated down to 
the basement after they'd been reassigned the X-files.

Home isn't safe right now, she thought as she unlocked the 
office door and tapped across the linoleum to sit in her 
customary chair, opposite where Mulder sat.

Her apartment held too many fresh and raw memories.  For 
the past two months it had been a refuge for them, a place 
where they could escape from it all and love each other.  
It smelled like them now, like their shared meals and their 
lovemaking.  His soap and shampoo were in the shower and 
some of his dress shirts hung in the closet.  In the living 
room, a stack of his CDs sat on top of the stereo and his 
copy of "Undaunted Courage" was on the coffee table.  No, 
it was not a time to be home.  The memories the office held 
were less personal.

Scully leaned back in the chair and shut her eyes against 
the fluorescent glare, trying to block out the nagging 
image of the night before, when she'd lain in his bed and 
waited for him to finish his phone call so they could get 
back to the urgent business of making love.  

A bitter taste filled her mouth as she now realized he'd 
been talking to *her*, that woman, the prostitute. 

The woman he'd seen, time and time again, and pretended was 
her as he had fucked her.

She wasn't a naive woman.  She knew that for many men, sex 
often didn't carry the weight of meaning it did for most 
women.  Yes, she was aware that men could have sex without 
any emotional investment whatsoever.  But it didn't mean 
she was any less shocked and repulsed by Mulder's actions.  
The adult videos were one thing, but to pay a woman for 
sex, it was beyond her realm of comprehension.  He was an 
officer of the law, for God's sake -- didn't that mean 
anything to him?

He'd been lonely.  Yeah, so what, so had she.  She'd been 
missing and he was lonely and fucked-up and confused and 
needed comfort.  Scully could understand that feeling, but 
to go so far as to call an escort service and order a woman 
like she was a Chinese take-out meal, it just didn't 
compute with her.

It just wouldn't leave her brain, the image of Mulder 
fucking some woman in a hotel room, someone he didn't even 
know, didn't even care about, just some random woman he 
could lose himself in because he was too goddamn scared to 
actually talk to her.  No, it was beautifully easy to have 
his devoted Agent Scully and have the hooker on the side 
when he wanted to play pretend.  Yes, much easier than 
being with the real three-dimensional woman.  To be in a 
real relationship would mean he'd have to give up his 
single-mindedness, have to put something before his 
mythical quest for the truth.  

He should have just stayed with his whore and saved them 
all a whole lot of pain, she thought, her hands balling 
into fists.  He could have had his partner, his quest, his 
whore and nobody would have been the wiser.  No one would 
have gotten hurt.

For two months they'd been lovers and he hadn't said 
anything about that period in his life until it came back 
to haunt him.  What did that say about the level of honesty 
and trust between them?

God, what a fool she'd been.  Truly, she'd thought that for 
once in her life, it was safe to trust another, to bare her 
soul, not just to show the man in her life the side of 
herself she'd wanted him to see but for him to get to know 
the side of her that she was so skillful at hiding-the 
woman who could be insecure, mean, petty, and afraid.  
She'd shown him those things and he'd only loved her more.  

But it turned out it didn't go both ways for them, now did 
it?  

She should have known it was too perfect to last.  The way 
their coming together had slowly unfolded as she healed 
from her gunshot wound, it was too easy for the two of 
them.  Of course something had to intervene in that.  Of 
course.

Scully pinched the bridge of her nose, unwilling to let the 
tears come.  No, she wasn't going to cry about it.  Crying 
meant assuming a position of weakness and vulnerability and 
she wasn't going to let that happen again.  Look where it 
had gotten her.

She didn't know what she was going to do.  

She could leave or she could stay.

That was the worst part, she just didn't know what to do or 
how to feel.  She felt paralyzed, trapped in a no-man's 
land of conflicting emotions.

She got up and switched off the overhead light and for the 
rest of the night she sat in the chair, trying her best not 
to feel anything at all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It shadowed her, knowing that her every move might be 
followed and photographed.  As she did her mundane early-
morning weekend chores-picking up the dry cleaning, 
returning library books, picking up yogurt and fruit at the 
supermarket-- she was hyper-aware of her movements, her 
every action and interaction.

She didn't see anybody strange, though.  No cars appeared 
to follow her as she went about her business.  Every once 
in a while, Amy would pat her purse to reassure herself 
that her gun, a Walther PPK, was there.

Michael called her on her cell phone as she drove home from 
the supermarket.  He couldn't be down there for the 
weekend, since his best friend was opening a show at a 
Tribeca gallery.  "How are you holding up?  Did you call 
the FBI agent?"

Amy tried to sound brave.  "I'm doing okay.  I met with him 
yesterday and he's going to look into it."

He made a relieved noise.  "Amy, I'm really worried about 
this.  Why don't you come up here this weekend?  Get out of 
that damned city and away from whoever is trying to scare 
you."

She sighed softly as she stopped at a red light.  "Maybe I 
will.  I'll check the shuttle schedule when I get home.  I 
already called Joanne and told her I wouldn't be working 
for a while."

"Good.  It doesn't sound like a safe time for business.  
Was she okay with it?"

"Yeah, she was disappointed, since there's a lot of 
requests in for next week, but it's my choice to work or 
not."  That was the difference between her and street 
girls.  She was independent, free to work when it suited 
her.  As long as Tiger Lilies got their cut, they stayed 
out of her business.  There was no pimp in her life, 
forcing her to bring home the money.  And she had plenty of 
money saved up, enough to ride this out.

"Well, I have to go, sweetie.  I'm meeting Jim at the 
gallery to start hanging for tonight.  Maybe you'll be up 
here tonight so you can come with me to the opening?"

She smiled, hitting the gas.  "If I can get Lucy or Hillary 
to watch Jess, I'll hop on the shuttle and come on up to 
New York."

A chuckle emanated from the phone.  "I can't wait.  I love 
you, Amy."

"I love you, too."  She turned the phone off and tossed it 
onto the passenger seat.

It was all going to work out, she thought, as she parked 
the car and unloaded the bags from the trunk.  Mulder would 
do his investigating and she'd go up to New York, attend 
the opening, and bask in the security of being with her 
lover.

Outside her front door, Amy balanced the bags on her hips 
and fished for her keys.  The door swung open after she 
unlocked it, and she set the bags down on the parquet floor 
of the foyer.

She pulled out a bag of Milk Bones and shook it.  "Jess!" 
she called out, waiting for the excited skitters of dog 
paws across the floor.

There was no response.  Strange, since Jess normally went 
nuts when she heard the magic sound of doggie treats.

Amy picked up the bags and headed for the kitchen.

The bags slid to the floor as she let out an agonized cry.

Jess, her three year-old Golden Retriever, was lying on her 
side on the black and white tiles of the kitchen floor.  
Her copper fur was matted with blood around the neck, and 
the blood pooled on the floor, grotesquely staining the 
tile.

Her heart stopped beating as soon as she realized the dog 
was dead.  She slid to the floor and touched Jess's fur 
with a shaking hand.

"Why?" she cried out.  "Why do this to her?"

Amy snapped back into focus.  She knew what she had to do.  
Standing on weak legs, she grabbed the phone and punched in 
Mulder's number. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder waited outside the Lone Gunmen's door listening to 
someone - probably Frohike -- sliding aside the many 
deadbolts and flipping the many locks that barred the 
outside world from the headquarters of The Magic Bullet.  
He was exhausted and he had to fight the urge to lean 
against the doorframe.  He hadn't slept at all the night 
before.

Finally the door opened.  He'd guessed right -- Frohike was 
on door duty again.

The little man peered around him.  "Where's Scully?" he 
asked.

Mulder's jaw clenched.  "She had some work to do."

He entered the office to find Byers and Langly listening 
intently to the radio, and making hash marks on a sheet of 
paper.

Langly looked up.  "Hey, Mulder, did you hear the latest?  
We have convincing evidence that Howard Stern is actually 
an agent provocateur for the right wing. He's been 
programmed by the CIA to say four-letter words until 
citizens encourage the government to crack down and use 
mind control assassins to abridge our freedom of speech."

"That's nice," Mulder said morosely.

Byers stood, and exchanged a curious glance with Frohike.

Mulder knew he was being humorless, but he couldn't stop 
himself.  He felt bad, and suspected he looked even worse.  
He was getting too old to spend an entire night obsessing 
about his love life.  It was one thing for a teenager to 
stay up all night tossing and turning, and quite another 
thing for a man in his late thirties to do it.

"Something wrong, Mulder?"  Byers asked.

"Nothing's wrong.  I just need a favor."  He fished in his 
pocket and took out the two mini-cassettes Amy Callahan had 
given him at the Marriott.  He set them on the tabletop in 
front of him.  "I'd like you to see what you can do with 
these.  There's a caller on these tapes who's making 
threats.  He's using an electronic voice synthesizer -- "

"He's not threatening Scully, is he?" asked Frohike.

