Wayback Machine *OCT* APR *SEP* Previous capture 18 Next capture *2002* 2003 *2009* *6 captures* 5 Feb 02 - 26 Oct 09 sparklines Close Help TITLE: "Gene Pool" AUTHOR: David Stoddard-Hunt CATEGORY: S, H KEYWORDS: M/S RATING: NC-17 SPOILERS: Through S7, and a few premonitory ones. SUMMARY: Everybody into the Pool! ARCHIVE: Ephemeral, Gossamer. Anyone else, just let me know, okay? DISCLAIMER: They aren't mine. If they had been, no such office pool would ever have been necessary. No infringement upon the profits of 1013, Fox, or anyone else is intended. FEEDBACK: stoddardhunt@earthlink.net WEB SITE: http://www.geocities.com/mattersofbelief AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is a belated entry in the IWTB Birthday Challenge, posed by the wily garrull. Elements are listed at the end. Gratitude, but absolutely no blame, can be placed on Tess, Char, and Meridy for pre-previewing this weed of a piece. Extreme gratitude always to Abra Elliott for creating the marvelous website that this piece will eventually, um, grace. **************************************** 48th Street near the Avenue of the Americas, New York City **************************************** "Have you heard from our source?" The reply came at length from in front of a window. "Yes. The Assistant Director was most cooperative." Weak outdoor light illuminated his deeply lined face, but faltered amid the paneled depths of the room. "The total amount is now over one hundred sixty five thousand." A silvery wisp curled from his lips, his gaze never straying from the streetscape below. The red ash of his cigarette glowed brightly, reflected in the pane. "A pittance." A soft voice, like the other two, but with a Central European accent. "I do not understand why we concern ourselves with this matter?" "It is a measure of the project's success." The first man moved into a pale beam swirling with smoke. Of portly build but imposing impression, he had iron-grey hair and a rasped voice. "The money is not the object. It is simply a measure of our complete control over events." For the first time, the smoker turned his gaze from the outside, regarding the speaker with a watery smile, lending only indifferent support to the man's statements. Stubbing his cigarette out gently in the ashtray to his side, he turned back to the window, his hands now fidgeting in the depths of his suit coat pockets. "You seem troubled." The soft timbre of the third voice was belied by the harshness of native consonants it had never been able to shed. The smoking man chuffed, a cough more than a laugh really, tossing the briefest glance over his shoulder at the smaller man. The Smoker had recently returned from a sojourn to Pennsylvania, a trip the consequences of which could be world altering. He lit a fresh cigarette and inhaled deeply, the ash glowing yellow and then red as it cooled. "The stakes have changed," he said simply. ***************************** Office of Assistant Director Walter Skinner J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington D.C. ***************************** "What's this?" Skinner's voice was level. Not once did he so much as glance at the paper that had been placed before him. "Go ahead. Read it, Walter. It's of interest to both of us, I assure you." "You are under the mistaken impression that we have common interests, Assistant Director." "Sure we do, Walter." Kersh's affability grated against Skinner's insistence upon formality, steadily abrading his impassive mien. "We serve the same masters..." "I doubt that," Skinner said through clenched teeth. If Kersh heard him, he gave no signal. "We have the interests of the Bureau and of the country at heart. We have both served honorably for our country, mine coming a couple of conflicts later than yours, but I can't help being a little younger, now can I?" Skinner gave no response but an involuntary twitch in one cheek. Kersh caught it, much to his own delight, and Skinner's chagrin. Their every meeting was a war of wills. "And we have two problem agents in common, don't we, Walter?" Kersh managed to inflect Skinner's given name with such a patronizingly sweet tone that Skinner tensed with the effort to stay seated. Kersh was daring him to react, borne of a confidence he had no business feeling. Skinner felt a tickle of dread at what might be stoking this unwarranted confidence in his opposite. Kersh eased into a relaxed, almost lewdly slouched posture in the chair Skinner traditionally thought of as Scully's. "Is there a point to this, Alvin?" manipulating the name in sour imitation of Kersh' bonhomie. Kersh' smile grew, in response. "Then I suggest you get to it," Skinner snarled, his composure moments from being lost. "They're your charges again, but some little part of your heart always claimed them, didn't it, Walter? I don't understand that, not in the slightest. They were simply a pain in my black ass," Kersh said, his grin fading when Skinner seemed to physically back off from the bait. "You have a rapport with them, Walter, some measure of influence, though God knows how you accomplished that. As I said, you and I share common masters. We're beholden to the Bureau, and to others as well. Ah, so shocked, Assistant Director?" Now Kersh was mimicking Skinner's earlier formality. "I know that your allegiance has wavered and is not entirely, shall we say, willful on your part. But, serve you and I both do." Kersh paused to let the reality of their situation sink in. "We need to talk about Mulder and Scully, and the Pool." ****************************** Men's lavatory, just outside of the Bullpen, 3d floor JEHB, Washington, D.C. ****************************** "Colton? That you?" "Ray? What's the matter, old buddy? You stuck in that stall? Maybe you should cut down on the fiber in your diet. Just a thought." "Oh, yeah? Thanks for the tip. You know how I could tell it was you? Your shoes are the most polished in the Bureau except for those scuffed toes, and your suit pants? Really nicely cut, except for the wear on the knees, from all that ass kissing you do." Whatever sharp retort Tom Colton might have tendered was lost in the echoing flush of the toilet. Colton bellied up to a urinal, looking up, studiously avoiding looking at the agent two down to his right. "You know, Brandon," Colton tossed over his shoulder to the agent now washing his hands at the sink, "you might try to adopt some of my spit, polish and respect for authority, or else, one of these days I'll make D.D. and you? You'll be delivering pizza." Agent Ray just shook his head and chuckled over the wash basin, and ripped out some paper toweling before replying. "You really are a prince, 'old buddy.' A gee-dee prince. And I heard about your wager in the Pool. Have you lost your mind, Colton? I can't fucking believe you sometimes." Colton made a show of shaking and stuffing in finishing his business. Brandon Ray was reminded of a peacock preening. "What about it? I wasn't the one who set the damn thing up. And this category just might be an area I know a little something about." "Bullshit." The agent two urinals down now entered into the conversation. "You want to weigh in on this too, Jay? You're out of your depth. You and the wife ought to just go back to Wisconsin and your safe little missionary position life. Leave the heavy lifting to the big boys." The second agent just smiled at Colton. "One thing a Wisconsonite would know when he sees it is a load of cow manure. And that's what you're piling up here, Tom, high and deep." Ray imitated the bearded agent's square shouldered posture. He knew the older agent well enough to know that his was not, in fact, a boring, white bread, "missionary position" life. Not that Agent Ray indulged in idle gossip, certainly not. But some of what he'd heard seemed less than idle. Threesomes? Whew. A better man than he. Ray smiled thinly at Colton's obvious underestimation of the other agent. "Let's cut to the chase, shall we, gentlemen?" Colton tried to regain some dignity and the upper hand he was quite accustomed to holding. "You have your problems with me? Then out with them." In his own mind, Colton thought of this as a training exercise for upper management. How to deal with underlings' complaints. He was unaware of the smug grin that creased his face. "Fine with me, Agent. I think what has Brandon here so aghast is not the five grand you plunked into the Pool on one specific category, but the careless audacity you've shown in talking about your reasons for doing it. I also think he doubts the reliability of your alleged information. I know that I do." "I'll cut to the chase, too, Colton, buddy, old pal." Ray interjected. "You're squawking all over town that this bet you've placed in the Pool has some basis in fact; that you have personal knowledge of the subject. But I'm with Jay. You are just so full of shit. She blew you off years ago, and never looked back. Hell, even back then, she was enthralled with Spooky. She never gave you the time of day, you asshole, let alone deep throated you, like you're braying to anyone who'll listen." Agent Ray's little outburst betrayed something, which Jay guessed the younger man didn't want known. He had, himself, had a crush on the unobtainable Scully, once upon a time. Wanting to save him any further embarrassment, the second agent picked up the thread of conversation seamlessly. "As I said, it's a load of crap. I don't know her well, but, by all other measures, she's a fine agent. Regardless, no one deserves the kind of character assassination you're peddling." "Aw. You two little pansies are jealous, aren't you?" "Admit it, Colton. The only deep throating you've experienced has been on the receiving end. Bastard," Ray spat, turned on a heel and left. Jay remained unfazed, stationary, smiling. "Your pride is going to cost you five grand, Colton. Wherever he is, Agent Poole is going to be laughing all the way to the bank, at your expense." Colton was speechless. Jay sized him up and administered the coup de grace. "Your mouth is hanging open, Tom, and your fly is down." He ambled toward the door and, with a casual flip, arced a wad of paper towel into the trash. *********************** Gene Poole was, by now, legendary in the Bureau, for having begun the pool on whether or not those partners in that odd little department in the basement were lovers. There had been talk for several years after their initial pairing of the unique connection they seemed to have. It struck many in the competitively masculine world of the Bureau as odd that Spooky Mulder would prove the only one capable of diverting the strikingly pretty young agent's attentions. Then, soon after Agent Scully's mysterious disappearance, return and recovery, speculation had, for a time, run rampant. Many were the rumors of how he'd never left her bedside, even after last rites had been administered, even after her own mother had chosen to let her go. It was his voice, a rumor whispered, that had guided her back to life. Rumor begat rumor until a hissing firestorm nearly engulfed the Bureau. The General Accounting Office would in fact, in its years end interagency evaluation , note the sharp drop in Bureau efficiency and the slow rebound that followed. The report failed to note the reason for the rebound in efficiency. Out of the chaos of rumor, a focal point for all the gossip had been formed. The Pool. Into the maelstrom had stepped this intrepid Agent Poole, with an eyes only memo about the pool to certain specified personnel. Curiously, this memo eventually found its way into the computer terminals of every person in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. There was a brief but noticeable pause in the flurry of interest surrounding the Pool, as people wondered how the brass on the upper floors would respond. When nary a peep was heard, interest in the Pool grew exponentially. What no one bothered to ask was how this Agent Poole knew anything at all about the relationship between Spooky Mulder and his young partner. For all anyone seemed to know, Gene Poole had been a competent if unspectacular bureaucrat, who'd actually spent only the briefest of tenures in Washington proper, before being farmed out to one of the podunk branch offices. Which office no one seemed to care, although if inquiries were to be made, it would have turned out to be Fairbanks, Alaska. Whether the transfer was in retaliation for starting the Pool, no one questioned. Whatever the brass had done to Poole was personal. They'd allowed the Pool to remain. The Pool had taken on a life of its own. No one seemed at all curious about the life of the agent who'd started it all. One other aspect which no one seemed to question was that, the way the Pool had been set up, Agent Poole received a piece of all the action, no matter which way the results turned out. Some questions are never meant to be answered. Some are never meant to be asked. ************************** Apartment 4-B, 1871 N. 18th Street, Adams/Morgan neighborhood, Washington D.C. ************************** "Colton wagered a bundle yesterday. A sucker ripe for the picking. I told you that he still carries a torch. I knew we could take advantage of that." "Don't get cocky. Colton is an ass. He isn't carrying a torch or anything of the sort. He's a martinet who sees this as a way to strut in front of the entire Bureau. We can't judge our progress by Colton. This whole set up is a house of cards. We could lose control, and then we'd lose everything we've worked so assiduously for. Damnit, it's been risky since the moment you created this straw agent to run the Pool for us." "Calm down, calm down. Everything's running fine. There's no paper trail to us, and the Pool is self-maintaining. It's the perfect scam, and this time I intend to be on the sweet end of it." "Just don't get cocky. You could blow it for both of us. I mean, Jesus Christ, you already took a risk with such an obvious pseudonym for the administrator of the whole thing. "Gene Poole." My God, it's a wonder that the Pool isn't already dead in the water." "Alright, I've already admitted that was a mistake. I'm not going to do it again, okay?" "It will be dark soon. We have to leave. We can't risk turning on the lights in the apartment. It's supposed to be unoccupied, remember." "Yeah, yeah. I'll follow you down in ten minutes." By the time the second occupant left the shabby walk up, the sun was sinking fast over the low rooftops of the capital. A glint of orange light on the row of mail-boxes caught his eye, prompting a small, crooked smile. On the box for 4-B, part of the name "G. Poole" could still be seen. He picked at it until the last trace of Agent Poole vanished from sight. *************************** X Files office, Basement of the JEHB. Next morning. *************************** "Agent Mulder?" "Assistant Director Skinner." Mulder made motions about getting up but never really made it to a standing position, in expectation of Skinner's dismissal of the move. That he began to sit back down before the token gesture had been made was not lost on the A.D. He chuffed at what others saw as impudence on Mulder's part, but to which he'd become accustomed, if not inured. "What can I do for you, Sir?" "Is Agent Scully...?" "She stepped out for a moment, Sir. If you'd like to wait," Mulder gestured feebly to a chair that served as an ad hoc filing cabinet for new intakes. "Coffee's somewhat fresh. Well, it's not scalded yet, at any rate." "No. Thanks just the same." Mulder noticed that Skinner seemed nervous. A slight shifting of weight from foot to foot. That slight departure from the A.D.'s typical rock solid stance in itself was enough to set off alarm bells in the veteran profiler. "Actually, Mulder, I came down here to talk to you. Your solve rate is down. There is concern on the fifth floor that your team is no longer effective. I've been advised to figure out what the problem is and resolve it." This was coming from above Skinner? Or beyond him? "You and Scully have always been the tightest team in the Bureau. That's the reason your solve rate has always been so high." "Oh, and here I thought it was because we were cracker-jack investigators." Mulder feigned indifference to Skinner's statement, putting his feet up on the desk and popping a handful of sunflower seeds into his mouth. "If your partnership, your" Skinner's jaw clenched and unclenched as he searched for an appropriate word and, finding none, settled on the loaded "relationship is troubled, then your work is bound to be affected. I think you need to step back and consider that, before someone acts to split the two of you up and close down the X Files for good." Skinner was pulling out all the stops, whatever was going on, Mulder realized. First he'd played the pride card, with the solve rate. Then, incredibly, he'd brought up Mulder's relationship with Scully, a subject that Skinner had heretofore studiously avoided. Then, big finish, he puts the very sanctity of the X Files on the table. Whatever was at stake, it must be big. Mulder considered which of these tacks to pick up. "I'll take door number two, Monty," he thought to himself, grinning as he looked up at an anxious assistant director. "Relationship, Sir? Just what are you implying? Neither Scully nor I would ever consciously let our personal lives interfere with..." Skinner held up his hand to stave off whatever protest Mulder might continue to raise. "I know, that, Agent. What I'm telling you is that, sometimes, personal baggage can bleed through to your work subconsciously." Even Skinner seemed to know that he was on thin ice here. He tried to rally. "I'm trying to help you, here, Mulder, though God knows why since you make it so difficult to do." Skinner paused. Mulder removed his feet from the desk, sat up and made a conciliatory nod to the A.D. "Look, Mulder. It's