IMPORTANT NOTICE!  PLEASE READ!
    
This story was written before the attack on the World Trade
Center on September 11, 2001.  The story includes as a major
plot element the deliberate destruction of an important
public building, and the subsequent deaths of a great many
people.  No disrespect is intended to anyone who died or
lost a loved one in the actual disaster -- an event far more
tragic than anything I could possibly invent.



Mortal Stakes, an X-Files novel
by Brandon D. Ray 

BEGUN:  April 3, 2001
FINISHED:  July 8, 2001

==========

DISTRIBUTION:  Do not archive at gossamer; I'll send them a
copy myself.  Anywhere else is fine, as long as these
headers remain intact and no money changes hands.

POSTING SCHEDULE:  This story consists of 27 parts:  This
header file, a prologue, 24 chapters, and an epilogue.  I
will be posting four or five chapters per day until all
parts have been posted.  THIS IS A FINISHED STORY, NOT A
WIP. 

==========

SUMMARY:  "Duty calls," Mulder said, reaching down and
pulling her up after him.  "There's been an explosion and
fire at the Watergate."

"And?"  Scully followed him down the hall towards the
bedroom.  "Why did Skinner call us?"

"This is big," her partner replied.  "They've already
recovered thirty bodies, and it's sure to go higher.  He
said it could be another Oklahoma City."

CATEGORIES: X-File (Mytharc), Romance, Angst.

KEYWORDS:  MSR.   MulderAngst.  ScullyAngst.  Mild
MulderTorture.  Slash (f/f).

SPOILER STATEMENT:  Anything up through "Je Souhaite" is
fair game.

TIMELINE:  Set sometime after "Je Souhaite".  "Requiem"
hasn't happened -- yet, or at all.  Take your pick.  ;)

RATING:  NC-17

CONTENT STATEMENT:  Explicit sex -- always between
consenting adults.  Graphic violence.  R-rated depictions of
and references to sex acts that some people might consider
to be non-consensual, and also to people under 18 having sex
with adults (which may constitute statutory rape, depending
on where you live).  R-rated depictions of and references to
incest and slash (f/f).  Ugly little bugger, isn't it?  It's
not that bad, I swear -- I'm just trying to be inclusive. 
;)

==========

THANKS AND CREDITS:  To Sharon for helping me kick this idea
into shape, and to Sharon & Jake for the usual
encouragement and beta reading along the way.  And of
course, to everyone at I-Want-to-Believe, PhoeniXFic and the
Haven, for all their support and encouragement.

==========

DISCLAIMER:  Not mine.  Never will be.  I had a really
witty, biting disclaimer written, and then CC went and gave
us "Existence", and bought me off again.  I am *such* a
sucker.

AND FINALLY:  A note on a matter of some minor controversy. 
This story is set towards the end of Season 7, but Mulder
still has his waterbed -- including the mirror.  Yes, I know
we saw a normal mattress at the end of S6 and during S7 and
S8.  But if CC can't keep it straight where the bathroom is
in Mulder's apartment, why should *I* be held to a higher
standard?  ;)

==========END HEADERS AND NOTES==========


Only where love and need are one, 
And the work is play for mortal stakes, 
Is the deed ever really done 
For Heaven and the future's sakes. 

-- Robert Frost
"Two Tramps in Mud Time"


===========
Prologue
===========

The Watergate Hotel
Washington, DC
Friday, August 4, 2000
11:02 p.m.

She's stretched out on the bed, nude, her head propped up on
one hand, watching the man next to her as he struggles for
life.

There isn't always time for this; sometimes they're in too
much of a hurry.  But when circumstances allow, this is
definitely her favorite part.  It's better than anything --
even better than sex.  

She likes to watch them die.

The man's face is purple as he fights to breathe.  His
wrists and ankles are manacled -- that was part of the game
they were playing.  Or so he thought.  Of course, now he
knows better, but it's too late.  His body flexes, his hips
jerking spasmodically in a gruesome parody of the sex act. 
He even has another hardon.  But it will all be for naught. 


She feels her own arousal building again as she watches his
death throes, reminding her of what happened in this bed
just a short while ago.  It was especially delicious,
knowing as she did that the man had only a few minutes more
to live.  She so badly wanted to whisper that in his ear, to
tell him in short, graphic, brutal words what was about to
happen to him, but she couldn't.  He might still have been
able to get away, and that would have been totally
unacceptable.

But at least she has her fantasies.

She lifts her gaze briefly from the dying man, and looks at
her partner, also nude, lying on their victim's other side. 
The other woman's expression is just as rapt and captivated
as she knows her own to be.  Her skin is flushed, her pupils
dilated, and the very tip of tongue extrudes delicately from
between her lips.  She is smiling.  And she is beautiful.

This is the eighth time they've done this together.  The
eighth time they've lured someone into bed, sated them with
sex, and killed them.  She closes her eyes and dreamily
remembers the others.  Some were young; some were old.  Most
were white, but two were black -- and this one is Asian. 
Two were women, and in some ways she liked them best of all.
 Each was unique in life -- but in dying they became the
same.  Beautifully, gorgeously the same.

Turning her attention back to the man next to her, she sees
that his struggles are weakening.  Soon, all too soon, it
will be over.  On a whim, she reaches out and tickles the
inside of his thigh -- then pouts as she realizes that he's
beyond noticing.  She wasted too much time on her revery,
and let an opportunity go to waste.  Oh well.  There will be
others.

And then, abruptly, it's over.  The man's body jerks twice
more, convulsing against its bonds, then ejaculates and
relaxes into death, sagging down into the mattress.  She
emits a happy sigh, and once more raises her eyes, to see
that her partner now is looking back at her, a contented
smile on her face and a sparkle in her eyes.  

No words are necessary.  The two women rise from the bed and
go about retrieving their clothes, laughing softly and
knowingly as they each grab the same pair of panties at the
same instant.  Undressing was rather hectic, and now
everything is scattered carelessly about the room. 
Nevertheless, in only a minute or two they're both fully
dressed and ready to leave.

Only one thing left to do; only one task remaining. 
Previously they left their victims quietly, but this time
they have something bigger planned.  Moving with calm
assurance they take the two canisters of gasoline from their
hiding place in the closet and drag them out into the hall. 
There's no one there -- somehow, the two women knew there
wouldn't be -- and they proceed to douse the length of the
hallway, splashing a little extra on each door.  

They return to their room and retrieve the two thermite
bombs, setting the timers and splitting up just long enough
to place one at each end of the hallway.  They meet again at
the elevators, where they share an intense, erotic kiss,
breaking the clench only when the car arrives.  They step
onto the elevator, and the doors slide closed.

Eight down, and only three more to go.

==========END PROLOGUE==========

===========
Chapter One
===========

Residence of Fox Mulder
Alexandria, Virginia
Saturday, August 5, 2000
1:41 a.m.

It was hot.  It was so terribly, terribly hot.

Scully tossed restlessly in the bed.  She'd long since
stripped off her clothes and kicked away the covers, but the
sheet beneath her was soaked with sweat, nevertheless. 
She'd come over to Mulder's in the first place because her
air conditioner was broken.  He had the thermostat on his
waterbed turned all the way off, and the windows wide open,
but it wasn't helping.  Almost two in the morning, and she
was willing to bet that the temperature was still over a
hundred.

"Scully?"

Her partner's voice came to her from the far side of the
bed, soft and tentative.

"Sorry," she whispered back.  "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," he answered.  "I can't sleep either."  A quiet
chuckle.  "And it's too damned hot to do what I'd *really*
like to be doing right at the moment."

She laughed with him.  "God, Mulder, how can you even
*think* about sex at a time like this?"

"Scully, I can *always* think about sex."  He reached across
the bed and carefully ran the tip of his finger along her
jaw line, making the least contact possible, apparently out
of deference to the heat, but nevertheless sending a shiver
down her spine.  "And so can you.  Don't try to lie to me. 
You're no good at it."

She snorted.  "Sure.  Fine.  Whatever."  She sighed and
rolled onto her back, staring up at the mirror.  She'd been
a little taken aback the first time they'd made love, but
over the past few months she'd come to appreciate it,
somewhat to her surprise.  So much so that when Mulder
casually mentioned taking it down, she'd tromped on the
idea.  By the dim light of the street light she could just
make out their two bodies, lying on opposite sides of the
bed, both naked.  It took only a slight tweaking of her
imagination to place Mulder's body over her own, his hips
moving rhythmically, her ankles hooked together behind his
ass, her fingernails digging into his shoulders --

"Okay," she admitted in good humor, banishing the image as
best she could.  "You win.  You're right."  She turned onto
her side to face him, and with mock severity she added, "But
don't let it get around that I told you you're right about
something.  I have a reputation to uphold, you know."

"Your secret is safe with me, Scully."  He was silent for a
moment, then rolled onto his back and groaned.  "Christ,
it's hot.  Maybe we should take another bath."

"What we really should have done is check into a hotel," she
replied.  "Or gone to visit my mother."

"Oh, right," Mulder said.  "I can just see us descending on
your mother's house --"

"I thought you liked my mother!"

"Oh, I do, I do.  But I also like sleeping with her
daughter, and I'd feel funny about doing it under her roof."

Scully rolled her eyes.  "It's not as if you're getting any
real benefit from it tonight, Mulder."  She shrugged. 
"Besides, we could have gone to a hotel.  And then maybe you
*would* have gotten lucky."

"Scully, I *always* benefit from sleeping with you."  

There was a moment of silence, while Scully blinked back
sudden tears.  How did he do that so easily?  She'd never
been overly sentimental; in her previous relationships she'd
prided herself on her practicality and clearheadedness.  But
Mulder was consistently able to reach out and touch her
heart with just a few words.  It made her feel uncomfortable
and vulnerable -- but at the same time, it made her feel
very, very loved.

She felt the mattress shift.  Turning her attention back to
Mulder, she saw that he had rolled out of bed and was now
heading for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"We're not getting any sleep," he replied, pausing in the
doorway.  She allowed her eyes to drink in his gloriously
nude form.  All right, yes.  It was most definitely true. 
When it came to Fox Mulder, Dana Scully could *always* think
about sex.  "We may as well be doing something," he went on.
 That crinkly smile that she loved so much touched his lips.
 "C'mon.  There's still some iced tea in the fridge, and
maybe we can find a movie on cable or something.  Anything's
better than just lying here sweating."

A few minutes later they were sitting on the floor in front
of his sofa.  Mulder had popped his copy of the 1951 version
of 'The Thing' into the VCR -- "because it will make us feel
cooler" -- and now he was seated behind her, caressing her
neck and shoulders with a cold, wet washcloth.