Mulder frowned.  "No, Scully has nothing to do with this.  
He's threatening someone else, a woman named Amy Callahan. 
I'd like to see if you can adjust for the voice 
modification and get a sample of something approaching his 
natural speech."

"That's going to take time," Byers said.

"Do what you can."

Frohike had picked up one of the cassettes.  He turned and 
popped it into the Gunmen's own answering machine, then 
pushed the play button.

A robotic voice buzzed forth to flood the room.

"You filthy cunt," said the recording.  "I'm going to slit 
your fucking throat with a razor.  From ear to ear I'm 
going to slit it, and then I'm going to fuck you while the 
blood spurts out all over both of us.  I'll fuck you to 
death.  You'd like that, wouldn't you, you whore -- "

Mulder reached over and shut off the tape.  Byers' eyebrows 
had climbed toward his hairline in a shocked expression.

"I wonder if he kisses his mother with that mouth," said 
Langly.

"Just see what you can do," Mulder told them.

Frohike took the tape out and turned it over in his hands, 
examining it.  "Who's this Amy Callahan?" he asked.

"Just somebody I used to know."

"A ladyfriend?"

Mulder's face turned stony.  "Not exactly."

Frohike looked thoughtful.  "Does Scully know you're 
working on this?"

"Of course Scully knows," said Mulder angrily.  "Why 
shouldn't she know?  For that matter, since when is that 
any of your business?"

Frohike held up his hands in an apologetic gesture.  "Hey, 
no problem, my friend -- I'm just trying to get my story 
straight."

Mulder flushed.

Well, that was just great, he thought.  Way to act like a 
prize dick.  Ask someone for a favor and then jump all over 
him.  He looked down unhappily at the floor.

"This Amy Callahan being targeted for any special reason?" 
Byers asked, to fill the uncomfortable silence which 
followed.

Mulder shook his head.  "I don't think there's any 
government involvement, if that's what you mean.  As far as 
I know this is just your garden-variety stalker.  I'd still 
like an answer as soon as possible, though."

"We'll do our best," Byers said.

"Thanks," said Mulder.  "I know you will."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully was sucked out of the whirlpool of sleep by the 
insistent ringing of the phone.  Lifting her head off the 
desk, she cried out at the pain stabbing though her neck 
from sleeping in such an uncomfortable position.  Her hand 
scrabbled for the phone and managed to knock over a half-
full mug of tea and a container of pencils.  "Fuck . . ." 
she groaned as she finally got a grip on the receiver.

"Scully," she croaked.

The feminine voice that answered sounded shaky.  "I'm 
looking for Agent Mulder.  I know it's Saturday, but is he 
in the office this morning?"

Scully's body stiffened, and if her mouth hadn't already 
felt like cotton wool, she knew it would have gone dry.  It 
was that woman, the prostitute.  Despite the aches and 
pains, she instinctively sat up straighter and her voice 
took on a crisp tone.  "No, Agent Mulder isn't here.  Have 
you tried him at home?"

The other woman let out a long exhale.  "I've been trying 
and trying to get hold of him, but there's no answer, no 
voice mail."

Dimly, she remembered that Mulder had unplugged his 
answering machine the night before last.  He must have 
forgotten to plug it back in.  "May I pass a message along 
to him?" she asked.  She could have given Amy his cell 
phone number, but she just wasn't in the mood to play 
along.

There was another long sigh through the receiver and Scully 
heard a sniffle.  "My dog," the woman said.  "He fucking 
killed my dog!"

"Who killed your dog?"

"Whoever has been stalking me.  Listen, I really need to 
get in touch with Mulder.  He said he'd help me, and I 
really need it right now . . ." The desperation was evident 
in Amy's voice and despite herself, Scully found herself 
snapping into investigative mode.

"Listen," she said, "I'll find Mulder and we'll meet you at 
your place."

As Scully wrote down the Georgetown address, she realized 
that Amy lived only three blocks from her.  Delightful, she 
and the hooker were neighbors.  Maybe they could go for 
coffee one of these days, catch some yard sales.

What was she doing, offering to go to Amy's apartment?  Was 
she nuts, wanting to throw herself into the eye of the 
storm, to be faced head-on with Mulder's immaturity and 
stupidity?

She rose and grabbed a small vanity case she kept in the 
closet for emergency trips out of town.  Even if she had to 
go to Amy's in her wrinkled suit from the night before, at 
least she could brush her teeth and comb out her tangled 
hair.

Scully would need all the armor she could muster to look 
her doppelganger in the eye.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Amy ran to answer the doorbell, brushing tears away with 
the back of her hand. It had been nearly two hours now 
since she'd found Jess, but she was still struggling to 
regain her composure.  Fits of emotion kept overtaking her 
at unpredictable moments, leaving her shaking 
uncontrollably.

She opened the door to find a haggard Mulder standing 
grimly beside his partner. Though she'd met Agent Scully 
once before, Amy was struck anew by her own resemblance to 
the woman.  They were the same height, the same build, the 
same coloring.  They even had similar taste in clothing, 
Amy thought, numbly taking in Scully's tailored blue-gray 
suit.

One thing was different about them, though: while Amy felt 
ready to break into tears again at any moment, Agent Scully 
wore an expression of regal disdain. She might have been a 
queen, coming to call on a particularly loathsome peasant. 
Or perhaps it was Mulder she disapproved of; she had her 
arms crossed over her chest, and she had turned her back on 
him slightly.

Amy felt an unaccustomed twinge of discomfort.  Obviously, 
Mulder had told Scully about their association.

Mulder was the first to break the doorway stalemate.  "Amy, 
I'd like you to meet my partner, Dana Scully.  Scully, this 
is Amy Callahan."

Amy put out her right hand, and Mulder's partner took it as 
if it was a dead fish, shaking just long enough to be 
civil.

"Please, come in," Amy said, gesturing toward the kitchen.  
"Jess is this way." 

Mulder strode past her, heading without a word in the 
direction she had pointed.

Scully, however, hung back a little, as if afraid she might 
come in contact with some contaminant.  She moved slowly 
into the living room, looking with ill-concealed surprise 
at the well-stocked bookshelves, the dramatic modernist 
furniture with its bright Lota sofa, Le Corbusier leather 
armchairs, and chrome Bauhaus lamps, and the funky artwork 
hanging framed on the walls. Amy had spent the last few 
years with one of the city's best interior designers 
collecting her furniture and art

She paused, one eyebrow raised, in front of a bookcase.  
"To the Lighthouse...The Awakening...Dubliners...Pale Fire," 
she said, reading the book titles off the spines.  She 
looked over at Amy.  "You have a nice collection of books 
here."

Amy felt a flash of indignation.  She could guess what 
Scully had been expecting -- something along the lines of a 
Victorian bordello, with scarlet drapery and gold-leaf 
mirrors.  Or perhaps, despite the respectable Georgetown 
address, Scully had assumed that a prostitute would 
naturally live in a crackhouse, complete with broken 
windows and peeling paint.  "I did graduate with honors 
from Northwestern, you know," she said, and forced a smile.  
"A double major in Business and History."

Scully's face took on some unreadable expression.

"We've met, you know," Amy said.  "You don't remember but I 
met you once about a year ago, at The Egg and I.  It was in 
the ladies' room."

Scully looked shocked.  "We've met?"

"Yes," said Amy.  "I told you your partner was crazy about 
you.  I could tell, just from the way he was looking at 
you."

"That was you?" Realization dawned on her pale face.

Amy nodded slowly.

Scully bit her lip.

This was surreal, Amy thought.  Here they were, two women 
who looked so much alike that it was a little disturbing, 
and they had both had sex with the same man.  Amy flashed 
on a sudden memory of Mulder, his face twisting in an 
ecstatic grimace as she knelt before him, expertly 
finishing him off with her mouth.

She heard a cough from the next room, and with a parting 
glance at Scully she went to join Mulder in the tiled 
kitchen.  She found him crouched down on his haunches, 
examining Jess's lifeless body.  He looked up when she 
entered, but his eyes traveled past her, to where Scully 
followed behind.

"No sign of forced entry, and judging from the absence of 
bloody tracks and fingerprints, he took his time," he said.  
He was obviously talking to his partner, not to her.  His 
eyes wore a haunted expression.

Scully did not answer him, instead addressing Amy.  "How 
was your dog with strangers, Ms. Callahan?  Would she have 
confronted an intruder, or was she more the friendly type?"

"Definitely friendly," Amy answered, thinking with a pang 
of the way Jess had always bounded up, tongue lolling, to 
greet each new person she met.  "She was a companion, not a 
guard dog."