probably that you and Scully have been working too hard. You've both been under a lot of personal stress as well, what with the Pfaster debacle and the loss of your mother. It's understandable that your work should be affected. I know you don't like to think so, Mulder, but you are only human." Mulder had to smile at this, and rubbed the back of his head, where the scar from his enforced neuro-surgery more than six months prior was still prominent. "Yeah, now..." he cracked. Skinner finally caught the reference and chuckled, the tension between the two men easing. "I have a cabin in the Poconos. It's free for the weekend in a couple of weeks. Take it. Spend some quality time with your partner, Agent. Get to know each other as people again. Reestablish that much vaunted connection of yours." "Our own, personal team building seminar, Sir?" Skinner smiled, and looked at his shoes. Mulder seemed to be taking this a lot better than he'd feared. "So, it's not free this weekend, Sir? Oh, that's right. Your new lady friend. The bullpen is abuzz. An attorney from Justice, I hear? Paige something?" Mulder knew damn well what the attorney's name was, but wasn't going to miss the opportunity to draw out the jab at Skinner's private life in return. His impertinence was immediately rewarded. Skinner's posture stiffened, eyes flashing, his tone becoming menacing. "Agent Mulder, my personal life is no one's business but my own, least of all..." Skinner's tirade dwindled quickly, as the hypocrisy inherent in it became apparent to both of them. "My relationship with Ms. Caldwell is something I'd prefer to keep private but, as you well know, that is a remote possibility in this place. And, to answer your question, yes, we're going up this weekend to open the place up for the season. We'll be sure to leave it well stocked for the both of you." Mulder wasn't quite sure how to respond to this unexpected openness. He stifled a crack about "poor heartbroken Kimberly," Skinner's love-lorn secretary, and offered that the gesture was a kind one to which he would have to give serious thought. The prim, staccato report of heels on linoleum signaled Scully's return. Mulder's attention was drawn to the door far in advance of her entry, Skinner noted with some satisfaction. Scully entered frowning, annoyed and distracted so much so that she walked up to Mulder's desk without even seeing the Assistant Director standing just inside the door. Mulder smiled, asked if everything was okay, and nodded in Skinner's direction to alert her that they were not alone. "It's nothing, Mulder. Just a gaggle of gossiping hens in the ladies' room. Sir," she turned to acknowledge his presence at last. "Is there anything we can do for you?"' Skinner was impressed anew by her self-control. She seemed unflappable at times. "No, no. I was just leaving, Agent." Turning to Mulder, he said, "I hope you'll give due consideration to what I've said." Skinner nodded at Scully as he left. "What was that all about?" she asked after they'd both trailed him remotely into the elevator. "Oh, nothing," Mulder said, with a smart grin that stated otherwise. "He just offered us a romantic weekend get away for two at his place in the mountains." Scully's raised eyebrow was all the response he ever needed. ******************************** Women's Lavatory, 1st Floor, JEHB ******************************** Leyla Harrison had long admired Agent Scully. Strong, forthright, fiercely dedicated to her partner. Leyla fully discounted rumors about that case the agent had pursued on her own in Philadelphia. Unlike many in accounting who had shunned the opportunity to do Mulder and Scully's accounts, Leyla had welcomed it, considered it a blessing. Their accounts read like romantic novels. Not the cheap, bodice-ripper sort, but novels with sweep and epic scale, tales of dangers confronted and overcome, of loyalty and heart-stopping rescues. They read like James Clavell or Herman Wouk, not Barbara Cartland. Maybe, Leyla thought, they read more like Jack London, considering the astonishing number of times these two agents of the American internal security service had found themselves at one planetary pole or the other. Each had traveled, literally, to the ends of the earth to save the life of the other. Mulder and Scully, but especially Scully, were heroes to Leyla Harrison, their stories were the kind that she, herself, aspired to write. Did write, if the truth be known, although her co-workers would have been astonished by this, as they thought her shy, meek. Leyla was determined to see her stories published some day, God willing, and brought to a wider audience. She would tell the tales of her heroes, by God, and the public would thrill to them as she had. But, at the moment, although the responsibility for the X-Files accounts was usually a blessing to her, it had just become Leyla Harrison's curse. She had noted the platoon of women from various departments whispering to each other at the far end of the room as she'd entered. Whether it was because of the sibilance of the name or because they just couldn't be bothered to keep their whispers down to a dull roar, the subject of their conversation reached her ears at the same moment its object came into view, washing her hands at one of the near basins: Agent Scully. Leyla regarded the seriously stylish Scully for a minute, trying to work up the courage to introduce herself. Again, Scully's name wafted down from the far end of the room. Leyla now regarded the group with horror. She glanced back at Scully and found herself staring into a set of stunningly cerulean seas. Scully's eyebrow raised at her for a moment, whether in challenge or in wry comment Leyla would never know, and then brushed past her and into the corridor. With the dull thud of the door as a starter's gun, the noise level from the gossips exploded. In an instant, the group was swarming around Leyla seeking information on Scully and Mulder. Someone named Tamara from Fraud was asking Leyla whether she had "inside dope" on the agents. Before joining the Bureau, Tam had been twice posted with law enforcement agencies in New York City, although Leyla couldn't recall which agencies if, indeed, she'd ever known. Rae, the New Yorker's friend and constant companion, joined the fray, asking whether Mulder and Scully had ever shared a room on the road, other than in that infamous airborne cow incident in Kansas. "Gawd," Rae laughed, "if Spooky wasn't before, he surely is the Bureau's laughing stock now. Laughing Livestock, that is." The bad pun seemed to be the funniest thing she'd ever heard herself utter. "Look, Harrison," a woman named Lara, who had recently transferred from the L.A. office, said, "we know they're hooking up. We just need to know specs, times, dates..." Leyla felt absolutely perplexed. She was just an accountant. What could she possibly know about Mulder and Scully that these people would be so rabidly interested in? Her feelings of confusion must have been plainly evident, for the former Angelino swore. "Shit. Godfuckingdamnit, Harrison..." Leyla blanched. Lara backed off and turned to the woman nearest her. "I'm obviously not expressing myself well enough. Maybe Amanda can say what I'm trying to say in a way that you can understand." Leyla was so overwhelmed by all of this that the intended insult missed its target by a wide margin. "What Lara means," the woman named Amanda ventured, "is that there might be morsels of information in the accounts you've processed that could be helpful to all of us in satisfying our curiosity." Two women from her own department approached her at this point, flanking her. Leyla had shared lunch with both women on occasion, considered them friends. Now, they seemed like assailants. Marie Endres put an arm around Leyla's shoulder, saying, "For instance, that trip Mulder just took to England. Did he say why he went without Scully? Was she on a case as well? Any little bit helps, sweetheart." The term felt anything but endearing. The following volley came from Rose, whom everyone called "Avalon," the Lord only knew why. "Leyla. You're a font of knowledge. You just don't know it. For example, you're the only one below the assistant director level, outside of the duo themselves, who knows what they charged on that Bureau credit card Skinner lent them in Los Angeles. It was a tidy little sum. It must have been good... You can tell us, Leyla. You're among friends." Then, Leyla thought, why did this feel anything but friendly? "Avalon" regrouped at Leyla's silence and launched another offensive. "You know that I've been assigned to produce a full accounting for both A.D. Skinner and for A.D. Kersh, Director's Eyes Only? There's a deputy directorship up for grabs. That little bit of largesse could cost Skinner the promotion. But, if you explained what it was all about, what they used it for, I could try to tip the scales in his favor. You know how I mean. It's not an inconsequential sum. I could "exfoliate" it, spread it out over a number of line items, amortize it, if need be and, eureka! Deputy Director Skinner is born and Kersh goes home with what we all know he deserves. Squat. No one wants to see Kersh promoted, Leyla. You have the power to prevent that. Just tell me what Mulder and Scully spent over four grand on Skinner's Bureau account?" For a moment, there was absolute silence. A lull that was neither a cease-fire nor a truce. Leyla scanned frantically for an escape route. The door was definitely blocked. She took the only option open to her. Pinned against the sinks, she high tailed it between Amanda and Avalon and into the nearest stall, which was unblocked. That is to say it was the nearest stall the path to which was unblocked. In point of fact, the toilet itself was unblocked as well, but in a moment that fact would be beneath Leyla's notice. She spun, slamming and locking the stall door, sitting on the toilet, pulling her feet up so that they couldn't be grabbed from beneath. The protests were immediate. "Aw, c'mon, Leyla! We just wanted answers to a few simple questions," Marie's disembodied voice whined. "Yeah, Harrison. Open up." Tam, this time. "That's an order." A thunderous pounding accompanied the order. "Oh, sure. Do what you always do." Rae, speaking to Tam. "You think you can order everyone around." "Shut up. I do not order people around. Shut up!" "Alright, everyone! Look, if Leyla can't see fit to help her friends out, we'll just have to go elsewhere." Avalon's words were what Leyla wanted to hear, but no movement accompanied them, so she stayed stock still. After a minute, and no movement, Avalon spoke again, in a more determined tone, to her companions. "Okay, forget this. I happen to know Anne, in Legal, who confers with Agent Mulder on a bi-weekly basis over all the worker's comp claims he and Scully have amassed over the years. She must know something. If nothing else, Anne is friends with Bette in the BSU. She was something of a profiling protege of Agent Mulder's back in the day. I'm sure Anne can get her to do some sniffing around. From inside the safe haven of the stall, Leyla Harrison realized that she hadn't the slightest idea why she'd just been pummeled with such questions. "Hey!" she blurted. "Why did you want to know all that stuff, you guys?" The last of the six to leave poked her head back around the door and chortled. "The Pool, you ninny. The Pool!" As the outer door closed, Leyla slumped back in relief, forgetting that there was no back to this toilet and, consequently, bumped her head against the tiled wall with unexpected force, promptly bursting into tears. It was half an hour before she left the relative safety of the stall. ****************************** Fifth floor corridor, JEHB ****************************** "Walter!" Somehow, when Kersh used his given name, it made Skinner more forgiving of Mulder's occasional lapse in calling him "Skinman." Skinner said nothing, but only nodded, curtly. "How did it go?" Kersh pressed. "He's considering it." Kersh dangled a set of keys. "Keys to the kingdom of heaven for Agent Mulder, Walter." Wanting nothing so much as to wipe the smirk off of his colleague's face, Skinner snatched the key chain proffered and brushed on by without a sound. The humiliation buzzing in his ears drowned out whatever it was Kersh said. The bastard always had to get in a last word. ********************************** X Files Office, basement, JEHB ********************************** "Legal called, Mulder." "Ah. My buddy Anne?" "Mmmhmm. She was quite chatty, actually. I think that, for once, her call doesn't signify the need to bail you out of hot water, yet again." "Oh, har, har. Laugh it up, Fuzzball!" Scully gave Mulder The Look. "Star Wars, Scully. That was supposed to be Han Solo, from Star Wars," Mulder said by way of apology. "I know, Mulder." The Look stayed put for a full minute, as she let him stew uncomfortably before continuing. "Anne extended a lunch invitation to both of us, Mulder. Oscar's over on K Street." Mulder's face betrayed no surprise until she continued. "Agent Bette will be joining us." Scully watched him mull the ramifications for a moment and was amused when his reply was incongruously wise-assed. "Ooooh. Double date?" "Which way do you mean?" she rejoined. "Scully!" Mulder was genuinely taken aback. "Seriously, Mulder. Why all this interest in us of late?" "What? Don't you find it nice to be so highly regarded?" "Mulder. First Skinner and the Poconos, and now this? Something's not right." Mulder glanced up at the smoke detector, then at Scully, and then at her laptop. His instant message appeared on her screen, well, instantly. /What did you find out?/ /Skinner does have a cabin in the mountains in Pennsylvania. But, it's in the Endless Mountains, 200 miles west of the Poconos.../ /Phew! I was really having trouble picturing Skinner as the champagne glass shaped jacuzzi type. Although this Paige from Justice might./ /How do we play this, Mulder?/ /As it lies, Scully. As it lies./ "I don't know, Scully. I think lunch for four might be an interesting change of pace." This time, Scully's raised eyebrow was directed at the non- functioning smoke detector. Her smile was reserved for Mulder alone. *********************************** 48th Street above the Avenue of the Americas, NYC *********************************** "And our special project?" "All is as it should be." "The special facilities?" "In place, of course." "We can't afford further gaps in coverage." "The discovery of the facilities in Agent Scully's apartment was regrettable. The technician failed to anticipate Agent Scully's thoroughness. She may well be one of a handful of Americans who replace the batteries in their smoke alarms twice a year as directed. For obvious reasons, I finally had the erstwhile ones in mine removed. What you don't know is that the backup and failsafe facilities were also compromised. Apparently Agent Scully is also the only one to change her kitchen fire extinguisher and have her air conditioning unit serviced annually." "I had not been informed. How did we learn of this?" "Mulder. He recited Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" entirely from memory into Scully's bedroom air conditioner, all the while filming his performance using the camera hidden in the fire extinguisher." "These lapses are tiresome." "Mulder's eidetic memory is tiresome." ************************************* Oscar's, K Street, Washington D.C. ************************************* The lunch dishes had been cleared from three of the four places at the table. At the fourth place, Mulder's, the remains of a sandwich and a cup of New England clam chowder survived. In the only occupied seat, Scully dabbed at one corner of her mouth with a white linen napkin, surreptitiously giving the room the once-over. Seeing nothing amiss, she walked around to the seats Agent Bette and Anne had vacated just moments before, quietly and expertly "tossing" them for possible information, clues. Finding none, she returned to her seat just as Mulder returned from the back of the restaurant. Mulder waited until Scully was seated before taking his own seat, his eyes vigilant. Scully remained quiet until his surveillance was complete. "Well?" "Ladies' Room, just as they claimed." Mulder waited a beat, looking at her with an open innocence. "Think they're talking about us?" Scully allowed herself a wry smile. "That would be my guess." "Why do women always go to the restroom in pairs, Scully? Mulder was having difficulty maintaining the innocent mien. "Is it that dangerous inside? I don't get it." Scully threatened to give him "the Look," and Mulder quickly relented. "We don't have all that much time before they come back, Mulder, so stop the kidding around. Besides, I have a serious, somewhat delicate question to ask you." "Sure, Scully. Shoot." Scully hesitated a moment until her curiosity got the better of her. She could barely contain a laugh. "What is it with Agent Bette and the bouncing?" "Bouncing?" Mulder seemed genuinely perplexed, for once. "Yes. Up and down. In her chair." "Maybe she's just glad to see me. You know, in a universe of infinite possibilities..." Scully just waited, smiling, cinnamon eyebrow cocked and ready. "Honestly? I don't have a clue, Scully. She never used to "bounce," or anything of the sort. At least not when she was training with me at BSU." "It seems to be more than just a tic, or temporary discomfort, to be honest, Mulder. It seems to be nervous energy, excitement of some sort that she can barely contain. The sixty four thousand dollar question is why?" "Sixty four thou barely gets you a quarter of the way through Regis these days, Scully." His quip barely seemed to register, so lost in thought was his partner. When she finally looked up, her expression was solemn. "How would you describe Agent Bette as a profiler, Mulder?" "Why do you ask?" "Because, Mulder, I'm getting the distinct impression that she's profiling the two of us." The sibilance of Scully's final consonants echoed in the silence. Mulder toyed with his congealing chowder. Eventually, she had to prompt him from his reverie. "Hey, what is it? You look like somebody just abducted your best friend." It was an old joke, getting older by the second, but one that never failed to snap the tension between them. After a moment, Mulder looked up at her and a smile of surprising warmth lit up his face. Scully blushed, pleased. When he began to speak, Mulder's smile faded as quickly as it had come. "She was good. She had native ability. I put her potential upside higher than my own. She used to call me her profiling "muse." Because of Bette, I felt freed up to invest more time and effort into the X Files. But, as I became more..." Mulder searched for a word to replace 'obsession,' "involved, she came to believe that I was throwing my career away. I'd thought she'd be as open to extreme possibilities as I was, but I misjudged her. In fact, she seemed to close off to extreme possibilities in inverse proportion to the amount I was opening up to them. It's hampered her profiling, in my opinion. I feel responsible, in a way. She had real potential." "Was there..." Scully hesitated before venturing onto shaky ground. "...ever anything between us?" Mulder guessed. Scully nodded, absurdly eager to know the answer, such that she wasn't annoyed in the slightest by his canny ability. She waited. "No," Mulder replied after a beat. Scully slumped noticeably, in relief. Another beat, then, "not that I know of, anyway." Scully stiffened, sharp anger coloring her cheeks. Mulder disarmed her with a raised palm and a sheepish expression. "What I mean to say is that I don't know whether there were any feelings on her part. As for me, well, surprisingly enough, I used to get so involved with my work that, even if a beautiful woman were, in fact, pining away for me right before my eyes, I wouldn't have noticed." "Imagine that," Scully muttered. "Do you think Agent Bette is beautiful, Mulder?" Mulder's vast intelligence had a way of deserting him at the oddest of moments in his career. This, however, was not one of those moments. Recognizing the "no win" situation, he sighed, and gave Scully his best impression of The Look. Eventually, Scully softened. "What are your impressions of Anne?" Mulder feinted. "She seems enthralled with you, hanging on your every word." "That's true, Mulder, so long as the words are about you. 