"Mmm."  Scully felt drugged, and almost -- not quite, but
almost -- comfortable.  "You know, Mulder, if you'd shown
this much sensitivity and consideration when we met, we both
could have avoided a lot of lonely nights."

"Oh, so it's my fault?"  She heard him chuckle, and the
washcloth dipped down to trace the ridge of her spine. 
Scully arched her back in approval.  "It's all my fault?" he
persisted.  "I think you forget, Agent Scully.  *I* was the
one who --"

The ringing of the telephone cut him off, eliciting a groan
of annoyance.  "It's probably your mother," he commented. 
"She knew we were talking about her, and --"

"My mother?"  The phone rang a second time.  "Why would she
be calling at this time of night?  And why would she be
calling me at *your* apartment on *your* phone?  It's more
likely one of those phone sex services -- and don't try to
deny that you still call them.  I've seen your Visa
statement."

The phone rang a third time, and they both spoke in unison. 
"Skinner."  She felt him shifting his position, and she
reluctantly scooted forward to avoid contact.  It was still
just too damned hot.  Then she heard him answering the
phone.

"That's quite all right, sir; I wasn't asleep .... Yes,
Scully's here.  Her a/c is on the blink .... Okay .... Okay
.... Shit, okay .... Yeah, we'll be there in thirty
minutes."  Then she heard the sound of the phone being
returned to its cradle.  Seconds later, Mulder was
struggling to his feet.

"Mulder?"

"Duty calls," he said, reaching down and pulling her up
after him.  "There's been an explosion and fire at the
Watergate."

"And?"  She followed him down the hall towards the bedroom. 
"Why did he call us?"

"This is big," her partner replied.  "They've already
recovered thirty bodies, and it's sure to go higher. 
Skinner said it could be another Oklahoma City."  He opened
a bureau drawer and started pulling out clothes.

"Jesus."  She glanced around the room, and spotted her
overnight bag sitting in one corner.  She grabbed it and
tossed it up on the bed.  She hadn't brought work clothes;
jeans and a t-shirt were going to have to do.

"Yeah," Mulder said.  "ATF is in charge so far, but all the
agencies are pitching in.  Skinner was asked to contribute a
dozen agents.  He said you'll probably be needed for autopsy
duty, but for the moment he wants us to get on over to the
site."

#          #          #

The Watergate Hotel
Washington, DC
2:53 a.m.

The fire was out by the time they arrived, although it was a
little hard to tell, due to the flashing lights of the
emergency vehicles.  Ambulances stood waiting in line, with
paramedics at the ready, while fire trucks and police squad
cars were scattered liberally about the scene.  Radios
squawked constantly, the voices of rescue workers blended
into a steady babble of confused background noise, and the
lights of television crews only added to the chaos.  The
combination of light, sound and smoke reminded Mulder of
nothing quite so much as medieval visions of hell.

It was hot enough for hell, too, he thought, following
Scully as she pushed her way through the crowd of onlookers
in the direction of the Watergate.  The Washington area was
in the second week of one of the worst heat waves in fifty
years, and as the partners approached the scene Mulder felt
as if he were walking through a furnace.  He was already
coming to regret the hasty decision to put on a suit and tie
--

"Hey there, honey -- better stay back!"

Mulder stutter-stepped as a man seemed to materialize from
nowhere to grab Scully's elbow, just as she was about to
duck under the yellow crime scene tape.  His hand
automatically went to his weapon -- but then he relaxed, as
he realized the man intended no harm.

"Scully, FBI," his partner was saying, flashing her badge at
the stranger.  He was a tall, beefy man with a blond crewcut
that was starting to turn gray, and soft, indistinct
features.  Like Mulder, he wore a suit and tie, although his
clothes were smeared with dirt and soot, and he seemed to
radiate authority from every pore.

Mulder disliked him on sight.

"From the Bureau?"  His eyebrows moved slightly and he
hesitated, apparently unsure how to respond.

"Yes," Scully answered coolly.  She repeated, "I'm Special
Agent Scully."  A jerk of her head towards Mulder.  "This is
my partner, Special Agent Mulder.  And you are?"

The man seemed to notice Mulder for the first time.  "Oh, uh
... Agent Mulder?"  He let go of Scully's elbow and extended
his hand.  "Bob Griggs, ATF.  I'm in charge of this
madhouse.  I knew the Bureau was sending some people, but I
didn't expect ...."  His voice trailed off, and his gaze
flicked to Scully, then away again, too quickly to notice
that Scully's eyes had narrowed.

Buddy, Mulder thought, you are about one more stupid remark
away from getting your balls ripped off and handed to you.

Apparently the man realized it, because the next words out
of his mouth were conciliatory.  "Sorry," he said.  "Tired
and stressed."  With firm professionalism, but still
addressing Mulder, he continued, "Yeah, we've been expecting
you -- you and about ten others.  You're the first to
arrive."

"Okay," Mulder responded.  "Where do you want us?"  He
nodded in the direction of the building.  "It looks pretty
bad."

"It's a fucking disaster," Griggs said.  "Forty-five bodies
so far, and god knows how many injured.  Half a dozen
members of Congress live here, along with a couple of
Cabinet secretaries.  We haven't even started on
identifications yet."  He scrubbed his face with his hands,
smearing the soot and dirt around in the process.  "Look,
I've got some of my own people trying to interview survivors
and witnesses, but right now we're mostly doing search and
rescue."  His gaze flickered, as he obviously struggled not
to look at Scully again.  "If you two think you're up to --"

"We can handle it," Scully said coolly, cutting him off.

"My partner's a doctor," Mulder added.  "Do you have any
triage activity --"

"The aid station's fully staffed," Griggs said briefly. 
"It's mostly traffic control at the moment -- deciding who
goes to GUMC, who goes to Bethesda, and so on."  He looked
Scully square in the eye.  His cell phone shrilled; as he
reached for it, he added hurriedly, "Search and rescue's
what we need.  Look for Special Agent Bothwell, at the far
end of the complex.  He's coordinating."  He flipped open
the phone and punched the CONNECT button.  "Griggs ....
Yeah, Tommy, go ahead --"

Mulder allowed Scully to take his elbow and lead him away
from Griggs, striding in the direction the man had
indicated.  For a moment or two they walked in silence. 
Finally, Mulder shook his head.

"Jesus.  That guy was a moron.  For a minute there I thought
he was going to assign you to the typing pool."

"What do you expect?" Scully replied, giving a little smirk.
 "He was ATF."

Mulder snorted with amusement.  It was an article of faith
among FBI agents that the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and
Firearms was staffed by Bureau rejects.  There was even some
truth to the belief, since an assignment with the FBI was
arguably the most prestigious job in American law
enforcement.  As with most such things, though, the
distinction was overrated.  Mulder shook his head again,
dismissing the thoughts from his mind.  No time for that
crap now.  He turned his attention outwards, and took his
first real look at the building.

The Watergate had been built around 1970, and featured the
sort of looping, irregular architecture that was
characteristic of that period.  It was about a dozen stories
tall, with balconies scattered at seemingly random
intervals.  A handful of trees were strategically placed
about the grounds.  With the fire out, in the dark of night,
the building looked almost incongruously normal, in stark
contrast to the frantic activity and flashing lights of
emergency workers.

"You Mulder and Scully?"

Mulder looked around, and saw that the speaker was an
extraordinarily tall black man, perhaps six and a half feet
tall.  He was broad and well-muscled, weighing easily 300
pounds, and none of it was flab.  Sweat poured down his
face, but he didn't seem to notice.  Everyone was sweating
tonight.

"Steve Bothwell," the other man went on.  He briefly shook
Mulder's hand, then Scully's.  "Either one of you got any
medical training?  Aid station's absolutely swamped -- about
to go under for the third time."

"I'm a doctor," Scully answered.  "But we were told by Agent
Griggs there was no need --"

"Dunno why he said that," Bothwell said.  Something
flickered in his eyes, but it was there and gone so quickly
Mulder had no opportunity to figure out what it was.  He
spoke in short, clipped sentences, and now focused his gaze
firmly on Scully.  "You're a doc, that's the best news I've
heard in hours."  He jerked his head in the direction of the
cluster of ambulances.  "Station's over there," he added. 
"Have at it."  He turned his attention on Mulder.  "As for
you -- search and rescue?"

"Whatever's needed," Mulder replied.  "Where?"

"Just a sec."  The man turned towards the building and waved
an arm.  "Sonny!" he bellowed, somehow making himself heard
over the background noise.  "Hold up!  We got another live
one!"  Another man, about thirty yards away, stepped away
from the small group of people he was with and waved his own
arm in return.  

"There ya go, Agent Mulder," Bothwell said, clapping him on
the shoulder.  "Best goddamn crew on the site."  His eyes
crinkled.  "They're all the best goddamn crew."  The smile
died, he nodded sharply, and turned and disappeared into the
crowd.  Mulder turned to Scully.

"Best goddamn crew on the site," Mulder intoned, mimicking
Bothwell's deep bass voice.  Allowing his own voice to
return to normal:  "I wonder why Griggs said the aid station
didn't need help?"

"Maybe he didn't know," Scully offered with a shrug.

"Maybe he's an asshole," Mulder replied.

"Always a possibility," she agreed with a sober nod.  "After
all, he *is* ATF."  She sighed, and glanced over at the
building.  "Well, it looks like we've both got our work cut
out for us.  Be careful, Mulder."

"You too, Scully."  And he turned and walked away.

==========END CHAPTER ONE==========

===========
Chapter Two
===========

The Watergate Hotel
Washington, DC
Saturday, August 5, 2000
3:19 a.m.

The power was out in the Watergate, so the rescue crews had
to make do with flashlights.

There'd been a short delay while Mulder was issued safety
equipment:  a fire-resistent coat that was too large, a pair
of heavy work gloves that were too small, safety goggles and
a hard hat, and an oxygen tank and mask.  The outfit was
cumbersome, and hot as hell, but Mulder understood the
necessity for it.  He was then handed an ax, and warned
against using his cell phone.

"Most of the building has been cleared for search and
rescue," Special Agent Sonny Lackland of the ATF explained. 
He was a short, graying man in his late forties or early
fifties.  "But it's not risk-free, and the bomb squad can't
be sure that there isn't another device in there somewhere. 
We can't risk any unnecessary transmissions."  He gestured
at the ax.  "We're doing this quick and dirty.  Check the
door for hot spots.  If it's clear, smash it open.  Most of
the people you find are gonna be smoke inhalation victims. 
Anybody who looks like they're still breathing gets
priority.  We have crews with litters stationed in all the
stairwells.  Any questions?"