Mulder stood up, and looked around.  "Are you missing a 
knife?" he asked.

Amy checked the butcher's block that held her carving 
knives.  Everything was as she normally kept it.  She 
opened the dishwasher and then the kitchen drawer, counting 
the knives inside.  "They're all here."

"That means he either washed off the knife he used and 
replaced it," said Scully, crossing to kneel down beside 
Jess, "or else -- "

"Or else he came equipped with his own weapon," Mulder 
finished for her.  "Could this wound have been made by a 
razor?"

Scully slipped on a pair of latex gloves and examined 
Jess's throat.  Despite the horror of the scene, Amy 
couldn't help admiring the swift, assured way her fingers 
explored the awful wound.  The tension between the two 
agents might have been palpable, but Scully was still every 
inch the professional.

"You mean one of those old-fashioned straight razors?" 
Scully said.  "It's possible. The wound is consistent with 
a sharp, single-edge blade."

Mulder turned to Amy.  "The voice on your answering machine 
specifically mentioned attacking you with a razor.  Can you 
think of any reason why that particular weapon might be of 
importance to someone you know?"

"He's a psycho, obviously," said Amy, one shaking hand 
rubbing the bridge of her nose in a nervous gesture.  
"Isn't that reason enough?"

Mulder shook his head.  "It's one of the tenets of 
profiling, Amy:  'All behavior fulfills a need, and no one 
acts without motivation.'"

Below him, Scully grimaced and absently stroked the fur on 
the top of Jess's head.

"There were no signs of forced entry," Mulder continued.  
"Who else has a key?"

Amy took a deep breath.  "My boyfriend Michael in New York 
City; my parents in Evanston, Illinois; and the cleaning 
woman.  Also, the people next door keep a copy of my key 
for me, just in case I accidentally lock myself out."

"Who lives next door?" asked Scully, getting to her feet.

"It's just the two of them -- he's an attorney and she has 
an antique shop. They're both in their fifties.  I trust 
them, as much as you can trust anyone these days."

A sudden electronic twitter made Mulder reach in his breast 
pocket for his cell phone.  "Mulder," he said into the 
phone, walking off a few paces to conduct his conversation.

Amy and Scully looked past one another in awkward silence, 
waiting for Mulder to finish his call.

"You know," Amy said finally, growing tired of the uneasy 
peace, "you don't have to call me 'Ms. Callahan.'  Amy is 
fine."

Scully smiled faintly.  "No offense, but I think under the 
circumstances, 'Ms. Callahan' is probably better."

"Your partner calls me Amy," she said, and then could have 
kicked herself for speaking without thinking first.

Agent Scully looked like she'd been slapped.  They went 
back to standing in uncomfortable silence.

Finally Mulder snapped his phone off, and rejoined them.  
"That was Frohike," he said, to Scully.  To Amy he 
explained, "I had some friends of mine analyzing your 
answering machine tapes.   They couldn't get a clear 
voiceprint, but they're pretty sure of one thing: the man 
who's been harassing you has a French accent."

"Oh my God..." said Amy.  She had to steady herself with a 
hand lifted to the refrigerator.  "I think I know who it 
is.  It has to be that French diplomat."

"Who?" asked Mulder.

"He was a client of mine, just once, two or three years 
ago.  He wouldn't pay me, and when I objected he got rough 
and hit me in the mouth.  I told my agency about it and 
they...they handled it."

"Handled it how?" asked Scully.

Amy brushed her hair nervously behind her ears.  "Look, I 
don't condone what they did.  I heard they cut up his face 
-- with a razor."

"Do you remember his name?" Scully asked.  Unlike Mulder, 
whose expression registered shock, she did not seem at all 
surprised to learn that Amy's agency employed razor-
wielding thugs.  For once, Amy thought, she had not 
disappointed Agent Scully's low expectations.

Amy felt her knees begin to tremble.  Another attack of 
post-traumatic nerves, she thought.  "Marquand or Marchand, 
or something like that.  I only met him once.  I do know he 
worked at the French Embassy.  If the rumor about his face 
is true, he shouldn't be very hard to find."

Mulder must have noticed her shaking.  He put a hand on her 
shoulder.  "Until we can speak with this man, Amy," he 
said, "I think it would be best if you went somewhere safer 
for a little while.  Is there any place else you can go?"

"I was already thinking of joining Michael in New York when 
this happened," she said, gesturing at Jess' bloody form.

Scully looked from Amy's worried face to Mulder's haggard 
one.  "I think New York City is a good idea," she said.

It was, Amy thought, Agent Scully's impressively judicious 
way of telling Mulder to get his hand the hell off her 
shoulder -- and telling her to get the hell out of town.

Amy nodded.  "I'll call Michael," she said hoarsely.  "I 
can catch the next shuttle, as soon as the locksmith comes 
and I arrange for Jess's burial."

"I'm very sorry about your dog," said Scully softly.

The surprising thing, Amy thought, was that the kindness in 
her voice sounded genuine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was raining when they left Amy's apartment-- a gray 
late-winter drizzle that made the neighborhood look as 
exhausted and depressed as Scully felt.  She and Mulder 
stood by his car and stared at each other.

"Can I give you a lift home?" he offered.

She shook her head and opened her umbrella, listening to 
the rain spatter on the plastic.  "I'm only three blocks 
away," she said, looking at her shoes.  "I can walk."

He touched her elbow.  "Come on, it's raining."

"I'm not in the mood," she said and turned on her heel.

"Don't be like this," Mulder called out.

Rage bubbled through her veins and she whirled around.  
"Don't be like what, Mulder?  Don't be angry that you had 
sex with a hooker?  Don't feel embarrassed that I had to 
actually meet her today and play the civil little agent?  
Don't remind you of the fact that she looks like me?"  It 
was galling; it was humiliating how much the whore looked 
like her, like Dana Scully gone bad.  Her hands balled into 
fists.

Mulder bowed his head and took a deep breath.  "I want us 
to talk about this.  We have to get it out and move on from 
there."

She shook her head.  "You don't get it, Mulder.  You can 
move on, you already have.  While you've had years to deal 
with what happened with Amy, I just found out last night.  
I'm angry and I don't see that ending any time soon."

"How many times do I have to say I'm sorry?"

She looked at him, at the guilt and confusion on his face, 
and wondered if it was a curse to love and hate someone at 
the same time.

"I don't know," Scully said and turned to walk down the 
street.  "I'd be a lot happier if I knew the answer to 
that, too."

She meant to go home, but instead she turned left and found 
herself on the busy commercial thoroughfare of M Street.  
Her apartment still wasn't the best place to be; she needed 
a neutral environment or else she was going to lose it in a 
big way.

A grande latte, a double chocolate brownie, two CDs, a pair 
of black suede loafers and a coffee table book on the art 
of Kandinsky later, she was still angry but not at the 
point of apoplexy anymore.  When in doubt, when in pain, 
shop, she thought with a grim smile as she trudged home 
with her load of shopping bags.  Visa cures all that aches.

Despite her exhaustion, she took a five-mile run in the 
cold rain, letting physical strain replace the workings of 
her brain.

The only other remedy in sight was a long bath with Calming 
aromatherapy oil.  She calmed some, but the anger still 
pressed at her temples.  She got out of the tub, wrapped 
herself in her bathrobe and watched a tape of "Austin 
Powers."  She didn't laugh once.

Around 9:00 p.m., just as she was picking at a piece of 
frozen pizza, the phone rang.  God, could Mulder not take a 
hint?   She sighed and picked up the phone.  "Scully," she 
said.

The voice was not Mulder's, but the gravelly warmth of 
perhaps the only other man she trusted in the world, 
outside of her brothers.  "Hello, lovely lady," Frohike 
said.

Despite her sour mood, she found herself smiling.  
"Frohike, what can I do for you?"

"I can't reach Mulder, so I thought I'd give you the latest 
news.  I got into the French Embassy's database and found a 
likely match.  Mulder told me Marquand or Marchand, and I 
found an Olivier Marchand, age forty-seven, posted to 
Washington since 1994."

"It sounds like the one we're looking for," she said.

"There's more," he said.  "Mulder said this guy was a 
pretty bad dude, so I wormed my way into some more . . . 
obscure areas of the Embassy's files and found a whole lot 
on a certain diplomat and a scandal in Lisbon."

She reached for the pencil and notepad near the phone.  "Do 
tell," she said.

A few minutes later she hung up the phone and dialed 
Mulder.  There was no answer, nor when she tried his cell 
phone.  She imagined him on his leather couch in his 
boxers, shutting out the world and wallowing in his guilt 
to the tunes of the Doors.  She liked that idea almost too 
much.