'So, you two are close?' 'You slept in the same bed in Kroner? What was *that* like?' 'I can't imagine having someone run to South of the Border for me, let alone the South Pole!' I felt like I was a character reference for you, Mulder." "Aw, come on. It couldn't all have been about me." It sounded to Scully as if Mulder wouldn't have been unhappy at all to have had that been the case. "Well, actually, she did empathize with me that you can be annoying as hell to work with," Scully added, with a smile. She strategically omitted Anne's addendum, "even if I have learned to just tune him out during most of those times, and just kind of drink him in, if you know what I mean." Scully did. "See, Scully, that's just it. Anne knows me that well already. Knows all about me, in fact. This isn't about me. It's all about you. She's trying to get to *you.*" Tears welled up in blue eyes. "Mulder, do you know how long I've waited to hear you say those words?" "Well, it's true. After all the legal confabs we've had, she can practically imitate my speech patterns and predict what I'm going to say. It's downright, well, you know..." "This is different. She was talking to me, yes, but all the while looking at you. And, Mulder, Anne looked like she was fitting you for white tie and tails. Either that or she was envisioning you as "dessert." From her expression, I'd say she doesn't much care in which order either of those things occurs. That is, of course, if Bette doesn't inhale you first." "Scully! Are you jealous?" "Whoa! Down, Spooky Boy. I'm just watching out for my partner's back. It's just not every day that I've got two people watching my partner's backside at the same time." Scully snickered at the thought, then grew pensive. "I still don't get it, Mulder. About all the interest in our personal well being, I mean. Why now? I know you've wondered that, too." "Scully, we can debate the possibilities of what they're all after until we're old and grey. But, the Truth..." "I know, Mulder, I know." By the time the two women returned, coffee had been served for all hands and was cooling rapidly. Mulder and Scully heaved comic sighs of relief that neither Anne nor Bette had fallen prey to such restroom menaces as flukemen or sewer dwelling kitties. Mulder held out the chair Bette had formerly occupied, but Anne took the proffered seat instead. Mulder walked around to the other side to extend the same courtesy to Agent Bette, who didn't so much sit in the seat, as melt into it. Scully was afraid that Bette might just spontaneously dissolve into a puddle of goo. She stifled a grin at that image, as well as at Mulder's obsequious attention. It wasn't that Mulder wasn't mannerly. Quite the opposite, Scully knew. He could be almost courtly with her, at times. Now, however, he was clearly playing upon the apparent emotional distraction of the other two women. And it was working. During their protracted absence from the table, Anne and Bette had obviously agreed on a strategy of 'divide and conquer,' each beginning to speak in confidential tones with their new seatmates. After only ten more minutes, coffees finished, each pairing arose to leave. Even though they were all headed to the same building only a few blocks distant, goodbyes were said on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Anne winked conspiratorially at Mulder; Bette did likewise with Scully. Both women set off toward the Hoover Building at a fast, light clip. "I've been asked to dinner tonight by Agent Bette," Scully said casually, looking down the block at her retreating 'date.'" "Isn't that nice?" Mulder responded. "I'm having drinks with Anne." Mulder's expression was flat, his eyes trained down the block, just like Scully's. "Seven thirty, at the Sonora Grille?" "Yup." "See you there, partner." "Count on it." Both agents stood placidly, watching until their intended dinner companions disappeared into the crowds. ********************* Office of A.D. Skinner ********************* A cloud of smoke greeted Skinner as he approached Kim's desk in the outer office. She looked up at him, without saying a word, unapologetically. Skinner could almost believe that she'd brought the Smoker down on his head in retaliation for his new relationship with Ms. Caldwell from Justice. A woman scorned, and so forth. Skinner drew himself up to his full height, squared his shoulders, flexed his jaw several times and pushed through the door into his office. He noted Spender off to one side, as usual. Making sure that Spender knew he'd seen him, Skinner sat down at his desk, riffled through some paper work, returned a meaningless call to personnel, and noted an item or two in his agenda before he looked up. The Smoker dragged deeply on his cigarette, exhaling with excruciating slowness, amused at Skinner's show of defiance. "The date has been set," Spender said after another full minute had elapsed. "And you, Mr. Skinner, are going to make certain that everything comes together as I've planned. That," the Smoker gestured toward a parcel on a chair to the side of Skinner's desk, "is for you to give Ms. Caldwell, for your trip this weekend. I'm assured that it is her size and taste. Never let it be said that we are without gratitude for your efforts on our behalf." The Smoker smiled, an ugly sight, and squinted as he took a final drag on this cigarette. The keys to a cottage that wasn't his weighed heavily in Skinner's pocket. *********************** I-95 southbound, near Chester, Pennsylvania *********************** "Yeah." It was only because, the moment before, the driver had been indulging in colorful invective over the utter waste of a BMW's horsepower in the cesspool of rush hour traffic, that his voice was quite so harsh. Generally, he was quite soft-spoken, remarkable, considering the pressures of his trade. If the caller noticed this at all, he gave no sign. "I need to ensure that our interests in the Mulder and Scully affair are protected." Even though the phrase 'Mulder and Scully affair' brought a sneer of distaste to his lips, the driver responded "I'm listening." "You are aware of the plans for the cabin in the Pocono Mountains?" The driver affirmed that he was, omitting his personal feelings as to the value of the arrangements. Truth to tell, and he never would, the driver considered the arrangements dubious at best. The caller seemed to hear his unspoken doubt. "I authorize you to use any means you deem appropriate to make certain that this operation is successfully concluded on the date and approximate time specified." Eight days from that moment. The caller was not his usual contact. This was sufficient to raise the driver's formidable instinct for self preservation. "What of the Smoker's arrangements?" There was no hesitation from the other end of the line. "It appears that he has an unspecified personal interest in events. You are only to ensure that these personal interests do not come into conflict with our own." He nodded in response. The caller took the silence surrounding the unseen nod as an affirmative answer. The driver removed his sunglasses, staring into the glare, beginning to imagine what preparations he would have to make in order to assure that his own personal interests would be vouchsafed. Harsh sun glinted off of the polished black exterior of the car, and warmed the black leather of the interior, including the driver's jacket, and all but disappeared in the coal black depths of the driver's eyes. "And Mister Krycek," the caller admonished, "whatever your personal feelings or affiliations with Agents Mulder and Scully in the past, we trust that you will be able to set them aside until the objective has been reached, no matter how distasteful you might find it." "Of course." Krycek's carnivorous smile belied the possibility of distaste. Traffic had slowed to a halt, jeopardizing his ability to meet his contact inside the Beltway at their appointed time. Nevertheless, the planning and preparation of this new assignment did much toward alleviating any frustration. Nearly thirty minutes later, Krycek glided slowly past the reason for the bottleneck: a combination of on-going construction and a stalled school bus, beside which sat band instruments and silks, and a number of frustrated, dejected teenagers. Krycek barely had time to note the name "Cardinal Dougherty" on the side of the bus as he opened up the Beemer's throttle and slammed it into gear. Two hours to downtown D.C. **************************** Apartment 4-B, 1871 North 18th Street, Adams Morgan neighborhood, D.C. **************************** "You're late." He met the accusation with a characteristic shrug, the new leather of his jacket making a creaking sound with the motion. "We haven't much time. Events are being pushed by too many disparate forces. Our time table will have to be redrawn." "I know," the man said, sprawling on one half of an old sofa. His colleague refused the offer to sit, preferring to pace off the small living room. "Calm down, would you? We're still in control." "Barely. But we won't be soon, if things keep happening the way they are." This was true enough, and the man nodded. "I don't know about you, but I can't go on like we have been for much longer anyway." This also brought a nod of agreement. "We need a new plan of attack." "I've been giving this some thought," the man said, "and I think I may have something." By the time each person had exited the "safe house" at intervals some thirty minutes later, they were smiling. **************************** Sonora Grille bar 7:45 P.M. **************************** Mulder was late. He'd been running late all afternoon. Anne had taken his apologetic phone call with equanimity, however, and was waiting for him at the bar when he arrived. She was halfway through her margarita when she saw him squinting into the gloom trying to locate her. "Holy Jesus," Anne whispered, downing the rest of the margarita in two, quick gulps. "Give me strength." Whether the plea was to Jesus or to the liquor, or both, not even she knew. What was all too plain to the young lawyer was that Agent Mulder dressed down as nicely as he dressed up. Better, in truth. Frankly, in her world, men in expensive, meticulously tailored suits were a dime a dozen. Even if Mulder happened to look particularly well turned out in the Armani she'd seen on him, he was just one of many. But this? She caught his eye with a little wave, praying silently, trying to stay focused on the objective. She wanted to find out whether or not Mulder and Scully were sexually involved and, if not, just how close were they to finally doing the deed. 'How close'? She closed her eyes and snickered at the little double entendre. "Hey." His soft voice startled her. Her eyes snapped open and upward to find him staring down at her from a distance of only a foot or two, an amused smile on his face. "Hey, yourself." Anne was grateful for the overwhelming scents of the bar, smoke, alcohol, plates of tapas all around. She honestly feared the effect that smelling Mulder's after shave - he wasn't the cologne type, she'd decided - might have. "What's up? I don't have something stuck to my shoe do I?" Anne shook her head, smiling. Mulder beckoned the bartender, giving her a moment to form a coherent, safe reply. "Another?" Mulder asked, pointing at her empty glass. She nodded, realizing that she'd better keep count, or else... Mulder ordered himself a local i.p.a. instead of the Dos Equis the restaurant staff were clearly trying to push. Mulder turned back to her, a kind smile on his face. He looked down at his shoes, then back at her. "Nope, nothing dragging along behind. So?" The drinks arrived and, as Mulder arranged to keep a tab going, Anne gave him a furtive once over. Casual Mulder. Different from the preponderance of black she'd expected. Aside from the leather jacket, as far as she could tell, her expectations had been dashed and, for that, she was pleased. He was dressed simply. A pair of dark olive green pants which looked soft to the touch. A dark t-shirt, just visible under the collar of a dark grey fleece sweatshirt. His clothes gave him a softer edge, a gentler appearance which was reflected in his face, his eyes. She'd never seen and was utterly unprepared for this Mulder. Anne knew that these thoughts led in a dangerous direction. But, she reasoned, better to acknowledge them and get past them, than to have them niggling at the fringes of thought all evening. At least, that was the plan. "Just what in the hell was I expecting?" she thought. Unbidden, an image of the two of them dancing, slow dancing, came to mind. She watched from a distance of two feet as her dream self clung to Mulder's shoulders, her head resting on the soft fleece of his chest, swaying in languid rhythm. "Hey, where do you keep going?" To her credit, Anne managed to recover quite nicely from her cerebral sojourn, accepting the drink he held out to her, chuckling as they clinked glasses. "Sorry," she said, coloring only slightly. "I was just thinking of how out of context this seems. I'm so used to suits and ties at work, even your ties, Agent Mulder, that to see you in casual clothes is quite a shock." "First of all, it's Mulder. Agent Mulder is the one with the tie collection that is a matter of acquired taste." God, he could be witty, too. "Mulder," she repeated. "Not Fox?" "Nooooooo." Mulder replied through pursed lips, so that the word sounded like 'new.'" "Okay, then. Mulder." "And, second, the shock is mutual, so don't sweat it. I was just thinking that, for a lawyer, you dress down really nicely." At that instant, several things became painfully clear to Anne. One, she had no memory whatsoever of the clothes she'd changed into and tried mightily to avoid looking down to find out. Second, as she eyed her rapidly depleted Margarita and found herself lulled by Mulder's soft voice and gentle eyes, she realized that she was in deep, deep trouble. ********************* Sonora Grille, main dining room 8:00 P.M. ********************* Before dinner orders had been placed and the wine poured, Agents Bette and Scully had prowled around one another as nervous lionesses, occasionally pawing at the table, their pride at stake. Both had arrived with extreme punctuality, meeting each other at the door to the restaurant at 7:29. They had been seated immediately. There was a period of pleasantries, talk of menu selections, the wine. Each had deferred with uncharacteristic solicitousness to the other's choice, and then discovered that they each would have opted for the same moderately priced domestic Chardonnay. This brought smiles to the small table, but did not really release the tension. From that moment, Bette wondered whether this had been such a good idea on her part. Clearly, she was not the best choice to ferret information out of Mulder. He knew her too well, and any residual anger on Bette's part, even after all these years, might, as Anne had argued, cloud her judgment. Damnit. Anne had managed to talk her into this, hadn't she? Right now, Anne was probably in the bar, drinking Mulder under the table, while she was here trying to profile a perfectly lovely woman whom she'd come prepared to hate, but couldn't. Shit, shit, shit and Shinola. Agent