Mulder shook his head.

"All right then."  Lackland clapped his hands, and turned to
the rest of the group -- three men and one woman, wearing
the same gear as Mulder.  "Let's move, people.  We're gonna
work the fourth floor."

The small band made their way to one of the fire exits.  The
other members of the group had already been paired off into
teams; Mulder found himself assigned to work with Agent
Lackland.

"First and second floors are already finished," the other
man explained.  "We got a crew working five, and another
one's assembling at this moment to tackle six.  The fire
department hasn't cleared three for rescue work yet -- they
think that's where the fire started."  

He squinted at Mulder in the dimness, as they stepped
through the doorway and into the stairwell.  It was nearly
pitch dark, relieved only by the beams of their flashlights,
and the smell of smoke hung heavy in the air.  Lackland and
the others slipped on their oxygen masks; Mulder followed
suit.

"Have you found any survivors?" Mulder asked, as they
started up the stairs.  His voice echoed oddly in the mask.

"Damn few," the ATF man replied.  His shoulders moved as he
took a turn through the second floor landing.  "There was
some sort of shindig going on in the main ballroom.  Wedding
rehearsal party, I think.  We actually found some alive in
there.  A lot of dead, too.  So far, the floors above that
have been a complete loss."

The six of them arrived on the fourth floor landing, a
clatter of disorganized footsteps.  Lackland made his way to
the front of the group and hastily but carefully checked the
door that led into the corridor for hot spots.  "Safe," he
muttered.  He tried the doorknob, but it didn't move. 
"Shit.  Another one.  Stand back, people."  Lackland's ax
crashed against the door once, twice, three times; the door
shuddered and popped open, allowing a dense cloud of smoke
to swirl out around them.

There were half a dozen bodies sprawled on the floor, in
various stages of dress.  Lackland and Mulder dropped to
their knees and began checking them for signs of life, while
the rest of the group stepped past them and moved on down
the hall.

"Why was the fire exit locked?" Mulder asked, trying to
distract himself from the gruesome task at hand.  The first
victim was an elderly man dressed in a robe and pajamas.  No
pulse, no respiration.  Mulder moved on to the next -- a
woman, similarly attired, apparently the man's wife.  Even
in death, she clutched her husband's hand tightly as they
huddled together against the wall.  With his free hand, the
man still held a handkerchief over the woman's mouth and
nose.

"It wasn't locked," Lackland grunted, moving from one victim
to the next.  "Asshole who did this was nothing if not
thorough -- squirted some kind of epoxy on the latches of
the fire doors.  Guess he wanted to make sure no one left
the party early."  He shook his head in apparent disgust. 
"All dead."  He rose to his feet.  "C'mon.  It's gonna be a
long night."  Another shake of the head.  "Hell, it already
is."

#          #          #

3:52 a.m.

Scully hurried forward under the harsh glare of the
floodlights, as a couple of paramedics brought another
victim from the hotel.  

"What've you got?" she asked.  Even as she spoke the words,
she was examining the patient:  a heavy set blonde woman in
her early to mid 20s.  She was lying motionless on the
litter, her eye closed, with an oxygen mask covering her
nose and mouth.  She did not appear to be breathing.

"They found her on four," one of the paramedics replied. 
Scully vaguely remembered from previous trips that his name
was Johnny something.  "Pulse weak, respers shallow and
irregular.  She went into respiratory arrest while we were
carrying her down the stairwell.  O2 sat ... shit, it's only
72."

"Her airway's probably swollen shut," Scully said.  She
leaned down over the woman, and saw that there were burn
marks around her mouth and nose, which meant she'd probably
inhaled some fire.  "How long will it take to get her to
Georgetown?"

"Best run so far has been thirteen minutes," Johnny
answered.

"She hasn't got thirteen minutes," Scully said, shaking her
head.  Probable burns in the upper airway, which meant an
endotracheal tube was out of the question -- and she didn't
have one anyway.  No time, no time -- "Get me some alcohol
and a scalpel.  Now!"

After an eternity of perhaps thirty seconds, the paramedic
handed her the requested items.  Scully twisted the bottle
of alcohol open and poured it directly over the victim's
throat, then dropped the bottle on the ground.  She
hesitated for a second, the tip of the scalpel blade poised.
 She had to get this just right, and there wouldn't be a
second chance --

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Scully glanced over her shoulder, to see Agent Griggs
striding rapidly towards her.

"I'm trying to save this woman's life," Scully answered,
turning back to her patient.  "Her airway's blocked, and --"

"She needs to get to the hospital," Griggs interrupted,
grabbing her elbow and yanking her back a step.  "If she's
not breathing, she needs a doctor."

"I *am* a doctor," Scully snapped, gritting her teeth.  She
pulled her arm free.  "If we don't do something about her
airway *now* she'll be dead before she hits the E.R. door --
and *you* will be responsible."

Something flickered in the man's eyes, and for a second she
thought he was going to continue the argument.  Then he
raised his hands and took a step back.  Scully wasted no
more time on him, turned back to her patient and, without
giving herself time for self-doubt, quickly and carefully
made an incision at the base of the woman's throat.

#          #          #

4:31 a.m.

Agent Lackland stood to one side, and Mulder swung his ax at
the locked hotel room door.  Two blows, and the door came
completely off its hinges, crashing inwards with a dull
thump.  Mulder stepped over the fallen door, with the other
man close on his heels.

They'd finally been allowed onto the third floor, and you
didn't have to be on the arson squad to know that this was
where the fire had started.  There were scorch marks on the
walls and ceiling, the carpeting was badly burned, and there
was structural damage in a couple of places, where some sort
of explosions had obviously taken place.  The floors creaked
menacingly every time they took a step.

The bodies they'd found on this floor had also been badly
burned, and the one in this room was no exception.  This one
was male, a fact that was evident only because it was naked.
 It was twisted into a cramped, uncomfortable position --

"Jesus!"  

Mulder's eyes widened, and he crawled up onto the bed for a
closer look.  The man's wrists were handcuffed behind his
back, and his ankles were manacled as well.  His mouth was
wide open, as if he'd been screaming or gasping for breath
when he died.

"What've you got?" Lackland asked, moving closer.  "Another
deader?"

"Yeah," Mulder answered.  "But this one's different."  He
showed the ATF man what he'd found.  "I think we'd better
get this one downstairs ASAP."

"I dunno, Mulder," the other man said slowly.  "Could just
be some sex game, and when the fire started his partner ran
out on him."

"I could be that," Mulder agreed.  "But it could also be
connected with the fire.  And with the damage on this floor,
I don't think we can count on the body remaining
undisturbed."  As if to emphasize his words, there was
another low creaking groan from the floor.

Lackland frowned, then nodded, and stepped back into the
hallway.  A few seconds later he reappeared.  "No one
available," he said briefly.  "We're gonna have to do it
ourselves."

Mulder wrinkled his nose, but made no verbal objection. 
What had to be done, had to be done.  The two men quickly
positioned themselves on opposite sides of the bed.  The top
sheet and blanket had been badly burned, but the bottom
sheet was only scorched, and in less than a minute they were
able to form it into a sort of papoose, and lift the body
from the bed.  Slowly, carefully, they started moving
towards the doorway.

They were two steps short of their goal when the building
groaned yet again.  There was a loud tearing sound, followed
by a loud CRACK!  The floor sagged under his feet, and
before he had time to react he was falling --

He came to an abrupt stop, and his shoulders wrenched in
their sockets.  Sharp pain lanced through his arms and down
his back.  The muscles in his forearms strained mightily,
his fingers clutched desperately at something soft.  His
body was swinging gently, back and forth, back and forth
....

The sheet.  He was holding onto the bed sheet.  Looking up,
Mulder saw a jagged hole, and realized that the floor had
given way, and that he was now hanging down precariously
into the room below.  Even as he was working this out,
Lackland's face appeared in the gap above.

"Mulder?  You okay?"

"Uh ... yeah.  Yeah, I think so."  Mulder shook his head,
trying to clear his thoughts, and instantly regretted it, as
a wave of nausea swept through his system.  Shit.  A
concussion.  He must have hit his head on the edge of the
hole as he fell.

"Mulder?"

"Y-yeah.  Yeah," Mulder repeated.  "I'm okay.  Just pull me
out, will ya?"

"I don't think so," Lackland replied.  "I don't trust the
floor."

"Okay.  So what do we do?"  Mulder felt his grip slipping on
the sheet; the bulky gloves were making it difficult to hold
on.  "Whatever it is, it better be quick."

"You're only about three, four feet off the floor," the
other man pointed out.  "I'm gonna try to lower you down --"

There was a sudden, loud tearing sound, and Mulder felt as
if the bottom had dropped out of his stomach.  An instant
later he hit the floor, and a fresh jolt of pain spasmed up
his right leg.

"Fuck!"  Mulder took a few seconds to catch his breath;
then, ignoring the throbbing pain in his right ankle, he
rolled onto his belly and tried to scramble to his feet. 
But as soon as he put weight on his right foot, the pain in
his ankle intensified to white hot agony, and he collapsed
once again to the floor.

"Mulder?  Jesus, Mulder, I'm sorry -- the damn sheet got
snagged.  Hang on."  There was a rustling sound from above,
and again the ceiling creaked and groaned.  A few seconds
later there was a dull thump, as Lackland chinned himself
down through the hole and dropped to the floor next to
Mulder.

"Whaddaya got?" the ATF man asked, crouching down beside
him.

"Right ... right ankle," Mulder gasped, still trying to
catch his breath, and wishing that his eyes would focus. 
Lackland was nothing but a blurry figure hovering over him. 
"I think it's ... it's broken."

Large, gentle fingers carefully explored Mulder's lower
right leg, and Mulder gritted his teeth in silence as
Lackland probed at the ankle.  He felt as if his entire leg
was on fire.

"Yeah, I think you're right," the other man said at last. 
"The good news is that I don't see any blood, so I guess you
didn't break the skin."  He stood up, adding, "Sit tight;
I'm gonna find some help, and we'll get you downstairs to
the aid station."

"Like I've got any choice," Mulder muttered.  But the other
man was already gone.

==========END CHAPTER TWO==========

===========
Chapter Three
===========

The Watergate Hotel
Washington, DC
Saturday, August 5, 2000
5:03 a.m.

"Ms. ... uh, Dr. Scully?"

"Yes?"  