With another gusty sigh, she went to the bedroom to change.  
Like it or not, she had news for Mulder.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I feel better with you here," said Michael, as they sat 
side by side on the New York subway, heading for Tribeca.

"I know, baby," said Amy, leaning her head on his shoulder.  
"And I really am glad I'm not going to have to miss Jim's 
show.  I'm just a little sad about Jess."

He put his arm around her, and squeezed her close.  "Do you 
want to talk about it?"

She shook her head, and tried not to blink, for fear of 
starting to cry again.  "I don't think I can, right now."

He nodded.  "We'll talk about something else, then."  His 
fingers played with her hair.  "Did you hear that Ron 
Hannigan didn't sell a single painting at his last show?"

She glanced up at him in dismay.  "That's terrible."

"He's good, too."  Michael sighed.  "I have a show coming 
up at the end of next month, and now I keep worrying I'm 
heading for a big disappointment.  Do you know how 
discouraging it is to paint a work that really means 
something, and then have it ignored by the same people that 
proclaimed Jeff Koons a genius because he made an 
inflatable Easter bunny out of stainless steel?"

Amy smiled.  "Are those really the kind of people you want 
admiring your work?"

He chuckled.  "I guess you have a point there.  Sorry, I 
just get down sometimes...the artistic temperament, and all 
that.  It seems like everyone wants the same banal 
postmodern crap these days -- legs growing out of walls, 
round faceless heads, flat cartoon amoebas."

"Not everyone goes for banal.  You're successful by 
anyone's standards."

He gave her shoulders another squeeze.

Michael was such a perfectionist when it came to his art, 
Amy thought, looking admiringly at his profile.  In fact, 
Michael was a perfectionist in a lot of ways: quiet, 
completely dedicated, and more intelligent than anyone else 
she knew.  She could still remember the first time she'd 
seen him.  He'd looked so clean-cut and handsome, with his 
dark hair and his deep blue eyes, she'd initially dismissed 
him as some narcissistic actor or model.  It was only when 
she'd gotten closer and seen the tiny sapphire stud in the 
side of his nose that she'd realized he was more than the 
cookie-cutter mannequin she'd imagined.

She put her lips to his ear.  "I love you," she whispered.  
She kissed the side of his face, and set her hand on his 
thigh.

He glanced down at her hand, and smiled.  "You sure you 
want to go to Jim's show?"

She laughed.  "Yes, I want to go.  There's plenty of time 
for us to be together later."

The gallery opening turned out to be an unqualified 
success.  She'd been to a few such affairs that ended up so 
dull the most interesting thing anyone discussed there was 
the type of cheese being served with the wine.  This one 
was full of artists like Michael, smart creative people 
with lots to say.  Plus she could watch Michael, his 
handsome face growing animated as he talked, his clothes 
hugging his lean frame.  It actually took her mind off her 
stalker and what had happened to Jess.

In fact, now that she'd put more than 200 miles between 
herself and Georgetown, she was feeling much better.  
Mulder and his partner were working on the case, and she 
was safe here with Michael.  Being near him, knowing that 
she would sleep in his bed with him tonight, made her feel 
more relaxed than she'd felt in a long time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully sat in Mulder's empty apartment.  Mulder rarely kept 
late hours -- at least, he was rarely out late -- and so 
she was surprised when ten became eleven, and eleven became 
midnight, and he still hadn't come home.

She couldn't help wondering where he was.  At least now 
that Amy was in New York, she knew he couldn't be with her.  
Still, just a few days ago it would never even have 
occurred to her that he might be with another woman.  She 
hated the way she'd begun to suspect his every move since 
learning about his past.

At last she heard the scrape of a key in the lock.  Or, 
rather, she heard the scrape of a key fumbling for the 
lock.  On the other side of the door, Mulder seemed to be 
having trouble letting himself in.

The door swung open.  Mulder stood silhouetted in the light 
from the hallway, swaying slightly on his feet.

"Scully!" he said, loudly.  "What're you doing here?"

He was obviously drunk.  His hair was rumpled, and even 
from the distance of the living room, she could tell that 
his eyes were bloodshot.

He stumbled in, throwing his keys on the kitchen counter as 
he passed.  "Wanted to talk to you," he said.

She got to her feet and walked over to inspect him.  He 
reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke.  "I wanted to talk 
to you, too," she said coolly.  "But given the way you 
look, I think it can wait."

He put his hand over his heart.  "I've been thinking about 
you all evening," he said solemnly.  "Scully, I messed up 
so bad."

"Did you say you messed up, or you *are* messed up?" 

"Please don' be mad at me any more," he slurred.  "I'm so 
sorry.  So, so, so sorry.  I'll go to my grave sorry, 
honest to God I will.  Don' be mad."

"Mulder, how much did you have to drink tonight?"

"A few drinks."  He went over and sat down heavily on the 
couch, then looked up at her.  "Scully, I never meant to, 
to lie to you," he said.  His voice was earnest, even if he 
stumbled a little on the words.  "I should've told you, I 
know I should've.  I don' like being a liar, Scully."

She nodded reluctantly.  "I know you don't, Mulder."

"I wanted to tell you.  I wanted to, but I was afraid.  I 
was afraid you'd be mad at me."  He frowned.  "And you 
are."

"Mulder, I'm not mad you told me the truth."

"You're not?" he said, looking up hopefully and sounding 
very much like a befuddled ten-year-old.

"I'm angry, but you know that's not why."

His shoulders slumped.  "Oh, yeah."

"Come on, Mulder.  I think you need to get to bed."

"If you say so, Scully."  He struggled to his feet, so 
unsteady that he had to keep a hand on the arm of the couch 
to find his balance.  Suddenly he froze, and looked up with 
a taut, panicked face.

He practically shoved her out of the way in his haste to 
get to the bathroom.  She hurried after, arriving in plenty 
of time to see him on one knee in front of the toilet, his 
shoulders wracked with the effort of puking his guts out.

"Oh, Mulder..." she said, softening toward him in spite of 
herself.

When the fit of vomiting passed, he leaned his forehead on 
the toilet tank.  "Scully, go away," he said miserably.  
"Don't watch me throwing up."

"I'm a doctor, Mulder.  I've seen worse things."

"I know, but it's not going to help you love me again."

She sighed, and softened a little more.  "Mulder, drink 
some water and come to bed."

"You hate me, don't you?"

"No, Mulder.  I don't hate you."  She realized as she said 
the words that they were true.  She didn't hate him.  She 
loved him -- that was the problem.  It was hard to stay 
angry with him when she loved him, and right now she wanted 
very much to stay angry with him.

He climbed to his feet, still looking decidedly greenish.  
"Room's spinning."

She ran some water into a cup, and pushed it into his 
hands.  "Drink this and get ready for bed," she said, and 
left to give him a little privacy.  As the door shut, she 
heard him brushing his teeth.

She went to Mulder's bureau.  She took out an old t-shirt, 
and changed into it.

Why was she staying here, she asked herself.  The hour was 
late, but she had her gun and she wasn't worried about 
being able to make it home safely.  Mulder had been 
throwing up, but she knew he'd be okay if she left him 
alone.  So what was she doing, getting ready to spend the 
night?

She knew what it was -- she wanted to force a 
confrontation.  It didn't seem right to go home like some 
meek little victim, cooperating in her own marginalization.  
She wanted to be the first thing Mulder saw when he sobered 
up, so he could see how much he'd hurt her.  She wanted to 
make him keep saying he was sorry, just so she could show 
him how little his apology mattered.

He came shuffling into the bedroom a few minutes later, 
stripped to his boxers.  "I fuck everything up, don't I?" 
he asked.  It did not seem to be a rhetorical question.

She took him by the elbow, and guided him over to the bed.  
"You just need to sleep it off, Mulder."  She helped him 
get into bed, and pulled the covers up over him.  She felt 
like his mother, tucking him in as if he were a five-year-
old.

"This room's spinning, too," he said in a small voice.

"That happens when you drink too much."  She turned off the 
light, and got into bed on the other side.

They were quiet for a few minutes.  Mulder wasn't much of a 
drinker, she knew.  It wasn't like him to get this smashed.  
She wondered if he really did regret the sex with Amy.  
That wouldn't make it any easier for her to understand, but 
it would make her more willing to try.

"I'm really sorry, Scully," he said beside her.

She rolled over on her side to face him, one hand tucked 
underneath her cheek.  "I want to believe that, Mulder."

He turned his head and gazed at her.  "So does this mean 
we're okay?" he asked.  He sounded even more like a child -
- naive, unguarded.

She bit her bottom lip.  "No, we're not okay.  Not yet.  
But maybe we can work on it."

"Because I really love you, Scully.  I'm sorry and I 
really, really love you."