Scully had shed her Bureau suit of armor, the severe black ensemble that was de rigeur among female agents. "Except that mine doesn't drape quite that well," Bette had grumbled to Anne on the way to the ladies' room earlier that afternoon. However, if the once-over Mulder had given her and Scully's frank appraisal of just minutes before were any indication, Bette knew that her clothing draped well enough. Agent Scully had broken the ice by offering her first name as a token of...what, friendship? Acquaintance? Truce? "It's Dana. No matter what Mulder says, it's still Dana." Mulder. Ah, yes. The most prominent of the things they had in common. Women in an all-boys club, with all the attendant struggles, the tidal tugs of professional and personal lives... and Mulder. They had him in common. The question was to what extent? Dana Scully had proven quickly to be many things Bette had presumed she wasn't. She was warm, with a delightful laugh. No "ice queen," she. That bastard Colton. Bette knew from bitter experience what a fucking liar he could be. Why had she chosen to believe him in this instance? Was it because she wanted to believe these things about Mulder's current partner? Dana Scully was also proving to be a very patient, skilled listener. This, more than anything, rattled Special Agent Bette. To Bette Bette, woman, however, it was intoxicating. She was losing her accustomed poise under the onslaught of the smaller woman's quiet charm. The first question in a planned evening full of them was fired off just after the wine was poured and health toasted. It came, unexpectedly, from Scully. "Why haven't you and Mulder stayed in touch?" The sincerity evident in her tone caught Bette short. "Clearly," Scully continued, "you two had a strong connection. I could see it reflected in his eyes when..." Scully looked away, somewhat abashed, gathered herself and looked directly at Bette. "I asked him about you, about his relationship with you." Maybe Bette should have recognized the trouble signs then, but self- disclosure is very disarming. "I'm sorry I pressed him about it. It's really none of my business. Mulder and I, well, after seven years together...you know." Bette didn't. "Personal boundaries are bound to get a bit foggy." Here! This should have been her opening. All Bette had to do was reach out and grab it. "We know each other's habits, faults, moods, actions. By now, we know each other, outwardly anyway, almost better than we know ourselves. But the two of you? You were in each other's minds. For two years. I can see the impact that had on him, still has, in fact." Scully paused, and Bette regarded her with no small sense of wonder. In all of the years since Mulder, she'd locked the hurt away. No one had been able to understand the connection they'd shared; no one had been able to say the words to ease the ache. Now, after so long? "If this really is none of my business, please just tell me. Unlike my partner, I do respect personal boundaries. Bette found herself flung nine years into the past. Nine years before, when the hurt was still fresh, ragged, infected. It's one thing to enter into a physical relationship with someone and have it end abruptly. The pain is familiar. The vacuum of physical need can be filled rather easily. The bruises to one's ego and self esteem begin to heal with the next stranger's kind words. Mulder certainly had been attractive enough. "Nice cheekies," Bette recalled. But they'd never entered into a physical relationship. They'd gone beyond that, into something far more exotic, more addictive. Something with the potential to cause far greater damage and hurt. A physical relationship can have depth, no question. Breadth, even. It can, at its end, inflict deep pain, which will eventually heal. To plumb the depths of another's mind, however, their psyche, even their soul, and have it opened to you on a whim? That had been the most intoxicating ride Bette had ever known. And that's what they had done, had achieved, in less than twenty months. He was a profiler then, the best of a good lot, assigned to train her. Eventually, as part of the regimen, they let each other into their heads to explore, to rummage around. Quickly, they came to know one another in a most intimate manner. Then, he'd discovered the fucking X-Files. They had become his obsession, the new objet d'amour for his passionate mind. Those goddamn files, each one more insane than the last, had displaced her, evicted her from his head, More to the point, they'd taken him out of hers. No one seemed to understand this. No one seemed to understand why it left her so empty, abandoned, alone. His new partner might understand. Yes, Bette realized, she might be the only one who could. "I think I know that look," Scully ventured. "At least, I think I've felt the way you seem to be feeling. He does have that impact on people, doesn't he?" There was no question to whom she was referring. Mulder. Bette could feel the stirrings of desperate need within her. A need to be understood. Scully seemed to take a moment to cast back in memory and, finally dredging up an appropriate one, set it out simply on the table before them. "So many times I've felt as if it wouldn't have mattered who was in that office with Mulder, so long as they could tote a cell phone and be at his beck and call." Yes, yes. Someone to bounce his theories off, someone to share the driving, Bette wanted to say. That's what he wanted from her, once he'd immersed himself in those damn files. Someone to share his obsession but not his soul. Maybe, maybe. "Several times, I've very nearly quit. Oh, he's given me a song and dance about needing me because I keep him 'honest.' I wanted to believe him. But, I knew that, in the end, it was the X Files that drove him, gave him breath. I could be taken from his life, replaced, and he could go on. But, take the X Files away from him? You may as well cut out his heart." All of a sudden, Bette wanted to tell Dana Scully her story. God help her, nine years, she wanted to tell it, all of it. She looked up from the table into clear eyes the color of a high summer sky and began to speak. Scully was listening. Finally, someone who understood. ******************************** Bar, Sonora Grille 8:15 ******************************** The bartender hailed from California, the Bay Area. A baseball fan, as it happens. As with many in her line of work, she'd become a skilled listener and a shrewd judge of human interaction. Many nights, purely for her own amusement, she would select a patron or patrons and follow their progress through the evening, trying to devine their stories. Tonight had been slow, though it was early yet. A couple of regulars, none of great interest on any given night, and bound to become less and less so as the evening wore on. But then, about an hour into her shift, she'd hit the jackpot. The pair down at the far end of the bar, she wasn't quite prepared to deem them a 'couple,' now *they* were interesting. For a number of reasons, not the least of which was the steady stream of refill orders they'd called for, she found herself down at their end of the bar all evening. He was tall, slender, but not really thin. He had cheeks that made her want to reach across and, ooooh, pinch them, just like her grandmother had done with hers. It was his gaze that she noticed last, but which most held her interest. Unwavering, intense. So intense, in fact, that it was almost frightening. And, right now, it was trained full bore on his companion, God help her. No wonder she was on her fourth margarita in thirty minutes. His companion had seemed short by comparison, sitting on a barstool while he towered above, his searchlight gaze pinning her where she sat. In actuality, the woman was fairly tall. Blonde hair, fair skin with dark eyes, an exotic elixir, certainly. They left the impression that they were not a couple, or not yet a couple, but were checking each other out on a very personal level. Early on, snippets of conversation happened to drift the bartender's way, confirming her intuition about the relative length of their acquaintance. "Mulder. Agent Mulder is the one with the tie collection that is a matter of acquired taste." So, a Fibbie? Treasury? Secret Service? "Mulder. Not Fox?" Fox? That certainly could be this guy's nickname. "Neeeeeeeew." After nearly getting caught eavesdropping on this exchange, She retreated to the middle of the bar, but stayed attuned to them and responded quickly when he turned to locate her some minutes later. "I'm sorry. Miss?" "Robin." "Mulder." He reached out automatically to shake her hand. "Like the ball player? Any relation?" He seemed confused, but only for a moment. "The pitcher for the A's?" She nodded, and he laughed. "No, thank God." Now she was the one confused, and a little miffed. He leapt to clear things up. "See, then I'd feel obligated to root for the A's, and I'm a Yankees fan." "Oh," she said, her politeness dropping noticeably. Mulder felt the odd need to make amends for being a Yankees fan. "Good, young team, though, the A's. Giambi's a nice player." Robin leaned her forearms on the bar, toward Mulder and into the conversation. At this, Mulder's companion, whom Robin had nearly forgotten, made a memorable re-entry. Leaping down off her stool, and taking a moment to steady and get reoriented, Anne managed to insinuate herself between Mulder and the bar rail, coming nose to nose with the young bartender. "Back off, Rrrrrrrrrrrrobin!" Anne growled, making a quick movement with her right arm, intending to grab the bartender by her lapels. Unfortunately, as close as she was to the bar, her wrist never cleared the bar rail, instead hitting it with a dull clang that made Mulder and even the stunned Robin wince. Anne grabbed her wrist and bent in pain, lurching away from the offending rail. Mulder caught her as she stumbled, and looked across at the bewildered Robin. "I think we could use some food. Do you think you could get us some nachos or something?" Robin hustled to comply. Anne, meanwhile, straightened up by grabbing two fistfuls of Mulder's fleece sweatshirt, drawing herself up to her full height so that she was face to face with him, or as nearly so as made no difference to her. She glanced quickly to check that "Rrrrrrrrrrrrobin" was in full retreat, and looked up at Mulder from just under his chin. Anne found that she had a nice, nice view of his eyes. Mulder looked down at her dreamy smile and, without taking his eyes off of Anne nor by raising his voice, called after the recently departed barkeep. "Better make that two." ************************** Sonora Grille, main dining room 8:30 ************************** "It's not what you think, Dana." Bette peered into the chocolate depths of her mole poblano, away from the other agent's penetrating stare. "I am envious, but it's not green eyed, romantic envy, all physical evidence to the contrary," she said, in sly reference to her own eyes. Bette looked up and grinned. Her dinner companion returned the smile sweetly. "I'm envious that you seem to have a relationship with Mulder that's more well-rounded than the one I had with him." Bette kept looking for reactions that might help guide her probing, but had received little feedback of that sort. She was beginning to ear that she was giving away for more than she was learning. "It certainly lasted longer, so it must be more grounded," Bette tried. At this, Scully barked out a laugh. Bette gave her a curious look. "Grounded isn't exactly the term most people would apply to "Mr. and Mrs. Spooky, now is it, Agent?" Bette was surprised by the vehemence of the inherent rebuke. Scully seemed to sense this, for her reply was softer. "What I mean is that "grounded" isn't a term you hear applied to people who hunt E.T. for a living, you know? But, I think I see what you mean. Over the years of our partnership, Mulder and I have developed a Yin/Yang sort of relationship. We balance each other. Is that what you mean?" It wasn't precisely what Bette had intended, but it would do. "Dana, if I had to, I think that I could sum up my relationship with Mulder in two words: blindingly intense. Equal emphasis on the two." Bette waited a beat. Scully waited her out. "I guess I meant that your relationship seems intense but not so much as to blind you to the truth of it. Still Scully didn't respond. Damnit, this woman's patience could be trying. Of course, with Mulder, you'd need the patience of Job." "I was blinded to the fact that, for Mulder, our partnership was all about the work. He used our 'mind games' as an exercise in profiling, while I was using them as an excuse to be "in" Mulder. I was using them as a substitute for the kind of relationship that you seem to have with him." "Don't kid yourself. There's a lot about Mulder that's as blinding as ever," Scully said. "And a lot that he seems to be blinded to, as well." Bette brightened at the prospect of a confession that seemed sure to follow. She failed to notice that Scully had taken in her reaction with a secretive smile. "As you well know, his devotion to the X Files is all consuming. But, in light of what has happened to me..." Scully checked to make sure the knowing nod she'd been expecting came, "cancer, remission, my sister's murder... Mulder's quest became my quest, his passion became mine." Bette leaned forward, expectantly. "In the belief that the quest is sufficient for us, I've blinded myself to other emotions." Scully paused suddenly, and Bette nearly gasped at the withdrawal. Scully's secret smile grew infinitesimally. "I think Mulder has been so single minded in his quest that he too, until recently, anyway, has ignored other powerful emotions." Bette could barely breathe, so astonishing was Scully's confession. "Dana, are you saying what I think you're saying?" Scully dipped her head down, shaking her head in the negative. For a moment, Bette feared she'd pushed too hard, too fast. To her relief, Scully looked up, a beseeching expression on her face. "You know him. You knew what it's like to work beside him. Bette, sometimes I feel like I'm going to explode if I don't tell someone this." Time stopped. "Dana. Please! I understand completely. You've just spent almost all evening lending a shoulder to me about him. I'd only be too happy to be there for you, and, Dana, just between us." Bette made the 'zipped lips' gesture, but Scully was already unburdening herself. It wasn't what Bette hoped, but it was a start. "We kissed on New Year's Eve." Bette snorted quietly. On the millenium? That little pot is going to have to be split, oh, 500 different ways. She put her hand over Scully's, urging her to continue in utter confidence. "I think something more might happen between us. Maybe even soon. Mulder has made some plan for us to go away. It feels so out of control. I want it, but it frightens me. And I'm not easily frightened." Bette smiled her most reassuring smile, already beginning to invest her winnings. ******************** Sonora Grille, bar ******************** The food had begun to take effect instantly, Mulder noted. Anne had suggested that, if they were going to eat, they should find a table rather than sit at the bar. Mulder had readily acceded. Her profuse apologies over her recent outburst he politely dismissed but quietly ordered them both coffee. Anne did not object. "Mulder. God, that was embarrassing. I keep saying it, I know, but I *am* sorry." Neither of them dealt well with discomfort. "Look," Anne continued, "this is really none of my business, but I feel like I'm about to trespass on Agent Scully's territory." Mulder looked confused, and Anne wondered, not for the first time, how a man with a mind like his could, in certain circumstances, be so damned dense. "Agent Scully? You know. Your partner of seven years?" Mulder just nodded. 