Scully turned away from gazing at the wreckage of the
Watergate, to see the EMT, Johnny, standing a few feet away.
 There was a momentary lull in the flow of casualties, and
she'd taken the chance to step away from the aid station for
a moment and try to catch her breath.

"I ... I just wanted to let you know the outcome on that
woman.  The one you did the trach on," Johnny explained.  He
was a young-looking man, maybe in his early 20s.  He was
short, with long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and
soft brown eyes.  His features were delicate, almost to the
point of femininity.  He shifted uneasily under Scully's
gaze, as if he were nervous at the idea of speaking to her.

"Yes?" Scully repeated.  She was too tired and hot to
generate the interest that she knew she should have.  She
hadn't slept in nearly 24 hours, the last few hours had been
extremely stressful, and the heat and humidity weren't
helping matters at all.

"Well, Dr. Mortenson said -- he's the E.R. doc at Georgetown
-- he said to tell you it looks like she's going to be
okay."  Scully nodded.  "Dr. Mortenson said you probably
saved her life."

Scully waited a moment, but the EMT didn't seem to have
anything to add.  Finally, she replied, "That's good to
know.  Thanks for telling me."

"You're welcome."  Brief pause.  "I just ... I just didn't
want that other guy ... you know the one --"

"Agent Griggs," Scully supplied.

"Agent Griggs," Johnny said with careful derision, as if he
wanted to be sure to remember the name.  "I didn't want him
to have the last word."

"I appreciate that," Scully said.  "But we're all under a
lot of stress tonight."

"Yeah, well he was still an asshole."  The young man nodded,
as if confirming that fact for himself.  "Yes, he was, and
don't try to protect him.  He didn't have any business
interfering.  He was an asshole!"  

The last comment was delivered as if it were a formal
proclamation from the throne, and with such exuberance that
Scully couldn't help but give a tired chuckle.  "Yes, I
guess he was," she agreed.

"I just wanted to let you know," Johnny said, his voice
returning to normal.  "That that woman was going to be okay,
I mean."

"I appreciate it," Scully said.  There was a moment's
silence.  Then:  "Was there anything else?"

"Well ...."  

"Dr. Scully!"

Scully turned sharply, and saw two more EMTs hurrying
towards the aid station, carrying a third person on a
stretcher.  She trotted after them.

"What have you got?" she asked as she approached.

"One of the rescue workers," the lead EMT said briefly. 
"Looks like a fractured ankle.  Maybe a concussion."  Scully
nodded, and bent over the patient.  It was a tall man with
longish brown hair, still wearing his protective gear.  His
face was partially obscured by an oxygen mask, but she'd
know those features anywhere.

Mulder.

"Hey, Scully."  He seemed to be trying to smile, but the
pain was turning it into more of a grimace.  "You'll never
guess what happened."

"You tripped over your own feet?" she asked.  Emotions were
warring inside of her.  She'd always taken it hard  --
harder than she'd ever let her partner know -- when he was
hurt.  This injury was obviously fairly minor -- as long as
there wasn't a head bleed, she reminded herself, thinking
about the possible concussion the EMT had reported.  But she
still had to take a moment to get her thoughts back under
control.

"Think Chicago, Scully," Mulder said, gasping as her fingers
probed delicately at the injured ankle.  Felt like a clean
break to the tibia, just above the true ankle joint.  "Think
Harry Weems.  Only this time, it was fire instead of water."

"You're kidding."  Scully looked up from his ankle, and
couldn't keep her lips from quivering in amusement.  "You
fell through the floor?  Again?"

Mulder ducked his head.  "That would be me."  He looked up
again, and smirked.  "You gonna kiss it and make it better? 
Agent Lackland offered to, but I told him I was saving
myself."

"I dunno, Mulder," she responded, putting her professional
mask back in place and turning her attention back to his
ankle.  "It looks pretty bad.  We may have to amputate."

"I don't think my girlfriend would like that, Scully," he
said.  There was a definite tinge of amusement in his voice.

"Oh, I expect she'll manage," Scully answered, maintaining
her poker face.  She pulled a penlight from her pocket and
shined it in each of Mulder's eyes in turn.  Equal and
reactive.  Good.  "At least it'll keep you off the streets
and out of trouble.  For a few weeks, anyway."  To the EMTs:
 "Just put a splint on it, and transport him to Georgetown. 
Make sure they know about the head injury."  They lifted the
stretcher and started to walk away, when Scully realized
she'd forgotten something and hurried after them.

"Keys, Mulder," she said, holding out her hand.

"Excuse me?"

"Your car keys," she clarified.  "We drove your car,
remember?  I don't want to be stranded here."  She snapped
her fingers.  "Cough 'em up, G-man.  You're not going to be
up to driving by the time they're through with you, anyway."

"Yes, dear."  Mulder sighed, then winced in pain as he
shifted his position so he could reach his keys.  He handed
them over, gave her a lewd wink, and then the EMTs lifted
the stretcher again, and he was gone.

#          #          #

Georgetown University Medical Center
Washington, DC
10:53 a.m.

Mulder heard her footsteps before he heard anything else. 
Even in tennis shoes, even through the haze of painkillers,
her step was so distinctive to him that there was no
possibility of error.  And then the door to the exam room
opened, and she was there.

She looked exhausted.  Bags under her eyes, shoulders
drooping, and when she leaned against the door frame it was
clearly for support, although she tried to strike an air of
nonchalance.  But there was life in her eyes as her gaze
reached out to his.  There was always life there when she
looked at him, these days.

"Mulder," she said, a tired quirk to her lips.  "You look
like shit."

"Same right back atcha, Agent Scully," he replied.  "But I
bet I feel better than you do.  *You* haven't had any
drugs."

"True."  She pushed off from the doorjamb and walked over to
him, stopping in front of his wheelchair and crouching down
to examine the cast on this foot and ankle.  "I guess they
didn't have to amputate after all," she commented,
straightening up again.  "How's your head feeling?"

"No worse for the wear.  It's not like it's a vital organ,
after all."  Scully snorted.  He went on, "So how soon can
we go home?"

"The charge nurse said you already signed yourself out, so
whenever you're ready," she replied.  

"They wanted to keep me overnight," Mulder said sourly. 
"Observation, because of the knock on the head."

"She mentioned that," Scully said.  "But I guess they know
you well enough to realize that it's futile.  Anyway, I'm
off duty now.  Bothwell kicked me loose, but I'm sure Griggs
was glad to see me go.  I already talked to Skinner, and
you're on sick leave until you're off the painkillers,
followed by desk duty until the cast comes off."  Mulder
opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off.  "Doctor's
orders, Mulder.  You try to wiggle out of it, I swear to God
I'll find a judge and get you committed."  The fond smile
took the sting from her words.  "Anyway, I report to
Quantico for autopsy duty tomorrow morning at seven."

"For how long?"

"Until my services are no longer required," she said.  She
stepped behind him and took control of the wheelchair,
maneuvering him through the door of the exam room and out
into the hall.  "The body count was sixty-three when I left,
and they still had a couple of floors to go."  Another tired
smile.  "We were lucky it was a Friday night.  A lot of
people were out for the evening."

Scully was now pushing the wheelchair along the hallway
towards the emergency exit.  They passed a group of nurses,
apparently on their way back from a cigarette break, from
the scrap of conversation Mulder overheard.  He waited until
they were out of earshot before speaking again.

"What about the guy with the handcuffs?  Did you get a look
at him?"

"Handcuffs?"  

She stopped long enough to push a large, silver button on
the wall that opened the sliding door to the outside, and
Mulder winced as the heat rolled over them in waves.  It was
like walking into a blast furnace; he'd forgotten how hot it
was outside, having spent the last several hours in the air
conditioned sanctuary of the hospital.  He was already
beginning to sweat, especially under the cast.  Well,
nothing to be done about it.  He shook his head and returned
to the conversation.

"The last body we found before my, uh, accident had
handcuffs on his ankles and wrists.  It was on the floor
where the fire started.  Lackland and I were trying to bring
it out for priority treatment when the floor collapsed."

"Sorry, Mulder; I didn't see it."  He could almost hear her
shrug.  "Of course, I was focusing most of my attention on
the living at that point.  The coroner's office had someone
there directing disposition of the dead."

"Maybe you'll see him at Quantico."

"Maybe."

They arrived at Mulder's car.  Scully opened the door for
him, and hovered anxiously nearby as he used the car door to
lever himself out of the wheelchair and into the passenger
seat.  As he did so, Mulder noticed something in the back
seat.

"Crutches?" he asked.  "Mine?"

"Yours."  She shut the passenger side door and walked around
the car.  As she slid in behind the wheel, she added, "I
stopped by your apartment and picked them up on my way over.
 I figured you might want them."  She smirked.  "And don't
worry; I didn't carve another notch on them.  I assumed
you'd want to do that yourself."

"Ha ha," Mulder replied, rolling his eyes.  "Scully, my
apartment is hardly 'on the way'.  You drove from the
Watergate to my apartment and then back to Georgetown --
just to get a pair of crutches that I didn't really need
just to transfer from a wheelchair to the car, and all so
that we could then drive *back* to my apartment?"

"We're not going to your apartment, Mulder," Scully replied.
 She started the engine and began to maneuver through the
parking lot towards the street.  "We're doing what we should
have done last night.  We're going someplace cool so we can
actually get some rest.  I already phoned in a reservation."

"Oooh, Scully," Mulder murmured, relaxing into his seat as
she pulled out into traffic.  "You figure just because you
take me to some ritzy hotel with lots of beads and glitter
you'll get to have your way with me?"

"Beads and glitter, Mulder?"  Scully shook her head,
chuckling despite her obvious weariness.  "Sorry; I didn't
have time to stop at Victoria's Secret.  You're just going
to have to make do."

Mulder joined her quiet laughter, then fell silent and
allowed his eyes to close.  They'd both been up for more
than a day, and they'd been through a lot in the past few
hours.  On top of all that, just before Scully showed up at
the hospital he'd been given some Tylenol with codeine, and
that, combined with the gentle rocking motion of the car
quickly lulled him to sleep.  

After some indeterminate time he was vaguely aware that they
had stopped.  There was a brief, confused period of
wakefulness while Scully helped him out of the car and into
the hotel she'd chosen.  But soon he was curled up between
silk sheets, and the air was cool and dry.  And then
something small and soft and warm snuggled up against his
back, and consciousness fled.

#          #          #

Time and location unknown

They take turns being male.  