"Go to sleep, Mulder," she said quietly.  For some reason, 
she was afraid that she might start to cry.  "We'll talk 
about it in the morning."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They talked a little about her stalker on the short ride 
from the gallery to Michael's Chelsea apartment.  "I wish 
you'd move in with me, Amy," he said, over the clatter of 
the subway car.

"We've talked about that."  She took his hand and laced her 
fingers with his.  "I love you, but I have my life back in 
DC, and my job..."

"You have money saved up.  You don't really need to keep 
working.  I'm not trying to pressure you, but I'm worried 
about your safety."  He gazed at her, the expression in his 
blue eyes troubled.

"I know, but I still have a way to go before I can afford 
to open my own gallery.  If I'm ever to going to turn that 
dream into a reality, I need to be working now.  I won't be 
able to make this kind of money forever."

"It's just that it seems so dangerous," Michael said, his 
brows coming together in a frown.  "What do you really know 
about your clients?  Any of them could be a nut.  And now 
that someone is stalking you -- "

She shivered.  "Let's not talk about it."

Once they were alone together in his apartment, it was easy 
to put it all out of her mind.  They ate leftover Thai food 
straight from the take-out cartons, and then fell eagerly 
into bed.  Amy gave herself over to the experience, heart 
and soul.

It was so different making love with Michael -- nothing 
like the detached, unemotional sex she had with her 
clients.  She never came with a client - it wasn't what she 
was there for -- and she loved being able to let go with 
the man she loved.  She could kiss him, and let him touch 
her in ways that quickly brought her desire to the boiling 
point. She spent sessions with her clients hoping they 
would hurry up.  With Michael, she never wanted it to end.

Afterward, as she lay breathless and flushed in his rumpled 
bed, he got up and fetched his sketchpad.

"What are you doing?" she asked, as he sat down with it in 
the chair near the foot of the bed.

"I'm inspired."  He looked back and forth from her to the 
paper, making quick, assured strokes with his pencil.

She laughed.  "I thought it was only the artist's model who 
was supposed to be nude."

He was still smiling when the phone rang.  "I'll get it," 
she said, and then added sotto voce, "Maybe it's your 
mother."

He nodded absently, and kept sketching as she reached for 
the phone.

"The genius is at work right now, may I take a message?" 
she said into the receiver, grinning at Michael.

"Amy?  Is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me.  Who is this -- Jo?"  Amy visited Michael 
often enough in New York that her manager, Joanne, kept his 
number on file.

"Got it on the first try.  Listen, I know you're taking a 
sabbatical, but Deborah Rugazzi just got that job she was 
hoping for in LA, and we're throwing her a retirement party 
this Thursday night.  Can you make it?"

Amy frowned.  "I don't know...I'm kind of trying to give DC 
a wide berth right now."

"Oh, yeah...I heard about Jess.  I'm so, so sorry.  Listen 
-- if you think you know who did this just say the word, 
and I'll have it taken care of."  Joanne's voice was 
sympathetic.

Amy played with the telephone cord, twisting and untwisting 
it around her finger.  "Thanks.  I have an idea who might 
have done it, but at this point it's still just a 
suspicion.  I have someone looking into it for me, someone 
professional."

"So what about Deborah's party?"  Joanne was well known for 
her tenacity.  "You could stay with one of the other girls, 
couldn't you?  That ought to be safe."

Amy considered for a moment.  She'd been friends with 
Deborah Rugazzi for some time, and she hated the idea of 
letting her stalker, whoever he might be, control her life.  
"Okay, I guess I could come down, just for Thursday night. 
I'll give Vanessa or Lisa a call."

Michael looked up with a vaguely curious expression.  She 
smiled at him reassuringly, and he went back to his 
sketching. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully woke the next morning from a fitful sleep when the 
bathroom door closed behind Mulder.  She listened to the 
sounds of the toilet flushing, of running water and of 
Mulder drinking noisily.  She listened to him brush his 
teeth, too.  With her eyes shut, she pictured another, 
easier, morning, when they'd been on vacation in Cozumel.  
A time when things were so much simpler.

Had they really been living a lie all this time?  She 
didn't really want to know the answer to that.

He came back to bed, and lay down on his back, staring up 
at the ceiling.

She got up to use the bathroom herself.  After a minute 
spent looking into the mirror thoughtfully, examining the 
faint circles under her eyes, she took the toothbrush she 
kept at Mulder's apartment and brushed her teeth.  Then she 
went back in and joined Mulder in bed.

She knew, and yet didn't know, why she did it.  Climbing 
back into bed with him usually meant one thing -- they were 
going to have sex.  Yet she was angry at him.  He didn't 
deserve to be with her.  If he wanted to have sex, she told 
herself, he should go out and pay for it again, since that 
seemed to be what he liked.  Let him buy something 
insincere and purely physical, as long as he left her alone 
with her genuine feelings.

But she wanted something to happen.  She wanted him to 
touch her.  She realized she wanted to reject him.

Mulder rolled up on to one elbow, and gazed at her with 
liquid, serious eyes.  Slowly, clearly unsure what her 
reaction would be, he leaned toward her and kissed her, his 
mouth opening over hers.

She did not turn her head, or push him away.  Instead she 
lay very still.  She did not kiss him back, but she did not 
stop him, either.

"Scully," he whispered.  "Scully, let me make it up to you.  
Let me make it good again."

She closed her eyes tightly, and didn't answer.

She felt him kissing her face -- her temples, her eyelids, 
her cool unresponsive lips.

He worked his way down her body slowly, with great care.  
He lifted the t-shirt she was wearing and spent long 
moments kissing and touching her breasts.  She didn't react 
but he persisted, moving lower, pushing her bikini 
underwear down off her hips, kissing her abdomen and the 
new tattoo on her hip.  He parted her legs, and settled 
with his head between her thighs.

Through it all, she remained absolutely rigid and silent.  
He could do it to her, she told herself, but she wasn't 
going to give him the satisfaction of responding.  If he 
liked sex with no feelings behind it, then sex with no 
feelings behind it he would get.  She was going to show him 
what it was like not to be wanted.  She knew it was 
vindictive and beneath her but to do anything else, it 
seemed to her, would be to deny that what he had done with 
Amy was wrong.

Mulder appeared to be trying his best to change her mind.  
He began licking her up and down, running his tongue slowly 
over her in long slow sweeps.  It made her want to squirm 
and lift her hips to him.  She did not squirm, though, not 
even though he purposely skirted her clitoris with each 
teasing swipe of his tongue.  Up and down, up and down, 
around but never quite where she most wanted him -- she had 
to clench her teeth together to keep from showing any sign 
of what it was doing to her.

He lifted his face away.  "I love the way you taste."

She didn't give any indication that she had heard, but she 
remembered the night he'd first gone down on her, how he'd 
kissed her and said, "You're delicious, taste yourself on 
me and you'll know."

He went back to licking her slowly, dragging his tongue 
slowly up and down. When she was thoroughly wet, drippingly 
so she suspected, he slipped two fingers inside her, and 
began finally to concentrate on the one spot that most 
throbbed and ached for his attention.  He covered her clit 
with his mouth and sucked gently, pulsing his tongue 
against it as he slid his fingers slowly in and out.

Please, she begged in her head, successfully fighting the 
urge to arch spectacularly off the bed.  Please, oh please.  
It was a combined plea: that Mulder would keep doing what 
he was doing, and that she would have the willpower not to 
let him see how much it was affecting her.

"Hmmmm," Mulder hummed against her.  He was licking at her 
in a quick, light pattern.

It took all her resolve for her to remain still.  Her jaw 
hurt from the way she was biting down to hold onto her 
control.  Mulder began flicking his tongue back and forth 
against her clit, faster and faster.  Despite her 
stillness, she could sense the tension building in her 
body.  Very soon now she was going to come.  Yes, very soon 
now, just a few more seconds of his tongue teasing her, 
just a few more firm thrusts of his fingers --

Her orgasm hit her with surprising force.  She cried out, 
shuddering out of control with the violence of it.  All of 
the tension and the anger she had been carrying around 
slipped for an instant, leaving her as defenseless and 
unanchored as if the floor had suddenly dropped out from 
under her.

She put her hands over her face, and burst into tears.

Suddenly Mulder was alongside her, pulling her into his 
arms as sobs shook her whole body.  "Scully, don't -- " he 
said, sounding as confused and shaken as she felt.

She didn't want him to hold her.  She wanted to shout at 
him and hurt him the way he had hurt her.  She tried to 
pull away, but he did not let go.  The anger and resentment 
she had kept mostly bottled up came bursting out and she 
shoved at his shoulders, her sobs tearing painfully at her, 
choking her, making her breath come in ragged gasps as she 
tried to escape.

Mulder held on.  Finally she gave up on pushing him away 
and sagged against him, wailing, her forehead on his 
shoulder, her tears turning his bare skin wet.