'Yeah, I know who Scully is,' the nod conveyed. Anne let out her frustration in a drawn out sough, not inhaling immediately, but closing her eyes and relaxing into the breath to come. New breath, new start. Mulder opened his mouth to speak, but Anne held up a hand to interrupt. "Please, Mulder. I've already embarrassed myself in front of you. Give me the chance to explain?' Mulder closed his mouth in response, his lower lip seeming to pout even more than normal. For the thousandth time in their acquaintance, Anne cursed the existence of that full scrumptious mouth. "I'm just drunk enough to admit this, but sober enough to know that I'm doing it. Also sober enough not to just give into these feelings, damnit all. Look, I'm a lawyer, true, but that doesn't necessarily mean I'm unethical." Mulder grinned. Good, Anne thought, keep 'em smiling. This evening wasn't going anything like she'd planned, and it was about to go even farther afield. "I'm also a good Catholic girl. I don't know whether that means anything to you..." Mulder's grin faded. He nodded solemnly, eyes cast down, staring deep into the dark wood grain of the table. "Wait! You're not..." Anne started, stopping as the truth dawned. The image of a small, gold cross nestled demurely under the silken folds of a white blouse catching her eye across the lunch table came to mind. "Agent Scully! Scully is Catholic?" "Life long." "Is there any other kind?" Anne joked, coloring slightly. "What parish, do you know?" "Out by me, in Arlington. Big place. Why she drives all the way from Georgetown, I've never been able to figure..." "St. John's? You've gotta be kidding!" Anne cut him off. "St. John's Arlington is *my* parish." "Small world," Mulder said, dryly. "You ain't kidding." "You've never run into each other there?" That searchlight stare again. Anne flinched, but regrouped. "It's not *that* small a world, Mulder. St. John's isn't just a big place. It's a huge congregation. Three services on Sunday morning, all packed to the rafters, Mass on Saturday afternoon, noon and evening masses every day of the week." "A Mass o' masses." Anne shot him a look Scully would have approved. "I usually go to the Saturday afternoon mass. See, I like sleeping in on Sunday mornings, reading the whole of the Sunday Post in my jammies, over a cup or three of coffee. So, I go on Saturday just to get the get-out-of-Sunday-free card. Agent Scully seems like the Mass-every-Sunday type of girl." "When I haven't kept her out of town," he mumbled. "Whoa, nice guilt, there, Mulder. We could make a Catholic of you yet." He demurred, with a sheepish chuckle. "Still doesn't explain why she drives all that way, or why you do, for that matter. In Scully's case, there's a Catholic church right around the corner from her building, on Wisconsin Ave, in Georgetown." Anne knew that he was diverting the conversation, but played along. "Which one is that, Our Lady of Perpetual Keggers or Saint Nathan Lane?" She watched it dawn slowly across his face that she was kidding. "Consider the neighborhood, Mulder. A dose of the rich and powerful, sure. Those people are either so rich, so powerful that they think they don't need church, or else they're Episcopalian and go to the National Cathedral simply to see and be seen being pious." Mulder winced, but Anne was on a roll. "Then, there's the college crowd, and a large gay population. The do go to church in the neighborhood, but the services are specifically tailored to each crowd and somewhat, uh, untraditional. Now, where does that leave a grown up, more conventional person such as your partner?" "Arlington?" Anne nodded. "But that still doesn't explain why you..." "Mulder, if you're trying to get me to go further off track, don't. I need to say what I was going to say to you. It does concern your partner. I think you'll want to hear me out." Whatever reaction Mulder might have betrayed was covered by an attack of apparently unquenchable thirst. He downed an entire glass of water, and signaled for more. "Well, as I was saying before our segue into Catholic demography, I'm a good Catholic girl. There are certain boundaries I will not cross, no matter how great the temptation, which, in this case is..." That got Mulder's attention and held it, but Anne had trailed off, steeling herself. "I know your official marital status, of course. But, it's more than an impression that, in all of the ways that matter, you are a married man. Am I right?" Mulder gaped, open mouthed, unable to reply. Anne reached across with two fingers, hooking them underneath his chin, pushing his jaw into the upright and locked position. "Doesn't matter," Anne said. "It's what I see, whether or not you're willing to admit it. Hell, Mulder, I nearly choked a poor, defenseless little bartender who happened to cast an eye your way. Granted, at the time, I was...uh, my inhibitions were temporarily lowered." Mulder managed a smile, as Anne took a sip of coffee, and continued. "Don't you see, Mulder? I would have made a fool out of myself over you back there." "I'm flattered," Mulder said, continuing in spite of a vigorous shake of Anne' head. "No, honestly..." "Flattered is *not* what a girl wants to hear, Agent. And you sound like you've said that before." Mulder colored. He had said that before, just not in these circumstances. "The point is that you're absolutely clueless as to the effect you have. I'm certainly not the only one in the Bureau who, if given half a chance, would board the Spooky Express. Hell, half of the secretarial pool... Rumor has it that A.D. Cassidy in O.P.R. calls you in periodically whether or not you've done anything to merit review, just so she can peer over her reading glasses at you." Anne realized that she was annoyed with him. No, it was more than that. It was anger. She was deeply enraged with this man. This was going so far afield of her agenda with regard to the Pool as to be unrelated, however Anne thought she could find her way home. "Not only do you seem to be clueless as to how women react to you, but, apparently, you're clueless as to why you're clueless, too," Anne argued, rationally. "However, I don't believe that, and neither do you." Mulder was taken aback by her anger, and said nothing. "Let's fill in the blanks, shall we? A six letter word for "that which utterly consumes Agent Mulder's attention?" Mulder made a show of counting off the fingers of his left hand and said, "X Files?" Anne smiled, and rejoined "Maybe at one time. But now? Jesus freakin' Christ, Mulder. You've gone to hell and back for her. The friggin' South Pole, for Chrissake. Mulder leaned back, amused by the mouth on the 'good Catholic girl.' "It's so obvious, Mulder. Don't insult my intelligence, okay? Do I have to spell it out for you? Yes? Okay. S-C-U-L-L-Y." "She's my partner." As if that explained everything. "As if that explains everything! Jesus, Mulder." What if it did? Anne thought. Maybe the Pool is a total crock and there was nothing physical between Mulder and Scully. What then? If he was a Free Agent, where did that leave her? "Look, Mulder. I'm about to put my heart on the line here." "You are?" Mulder seemed baffled by the apparent change of tack. Yes. Yes, she was, Anne realized. If Agent Mulder hadn't had his heart stolen away already, then, Pool or no Pool, she would lay claim to it, at the cost of hers in return. But, before she did that, before she risked everything, the Catholic girl, the Good Catholic Girl had to know. She just had to know. Anne had reached the boil-over point, and was powerless to prevent what she said next. "Agent Mulder. Are you or are you not sleeping with Agent Scully?" she yelled, beginning to rise. As in every old western, the bar suddenly quieted. Mulder leaned over to put his hands on her shoulder to get her to simmer down. "NO!" he replied in a harsh whisper. "No, I'm not. Now just calm down and we'll talk about this, okay?" "You're...you're not?" Anne was becoming aware of everyone still staring. As her agitation abated, tears came to her eyes. She didn't understand why. Oh, God. Was her mascara running? "No, I'm not. But, to be honest, you weren't totally off base. There *is* something between us, I just don't know what or whether she's willing to find out." Anne knew this was her golden opportunity to find out what they need to know to win the Pool. So, why were her feelings so hurt? Mulder chose this moment to regain a clue, and picked up on her hurt feelings. His voice was still pitched at a harsh whisper. "I'm sorry if I led you on. I didn't mean to. It's just that there's so much speculation about Scully and me, anyway, that it's second nature to me not to add any fuel to the fire. We'd be risking our partnership, if not our careers. And that's if we both feel the same way about each other, which isn't at all clear. If it's a one sided thing, am I going to put her career in jeopardy just to salve my own ego?" "Some guys would, in a heartbeat," Anne said quietly, but with feeling. Mulder's expression softened. After a moment, he smiled and said, "I am flattered you know. Honestly." With this, he managed to coax a smile and a sniffly laugh out of his companion. Mulder handed her his napkin. As she dried her eyes, Anne asked, "So why now? Why me? Why the confession to me?" "Well, you didn't exactly give me a choice, counselor. That drew a rueful a rueful chuckle out of both of them. "You know, you can take the lawyer out of the law suit," she cracked, then sobered, relatively speaking. "Why now?" "Aside from the fact that you wouldn't take "No" for an answer? Well, I guess it's been weighing pretty heavily on me recently. There's been tension between the two of us, and it's bothered me. More than I care to admit, actually." Anne waited. "Why you?" Mulder supplied. Anne waited. "Why you?" Mulder guessed, and Anne nodded. "You were being honest with me. It may have been due in part to those margaritas, but you were honest. That's important to me. Scully is honest with me. Scully tells me the truth. And now there's you." Anne felt an absurd amount of pride swell in her breast at this. "Question is," Mulder continued, "considering what you've told me, are you going to want to hear my confession?" Mulder cast a gentle but challenging glance. "Dude!" Anne joked. Mulder gave her an irritated look, which she shot right back. "Lighten up. I told you that, if you were a taken man, then I could respect that, regardless of my feelings towards you. Y'know, so long as nobody else," she cast a scathing last glance Robin's way, "can compete, then it's cool with me, *Dude*." "Oh-kay, Dudette. So. How am I going to hook up with Scully?" Anne looked up at him over the rim of her coffee cup and grinned. At the far end of the bar, Robin wiped the wood back to a polished sheen, keeping a wary eye on her couple of the night. "Interesting pair, aren't they?" Robin jerked at the sound of this new voice, and turned to face her interlocutor. She'd barely noticed anyone at this end of the bar until now. "I used to think so," she grimaced, continuing to buff the bar with a chamois. "But, I've reevaluated." "Her little hissy fit with you? Oh, I think that makes them more interesting, not less." Robin looked up at him. Lord, this one was more handsome than the last! "Oh, she was marking territory, sure," he continued, "but that territory isn't hers and she knows it." He had her attention now. She looked over to the table where they'd moved. Snippets of their conversation made themselves heard above the general din. Him: "A cabin...next weekend... Strange..." Her: "Perfect!... asked her..." Him: "Not yet..." "See?" Robin's new companion's voice was startlingly immediate. "Curiouser and curiouser." Robin turned to him and smiled. Maybe things were picking up again. "Can I get you something to drink?" He offered his right hand, and she took it, without thinking. "Alex." "Pleased to meet you. I'm Robin." "I know." His response must have failed to register, for she just stared at him, then shook her head with a sheepish grin and said, again, "What can I getcha?" "Vodka." "Absolut? Ketel One?" She was about to point to the Finlandia when he interrupted. "Stolichnaya." That he pronounced it oddly, stoh-LITCH-nah-yeh, only bothered her for an instant, until he smiled. God, he had a killer smile. ************************* Sonora Grille, Main Dining Room ************************* One order of coffee had arrived, followed by one of tea. Neither one of them had ordered dessert, although both had derived vicarious thrills simply from viewing the cart. They had both spoken of things neither had ever before shared. Now, the silence was both companionable and awkward. Where would they go from there? Neither one was used to baring their soul. "I hope I haven't said anything too embarrassing, Dana." "No," she said shyly, but Bette detected traces of color on her cheeks. Agent Scully was proving quite an interesting combination of extremes. Vulnerability surrounded by an iron will and resolve. She had a fierce protective streak toward her partner and yet was almost girlishly shy in discussing her feelings towards him. She was obviously highly intelligent and observant, yet clueless as to Mulder's blatant affection for her. Above all, after all the treachery she'd experienced in her career, when it came to affairs of the heart, Dana Scully seemed to be completely without guile. It was so touching and sweet that Bette almost regretted taking complete advantage of it. All Bette had to do was to instruct the other agent in the ways that Bette had long fantasized about seducing Mulder herself. She omitted, of course, the final part, where she'd reel Mulder in and then drop his heart on the ground, for the sheer enjoyment of watching it shatter. Scully had been more open to some of Bette's suggestions than others. So hesitant was she, in fact, about certain topics that Bette had blurted out, "You have had sex before, haven't you?" Bette was grateful to see fire flash in Scully's eyes at that. In the end, Bette was pleased to note, they'd hashed out a detailed plan of seduction. True, Mulder had taken the first step by inviting Scully to a mountain cabin, but the keys, Bette knew, had been literally thrust into his hands by A.D. Skinner. Mulder was still fumbling, feeling his way towards Scully. That just wouldn't do. Without outside assistance, they might never cross the finish line. Outside assistance. It made Bette wonder about Skinner's angle vis-a- vis the Pool. In the end, it was of no moment. She would handle Skinner, if the need arose. "Dana," Bette reassured her, picking up the check - why the hell not? This woman was going to be paying her back in spades in a week's time - "everything will be fine. It will be everything you dream of and nothing you fear. You'll be in control, Dana. I promise. You'll have him eating out of the palm of your hand, or thereabouts." Scully blushed prettily at this. Just follow me, kid, Bette thought, and we'll both make out like bandits. As they rose to leave, neither noticed the bus boy dash over to retrieve the vase of flowers that had been set on their table. He'd been tipped heavily to retrieve it and bring it with all due speed to a black BMW parked just down the block, where it was gratefully accepted by a dangerous looking woman with short blonde hair. She waited until the boy had reentered the restaurant, to remove the micro-recorder from the bottom of the vase. Alex will be pleased, she thought. Very pleased. Now they could get down to brass tacks. **************************** Apartment 4-B, 1871 North 18th Street, Adams Morgan neighborhood, D.C. **************************** He'd come in his car, she by taxi, as previously agreed. He reserved comment about being earlier to arrive than she, for once. "Well, well, well. Things are coming to a head." His grin was feral. "And not a moment too soon." She did not smile, but seemed relieved. "I heard about the incident with the bartender." He raised an eyebrow at her, but didn't ask how she'd heard. "Yeah, the natives *are* getting restless." "When those two get through comparing notes on their dinner dates, scuttlebutt is going to run rampant. Are all the side bets and over/unders ready?" "They will be," he said petulantly. "We have a more important matter to attend to. The trial run of the special facilities at the cabin happens tomorrow." There was a pause as she considered all of the ramifications. "Is Skinner aware that the facilities are already activated?" "Doubtful. You know as well as I that They never do anything but that it serves Their own purpose. They need to know that the microphones will work under "battlefield" conditions. If Skinner is aware that the mic's are on, it might affect the validity of the test. Still, knowing Walter, he probably suspects something." She nodded. The A.D. could handle himself well, under most conditions. "Speaking of Skinner, I got an interesting call this afternoon." "Oh?" "His secretary, Kimberly? Offering information and assistance." "Really? How did she know to contact you?" "Shot in the dark?" He scowled, so she gave a more serious answer. "She knows that *we* would understand the value and use of this information." "And just what is it that she's peddling?" "Skinner has been charged with setting up a video feed." "Kinky. Why tell you?" "She wants to give us the feed from the cabin while Skinner's there." "And we'd want this... why?" "Leverage, I suppose." "We don't need leverage on Skinner. He's playing right into our hands as it is." He paused, deep in thought. "What's in it for her?" "Revenge." "Hell hath no fury..." "Don't you ever forget it." For once, he had no retort, and his smile dimmed. *************************** 6 Mile Road, South of Hawley PA Lake Wallenpaupack, Pike County, Pennsylvania *************************** Paige was the first one to see the wrapped package awaiting them on the small table in the living room area of the cabin. She put forward a rather sober mien as an attorney at justice, but had given glimpses of a much more unrestrained side to herself with Skinner, after their first meeting. It's what had captivated him about her. As he'd gotten to know her, he enjoyed this wild side more and more. She liked the outdoors, was adventuresome, intelligent, full of energy, funny. Hell, there were so many things that he liked about her, that he'd left out 'beautiful,' even though she was, he thought, most certainly that. For the first time since Sharon, Skinner found himself enraptured. Well, maybe not the first time since Sharon, but *that* was nothing he could ever admit, especially if it had the slightest chance of getting back to his two prized agents. Mulder and Scully. The thought of them brought him back to his reason for being here in the first place. And it sickened him. The last thing they deserved was to have a spectacle, a mockery made of their... their whateverthehell it was they have with each other. "Walter, look!" Normally, Skinner hated his given name. Since he'd joined the Corps in his late teens, he'd only had to use his given name in private, at that only with Sharon. That wasn't too bad. Now, however, with Paige, he was finding positive enjoyment in the damned name. The way she'd growl into his ear in some public venue that, if he didn't take her somewhere private and fast, she was just going to genuflect before the Walter Altar right there and give homage. Dear God, could she give homage. He'd nearly lost a filling the last time, from gritting his teeth so hard. Shit. He'd forgotten to reschedule that dentist appointment. "Walter?" All of a sudden, she was right in front of him, brushing her slender fingers over the soft nap of his flannel shirt, across his chest, right over, right there, Jesus, how did she know? He took hold of her hand and kissed it. Stopping her was the last thing he wanted to do but, until he knew the status of all the surveillance equipment, he couldn't let things go where they both wanted them to go. He couldn't do that to her. "Wait," he said, chuckling over her enthusiasm. It amazed him that she was always so full of life. The drive had been utter hell. 