Today is her day to be Viola, the woman, while her partner
plays Cesario, the man.  They got the names from
Shakespeare, in a giggling fit of childish
self-consciousness, and now they use them frequently.  It's
their own private little joke at the world.

At the moment she's sitting up in bed, naked, channel
surfing with the remote control and eating chocolate ice
cream, while Cesario is out, taking care of necessary tasks.
 Viola has the volume turned down on the TV:  Foxnews,
MSNBC, CNN, and of course all the local stations.  They're
all carrying live, continuing coverage of the explosion and
fire at the Watergate, and she hasn't been able to stop
watching since the news first broke, shortly after midnight.

Most of the footage is pretty standard and repetitious, but
still she's fascinated.  This is her own handiwork, after
all -- hers, and Cesario's.  And so she sits and waits for
the other to return, and surfs --

*click*

.... the building on fire in the middle of the night ....

*click*

.... firefighters wrestling with hoses and ladders ....

*click*

.... rescue workers carrying stretchers from the building
....

*click*

.... weeping relatives and shocked bystanders ....

*click*

.... a pompous ass in a three piece suit at an impromptu
press conference ....

*click*

Her finger freezes on the button as a new image appears on
the screen.  A confused clutter of people, moving quickly
from one makeshift exam table to the next.  Casualties
arrive, are evaluated with controlled haste, then are
whisked away again.  And amidst all the chaos and noise and
confusion is someone she knows ... a woman ... she barely
has time to recognize her before the images are gone,
replaced by something far less interesting ....

But it was her.  It was really, really her.

There can be no possibility of doubt or error.

And if *she* is there, then can her partner be far away?

She can hardly wait for Cesario to get home, so she can
share the wonderful news.

==========END CHAPTER THREE==========

===========
Chapter Four
===========

LC the St. Regis Hotel
Washington, DC
Sunday, August 6, 2000
6:22 a.m.

Mulder is dreaming.  He's sure of it.

In the dream he's stretched out on a blanket on the sand,
watching the waves roll in, sparkling blue-green with frothy
whitecaps.  The sun is warm and bright overhead, and the sky
is a perfect robin's egg blue.

There are other people here, as well, most of them Scully
family members.  Far down the shoreline he sees his partner,
wearing a beach jacket over a one-piece bathing suit,
walking casually along in the company of someone who Mulder
somehow knows is her brother, Charles.  

And yes, now he knows that it's all a dream, because there's
Melissa Scully, seated a few yards away in the lotus
position, wearing a string bikini.  Her hair is pulled back
in a ponytail, and flashes gold and copper in the sunlight. 
Almost as if she can feel his gaze, she turns her head
towards him and smiles.

"Hey, Fox.  Long time no see."

He nods, accepting her presence and her comment at face
value, but not saying anything in return.  It doesn't seem
necessary.  After a moment, Melissa continues.

"Fox, do you remember that night I came to your apartment? 
When Dana was dying?"

"Of course," he says, surprised to find that he doesn't feel
the usual tremor of anxiety that accompanies that particular
memory.  There's something very comforting about talking to
Melissa.  "You said I was in a very dark place.  You were
right."

"I was right," she agrees, nodding sagely.  "I also told you
I didn't have to be psychic to figure that out, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did."  He's idly curious where this conversation
is going, but he's not impatient to find out.  A part of him
is still well aware that this is a dream, which means that
this is really something he's trying to tell himself. 
Mulder may not be a Freudian, but that doesn't mean he
discounts the significance of dreams.

"Darkness comes in a lot of different flavors, Fox."  Now
there's compassion in her eyes.  Mulder shifts
uncomfortably.  "I'm glad you finally found your sister.  It
was holding you back in a lot of ways.  But there are still
other sources of darkness out there.  Some people are still
held back."

Mulder shakes his head.  "If you're talking about Daniel
Waterston --"

"No," she interrupts.  "Look, Fox, you're going to wake up
soon."  She dimples briefly, and adds, "Dana wants you to
wake up."  The smiles dies.  "Anyway, I know Dana told you
about Daniel, and that's good, too, because that was one of
the things holding *her* back.  But that's not what I'm
talking about now --"

Mulder's distracted from Melissa by a sudden movement, just
at the edge of his field of vision.  He turns his head, to
see two children playing in the ocean, some 20 or 30 yards
away.  He squints, trying to get a better look at them, but
the glare of the sun on the water makes it impossible.  They
seem to be having a good time -- just ordinary children
enjoying a day at the beach.  Yet, somehow, he knows that
they're important.  Perhaps they're Melissa's children.  He
turns back to look at her --

And she's gone.

Mulder blinks in surprise, then looks around, to see that
the other Scullys are also gone -- and so are the children. 
He's alone on the beach.  He feels a spattering of water on
his face, and realizes that the tide has come in.  The waves
are splashing only a few yards away now, and spray dances
intermittently on his forehead.  He closes his eyes in
appreciation at the contrast between the cool of the water
and the heat of the sun --

"Mulder, come on -- wake up."

Bright sunlight, edging its way in beneath his eyelids. 
Something cold and wet, falling on his face.  Scully's voice
....

Mulder blinked his eyes open, and found himself staring up
at his partner as she dribbled water on his face from a wet
washcloth.  She had an impish grin on her face -- an
expression he'd only seen since they'd become lovers.  The
drapes of their hotel room had been drawn back, allowing the
sun to shine in, assaulting his senses.  He shielded his
eyes and squinted.

"Jesus, Scully," he mumbled.  "I can't believe you got us a
room that faces to the east."

She snorted.  "Yeah, sure, Mulder.  After all the rat traps
you've put me in over the years, you're a fine one to talk."
 

She got up from the bed and disappeared into the bathroom,
while Mulder struggled to a sitting position, and tried to
get his thoughts in order.  He remembered well enough what
had happened yesterday -- the fire at the Watergate, the
search for survivors, the accident he'd had.  He remembered
the trip to the hospital, and waiting for Scully to come
pick him up, and finally she did.

His recollection became cloudy at that point, but he thought
he also recalled stumbling into bed and Scully snuggling up
next to him ... and then they'd awakened in the middle of
the night and ordered room service.  He glanced across the
room and saw a cart standing by the door with dirty dishes
on it.  Right.  Blueberry pancakes and eggs benedict at
eleven o'clock at night "because we haven't had breakfast
yet, Mulder".  He remembered that.  A smile touched his
lips, briefly.  He remembered the midnight breakfast, you
betcha -- and he also remembered what had come after.  And
then they'd fallen asleep again ....

But there was something else.  His smile faded as he
considered it.  Something ... something .... Damn, but he
couldn't really remember.  He couldn't bring it back from
the outer marches of his mind.  Something about Melissa
Scully, of all things -- and he hadn't thought about her,
other than in passing, in years.  He shook his head.  It
must have been a dream.  It had to have been a dream.

"So, Mulder -- breakfast?"  Scully had emerged from the
bathroom, and was leaning against the doorframe.  Her gaze
flicked to the plundered cart, and something that wouldn't
be considered a smile on anyone but Scully flashed across
her face and was gone.  "A second breakfast, I mean."

"What time is it?"  Mulder looked at the clock and shook his
head.  6:30.  "Shouldn't you be on the way to Quantico
already?"

"Skinner called," she replied.  "They've moved my start time
back a couple of hours."  She grimaced.  "I'm not really
surprised.  It must be a madhouse out there this morning." 
She moved towards him and sat down on the edge of the bed,
ruffling his hair.  "Come on, Mulder," she finished.  "Don't
be a spoilsport."

"'Spoilsport'?"  Mulder couldn't keep the smile from
creeping back across his features.  "Is prim, proper Special
Agent Dr. Dana Katherine Scully calling *me* a spoilsport?"

That earned him an eyebrow as she slowly rose back to her
feet.  Her face was otherwise serene and expressionless;
only her eyes gave away her true amusement.  "Don't push
your luck, Mulder," she murmured.  "Now c'mon; I'm hungry."

It took a few more minutes, but Mulder finally allowed
himself to be coaxed from bed and downstairs for breakfast. 
But the faint echo of a memory of the dream -- or whatever
it was -- continued to bother him.

#          #          #

7:02 a.m.

Mulder was being unusually quiet this morning.  Scully
watched him as he stirred his coffee -- decaf, due to the
narcotics he was taking -- and tried to figure out what was
going on inside his head.

He'd seemed normal -- by Mulder's standards -- when she
first awakened him.  Groggy from the pills, of course, but
basically his usual, acerbic self.  When she'd come back out
of the bathroom he'd appeared to be pensive, but then
regained his typical good humor.  But by the time they
reached the elevator his cheerfulness had faded again.  He
seemed to have something on his mind.

She took a bite out of one of the strawberries from her
fruit plate and considered that for a minute.  Certainly
Mulder had plenty to think about after yesterday.  They both
did.  But quiet solemnity wasn't his usual way of dealing
with such things.  Scully, herself, did have a tendency to
withdraw emotionally when faced with these situations, but
from Mulder she'd come to expect jokes and wisecracks, even
in the face of near-certain death.  

When she first knew him she'd found his behavior under
stress to be a little shocking, but she'd finally come to
recognize it for what it was:  gallows humor.  In time she'd
learned to accept this as his way of dealing with the
unspeakable things they so frequently were witness to -- and
by now, of course, it was simply one more facet of his
personality.  Something she even cherished, because although
that sort of response wasn't in her own nature, somehow
seeing Mulder act that way made the darkness a little easier
to tolerate.

"What're you thinking about?"

"Hmm?"  With a start, Scully realized that she'd completely
stopped eating, and was now studying her partner intently. 
"Sorry?"

"You seem pretty ... I dunno.  Absorbed, I guess.  Got
something on your mind?"  Mulder gestured at her plate and
smiled.  "More specifically, are you gonna to eat that slice
of cantaloupe?"

"Yes."  She jabbed the melon possessively with her fork,
then looked back up at her partner.  She went on, "Actually,
I was just wondering if something was bothering you.  You've
been so distant this morning."

"Sorry."  He shook his head, and a look of annoyance crossed
his face.  "It's just that I had the oddest dream."

"In what way?" Scully asked.  "Do you want to talk about
it?"  A flicker of apprehension trickled down her spine. 
'Odd' didn't begin to do justice to some of Mulder's dreams.
 Sometimes they were full fledged nightmares from which he
woke up screaming, and those were bad enough.  But several
times since they'd become lovers she'd awakened in the
middle of the night to find him quietly weeping, neither
asleep nor fully awake.  When she roused him on those
occasions he'd been unable to explain what was upsetting him
-- but the look of abject despair in his eyes tore at
Scully's heart, and in turn had come to haunt her own
dreams.