"Scully, don't," Mulder begged again.

"I thought I knew you," she sobbed.  "How could you do this 
to me?"

"You do know me," he said.  "I'm the same person I always 
was."

She shook her head violently back and forth.  "No.  I 
trusted you."

"Scully, I'm sorry."

He ought to be sorry, she thought as her sobs gradually 
slowed.  He'd had years of lying to her and getting his 
surreptitious, no-strings-attached sex right under her 
nose.  He ought to be sorry.  He could never be sorry 
enough.

She suddenly felt ashamed that he'd seen her cry, seen her 
weak at a time when she needed to be strong.  Climbing out 
of bed, she headed to the bathroom where she splashed cold 
water on her face and tried to regain her control.  After a 
long minute of gathering herself together, she returned to 
the bedroom and stared at Mulder, sprawled on the mattress 
with his eyes closed.

With a groan, Mulder sat up and ran his hand through his 
sex and pillow-tousled hair.  "Scully, we have to talk 
about this.  We can't let this get between us."  She saw 
the desperation in his eyes and her heart sank.

A large part of her wanted to just toss it away, lock the 
whole situation in a dark corner of her brain and pretend 
she never knew that Mulder had fucked a prostitute named 
Amy.  It would be so easy to play make-believe.  But she'd 
been doing that all her life, hadn't she, pretending that 
nothing touched her, that nothing wrinkled the immaculate 
suits of Dana Scully.  

She loved Mulder.  It was time to get real.

She rejoined him in bed.

"I want to know," she paused and took a deep breath, as if 
more oxygen would suddenly make her better at articulating 
the emotions choking her.  "I want to know why."  

She pulled the light blue sheet around her body, as if she 
had anything to hide from Mulder.  As if they hadn't had 
sex just a minute before.  Still, for this conversation she 
didn't want to feel so exposed.

Mulder nodded.  He was silent for a moment and then he 
finally spoke. "You'd been gone more than a month and I 
knew you were dead.  I could feel it in my bones.  And it 
was all my fault, I'd fucked up and gotten you taken, 
gotten you killed.  You were just a kid then, Scully, this 
pretty, smart, arrogant young woman who had come to me full 
of idealism and innocence and you'd fallen into my world 
and now you were dead."

He continued in a low voice that was nearly devoid of 
affect.  "I don't try to psychoanalyze it too much, because 
even though I'm a psychologist, I'm the last person I can 
get a read on.  But I think I kept seeing Amy because for a 
few minutes I could close my eyes and pretend you were 
still alive."

With great difficulty, Scully tried to keep her voice 
gentle.  "Then why did you still see her after I was 
returned?  You told me you saw her until I was sick."

Nodding thoughtfully, he flashed a tight grimace.  "I know.  
But it became a habit, a compulsion.  It was so easy to be 
with Amy.  It would have been complicated to be with you, 
Scully.  And I'd come so close to losing you, I didn't want 
to fuck your life up more than I already had."

It was her turn to display a smile that had nothing to do 
with amusement or pleasure.  "Do you really believe you've 
ruined my life, Mulder?"

He bowed his head.  "Sometimes.  You've lost so much."

Didn't he get it?  She could have left years before.

Scully's voice came out in a whisper.  "I've lost some 
things and I've gained others, but my life hasn't been 
ruined, by you or anyone else."

A long shuddering sigh escaped him and he clasped her hand 
in his, warm and callused.  "Scully, we've got to get past 
this somehow.  We can't work effectively together if you're 
shutting me out and trying to punish me for my mistake and 
I'm constantly wallowing in my guilt.  I've told you the 
truth, I've come clean, now we have to work on dealing with 
this."

Again, she was confronted with the comforting image of 
running and hiding, of leaving Mulder for something easier, 
of living a life without fear, without dealing with the 
difficult issues of trust and guilt.  It was just too 
fucking tempting to get out of bed, put on her wrinkled 
clothes from the night before and get the hell out.

She nearly did it, too.

But she looked at him, and saw the naked need and love in 
his eyes and something stopped her short.  "It was a long 
time ago," he said.  "I know it doesn't sound like much, 
but I've changed. I'm capable of being good to you, Scully.  
I'm worthy of your trust."

A few tears beginning to roll down her face, she nodded.

He squeezed harder.  "Are we going to be okay?"  

The tiniest of smiles formed on her lips.  He'd said the 
very same thing last night when he was drunk, and he'd 
sounded like a child then.  Now it sounded like the 
question of a man.  

"Mulder, forgiveness is a process.  I'm just starting it."

He pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head.  "I'm 
just glad you're willing to try."

She basked in the sensation of being close to him for a 
moment and then pulled away.  "I'm going to try," she said 
and got out of bed.

Alarm crossed his face.  "Where are you going?"

"It's Sunday, I'm going to Mass.  I think it's what I need 
today."

Mulder flopped back onto the pillow and made a mournful 
sound.

Scully made a quick trip to the bathroom to clean up and 
get herself into semi-respectable mode.  It didn't do to 
receive Communion looking like she'd just tumbled out of 
his bed.  She didn't believe God particularly cared, but 
she knew Father McCue would.

Back in the bedroom, she searched for her bra.  "We need to 
meet with Olivier Marchand.  I didn't say anything last 
night because you were in no state, but Marchand has a 
record."

His eyebrows raised.  "You're kidding.  What did he do?"

"When he was posted in Lisbon, he was accused of raping the 
fourteen year-old daughter of his maid.  Of course, his 
diplomatic immunity protected him and the French government 
shipped him over here."

"Oh nice, he rapes a teenager and gets a promotion."

She nodded in disgusted agreement.  "Frohike says he has a 
juvenile file in France.  He was going to go for it today, 
after he got some access codes from a contact in Paris."

Mulder stifled a laugh.  "Isn't this the part where you're 
supposed to say that that kind of evidence won't be 
admissible in a court of law?"

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." She did up the 
last button on her blouse and tried to brush it into an 
unwrinkled state.  It didn't work.  

She turned to him and was almost glad to see that the 
expression of anxiety and overwhelming guilt that had 
shadowed his features since he'd told her had lessened
somewhat.

"Thanks, Scully," he said.

"For what?"  She tilted her head at him.

"For understanding . . ."

"I didn't say I understood, Mulder.  I may never 
understand, but I'm going to try, okay?"

He nodded.  "I guess that's enough."

"It'll have to be."  She softened that last statement with 
a quick squeeze of his hand.

As she walked out of his apartment, she found herself 
hoping, with all her might, that trying would be enough 
after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Amy and Michael didn't get out of bed until well after 
noon.  There was no need to get up.  He worked for himself, 
being an artist, and she was hundreds of miles away from 
her professional life.  They unplugged the phone and 
snuggled under the quilt as the wind whipped outside the 
windows of the apartment.

It was funny how when she was with Michael, everything else 
seemed so far away.  Even Jess faded to a blurry haze when 
she was wrapped in Michael's muscular arms, listening to 
him spin stories in her ear.

"Some day," he whispered, "we're going to buy a house on a 
Cape Cod pond.  I'll have a studio there and you can have a 
little gallery in one of the tourist towns.  Provincetown, 
maybe."

"Tourist towns," she giggled.  "I was thinking bigger than 
that.  I want my gallery in the city."

"Shhh, this is my story.  You can have a turn when I'm 
done.  Anyhow, you won't have to work any more and that 
will all be behind us.  We'll go walking in the woods, and 
read lots of books, and life will be wonderful."

Amy shut her eyes and envisioned such a life.  It didn't 
exactly jibe with her dreams of the future, which involved 
high heels, bookstores, taking cabs everywhere and lots of 
great parties with artists and writers, but Michael did 
spin a great tale.  "That sounds lovely," she murmured.

"Amy, we could do it, you know.  I've got that money left 
to me by my grandfather.  Let's go up to Cape Cod and look 
at some properties next week."

She sat up.  "Oh Michael," Amy sighed.  "It's a nice dream, 
but we're not ready yet.  We'd be so strapped for money."

His hand wrapped around her wrist.  "Is money really that 
important to you?"

She shook her head.  "No, not really . . ."  But deep down, 
she knew it was.  She wanted the finer things in life.  She 
was used to Pratesi sheets and a healthy bank balance now.  

Michael caught her equivocal tone.  "Is that why you're 
still working?  Because of the money?"

"I just want to give myself a future, Michael."  She leaned 
over and kissed him on his full lips and he purred with 
pleasure.

Later in the afternoon, as Michael sketched her in profile, 
she called Vanessa.

Vanessa's voice was still heavy with sleep when she 
answered.

"Did I wake you, V?" Amy asked.

"Yeah," she said, "I had a late night.  Hit a club or three 
after work."