'Highway all the way, Walter," Kersh had said. Bullshit. From the Beltway to the Northeast Extension of the Pennsylvania Turnpike, it had been one long traffic jam. Skinner vowed to stuff his given name straight down Kersh' throat after this was all over. "Let me bring all of the stuff in and let's get settled. I could use a drink." Paige lit up at his suggestion, but remembered that they'd decided to buy groceries and liquor when they got up to the cabin, a decent exchange for beating the traffic. If the traffic hadn't beaten them first. Skinner swore violently, under his breath. Paige kissed him, swallowing his frustration, and hers, for the moment. "You unload the Rover, and I'll go back into to town to get essentials." One more kiss and the bargain had been sealed. Skinner had unloaded her SUV in under five minutes. As she'd backed out of the pine needle floor of the drive, he shouted to her to remember to pick up food, as well as drink. "Food!" he barked, when she feigned difficulty hearing him. Skinner broke into a grin in spite of himself, waving until she'd disappeared down the road. He was determined that this was the last errand he would ever do for Them, Krycek's damn nanites be damned. But, now, right now, he'd no choice. He had about twenty minutes to locate all of the listening devices and make sure either that they were off, or could be circumvented. He pulled out a small electronic gizmo the size of a car alarm key chain, grateful to John Byers for his discretion and his trust which, Skinner knew, he had only barely earned. Mulder's three friends were paranoid, no question, but Skinner knew well enough that there was ample reason for it. He wasn't too sure of the other two, but he respected Byers. With one push of the button, the directional signal finder started beeping and wouldn't stop, no matter in which direction he pointed it. Skinner let out a long, frustrated breath, and got down to work. When Paige returned home some thirty minutes later, Skinner was shirtless and sweating, flat on his back, with his head inside the cabinet under the bedroom sink. Whoever had planted these devices was making doubly sure that some would survive even a trained inspection. But for Byers' detector, Skinner wouldn't have located at least seven of the bugs out of the fourteen he'd found so far. It had been an unexpectedly grueling effort, and Skinner was looking forward to one of her patented "whisper of vermouth" martinis. He heard he call out from the front room, and yelled back that he was upstairs in the bedroom loft area. He realized only belatedly that he might have given Paige the wrong sort of idea in saying that. Half a minute later, he found out just how wrong. Paige took in the situation in the master bath in at a glance. Why he was on his back on the floor peering up at the plumbing was much less important than the mere fact that he was flat on his back. Curiosity was getting the better of her, however. "Walter? What are you doing?" She could only see him from that square chin down. "Checking the plumbing." She saw his jaw tighten as he said it. "You forget something, plumber man?" Paige knelt beside him, picking a pair of latex gloves off the cabinet floor right beside him, dragging them across his chest. Skinner stopped whatever it was he'd been doing. Busted, Paige thought, and you know it. "Truth, Walter." "Is there another option?" In another circumstance, the lawyer in her would have driven Paige to root out the reason for his evasiveness. At this moment, however, the proximity of his bare, glistening chest was just diverting enough to spare him that grilling. "Dare!" Paige laughed. "The traditional choice, Walter. Truth or Dare." Skinner groaned. How could he tell her the truth without alerting the Consortium to his investigations? "I can't explain..." he began. "Dare it is then!" She pounced on the opportunity, right on top of Skinner. Hiking up her skirt, she eased herself down right over the rough denim fly of his jeans, slid around a bit until she was comfortable, and then squeezed and rocked gently over him. "I dare you not to respond." Her voice wavered slightly, melting into a throaty moan. Skinner's hips jerked up involuntarily. In reaction, his head jerked up, narrowly missing the u-shaped drainpipe, but catching the corner of the cabinet door. More out of surprise than pain, Skinner growled "Damnit, Paige! Couldn't you have waited until I'd gotten out from under the sink?" "No, I couldn't, Walter. You, shirtless, on your back, in jeans? No fucking way can I wait. I can't wait *now* Walter. Pleeeease." Skinner rubbed his head, as Paige did pretty much the same thing. Her breathing began to come in gulps. Skinner was amazed by the way passion could come over her like a summer storm, gathering darkly, quickly, bursting with violence and then trickling away in shuddering gusts. He ducked, unnecessarily, and sat up, nearly knocking her onto her back. Skinner's knees shot up to prevent her from tumbling fully over. "What? No, Walter, please! We can change positions in a second or two, just...not...NOW!" He didn't know what to do, but he had to do something to keep this woman whom he was growing so fond of from making a fool of herself before that quietly leering smoking bastard. Skinner pulled her toward him and kissed her for all he was worth. "Apology accepted, I think." Paige said. "That is if we can move this someplace more comfortable, pronto." Skinner kept hold of her by the waist, nipped at her again, and asked whether she'd bought gin. "I bought out the whole damned Liquor Control Board, Walter, but *that* can wait for later, can't it?" Paige's long, chestnut hair had fallen over her eyes, shading him from their desperate gleam. Skinner hauled her up in his arms and said, "No, it can't wait. I want to do this right." He was also desperate to buy time in order to figure out how to turn the listening devices off, at least temporarily. "I believe there are some presents waiting to be unwrapped downstairs? I'll fix the martinis, you open the presents and then...." Skinner actually had no idea what would happen then. He knew only that he would have to think of something fast or else their fledgling private life was going to be very public knowledge. Skinner breathed deeply, willing his body to relax, as he followed her down the stairs. As he cracked ice and poured it into a shaker, she retrieved both wrapped gifts. "This was so sweet of you, Walter," she purred, caressing the largest of the two. Skinner did not actually know what was in the box, he realized. His anxiety dissolved when she shrieked with glee after ripping the silvery paper off in a single arcing motion. "Oh, Walter," Paige whispered, unfurling the gift in front of her. "It's beautiful." It, as best as Skinner could tell, was a silky thing, not quite enough there to be a nightgown, but not so brief as to be a teddy. He didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved. A teddy might have been too much to ask of her at this point in their courtship. It was a dark, deep midnight blue. Skinner could see the highlights of blue shimmering in the glow of the gas fireplace. Paige disappeared for a moment, leaving Skinner staring into the remote controlled blaze. Leave it to Kersh and those other bastards to provide such a chintzy fireplace in a mountain cabin. She returned in a moment, wearing her gift. They had, indeed, estimated her size nearly perfectly. For which, Skinner was receiving the benefit: a rain of light kisses. He held her at arm's length, admiration shining plainly from his honest eyes. But, as his gaze swept the length of her body, he remembered the Smoking bastard's smile and realized the extent of the man's cruelty. There was no way to turn the listening devices off, Skinner realized. The Smoking Man had known this beforehand. Just as he'd known that Skinner would be unable to resist Ms. Caldwell's charms in a negligee that the Consortium had so thoughtfully provided. He had been set up to have his sex life observed and recorded by those motherfucking hoodlums. Moreover, they'd set up an innocent, Paige, to take the fall with him. Skinner's rage was boundless, threatening to engulf them both, if he couldn't find a constructive outlet for it. "Now, let's open your gift, Walter." "Mine?" Skinner said. "Yes. There was a box here for you. The card says it's from an Assistant Director Kersh? It reads, 'the kingdom of heaven, Walter. I tried to estimate the right size. I'm guessing you're almost my size. Hope it works out. Have fun. -AK " Skinner could hear the damned man's obsequious sneer. Paige was tearing into the paper for him, before he could even move. Her squeal of delighted laughter made him look up. She held out something furry. What in the hell? Skinner thought. He made out an elastic waistband, but still had no idea what it was, even when Paige gave it to him to inspect. "It's a thong, Walter. A mink thong, by the feel of it. Remind me to thank this A.D. Kersh when I get to meet him." If Skinner had his way, that would be at Kersh' wake. "C'mon, big man," Paige cooed, leaning over to where he sat, his fists clenched. One slender, rose tipped breast fell tantalizingly close to his lips as she kissed his head, at the same time unbuttoning his jeans and tugging at his fly. "Let's go try this bad boy on for size!" Skinner had had enough. He stood, throwing Paige over his shoulder as he did. "Not in here," he growled. Paige was howling with laughter, trying to find purchase somewhere on him to steady herself. Her bare foot came to rest on his cock, which, as it had engorged, had pushed the jeans zipper down all the way so that it jutted straight out from his hips, nearly scarlet with excitement. "Walter!" she cried, but her laughter was dissolving into something perfumed, humid, thick. "Outside, under the sky, as God intended." Skinner's burly, commanding voice went straight to her center, which was quickly becoming molten. Her foot rubbed the iron hard length of him as he burst sidelong through the front door into the unobserved wilderness. ************************** Apartment 4-B, 1871 N. 18th Street, Adams/Morgan neighborhood, Washington D.C. ************************** "What size shoe do you think she wears?" "Oh, I don't know. A seven?" "Looks more like a nine, nine and a half to me." "Ooof. Let's just hope he's the conventional type." "Who, Skinner? They don't come much more conservative." "I didn't say conservative. I said conventional, as in the opposite of unconventional. As in the opposite of kinky." "Oh. Ooooooh. Ouch." "Yeah. Really ouch. Wait, wait, wait. They're coming back." "Holy Christ!" "Language, Sailor mouth." "Sssssh. Look at Skinner's shirt. It looks like it's been clawed by a bear." "He doesn't look so unhappy about being mauled though, does he? Oh, and here comes the 'bear' now, smilin' and smokin like a chimney! Is she walking funny?" "Maybe a little, but so would you if..." "Don't even say it. Don't even *think* it." "Hey!" "What?" "Did you notice what happened to the video feed when they went inside the cabin?" "No, it's too dark to see anything." "That's just it. It's dark." "Yeah, so?" "No infrared feed on the video." "Ah! I see where you're going with this." "Yeah, just so They don't." "I know something They'll *never* see." "What?" "Come here." ************************** The hallway outside the Office of Assistant Director Walter Skinner ************************** "Agent Mulder, I was just coming down to see you." "Oh. Well, I'm glad I could save you the trip, Sir." Skinner couldn't explain it, but Mulder looked remarkably at ease. He was shambling down the corridor, hands in his suit coat pockets. Skinner wondered for a moment whether all the planning around the Pool had been for nought. But, no, that couldn't be. They would already know. Christ, They had the entire fucking Bureau wired. If Mulder and Scully so much as entered a closet together, they would get it on tape. Still, there was something unsettlingly carefree about Mulder. "You seem to be in a good mood today, Mulder?" "Oh, I guess that depends, Sir, on whether excess nervous energy equals a good mood. I'm kind of anxious. Y'know. About the, uh..." "Ah. You hide it well." "All a facade, Sir. All a facade." "Well, keep it up, Agent. You don't want to blow this opportunity." Mulder simply stared blankly at Skinner. Skinner wondered whether Mulder could actually be as nervous as he maintained. He shook himself out of his reverie and did the last of the dirty deeds he ever intended to do for the Consortium. "Oh, here you go, Agent," Skinner said, fishing the key chain out of his right front pocket. "Everything is set up for you." Skinner coughed at this. "You have the directions." Mulder nodded. "It's okay by me if you want to cut out early tomorrow, to beat the traffic. We did that." Again, Mulder nodded dumbly. In that instant, as he watched the keys dangle from his right hand and the lie dangle from his lips, Walter Skinner had a pang of conscience. These were his best agents, and he was playing a crucial role in setting them up to be exploited. He took one last weak stab at an honorable "out." "Agent..." Skinner began, but skittered to a halt, as Kersh came onto the hall. Skinner leaned in close as he dropped the keys into Mulder's hands. "Just be as discreet as you can Mulder." "Discreet, Sir. Right." Mulder parroted, not showing any true recognition of what Skinner was trying to tell him. Skinner stared at him meaningfully and then turned and walked back into his office. As Kersh went by, he grinned smugly at the keys in Mulder's hand. When Kersh had slithered past, Mulder sneered. ********************** I-95 North (the New Jersey Turnpike) Near exit 8, Hightstown/Freehold ********************** "So, what are you going to tell Them?" Both occupants were sheathed in black leather, as sleek as the new black Boxter he drove. "The truth." He edged the Porsche into high gear. "What? Alex, you can't do that. They..." "Won't need to know. They'll get Mulder and Scully in the cabin. That's all they wanted. That's what we're giving them." Krycek's voice was a calm antidote to Marita's increasingly shrill voice. "They want you to ensure that the...the... the deed actually happens. How are you going to do that?" "Oh, I think those two want to do it. They've been waiting a long time to jump each other. They're smart enough to follow the trail I've left. It will lead them right where they want to go." Marita swiveled her head to peer out the window as the increasingly congested landscape appeared to speed past in a blur. "Alright. Let's say that you're right, and they do take the bait." "I don't know how he does it, but Mulder always does seem to rise to the occasion," Krycek drawled. This seemed to get a rise out of Marita, and Krycek grinned. Marita moved past it with as much dignity as she could muster. "They are going to find out about your special "arrangement." "No doubt. Kersh is probably spilling the beans as we speak." Krycek's grip on the wheel neither tightened nor loosened as he glided away from the cars only lanes, and began weaving smoothly in and out of the semi's in the outer two lanes just past Exit 8A. "And?" Krycek wondered how her voice could rise that high in that short of a span. He wondered, not for the first time, whether all of the black oil had been flushed from her system. "And nothing. The extra arrangements don't concern them. They're interest is in the Pool at large, not in whatever side bets the locals care to make," Krycek said, adding, under his breath, "even if that's where the really big money is." "You never did tell me how you managed to set up this 'special arrangement,' Alex." Krycek's eyes never left the road, downshifting and then gunning the Boxter as it sped past New Brunswick, toward the City. "Let's just say I had some assistance from Agent Poole," he said, grinning. ************************ Westin Plaza Hotel banquet room #3 Glen Echo, Maryland ************************ The ballroom was filling rapidly, Skinner noted with disgust. Colton had been here two minutes and had already hit on Abra Elliott, a section chief, Skinner knew, from the Bureau's International Liaison. He racked his brain trying to remember which section she led. By the time he came up with Asian Pacific Rim, she'd made Colton disappear, just like that, with a short, sharp gesture. Rebuffed, Colton maneuvered toward shallower waters. Skinner imagined a fin breaking through the air above him as he prowled. A sign-in table led to a bank of computer terminals, provided so that guests could check the status of their electronically debited bets, and change those which, for the time being, remained open. There was, in the center of the floor, a knot of agents from Violent Crimes, many of whom Skinner recognized. Most prominent among them in Skinner's eyes was an ex-Marine. Skinner could always pick one Marine out of a crowd of hundreds. Indeed, that's exactly what he was doing tonight. Doggett, Skinner remembered. NYPD for years. Before that, had seen action in Lebanon in the eighties. First name? C'mon Walter, first name? Shit. He left that for the moment. Skinner wondered whether the comely brunette on his arm was a spouse. When they turned toward the bar, Skinner was surprised to recognize the brunette as an agent from the Behavioral Sciences Unit. Meridith. No, Merilee. John! Christ, that was it, John Doggett. Funny how that happens, Skinner thought. You redirect your mind away from the problem for a moment and... What was *her* name? It was unusual, pretty, he remembered, kind of like the Agent herself. She was certainly making a science of Agent Doggett's behavior, Skinner noticed. They disappeared into the crowd around the bar. Above a lavish spread of crudites and fruit, there was a large hand- lettered sign announcing the side bets, or over/unders, as they were called. Skinner was drawn to the board, even as he was repulsed by it. This whole gathering was a disgrace to the Bureau, to him and to his agents. Threats from Kersh notwithstanding, Skinner turned to leave. In the process, he nearly bowled over the new Director. "Leaving so soon, Assistant Director?" the new man drawled. He wasn't from Texas, but all the administration seemed to be adopting a twang just to fit in. The Director had a habit of addressing groups of people as "folks," an affectation that Skinner found particularly annoying. Putting his arm around Skinner's broad shoulders the Director guided him over to one of the computers on a long table by the wall. "You know these two Agents, don't you Walt?" Skinner bristled, stiffened, but remained silent. "So, what do you think of some of these over/unders?" "Sir, I..." Skinner began, but was interrupted as if he'd never spoken. "Walt, we're going to win this thing, you and I, aren't we? Weeeelllll, there y'go!" the Director said, slapping his thigh, as Skinner bowed his head in defeat. "What do you think of this one? Man, this seems awful high. Number of times she comes during their first session," said the Director in a matter of fact tone he might have used to read a financial spreadsheet. "Six? Now, I hear she's a spitfire, Walt. But, hell," pronounced like 'hail,' "nobody comes that many times without dyin' the big death. Am I right? Am I right? But, the oddsmaker must know something, or he wouldn't have set it so high. I'll take under and be happy with it. Whaddya think, Walt?" Skinner smiled weakly. "Exactly! You want some of this action, Walt?" Skinner paled, then shook his head. "Your loss, m'boy!" That was another thing. "M'boy." Like he was Jock Ewing or Ben Cartwright. Aides finally descended like a protective cloak around the Director, freeing Skinner. It was then that he saw it. Amid all the audio equipment, wired and ready, was a projection screen t.v., as large as a small movie screen. And it was powered on. Skinner had to sit, as the implication hit home. He didn't even notice the plate of ginger/teriyaki shrimp sitting on the seat of the chair in which he plopped down. "The bastards!" he hissed under his breath. "The motherfucking bastards." He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. No answer. He tried another number, and again no answer. He swore violently this time, causing those around him to stare for a moment, and then give him a wide berth. At a loss, and in horror of the show that was soon to begin, Skinner dialed a third number, which was soon to become number 1 on his speed dial. "Paige? It's Walter. Do you remember that function I told you I had to attend tonight? Fuck it. Let's do something, just the two of us. I can be to you in forty minutes. No, look. Paige, you don't have to do that. Alright. Fifteen minutes, downstairs in the hotel lobby? I'll see you there." An unearthly quiet, fitting considering the department being focused on, descended upon the room. Skinner turned to see the wide screen showing a view up Six Mile Road, on Lake Wallenpaupack. A Bureau issue Taurus pulled up the driveway to the cabin. From somewhere back in the back of the room, a man yelled out "Yes!" Apparently, there were side bets to the side bets, and some sucker had taken the bet on the type of car they'd drive up in. This was utter madness. Skinner surveyed the aroused rabble, and then stared back up at the screen. Mulder had just gotten out of the car, and was walking around to the passenger door to hold it open for Scully. He heard some female voices in the room say "Awww." As Scully got out of the car, they both looked up at the cabin, a camera hidden in the porch rail catching them from below. "It's not much to look at from the outside, I know." Mulder's baritone, clear as day. Shit, Skinner realized. The audio feed was excellent. "That's okay Mulder. It's better than the motels we've stayed in on the road," Scully said, without inflection. "Let's get this team building show on the road, then, shall we?" Business like. Even icy? Many faces around the room sank. Skinner wondered for an instant whether everyone's hopes were going to be dashed tonight, including Mulder's. He was gripped by the impulse to stay and watch the drama unfold. Skinner followed the communal gaze back to the "action" on screen. Scully was waiting demurely for Mulder to unload the luggage. He came around with only one bag in his hand, and Scully looked at him curiously. "Where's your bag, Mulder?" "I'll get it later." He gestured toward the door. "After you?" Mulder's right hand came to rest on the small of her back. Scully looked up and him and, suddenly, burst into a radiant smile, which Mulder returned. A collective sigh of relief rippled around the third banquet room of the Westin Plaza. As they entered the cabin, the screen suddenly split into multiple images: living room, kitchen, bath, master suite. At the cost of reduced picture size, They had covered all the possible viewing bases. Mulder asked Scully whether she'd like to freshen up. Skinner was amused that he actually used the phrase "freshen up." She nodded, demurely, but with a pretty smile still in place. My God, Skinner thought, she looks like a blushing bride on her wedding night. This was too much. Yet, he seemed rooted to the spot. In one quarter of the screen, Mulder came bounding down the stairs, heading outside to get the rest of the luggage. In another quarter, Scully splashed some water in her face, and went to unpack. Mulder reentered the cabin, dropping a small gym bag beside the door, exiting and returning with a large camping cooler that he set down on the coffee table. With a glance up the stairs to make sure Scully wasn't going to return, he opened the lid and set to work. Champagne. Skinner's chin dropped as small, scattered pockets cheered Mulder on. A beautiful arrangement of cut flowers and a vase. Mulder disappeared from one screen, reappearing in the kitchen's corner, filling the vase with water and meticulously arranging the flowers. The voyeurism aspect of this whole escapade hit Skinner full force in the gut. Mulder returned to the living room and placed the flowers on a plant stand by the stairs. From the cooler, he extracted small objects that it took Skinner and everyone else in the room a few moments to identify: pillar candles. A half dozen of them. He placed three of them around the living room, took one to the kitchen, and left two on the stairs. Finally, he removed a large, flat box from the cooler, removing the cooler from the table and setting the box down in its place. There were uneasy titters from around the room, as people recognized it for what Skinner had not, yet. A pizza box. With another glance up the stairs, Mulder lit all of the downstairs candles and turned off the lights. Skinner was relieved to see that Mulder was barely visible in the reduced light. Upstairs, with only two candles, it would be even dimmer. In the top left corner of the screen, Scully had disappeared from view in the bedroom. Few noticed this at first, but the reaction soon snowballed. Scully turned a corner, coming back into range of the camera facing the bed. On the pair of dark colored sweatpants that now adorned her, she was tying the drawstring so that they fit snugly around her hips. Just then the bed-cam clicked off, to be replaced by the closet-cam, the area she'd just vacated. This time, the room erupted in hoots and catcalls, although Skinner doubted that the camera controller was even in the hotel. A minute later, the camera snafu was moot, as Scully came downstairs to where Mulder waited. Nevertheless, Skinner was sure, heads would roll for that little gaffe. He just wasn't sure whose. "There's only one bed upstairs, Mulder." Scully said, a hint of smile on her full lips. "Oh, you know me, Scully. I prefer the couch." Mulder replied. He was facing away from the camera, but Skinner and everyone else in the room could hear the twinkle in his voice. Scully looked around and took in the candles and the flowers. Mulder uncorked the champagne, which popped and fizzed, looking more phallic than ever before to Skinner's eyes. Scully's eyebrow arched in a familiar gesture. "Is this your idea of a team building seminar, Mulder?" "This is how all seminars should be run, Scully." "I'll be sure to inform Skinner." Counting himself too informed for comfort, Skinner felt the eyes of the room on him. Mulder poured the champagne into two flutes, handing the first one to Scully, before pouring his own. Mulder raised his glass, touching it rim on rim to Scully's. "Here's to team building. No, wait. That would involve stacking all this furniture. Make that, here's to partnership building." Scully's smile flattened out for the first time since entering the cabin. Mulder recovered gracefully. "Okay, then. Here's to relationship building." Scully smiled more brightly again, they clinked glasses, and sipped the champagne, which shone in the candlelight like molten amber. "Mulder, we haven't eaten yet, and you're uncorking champagne?" "Oh, I've got that covered, I think." Mulder picked up the pizza box and opened it, facing it toward Scully and away from the eye of the living room camera. "Oh," Scully gasped. "Oh, Mulder!" "Like it?" Mulder replied. It was obvious that, whatever was in the box, it wasn't cheesy. Suddenly, the two agents being televised seemed to forget their hunger for food. They took another sip of champagne and, as he lowered the pizza box, Mulder leaned over to kiss his partner. It was a long and deep, searching kiss, the sound of which reverberated throughout the banquet hall. Skinner surveyed the room and noticed that every person's gaze was held rapt, but that this kiss was having unintended consequences, so many hundreds of miles away from the cabin. Passions here were beginning to stir. Skinner noted with satisfaction that Abra had recovered nicely from her earlier close encounter of the turd kind with Colton. She'd sought and found solace in the arms of the new A.D., Folmer, the one who looked like that guy in the kids' movie with Andre the Giant. The Bride Princess? What the hell was his problem with names this evening, anyway? At any rate, she and Folmer were engaged in a reverberant kiss of their own, one of surprising vehemence and passion. The action on screen was having a remarkable effect on everyone in the hall. When the kiss ended, they stayed in each other's arms, smiling in acknowledgment of a deep connection uncovered. "Long may it last," Skinner wished them both silently. Then he caught sight of Colton. In the midst of chaos, Colton stood alone, in the middle of the banquet hall, staring at the devastating evidence on the large television screen. There, in an image nearly life size, Dana Scully gave lie to everything he'd claimed over the years. Colton's jaw seemed to have come unhinged, hanging from his cheeks like a rusty gate on its last cotter pin. Skinner didn't know whether to laugh or feel sorry for the poor bastard. He opted for a shit-eating half smile. An announcement over the loudspeaker system shattered the quiet. A woman's voice, smooth as silk and cold as a snake, announced that all betting would close in fifteen minutes. The announcer, whom Skinner tried desperately to place, adjured the room to have their credit cards and Bureau I.D. numbers ready. A minor stampede occurred then, as people leapt to place bets, or change prior wagers, based on what they'd witnessed to this point. The smell of greed and pheremones hung heavily in the tepid air of the hall. One final survey of the room provided Skinner with as much confirmation of the moral chaos as he required. Bile rose in his throat as he turned on one polished heel. On his way out, the sight of a woman's face brought him up short. The Agent from BSU, Merilee, no, no, Meridy. That was it! She was sitting on someone's lap, facing the screen, but, since the head of that someone was buried in the crook of her neck and shoulders Skinner couldn't tell precisely whose lap she was on. From the spike of the military style hair cut, he presumed that it was Agent Doggett. In the background, he heard Scully's voice floating, disembodied, sultry. "Come upstairs." Skinner cringed. He could have stopped this. As Doggett moved his open mouth slowly up the tendon on the side of her neck, seeming to inhale her as he went, her head lolled back and to the side, baring more alabaster skin to his voracious hunger. Skinner's attention was drawn, incongruously, to two silver rings piercing the top of her ear. This was not regulation he knew, but unlikely to be discovered unless someone had need to brush her hair up and away from her sensitive ear and neck. A hum of pleasure from the dark haired agent's throat snapped Skinner's attention back from the focal point of her neck. She'd begun moving just a little bit on Doggett's lap, running a slender hand along the inside of his thigh. Doggett worked his way up to her earlobe, sucked it between his lips and tugged gently with his teeth. Meridy's eyes opened, a smile blossoming across her face. Her eyes, Skinner noted, were lit with a warm glaze, her stare unfocused, staring at the pleasures building within, and not at anything or anyone without. Her chest began to rise and fall more quickly, more unevenly than before. A gasp, a large exhalation of the word "oh," blew from her lips. "Get a room," Skinner snarled under his breath. Doggett looked up, surprised, and then grinned. He lifted Meridy into his arms in one fluid motion as he stood. "We might just do that, Sir. Thanks for the suggestion." Doggett scanned the room with a practiced eye and headed for the nearest exit, the flush-faced young profiler putty in his arms. Skinner stared after them, then turned toward the hallway and the elevator to the lobby. *************************** 6 Mile Road, South of Hawley PA Lake Wallenpaupack, Pike County, Pennsylvania *************************** "Come upstairs," Scully said, softly, holding out one small hand to him. Placing the box on the table between them, Mulder took her hand and skirted around the table until he was beside her. As he drew to his full height, Scully could see the candlelight dancing in his dark eyes. A smile caused furrows in his cheeks. Scully laughed lightly at the thought of Mulder with dimples. As if he wasn't attractive enough. She reached for one of the two candles on the stairs, lighting it from one on the nearby table. Mulder followed suit, and paced off the small living area, blowing out the candles there. The room darkened, except for the light gleaming on their faces, going almost black as they turned to go up the stairs. Mulder went into the bathroom, to freshen himself up, leaving the fragile light of his candle flickering just under the medicine cabinet mirror. As he entered the bedroom, Scully was not immediately to be seen. Candlelight flickered out of the closet to his right, however. He moved in to investigate, and was struck dumb. Scully had stowed her candle on the shelf within the closet. What light that managed to escape into the room was intermittent and diffuse. In the doorway where she stood, however, the gilt light bathed her, loved her, suffusing her body with an ethereal warmth. Mulder stood gaping, watching as she stepped lightly out of her sweats, pulling the shirt over her head, breasts and hair lifted and released in turn, falling gently, neatly plumb. The sight of her, here, he knew would be with him for the rest of his life. She combed her fingers back through amber and russet waves, letting her head loll back with the motion, eyes closing, taking and releasing a deep, slow breath. In the stillness of the room, she became aware of the ruffle of the flickering flame, and of a less tangible, extraordinary force, almost gravity, acting upon her bared skin. She opened her eyes, turning her head languidly, pulled along into his voracious gaze. "Mulder," she whispered, as if it were the fulfillment of her fondest wish that he should have suddenly appeared. Nooks and crannies of their bodies came alive as they moved to one another, in the play of light and shadow. His full bottom lip, the object of her earliest fantasies about him, caught her eye, rising out of his five o'clock shadow, pulling his mouth open in silent beckon. Her fantasy arose as it always did: tasting that lip, sucking it in between her own, soft delicious Mulderflesh, feasting on it, making love to it without resistance or hesitation. The thought brought moist heat to her core, a frisson that made her shiver and bend slightly to its will as it hit. Mulder's gaze swept over and over her, coming finally to rest down where shadows began to give way to light, the smooth burnished arc of her thighs, moving upward where rolling hill gave ground to valley, and light gave way again to a crescent of purple shadow at the base of her stomach. Wisps of her curls caught the faint firelight, a golden red aurora keeping its watch in the heavens. As his traversed the splendored terrain of her, his body rose in response. As he moved toward her with exquisite ease, Scully watched, transfixed, as Mulder's body was revealed to the candle's light, out of the eclipsing shadow of the closet door. His chest first, with its light matte of hair, then the darker trail running down from his belly, down to where, oh God, at the sight of her, at the mere thought of her, his cock had become rampant, coursing, throbbing, hers, now, for the