"I think so," he said.  He chewed on his lower lip for a
moment, then shook his head again, and added, "But I can't
really remember any of it.  Except ... I think your sister
was in it."

"Missy was in it?"  Scully tried to suppress the quick stab
of grief and remorse that coursed through her.  She'd never
really reconciled herself to the manner of Melissa's death. 
If only she'd stayed home that night --  No.  Not now. 
Stick to the topic.  Deep breath.  "Why would you have a
dream about Missy?"

"I don't know," Mulder replied.  "But that's really all I
remember about it."  He gave her a rueful smile.  "Sorry,"
he repeated, shrugging.  "It really was just a dream, but
it's been bothering me.  I didn't mean to drag you down." 
He glanced at his watch, then gave her cantaloupe another
meaningful look.  "You sure you want that, Scully?  I'm not
sure you really have time to finish it."

"I'll make time."  She scooped up some of the melon and
resumed eating, and the rest of the meal passed quietly.

#          #          #

FBI Forensic Science Research and Training Center
Quantico, Virginia
4:37 p.m.

She was only finishing her fourth case, but already Scully
was having to fight against the feeling that she working on
an assembly line.

Most of the fatalities in any fire are due to smoke
inhalation, and the victims from the Watergate were no
exception.  This lent a sameness to the procedures, and that
meant it would have been easy to fall into a routine. 
Scully's professionalism and compassion for her "patients"
wouldn't allow her to do that, however, and so she was
compensating by forcing herself to pay even more attention
than usual to the details of each exam.  Unfortunately, this
meant that the entire process was taking more of an
emotional and physical toll than usual.

"Dr. Scully?"

Scully shook herself, realizing that she'd been standing
motionless over the current case for several minutes.  No,
this was not a 'case', she reminded herself.  The victim was
a young woman, probably in her late teens or early twenties,
now laid bare under Scully's scalpel and bone saw.  The
woman had not yet been identified, and was known to Scully
only as 'Watergate Victim #25'.

"Sorry, Jeremy," she said, looking down at the corpse.  The
empty chest and abdominal cavities stared back at her
accusingly, and she was momentarily grateful that the flap
of skin from the chest was still covering the young woman's
face.  "I got distracted.  But I think we're finished with
this one."  She took one last look at the body, then turned
away to change her gloves and clean up, while her assistant
took the body away to be closed, and brought in the next
one.

She was actually helping these people, she reminded herself
as she worked up a good lather on her hands.  She was
helping them and she was helping their families.  She had
long ago settled this issue in her mind, before she had even
joined the FBI, but still it got to her from time to time. 
When it did, she just had to take a minute, calm down, and
remember why she was here.  Her own words, written during
their first encounter with Donnie Pfaster, came floating
back to her:

//Death is a recorded event.  For reasons natural or
unnatural, when a body ceases to function, the cause of the
effect can be clearly reconstructed.  A body has a story to
tell .... It may be an irony only understood by those of us
who conduct these examinations, who use these pieces to
rebuild a narrative, that death, like life itself, is a
drama with a beginning, middle and end.//

It was her job, she thought, to document the body's story. 
The condition of an individual's remains was that person's
final testimony, and the autopsy findings were often their
last chance for justice.  And only Dana Scully and her
colleagues knew how to listen to the deceased's testimony. 
She nodded to herself and turned off the water.  She was
ready.

Scully raised her eyebrows in mild surprise as she saw that
the next case was one of the rare burn victims.  An adult
male, with second and third degree burns covering more than
90 percent of the body.  The burns were so severe that for
the moment she reserved her opinion as to the age of the
deceased.  She stepped forward and surveyed the corpse more
closely for a minute, her brow furrowed in thought.  This
body was in a very odd position.  She motioned to Jeremy,
and he helped her turn the corpse onto its side ....

Handcuffs.  The body was handcuffed, wrists and ankles. 
This must be the one Mulder had found just before he was
injured.  She'd half thought that he was pulling her leg at
the time, but apparently not.  Well, this one was going to
be interesting, anyway.

Scully clicked on the tape recorder, and reached for her
scalpel.

==========END CHAPTER FOUR==========

===========
Chapter Five
===========

LC the St. Regis Hotel
Washington, DC
Sunday, August 6, 2000
10:19 p.m.

"Stay away from me, Mulder.  I'm filthy."

Those had been the first words out of Scully's mouth when
she arrived back at the hotel, a short while ago.  She then
made a beeline for the shower, kicking off her shoes and
unbuttoning her blouse as she went.  As the bathroom door
swung shut, she added, "Ten minutes."

Well, it had been a little more than ten minutes, but Mulder
was neither surprised nor disturbed.  They'd only been
lovers for a few months, but he'd already come to realize
that the no-nonsense, there-on-the-dot Special Agent Scully
he'd grown accustomed to was less than punctual when she
took off her FBI persona.  He'd actually been relieved to
learn that; it made her seem a little less formidable.

Still, he'd be just as happy when she was done cleaning up. 
He'd spent a long, boring day alone in their room, with
nothing to occupy his time other than the hotel's cable
television.  He'd considered going out for a while, or
perhaps calling the guys and inviting them over.  But that
would have broken the spell, and made him face up to the
fact that he and Scully were not, in fact, enjoying a
leisurely vacation alone, and so he'd decided against it.

He'd also manfully resisted the lure of pay-per-view -- this
room was costing enough as it was.  That left him with only
53 other channels, and an hour of surfing had reaffirmed the
fact that daytime television had not been improved by the
proliferation of oddball cable networks.  By Hobson's
choice, he'd found himself watching the news, and a lot of
that had been coverage of the fire at the Watergate --
including, to his amusement, several short clips of Scully
working at the aid station the night before.

It almost made him wish for a VCR.

He had also, inevitably, turned to thinking about his dream.
He still couldn't remember any details; just a pervasive,
niggling sense that it had been something important, and
that Melissa Scully had somehow been involved.

He'd studied Jung and Singer, as well as others less
academically respectable, and he knew that dreams often
contained symbols for problems the mind was working on below
the conscious level.  He also suspected that sometimes they
were more than that -- that sometimes they contained
knowledge imposed from the outside.  Sometimes, perhaps,
they even contained prophecy.

All of which left him wondering why he had dreamed of
Melissa Scully.  Unfortunately, the context was completely
lacking.  All he remembered was that she was there -- that,
and the conviction, growing with each passing hour, that her
presence in his nightscape was in some way significant.

#          #          #

Scully didn't even try to suppress the moan of pleasure, as
hot water from the shower cascaded down over her body. 
She'd been looking forward to this moment for hours -- for
most of the day, really.  Performing one autopsy took a lot
out of her, both physically and emotionally.  Today, she'd
done six.

Partway through the second post, it had also occurred to her
that she had another opportunity for release available to
her, in the person of Mulder.  It had been so long since
she'd been in a serious relationship that she'd almost
forgotten how easily her tension could be alleviated through
sex.  

Back when she'd taught at Quantico, before she joined the
X-Files and when she was still dating Jack, Scully used to
come home from a day spent down in the morgue buzzing with
nervous energy, and as often as not wound up dragging her
lover into bed in an effort to dissipate it.  Unfortunately,
when he'd finally made the connection between her libido and
how she'd spent her day, he'd been disturbed; he'd said it
felt ghoulish.  No amount of explanation on her part -- that
it was an affirmation of life, rather than a fetish for
death -- would change his mind.  That issue had played a
major part in their ultimate breakup.

Then she'd been assigned to work with Mulder, and the
autopsies had come less frequently -- but still often enough
to keep her on edge.  And when she *did* have to do a post,
it was usually in the middle of a case, which only added to
the stress level.  

She'd tried to take care of her problem solo, but found that
her own fingers and a vibrator were no match for having a
man in her arms and in her body.  She'd also considered one
night stands, but something deep inside whispered to her
that it wouldn't be the same -- and besides, that sort of
thing had never been easy for her.  She wasn't willing
enough -- or stupid enough, her doctor persona insisted,
rather primly -- to open herself to risk and adventure.  Not
like Missy had been.

She paused for a moment in her scrubbing, her brow wrinkling
in puzzlement.  Where had *that* come from?  Then she
remembered.  Mulder.  He'd told her this morning that he'd
dreamt about Melissa, but he'd been either unwilling or
unable to recall any of the details.  Scully decided that
her sister's memory must have been floating in the back of
her mind all day, and had finally come to the fore now that
she had some downtime.

It was true, though, Scully thought, as she set about
washing her hair.  Missy *had* been the outgoing one. 
Outgoing and pretty and popular, in contrast to Dana, who
had been reserved and plain and solitary.  Missy had always
seemed to have a boyfriend, starting at age 13 and right up
until the day of her death, and on those rare occasions that
she wasn't seriously involved with someone, she still never
seemed to be lacking for male attention and companionship. 
Dana, on the other hand, was able to count her own romantic
relationships on the fingers of one hand, and her dry spells
-- which typically stretched on for years at a time -- were
truly dry.

//Except that one time,// her traitor memory chided her, but
she pushed the thought away.  That time didn't qualify as a
one night stand, anyway, since it was with someone she knew
-- and it had left her feeling just as lonely and empty as
she'd always been afraid such an encounter would, thus
validating her prejudice against sex without commitment.

Well, no more, she told herself firmly, giving her hair one
last rinse.  She had Mulder now, and unlike Jack, Mulder
would understand.  She'd been sharing this journey with
Mulder, and he'd seen all the same horrors that she had. 
More importantly, he knew her better than anyone ever had,
better than she'd ever dared hope anyone could.  She shared
a level of intimacy with him that both frightened and
excited her.  And he was waiting for her on the other side
of that door.

He'd been waiting -- they'd *both* been waiting -- long
enough.

She turned off the shower and stepped out of the tub,
reaching for a towel as she did so.  She briskly dried
herself, then hung the towel over the shower curtain rod. 
She was about to slip on one of the hotel's complimentary
robes when she saw it.  One of Mulder's t-shirts,
thoughtfully laid out on the counter next to the sink.  She
smiled.  Oh, yes.  Much better than a generic hotel robe.

She kept smiling as she pulled the shirt on over her head. 
Yes.  The one he'd worn today; she could smell him on it. 
She smoothed the hem down across her thighs and closed her
eyes for a moment, imagining Mulder's scent seeping down
into her skin, like some luxurious body lotion.  