She smiled at the thought of her irrepressible friend.  
"You're a naughty girl."

"That I am . . . "

"Listen, I'm up in New York with Michael; some bad stuff 
has gone down."

"I know.  I saw Joanne last night, she told me," Vanessa 
said.  "You be careful, honey."

"Well, I want to come down for Deborah's party on Thursday.  
You mind if I stay with you?"

There was a pause and all Amy could hear on the line was 
the blare of the television in the background.  Finally, 
Vanessa said,  "I'm not sure, sweetie.  I might be doing 
something else that night."

Her heart sank.  Vanessa had always been so loyal, but 
lately . . . She salvaged her pride.  "Okay, V, I'll see if 
I can stay with Lisa or something."

She said goodbye and hung up.  "Vanessa said no?" Michael 
asked, putting down his stick of charcoal.

"Yeah, but that's Vanessa.  I guess I'll ask Lisa."

"You want me to go down with you to protect you?"

She walked over to Michael and squeezed his bicep.  "Awwww, 
my bodyguard."

He pulled her into his lap and they forgot about getting 
dressed for a little while longer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder met Scully in the long shadows cast by Oliver 
Marchand's fashionable townhouse.  Despite the late hour 
Mulder was wearing dark sunglasses and a somber suit, 
chosen to suggest for Marchand's benefit that he was some 
threatening MIB.  He realized too late that the clothes 
probably made him look more like a mourner at a funeral.  
He'd been hoping to give Scully an impression of confidence 
and reformed character, and instead he just looked 
depressed.

They had spent the day apart, both licking their wounds but 
reluctant to admit to themselves that was what they'd been 
doing.  Finally a call from Frohike had spurred Mulder to 
phone Scully and ask her to meet him.  Frohike had supplied 
Marchand's address, gleaned from overnight shipping records 
the Gunmen had hacked into.

"Did Frohike have anything else on Marchand's juvenile 
record?" Scully asked as she joined Mulder.  She was her 
usual cool, professional self, also dressed in work clothes 
despite the fact that it was Sunday evening.

Mulder nodded.  "It looks like Marchand's rap sheet was 
tampered with, probably to allow him to enter the 
diplomatic corps."

"So he has friends in high places."

"Or hacker friends.  Either way, Langly traced some of the 
records back to their source.  Marchand had juvenile 
convictions on three counts of assault and one count of 
attempted murder.  All of his victims were young women."

Just then the door to the townhouse behind him opened, and 
a man emerged.

He was a thin man, dark-haired and with a sallow 
complexion.  He descended the marble front steps with a 
stiff-legged gait.  The most notable thing about him wasn't 
his coloring or his walk, however, but the network of long 
white scars that criss-crossed his face.  They stood out 
against his skin, and one pulled his upper lip into a 
perpetual sneer.

"That's got to be him," Scully said.

Mulder watched Marchand turn at the bottom of the steps and 
head toward the corner.  He wondered what the man had 
looked like before Tiger Lilies' strong-arm talent had 
gotten medieval on his ass.  Probably, Mulder thought, 
still a pretty unpleasant customer.  And he'd been one of 
Amy's clients.  She'd had sex with that man.  Mulder felt a 
stir of disquiet, knowing he and Marchand had that in 
common.

"Come on," Mulder said.  They headed for Marchand, who was 
attempting to hail a cab.

"Olivier Marchand?"  Scully held her badge aloft with one 
hand, the other poised over the gun at her hip.

Marchand wheeled around, his ravaged face showing surprise.  
"Yes?  Do I know you?"

Mulder, too, held up his badge as he approached.  "I'm 
Agent Mulder and this is my partner, Agent Scully.  We'd 
like to ask you a few questions."

Marchand's sneer became even more pronounced.  "FBI?  There 
must be some mistake," he said in his thick French accent.  
"I'm here on a diplomatic visa.  I have immunity."

"We're not here to arrest you," Scully said evenly.  "We'd 
just like to talk to you.  You have no objection to 
answering a few questions, do you?"

Marchand spread his hands in a Gallic gesture.  "Why should 
I object?  I have nothing to hide."

"Do you know a woman named Amy Callahan?" Mulder asked.

In an instant, Marchand's disfigured face went from 
impassive to furious.  "Amy Callahan?  The woman is a 
whore."

"Then you admit you know her," said Scully.

"Know her?  As if I could forget that bitch!  Do you see my 
face?  She is the reason I look this way."

Mulder regarded him from behind his dark glasses.  "She 
says she...met you once, professionally, and you struck 
her."

"She is a lying whore.  An associate of mine provided an 
introduction, and she met me at a party, after which we 
went together to a hotel.  She went willingly.  We had sex.  
She demanded money.  I told her I do not need to pay for 
it, and she began yelling at me like -- how does one say? -
- a harpy.  I had no intention of allowing her to abuse me 
that way, and I left.  If anyone hit her, it was not me."

Mulder knew the man was lying about the encounter, and yet 
he realized there was no way to prove it.  It was Amy's 
word against Marchand's, and, in most people's minds, the 
word of a diplomat would always outweigh that of a 
prostitute.  No wonder Amy had to rely on her agency for 
protection against clients who not only took advantage of 
the privacy in which she conducted her business, but 
sometimes turned violent.  

"When was the last time you talked to her?" Mulder asked.

"I don't know.  Whenever that night was.  Before this," 
Marchand said, gesturing angrily at his scarred face.  "Two 
years ago, at least."

"Someone has been making harassing phone calls her.  Was it 
you?" 

"I wouldn't waste my time."

"Really?  Because we have tapes of your phone calls."

Marchand gave an ugly laugh.  "I see Amy Callahan is not 
the only liar in this case.  You have nothing."

Of course, Mulder thought, Marchand would not really be 
worried about any recordings Amy might have made.  If he 
was the one harassing her, he knew all about the electronic 
voice disguiser.

Scully cleared her throat.  "Where were you Saturday 
morning?" 

Marchand shrugged.  "I don't know where I was.  At home, 
out shopping -- what does it matter?"

"Did you break into Amy Callahan's apartment?" 

"What?"  Marchand's face showed frank surprise, colored 
with a hint of revulsion.  "Of course not -- no.  As if I 
would dirty myself, visiting the apartment of that whore."

"Someone entered her apartment and killed her dog," Mulder 
said.

"Well, it was not me."

"Then perhaps you'd let us have a look inside your 
townhouse."  If they could search Marchand's clothing, 
Mulder thought, they might be able to find some evidence of 
Jess's blood on it.

Marchand snorted.  "I think I've cooperated quite enough 
already.  If someone is harassing that whore, she's only 
getting what she deserves.  Now if you will excuse me, I 
have places to be."  Marchand raised his hand to signal an 
approaching taxi.

"Don't think we won't be watching your movements," Mulder 
said, in what he intended as a threatening tone.

Marchand laughed.  "Watch all you like."  The yellow cab 
stopped.  He stepped up to it, then turned back with his 
hand on the handle of the car door.  "Amy Callahan is lower 
than nothing, and I have diplomatic immunity."

Marchand disappeared into the cab.  As it drove off, he 
waved a languid hand out the window at them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Think of it this way," Scully said, picking the kalamata 
olives out of her orzo salad to save for the very last, 
since they were her favorites.  "We've scared Marchand and 
now perhaps he'll realize he's being watched and leave Amy 
alone."

They were in Scully's living room, eating an impromptu 
picnic of deli salads and cold cuts.  She and Mulder had 
changed out of their suits and he was sprawled on his side 
directly in front of the coffee table, wearing a dark blue 
v-necked pullover and faded jeans.

She still felt tense around him, not knowing whether or not 
to bring up the real issue at hand-- their relationship. 
No, she thought, determinedly ignoring her own anger and 
confusion, it's best to keep the conversation on 
professional topics.  If they discussed the subject again, 
there was no telling what she'd say or do.

Mulder shook his head and finished chewing a mouthful of 
bread.  "If Marchand is ruled by sociopathic impulses, and 
judging by his record, he is, he'll only take our attention 
as a challenge to be met."

"We can't watch him all the time, Mulder.  This is off the 
Bureau's clock and we do have a job to do."

He nodded.  "I know, and his diplomatic immunity makes this 
even more difficult.  Even if he were caught splattered in 
Amy's blood with the razor in his hands, the French 
government might not waive his immunity."

Scully pondered the image of Amy, horribly slashed to death 
with razor cuts, and found that despite her feelings about 
the call girl, she didn't relish the thought.

"So, what's the next step?"  She popped one of the 
delicious black olives in her mouth.

Mulder shrugged.  "Amy should lie low in New York.  Other 
than that, this is a bad situation for her.  If Marchand 
were an ordinary citizen, we could try to get a search 
warrant and hope we found something incriminating."