taking. Nothing she hadn't seen before, she tried reminding herself, immediately dismissing the ridiculous thought with a chuckle. No man she'd been with before had affected her this way. This was different, too, from times in their career when she'd seen him naked. He was transformed. He was hers. Through the many years of their lives together, the immediacy of the feeling would never leave her. In their coming together, in basest physical congress, they achieved completion, no longer broken, searching souls, but one whole. The pool of shadow at the hollow of her throat fascinated him, its depths threatening to overflow the rim, spilling over onto the delicate vessels of her breasts, almost but never quite. He tried to focus his concentration on the slender threads curving around her neck, coming together in the darkened hollow, a flash of candle lightning revealing the cross he knew on faith to rest there. His faith rested alone in Scully. Scully found it almost beyond rational comprehension that she could have such effect on this particular, glorious man. In a less primitive part of her brain, one she could never fully deactivate, the scientist demanded proof of his desire for her, of his passion, his unconditional surrender. Searching, she found that proof, all the proof she would ever require, in his eyes. Heavy lidded, alight with awe of her and this splendid moment, and clearly, honestly irrevocably given to her soul. Her eyes, those serene, searching, clear blue eyes, were marvelous to behold. But what staggered him was the capacity of those eyes to seek out and to reach his innermost being, especially when it seemed blocked from even his own mind. And now, cleaved to him only, her eyes danced with incandescent fire. He was at her side before he was conscious of moving. Scully felt his body first on the downward slope of her belly, and then, with ever intensifying charge, his fingertips on her shoulders, on her ribs, brushing against the sensitive flesh on the heavy curve of her breast, and, finally, his lips on hers, his tongue. His scent mingled with the scent of her own arousal, flooding her brain. The taste of rich dark chocolate exploded in her mouth as his tongue entered her. All the while, his eyes held hers with a promise never to let go. From the first touch, he'd known. He would never be sated in his hunger for Scully. Exploring the lushness of her lips, the silk of the inside of her cheeks, the desperation he felt when apart from her eased. He relaxed into her body as the frenzy of the kiss began to subside. As they parted, her eyelids fluttered shut, the soft radiance of her smile illuminating the dark corners of his being. Mulder freed himself to glory in her smile, revel in it, let it lift him, fill him until he fairly burst. He took his tiny partner in his large hands, lifting her and twirling them around, as his rare laughter burst upon the room. ************************ Westin Plaza Hotel banquet room #3 Glen Echo, Maryland ************************ The split screen images had shifted several times over the past ten minutes, outdoor, living and kitchen areas dissolving into bathroom, bedroom and closet. The collective groan that had arisen upon Mulder's decision to illuminate the downstairs only with candlelight was silenced by some skilful manipulation of the picture contrast. Yet, now, with the light of only two candles in the upstairs suite, heightened contrast was proving only a moderate success, and the unease was turning ugly. When Scully placed her candle on the shelf almost directly in front of the hidden camera, a riot nearly ensued. Deft counteraction came within seconds, immediately quieting and slowly relaxing the anxious throng. A cool feminine voice over the public address system announced that, in order to compensate for the unexpected low light conditions, the sound would be enhanced. She adjured and received the full cooperation of the assemblage in this endeavor. Scully's whispered "Mulder" had theater-like resonance, and the sounds of their embrace were enormously magnified. When Mulder laughed, the room vibrated. Sound was quickly readjusted as the couple on the screen spun onto the bed. The screen dissolved into a final, single view of the bed. The indirect light of the candles from the bathroom and the closet, although far from ideal, did managed to cast a faint glow outlining the agents' bodies as they moved to situate themselves. As Mulder kissed his way down Scully's body, her back arched, a delighted giggle rising with it. The volume now properly tempered, the hushed room leaned forward to hear the giggle melt into a moan, as Mulder's head hovered over her center, her arms reaching out to press him home. At the bottom of the screen, outlined in red, a "crawl" reminded the audience of the various over/under bets. At the top of the screen, scoreboard style, a blue tally box appeared with two sections, one marked "His," the other "Hers." At that instant, the score stood tied at Zero, with Mulder on the mound, and Scully warming up. On screen, in a Platonic metaphor Mulder would have admired, the shadows on the cabin wall told as much of the true nature of the coupling agents as the crowd at the hotel was likely to perceive. Even with enhanced sonics, the scene was quiet, save for Scully's ragged breathing, and the occasional rustle of limbs scrambling for purchase on the comforter. Eyes strained to do what electronics could not, separate form from shadow amidst the gloom. In the flickering light, shadows leap and arched, making a positive i.d. on which was what and what was whom nearly impossible. Yet, a groundswell of consensus did form on which undulating shadow was actually Scully and which bobbing mass was Mulder's shaggy head. In the end, it barely mattered. Her breathing accelerated, punctuated by little "uh's" of exertion, a pedal-point baritone drone becoming audible as Mulder's "mmmm" of approval. In short order, a slender shadow no one had previously discerned to be Scully arched high off of the bed, the curve of Scully's abdomen and the indentation of her navel suddenly revealed to the light, dark forms leaping up the wall behind her. A strangled cry, as differing forms of tension built and gripped Scully and unseen audience, culminating in a whooshed "ooh," as she found her release, and a standing ovation in Glen Echo, as her audience found theirs. As Scully recovered, Mulder rubbed his tender jaw, the applause died to a smattering, and the scoreboard counter next to "Hers" changed from "0" to "1". *************************** 6 Mile Road, South of Hawley PA Lake Wallenpaupack, Pike County, Pennsylvania *************************** Even in the candlelight, the fair skin of Scully's chest plainly bore the flush of her orgasm. Her smile was a melange of relief and disbelief, wonder and pure joy. Mulder rose to drink in the lovely vista of his sated partner, unaware of the shadow he cast on the wall and of the effect it was having several hundred miles away. In a hotel banquet room, several women fainted dead away at the sight of the size of the shadow of Mulder's erect penis. Two more had swooned but maintained consciousness, and still two more, both agents of Mulder's acquaintance, huddled against the back wall with stricken looks on their faces. One crossed herself, muttering "Mater Dei" and thanking God for saving her from the fate of death by impalement, had she actually convinced him to go home from that bar with her a week earlier. Color drained from her companion's normally rosy cheeks as she realized the fate she'd helped bring upon a new friend, whispering "God Speed" to the mortal soul of Dana Katherine Scully. Much closer to the action, Scully, fully recovered now, took in the real Mulder with a glance, sat up and grinned, pushing him backwards onto his ass on the floor. Her eyes gleamed with anticipation. "Lie back, now, Mulder, and hand over the keys. I want to drive for a while." Scully leaned over and ran the flat of her tongue up along the underside of his cock, paying especially raspy attention to the sensitive area right under the head, then rising to lick away the jewel-like droplet that had appeared as a result. "I may not be able to take this whole thing in at once, but I will certainly be able to reach the accelerator pedal." And, with that, she took him in her mouth. Mulder swooned, groaning her name. What of Mulder Scully could not consume, she wrapped her tiny, skilful fist around, following her mouth in its slow, glistening trail. His scent was that of the woods around her childhood home after a rainstorm, his taste the salt of laughter through tears. She looked up over the dark thatch of his hair to catch his enraptured eyes, conveying to him in full, her gleeful pleasure at the act. Mulder witnessed a sunrise surround him, a cloud of russet, cream and mauve obliterating the threateningly dark shaft. In candlelight that flared suddenly bright, the russets receded, the cream and the mauve of her lips ascendant, and he throbbed with the glory of this vision, swelling, straining to burst from his long night into her rising day. At the flash of her sky blue eyes, his body went rigid, head flung back, his cock alone engorging and, impossibly, seeming to increase in size, until it could stand no more. He was wracked by the force of the orgasm that took him, a wave that started in the middle of his back, running down and curving up over his balls, gaining inexorable strength, following a line to his chest, hammering his lungs, forcing air up and out. What emerged wasn't so much a scream as a cry, a plea, a prayer for the total release of darkness from the depths of his soul. Scully slowed gradually, first with her mouth and then her fist, until all of his spasms had subsided. She grinned at him, a little fleck of white foam still on her lips, watching with amusement and pride as his eyes struggled to regain focus. When he saw her clearly again, for the first time in an eternity of minutes, he sat upright, taking her head into his hands, staring at her glowing countenance with awe. When, soon, they kissed, it was with a reverence that turned the little cabin into a sacred space, holy and forever changed. ************************ Westin Plaza Hotel banquet room #3 Glen Echo, Maryland ************************ The tally on the scoreboard had long since passed the one to one tie. On screen, the champagne and food had all made entrance and exit. The pizza box remained, unopened. In the background, the bathroom and closet bound candles had been moved onto the nightstands, but had burned so low that the combined light was dimmer than before. Mulder had recovered rather quickly from his first orgasm, by lifting Scully up onto the bed and exploring every inch of her with lips and tongue, discovering her sensitive spots hidden and not, and reveling in them. Over the heavy curve of her breast, he ran the soft skin of the underside of his forearm, grazing the areolas so lightly that they seemed to reach up to him, puffed, beginning to knot. Mulder watched in wonder as, continuing with this sweet massage, Scully's jaw clenched and she began to tremble, arch and curl. He found two other spots, one on her neck and the other her ear, which could wrench small orgasms from his lover. Though, by then, he'd regained his erection, Scully needed to rest. He held her loosely to his chest, kissing wherever on her beloved person he could reach. Soon, she was kissing back, and scissored a thigh over his. He slid into her with little resistance but from her matted curls. The rhythm they kept was a slow dance, the beat of waves on a shore, approaching, sliding out, recovering and reentering. To her surprise, Scully came simply from the realization that Mulder was inside of her, stretching and filling her empty places. With a little help from her own practiced fingers, she joined him minutes later as they shattered and sang, and collapsed in each other's arms. "Oh, God, Mulder. Can it get any better than this?" Scully spoke for the first time in an hour. "I don't know, Scully. If it does it may just kill me. But..." "But what, Mulder?" She punctuated her words with little nips on his chest. "Well, I still feel like nothing will ever beat last weekend, somehow." Sounds of confusion arose among the throng of voyeuristic agents. "Well, no, of course not," Scully said, her voice regaining its logical tone. All ears in the banquet hall, and a few outside of it, poised in anxious silence. "A couple's first time is always special, Mulder, no matter how good they find whatever follows," she said, gently, patiently. Her loving smile and glistening eyes as she leaned in to kiss him were lost in the chaos of the near riot that erupted in the banquet hall, the moment after the impact of her statement had registered. Chairs were overturned, and balled wads of paper hurled at the screen. The name of Gene Poole was taken in vain many times, in wildly creative ways. The line at the bar grew exponentially. Much later, with their rest and refueling past, Mulder and Scully renewed their latest quest, to slake the seemingly unquenchable thirst for each other. There should have been some excitement in the hall, what with Scully, incredibly, on the cusp of her orgasm over/under. In the wake Scully's bombshell, there were only a scattered few left in the hall, although, surprisingly, almost no one had left the hotel. For the first time since its construction, the rooms of the Westin Plaza had been completely booked, several under the name "Mr. & Mrs. J.E. Hoover." The bar had long closed, 1.75 liter bottles strewn on their sides like stalks of wheat in a crop circle. Slices of lime, lemon and discarded cocktail napkins littered the area. Only a garish green plastic bottle of Diet Slice contained any fluid inside and it, not surprisingly, was full. In the center of the hall, in the midst of litter and empty chairs, Tom Colton sat forlornly, gaping up at the screen. At least five grand poorer, his every illusion shattered, he sat and stared. "I wanted to believe that I could have it all, I wanted to believe that I could have you," he whispered to no one at all. As the "Hers" number up on the screen finally eased over to "7," Colton broke down and wept. ************************** Apartment 4-B, 1871 N. 18th Street, Adams/Morgan neighborhood, Washington D.C. ************************** "I'm going to miss this old place, you know." It was the first time since they'd rented it years before that either one had been there in the middle of the day. "I won't. Did you call Danielson?" "Yup. Our take came in at a cool one hundred thousand, expenses included. It's already been transferred to our offshore account, and the old account closed, no traces left." She nodded, satisfied. She looked around the small, ratty apartment for the first time that day. Actually, it did get really nice light. "It's almost not enough. I want them to know." "Now you're beginning to sound like me," he said quietly. "You've said it many times. We can't jeopardize the winnings from the Pool." "The Pool," she snorted. "If I never hear that word again..." She paused, and turned to look at him with a well-practiced eye. "Why didn't you use what was in the pizza box?" "The red speedo? Nah, I'm saving that just for us. She giggled, but then turned more serious. "You could have killed me, you know, setting my orgasm over/under at six, Mulder." His grin stretched broadly. "Oh, but Scully! What a way to go!" "Yeah, well, Mulder, I've set up a new over/under concerning you," Scully's voice became low and sultry, as she approached him. Something about the wicked gleam in her eyes made him gulp. **************************************** 48th Street near the Avenue of the Americas, New York City **************************************** The First Elder's rasp came as near to a shout as it ever had. "This was a fiasco! Utterly ill advised. We should never have gotten involved in this." He was pacing the paneled room, looking for someone to blame. "We were out-maneuvered. We..." "... were out Foxed," the Smoker cracked. Krycek stared at him with a mix of horror and awe. "You had your own agenda!" the First Elder roared. "My agenda? My agenda serves this Project. My agenda serves humanity." The First Elder turned away from the Smoker's quiet arrogance with a huff. "We need to reestablish our position, and we need to do it decisively," the First Elder said at length. "A plan is in motion," the Smoker said, staring out the window, as always. "And, this time, young Alex is working on the books..." The First Elder turned, shocked at the pointed comment, shocked that his maneuverings had been uncovered, but remained silent. Krycek stared at him, darkly, with a wolfish smile. "There's been an accident in Oregon. With Alex' help, Mulder will discover it. I think it's time he take a little vacation." He exhaled the filthy contents of his lungs with great force, the smoke caroming off the glass pane. It hung in the air long after the room had been cleared of its occupants. -End- The Elements: -a balloon, and/or something made of latex - check -a candle - check, several times over. -someone blubbering, with or without alcoholic inducement - check, with... -the truth, a dare, and/or someone on top - check, thanks to Pige, Esq. -a crowded room - check -a pin and/or a tail (by any other name) - check (oh go on, look for it.) -the phrase "I want to believe," spoken by someone other than Mulder and/or the names of one or more IWTB members - check and check BONUS ELEMENT: quotes, paraphrases, or references from 5 or more XF episodes - Well, I think we've got that covered: En Ami, Squeeze, Duane Barry / Ascension, One Breath, Orison, Alone, Never Again, Rain King, Hollywood A.D., Fight the Future, The Host, Teso dos Bichos, Millenium, The Red and the Black, S.R. 819. 1