Her smile broadened.  Mulder enjoyed seeing her wear his
clothes almost as much as she liked wearing them.  In this,
as in so many other things, they complemented each other
perfectly.  His shirt left out on the counter was an
engraved invitation, and it was time for Scully to deliver
her R.S.V.P.

#          #          #

Scully was smiling as she stepped into the room, and Mulder
felt an answering grin spreading across his own features. 
She'd found the t-shirt he'd left out for her, of course. 
He'd known she would.  And as always, his body began to
respond.

"Are we all squeaky clean?" he asked, as she reached the
foot of the bed.  She didn't answer, but climbed onto the
bed and started crawling towards him.  A few seconds later
she was straddling him, her hands resting lightly on his
shoulders as she gazed down at him, the glint in her eye
telling him all he needed to know about her intentions.

"Yes," she said at last.  She stretched out on top of him,
combing her fingers through his hair and brushing her lips
against his so softly that he wasn't sure they'd actually
made contact.  "How about you?"

"Yes, ma'am," Mulder replied, with mock military precision. 
Scully began trailing her lips along the line of his jaw, as
he continued, "With the assistance of the hotel management,
I procured a Hefty trash bag and wrapped it around my cast."
Just in time, he remembered not to thump his foot on the
bed for emphasis.  "I then took a shower, shriving myself in
anticipation of your return."

Scully paused in her ministrations, then buried her face in
the hollow of his neck and giggled.  A moment or two later
she raised her head and looked him in the eye, obviously
struggling to keep a straight face.  "Mulder," she said,
shaking her head.  "You sounded like you were writing a
report for Skinner."

"Do you think he'd be interested?"  he asked, and Scully
laughed again.

Mulder loved it when she got like this.  It had been such a
rare gift over the years, to see Scully so childlike with
glee.  There'd been that first case, laughing together in
the rain in a graveyard in Bellefleur.  There'd been
Christmas morning after escaping from the haunted house. 
There'd been the baseball diamond, when she'd pretended she
didn't know how to swing a bat.  There'd been a handful of
other times, scattered here and there across the years, and
he remembered them all --

He gasped as Scully abruptly nipped at the tendon that
joined his neck and shoulder.  Her fingers were now working
at his scalp, her fingernails scraping at the sensitive
skin, while her body moved sensuously against his.  Her
mouth continued its assault on his shoulder and neck, moving
slowly upwards, until finally she reached his ear and took
his earlobe between her teeth and bit down.  Hard.

"Oww!"  Mulder jerked his head away.  "Scully?  What the
hell --"

"Sorry, Mulder.  I just wanted to make sure I had your full
attention."  She was laughing at him, and he couldn't keep
himself from laughing a little as well.  "Here, let me make
it better."  She bent her head and once again took his
earlobe between her lips -- but this time she gently licked
and suckled at it, soothing the spot she'd bitten.

Mulder let his hands drift downwards as she worked on his
ear.  Finding the hem of the t-shirt, he slipped his hands
underneath it and cupped her ass, kneading her gently with
his fingers.  Scully growled, and ground her crotch against
his hard-on.

And then they began their lovemaking in earnest.  Scully
released his ear and planted a trail of kisses across his
cheek to his mouth, where she commenced nibbling on his
lower lip.  To hell with that.  Mulder let go of her ass,
grabbed her head with both hands, and captured her mouth
with his.

She tasted ... she tasted ... God, she tasted as good as she
always did.  She'd apparently had some chocolate at some
point in the recent past, because traces of it lingered on
her lips and tongue.  And then of course there was her own
unique flavor, a rich, intoxicating, tangy flavor that
seemed to penetrate right through to his soul.

All of his senses were working, and every nerve ending was
on full alert.  He felt her soft, warm body moving gently
but firmly against his own.  The smell of her scented soap,
with just a hint of fresh, clean Scully, filled his
nostrils, infiltrating all the way down into his lungs every
time he inhaled.  Her hair, still a little damp from the
shower, was smooth and silky between his fingers.  And the
noises she was making, the tiny moans and whimpers coming
from the depths of her throat --

She broke the kiss, pulling back a little to look him in the
eye.  Her eyes were a deep, happy blue, and there was a look
of joy and wonder on her face such as he had seldom seen. 
She kept moving her body against his as she gazed down at
him, sliding up and down, side to side, moving her hips in
slow, deliberate circles -- and biting down on her lip each
time his erection rubbed against her center.  And she smiled
and mouthed the words that neither of them ever spoke aloud.

//I love you.//

Mulder also smiled, and silently returned the sentiment. 
They'd never discussed it, but somehow they'd arrived at an
agreement never to say those words.  It seemed to fulfill
Scully's need for calm and reserve, and as for Mulder ...
well, he'd never been one who needed much in the way of
hearts and flowers in a relationship.  He knew where his
partner's feelings lay.

She pushed herself up into a sitting position, still
straddling his hips, and let her fingers graze across his
chest, tickling his nipples and drawing abstract patterns in
his sparse chest hair.  Mulder allowed his own hands to
slide farther up under the t-shirt, this time from the
front, until he found her nipples.  He squeezed them gently
between thumb and forefinger, and Scully closed her eyes and
moaned.

"You have no idea how good that makes me feel," she
whispered.  She opened her eyes again and looked down at
him, her eyes dark with passion, her expression drugged,
almost wanton.  "No idea at all."

For a few seconds they stayed like that, Scully's fingers
grazing across Mulder's chest, while he cupped and fondled
her breasts beneath the t-shirt.  Her bottom rested on his
upper thighs, and they were each slowly moving their hips,
dry humping each other through the thin material of his
boxers.  The hem of the shirt had ridden up a bit, enough
that he was able to see her dark red curls peaking out from
between her thighs.

Inspired by the view, he let go of one of her breasts,
trailing that hand down across her belly to her apex,
allowing his fingers to trail through thick pubic hair that
was already damp with arousal.  She gasped as his fingertips
played along her outer folds, and whimpered when he pulled
away.  Mulder watched her, fascinated, his erection
throbbing and seeming to grow thicker and harder with each
sound she made.

At last he pushed his forefinger past her outer lips,
downwards and back until he came to her opening.  He felt
her body tense and quiver; looking up at her face he saw
that her eyes once more were closed, while she took short,
sharp breaths through her mouth.  He slipped his finger
inside her, then added a second and a third, and began
sliding them in and out at an ever-increasing rate, his
thumb brushing against her clit in the way he'd come to
learn that she liked.

Scully's hands now clutched at his shoulders as she seemed
to be fighting to maintain her balance.  She was moving her
hips in time with his fingers, angling her pelvis to help
him find just the right spots and maximize her own pleasure.
 She looked down at him, eyes open again, and she smiled
with pure joy as she mouthed their silent pledge:

//I love you.//

//I love you.//

//I love you.//

Her orgasm started in her eyes, as always, deepening their
color as the pupils dilated even further than they already
were.  Then her body trembled and quivered, and she dug her
nails into his flesh -- he could almost see the climax
coursing through her as she shuddered towards completion. 
He continued stroking her, carrying her through the peak,
that perfect moment when every muscle in her body went
rigid, and seemed about to burst.  Finally, he slowed the
pace, matching the motions of her hips as she gradually
spiraled back down into her body.  At last she came to a
halt and squeezed his hand with her thighs, and Mulder
stopped immediately, not wanting to irritate her
overly-sensitive flesh.

"Mmmm," she murmured, stretching out on top of him once
again.  Her arms snaked around his neck and she pressed a
gentle kiss against his mouth.  "Mulder, that was lovely." 
Another kiss.  "Really, really lovely."  Kiss.  She moved
her hips a little, pressing down against his erection.  "You
just have to give me a minute here, and I'll be right with
you."

"Scully, you don't have to --"

She brought one hand around and pressed her fingertips to
his lips.  "Uh uh," she said.  "You don't get off the hook
that easy."  Her mouth was almost touching his, and he could
feel her warm, moist breath against his cheek.  She pushed
her hands south until they found the waistband of his
boxers, and she slipped her thumbs beneath them.  "C'mon,
G-man.  Lift those gorgeous hips of yours."

Mulder complied willingly, if somewhat painfully due to his
recent injury; his abortive offer to forgo his own pleasure
having been gallant rather than sincere.  It was true that
Dana Scully in the throes of orgasm was an awe-inspiring
sight, and if he really had to make do with that, he could
....

But damn, he was horny.

Now it was Mulder's turn to gasp, as his partner's hand
closed around his cock.  She'd pushed his boxers down to his
knees and apparently decided to leave them there, having
other things on her mind -- and Mulder wasn't about to
object.  Already he felt himself trembling, as she stroked
the length of his erection, starting at the base, working
her way all the way up until her fingertips just barely
brushed the very tip, and then sliding back down again.

He had discovered over the past few months that she was good
at this.  She was really, really good.  One night, as the
result of a somewhat inebriated challenge, she had kept him
on the brink of orgasm for nearly an hour, using her hands
alone.  Stroking, caressing, touching ... she always seemed
to know just where and when to apply pressure, and when to
back off.  And when he finally came -- when she finally
*allowed* him to come -- it was one of the most
earth-shaking orgasms of his life.

But tonight she didn't seem inclined to drag things out
quite so long.  Already she'd risen up on her knees, his
cock firm in her hand.  She smiled down at him, and now it
was his turn to not-say the magic words -- and even as his
lips began moving she was lowering herself, guiding the tip
of his erection to her entrance, and he was slipping inside
her, penetrating her soft, warm humid depths, until finally
he was fully ensheathed.

Again they stayed motionless for a few seconds, looking at
each other, drinking in the emotions in each other's eyes. 
Of all the strange and wondrous things he'd seen in his time
on the X-Files, the expression on Scully's face when he was
inside her was beyond doubt the most amazing.  To know that
it was her ... that it was really, truly her ... that this
wasn't just a dream or a fantasy ... it was the most
profound experience of Mulder's life.  And it only seemed to
get better with time.

Their hips began moving, almost as if they were one being --
and already, Mulder could tell that this wasn't going to
last very long at all.  Scully's hands were gripping his
shoulders again, tightening and relaxing with each stroke. 
The t-shirt that she still wore draped her body, making an
exquisite display of her tight, compact body.  Her lips were
moving, and at first he thought she was repeating their
mantra, but then he realized she was actually speaking, and
by concentrating, he could just barely make out her words
through the hot, bright ball of light that seemed to
surround them.

"Yes, Mulder ... yes ... don't stop ... harder ... more ...
give yourself to me, Mulder ... give yourself to me ... yes,
Mulder ... now ... now ... now ...."