Scully yawned and pushed her plate away.

"Are you tired?" he asked in a subdued voice.

"Yeah."  She nodded and rolled her head, producing the pops 
of a stiff neck.  "I haven't slept much in the last few 
nights."  She winced a little when a guilty-puppy 
expression crossed Mulder's face.

"You should get some sleep."

She gathered their plates and rose from the couch to scrape 
them and set them in the kitchen sink.  Mulder followed 
with the paper takeout containers and empty beer bottles.

A tight smile was on his face.  "I'll let you go to bed, 
Scully."  He kissed the top of her head, and she found 
herself moving away from him.  Mulder turned to leave.

"Mulder?" she called out.

"Yeah?"  He had a hopeful expression on his face, as if he 
were wishing she'd ask him to stay.  But she wasn't ready.  
Not yet.

She didn't really know what she wanted to say.  Words 
always failed her when she needed them most.

Finally, she said, "I just need some time."

He nodded.  "I know, Scully."

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out 
of her apartment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was no feeling quite so uncomfortable, Mulder thought 
unhappily, as sitting in Skinner's office, waiting to be 
expertly reamed out -- except, perhaps, knowing that Scully 
was going to share in the experience, and knowing that it 
was all his fault.

The click of the door opening and closing behind Skinner as 
he entered actually made Mulder wince.  "Agents," the A.D. 
acknowledged them in his terse way as he went to his desk.  
He sat down and leaned back with one muscular arm on the 
desktop.

"Sir," said Scully with a nod.  Mulder merely waited for 
the axe to fall.

Skinner put a finger to his lips, deliberating for a moment 
about what he was going to say.  "Would you mind telling 
me," he said finally, with tight control, "what you were 
doing last night, harassing a foreign diplomat outside his 
home?"

Mulder drew a deep breath, preparing to answer, but Scully 
leapt into the breach.  "We were conducting an unofficial 
investigation into a series of death threats."

"Death threats?"

"Yes, sir."

"And does this have anything to do with the X-files 
division?"

"No, sir," said Scully.  "As I said, it was unofficial."

"But you unofficially flashed your badges at this Mr." -- 
Skinner consulted the pink phone message slip Kimberley had 
given him -- "this Mr. Marchand?"

Mulder cleared his throat.  "That was only to confirm our 
stated identities.  We never told him we were on FBI 
business."

Skinner sighed.  "Just what kind of business were you on, 
then?  It's not an X-file; it's not an official FBI matter.  
It seems to me that death threats are a matter for the 
police."

"Yes, sir," said Scully.  "But these threats were made to a 
. . . an associate of Agent Mulder's, and this associate 
personally requested our help."

Skinner had obviously caught the hesitation, Mulder saw 
with a sinking heart. "An 'associate'?  I repeat, isn't 
this a matter for the police?"

"Sir -- " began Mulder.  "Amy Callahan didn't go to the 
police because -- "

"Because she hoped Agent Mulder's profiling skills might 
prevent an unfortunate international incident," Scully 
finished in a firm voice.

Mulder looked at Scully in surprise.

Skinner's brows came down in a scowl -- not an angry scowl, 
necessarily, but a scowl nonetheless.  "Who is this Amy 
Callahan?"

Scully opened her mouth to answer.

Skinner raised a silencing hand.  "I'll hear from Agent 
Mulder this time, if you don't mind."

Mulder sat up straighter, and schooled his face not to look 
too guilty.  "She's a woman I met some time ago, while 
Agent Scully was missing."

A tense silence stretched out as Skinner digested this.  
"And you can give me your word that your actions in this 
matter are justified?  Because I would hate to have to 
explain to a Board of Review that you were menacing a man 
with diplomatic immunity merely because you were asked to 
do so by a woman with whom you were once romantically 
involved."

"I can give you my word, sir," said Mulder, looking Skinner 
in the eye.  "Amy Callahan and I have never been 
romantically involved."

Skinner nodded slowly.  "Very well then, agents.  I'll look 
the other way this time.  In the future, however, you will 
remember that badges are not to be used for 'unofficial' 
purposes."

"Yes, sir," the two agents said together.  They rose, and 
moved toward the door.

"Oh, and Mulder?" said Skinner from behind the desk.

"Yes?" said Mulder, turning back.

"Be more careful in the future when choosing your 
'associates.'"

Mulder, like Scully, was silent for the walk from Skinner's 
office to the elevator, and for the ride down to the 
basement.  As they were leaving the elevator, however, he 
said softly, "Thanks for covering for me, Scully."

She did not answer at first, walking quietly beside him 
down the hallway to the door of the basement office.  She 
stopped with her hand on the doorknob.  "That's what 
partnership is all about, Mulder," she said, in a low, 
serious voice.  "You rely on me, and I rely on you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder worked on his departmental budget proposal, darting 
looks at Scully every few minutes.  It was awfully quiet in 
the office.  He wasn't even sure whether it was a normal 
sort of quiet, or the unnatural quiet of anger.  In the 
past, he had never really paid that much attention to the 
silences that sometimes stretched between them.  Now they 
were all he could think about.

It was making him uncomfortable, the quiet.  He got up and 
went to the file cabinet.  With an ostentatious sigh, he 
opened one of the file drawers.  He wasn't looking for 
anything in particular; he was just hoping Scully would ask 
him what he was doing.

She didn't ask.  Instead she gave him a cool glance, and 
went back to the autopsy notes she was writing. 

Damn it, he thought.  If she'd just talk to him, he could 
tell her again how sorry he was.  They'd been going through 
these disturbing ups and downs for several days now.  One 
minute things would seem more or less normal, and she'd be 
speaking to him again.  The next minute she'd be full of 
resentment, either maintaining a frosty silence or 
skewering him with barbed remarks.

He closed the file drawer and went back to his chair.  "Do 
you want to come over tonight?" he asked softly, looking 
down at his desk.

"Why would I want to come over?" she asked.

Ah, so they were back to the barbs.  He drew a deep breath, 
and reached out to toy with a pencil lying on his desk.  
"Well, I thought maybe we could try to get things back on a 
normal footing, you know, like watch a movie or something."

"What is a normal footing between us, Mulder?  Please tell 
me, because a week ago when I thought things were on a 
normal footing, I found out you'd been seeing prostitutes."

He clenched the pencil in his hand.  "Not prostitutes -- 
one prostitute.  And it was before we were together."

"Oh, I stand corrected.  Just one prostitute.  That's very 
different."  Her voice was clipped and icy.

God, he thought unhappily.  She was never going to let this 
go.  It wasn't like he was some cheating husband, 
unrepentantly sneaking out on his unsuspecting wife.  He 
hadn't even been involved with her when he'd seen Amy.

"Scully, I said I was sorry."

"And I said I needed time, Mulder.  You think just because 
you say you're sorry, everything gets better overnight?  
You think when you do something that hurts me, 'sorry' 
makes it all go away?  It doesn't work like that."  She 
sighed, as if talking about it exhausted her.

He nodded anxiously.  "But in Skinner's office yesterday 
you seemed -- "

"That was work.  Supporting you to our boss and coming over 
to your apartment so you can tell yourself everything is 
fine again are two different matters."

He sighed.  "You're never going to forgive me, are you?"

"Look, Mulder..." she said after a pregnant silence. "I 
don't hate you."

He grimaced.  They were beginning to sound like a broken 
record:  he kept saying he was sorry, she kept saying she 
didn't hate him.  A wide gulf stretched out between them.

She bit her lip. "It's just that you did something that's 
very hard for me to understand."

"Scully, I know I made a mistake -- "

"No, Mulder.  Forgetting to buy bread at the store is a 
mistake.  Locking your keys in your car is a mistake. 
Arranging to meet a prostitute and then going back to her 
again and again and again is more than just a mistake."

"Fine."  He opened his desk drawer, took out a sheet of 
paper, and slammed the drawer shut as hard as he could.

Scully jumped involuntarily at the sudden bang.  "Oh, that 
was very mature."

He wanted to jump up and shake her.  Or grab his gun and 
shoot himself -- one or the other.  This was driving him 
insane.  One minute he was drowning in guilt, praying he 
could win his way back into her good graces, and the next 
he was wishing he could go home, crawl back into bed, and 
pull the covers over his head. 

"Maybe we'd better not talk about this here in the office," 
he said finally, bitter pessimism tingeing his words.  "You 
don't really want to talk yet, you just want to fight."

She didn't answer -- proof, he suspected, that for once she 
actually agreed with him.

The worst part was, he couldn't really blame her.  He would 
never forget the way she'd cried on his shoulder Sunday 
morning, sobbing about how she didn't know him and she 
couldn't trust him.

He wished he had it all to do over again.  He would do so 
many things differently.