She swooped down on him, capturing his mouth with hers at
the precise instant his orgasm hit.  It burst from the base
of his spine, seeming to travel outwards at the speed of
light, his cock swelling and hardening and then sending hot,
fierce jets into her body.  They clutched at each other as
if they were drowning, and in a sense they were -- drowning
in each other.  Scully's tongue plunged repeatedly into his
mouth, stroking his teeth and gums and his soft palate, as
his hips slammed up to meet hers, and still he was coming
and coming and coming ....

Some distant, unmeasured time later, it was over.  Mulder
was still lying on his back, and Scully -- no longer wearing
the t-shirt -- was curled loosely against his side.  He
didn't remember slipping out of her; he didn't remember much
of anything after she started kissing him.  He simply felt a
profound sense of well-being and contentment -- feelings he
was gradually starting to be accustomed to, thanks to the
loving ministrations of his partner over the past several
months.  He stroked her back, reveling in the way his
fingers slipped through the cooling sheen of perspiration
that coated her skin.

"Hmmm."  Something between a whisper and a hum.  "That feels
nice."  Another long silence, while he continued to pet her
-- but Mulder knew from past experience that her mind was
already beginning to work again.  No falling right to sleep
after lovemaking -- not for Dana Scully.  And sure enough,
after another few minutes, she spoke.

"I did see your handcuffed guy today."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."  She stretched luxuriously, allowing her skin to
slide against his.  "They weren't police handcuffs.  They
were sex toys."  She raised her head and smirked at him. 
"You know -- like they sell in the backs of those magazines
that you don't own and never read."

"Yeah, I know."  He lifted his head to give her a quick
kiss.  "I actually own a pair.  They're over at my place ...
somewhere.  Want me to dig 'em out sometime?"

An arched eyebrow and a sultry smile was her only response,
and then she lay her head down on his chest.  After another
moment:  "Anyway, I saw him, I did a post on him.  The
handcuffs weren't the oddest thing about him, though."

"What was the oddest thing about him, Scully?"

"He suffocated," she said.  "Despite all the burns, he
suffocated.  It's a virtual certainty that he was dead
before the fire even started.  That in itself isn't unusual,
but you'll never guess what I found in his trachea."

"Since you put it that way, I won't even try."

"Condoms," she said.  She raised her head again, and this
time her expression was serious.  "At least two, maybe
three.  *Used* condoms.  He aspirated them.  And *that's*
how he died."

Mulder made a face.  "At the risk of sounding like a
teenager ... gross."

"Yeah," she agreed.  "I sent them off to the lab for
analysis.  We'll see what they come up with."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh.  Well, hopefully there'll be enough semen left to run a
PCR.  That'll tell us whether the man who ejaculated into
the condoms was the same man as the one who aspirated them. 
And if not, it might help us match this man's partner up
against one of the other bodies."  She shrugged and yawned. 
"It's worth a shot, anyway."  Another yawn.  Yep, that was
also part of the pattern.  After she'd talked for a few
minutes, *that* was when the post-sex languor hit her.

"I suppose."  Mulder thought about it a minute.  "Still, it
was probably just an accident.  Maybe he was going down on
somebody, and the condom slipped off.  Could happen,
especially if the other man was a bit on the small side." 
He nudged Scully and winked.  "Not that I'd have any first
hand knowledge of such a thing."

"No, you wouldn't," she agreed with a sleepy-sounding
chuckle.  She gave him a quick hug.  "My hero."  And she
yawned yet again.

"So anyway," Mulder went on, "the rubber slips off, our boy
aspirates it, and his partner panics and runs out on him. 
Stranger things have happened."

"That's true," Scully said.  "They have.  But in this case
there were at least *two* condoms in his throat, and they'd
been glued together.  This was no accident, Mulder. 
Somebody wanted this to happen.  *That's* why it's
important."

"Wow," Mulder replied.  "Glued together?"  He was quiet for
a moment, while he thought about the fire exit doors having
their locks glued shut, wondering if there could possibly be
any connection.  No way to tell at the moment, but
definitely something to keep in mind.  He finally shook his
head, and repeated, "Gross."

But this time Scully did not answer.  Mulder waited,
listening to her breathing and continuing to stroke her
back, until he was sure she was asleep.  He gathered her a
little closer against his side, smiling as she mumbled
something incoherent into his shoulder.  Then he closed his
eyes, and within a matter of minutes he'd followed her into
slumber.

==========END CHAPTER FIVE==========

===========
Chapter Six
===========

FBI Forensic Science Research and Training Center
Quantico, Virginia
Wednesday, August 9, 2000
11:01 a.m.

Scully stood in front of the sink for a long minute, letting
the hot water run over her hands.  They were dry and chapped
from too many washings -- even Mulder had commented on it,
so she knew she wasn't being hypercritical.  Last night and
this morning he'd insisted on massaging her hands and
rubbing them with lotion.  

That had helped a little with the physical discomfort, but
the real benefit had been emotional.  Just having small
attentions paid to her by someone who cared had been a
tremendous comfort.  It was enough to make her wonder, not
for the first time, why she'd worked so hard to keep him at
arm's length all those years.

She had just finished her nineteenth autopsy in a little
over three days.  After a while they'd started to run
together in her mind, despite her best intentions to the
contrary.  Young, old, male, female, white, black, Asian
....  She shook her head.  She had to stay focused.  She had
to remember that she was working with *people*.

Tamara Winston, she recited in her mind.  Eight years old,
from Biloxi, Mississippi.  Visiting her grandparents, who
worked for the Department of Health and Human Services, and
whose bodies, along with Tamara's, were found in their
seventh floor apartment.

Greg Pressler, 37.  The Watergate's night manager.  Married,
three children.  Found on the fourth floor, where he'd
apparently been trying to rescue one of his disabled
tenants.

Lois Thorisson, 48.  American wife of a wealthy Icelandic
businessman.  Husband overseas on the night of the fire. 
Fell to her death from the eighth floor when she tried to
escape the smoke by climbing out a window.  The fire exit
locks on her floor, of course, had been glued shut.

And then there was Mulder's "friend" -- the man in
handcuffs.  Watergate victim #38, remains still not claimed
or identified.  Asian, adult male, with burns on 95 percent
of his body.  Approximate age 60 to 80.  No identification
on his person, and the room he was found in currently not
occupied by any tenant.

That one was the real puzzler, she thought, feeling a little
better as she found her footing once again.  She was a
scientist, and she was a cop.  She could do this.

This morning she'd called David Wilcox, the lab supervisor,
before starting her first exam of the day, wanting to
inquire on the status of the PCR tests she'd requested on
the condoms.  Unfortunately, he hadn't had anything to
report.

"I'm sorry, Agent Scully," Wilcox had said.  "I really am. 
I understand where you're coming from, but I simply haven't
been able to schedule those tests yet."  In her mind's eye
she could see the man running his fingers through his
thinning fringe of gray hair, a look of frustration on his
face.  "We were already backlogged, and there's been an
unbelievable influx from the Watergate -- and we're being
audited *again* next week, God damn it."

Scully could certainly understand that last comment.  The
FBI crime lab had taken a series of bad hits the past few
years, calling into question everything from the validity of
its methods to the integrity of its staff.  Wilcox had been
brought in the previous summer with instructions to clean
house, and from what Scully could tell, he was doing the
best he could.  But it was slow going.

"I understand," she'd said.  "Just ... do the best you can,
okay?  Something's telling me this could be important."

"I know, Agent Scully.  They're all important.  We'll get
those results by the weekend if we possibly can.  That's the
best I can do."  And he'd hung up.

Scully realized that she'd been standing there staring into
space, while water continued to run over her hands, for
several minutes.  She shook herself, shut off the water, and
turned around.  The body of Tamara Winston was gone, and
Jeremy was standing in the doorway, a slightly stunned look
on his face.

"Jeremy?" she asked.  "Is something wrong?  Where's the next
one?"

"N-no," he answered.  "Nothing's wrong."  And then,
unbelievably, he smiled.  "We're done.  There isn't a next
one."

"Done?"  she stared at him stupidly for a moment.  Done? 
How could they be done?  For the past three days her life
had been a seemingly unending succession of dead bodies,
each different, and yet each horribly the same.  She knew
that sometimes forensic pathologists had to deal with
workloads like this.  She'd never in her life personally run
such a marathon, but now that she *was* involved, it was in
some ways almost inconceivable that it could actually come
to an end.

To an end.

"Dr. Scully?"  Jeremy took a tentative step forward, concern
written on his features.  "Are you all right?"

"Y-yeah," she said.  She forced a smile, and discovered that
once she was doing it, smiling actually felt good.  They
were done.  She was free.  She took a deep breath.  "I'm
fine.  Really.  I'm just having a bit of trouble ...
absorbing the fact that it's over."

"I know what you mean," he said, giving her a wry smile.  He
stepped forward into the room and reached out and shook her
hand.  "Dr. Scully, it's been a pleasure working with you."

Scully nodded, her spirits lifting by the moment.  She
wanted to go home, she wanted a long, hot bath, and she
wanted Mulder.  Maybe Mulder could join her in the bath. 
Kill two birds with one stone, she thought giddily.  She'd
have to wrap his cast in something, but--

"Uh, Dr. Scully, there was one thing."  She blinked, and
focused her attention on Jeremy again.  "During that last
case you had a phone call.  One of the secretaries took a
message."  He was holding out a yellow phone message slip,
and saw that the call had come in at a little after 10 a.m.

//A.D. Skinner's office called.  Meeting his office re
Watergate, 2 p.m.  No need to call back.//

Scully sighed, glancing at her watch.  Well, that was going
to blow the afternoon.  She briefly considered calling
Kimberly, in hopes the meeting might be delayed, but
rejected the idea.  She was still on the clock, after all. 
She'd accumulated a lot of comp time the last few days, but
she could use it another day.

"Bad news?"

She looked back up at Jeremy again, and shook her head. 
"Not especially," she said.  "I just have to get back to
Washington."  A thought occurred to her.  "Look, can you do
me a favor?"

"Anything."

"Would you see that the transcriptions of my dictations get
forwarded to my office at the Hoover?  I'd really appreciate
it."

"Sure thing, Agent Scully."

#          #          #

Residence of Dana Scully
Washington, D.C.
1:29 p.m.

At first Mulder isn't sure where he is. Scully's couch? Or
sitting on a park bench?  The details rapidly fill in,
however, as if an invisible artist is still hurriedly
finishing the background.  In a matter of seconds he's
oriented to time and place:  mid summer, the Mall, downtown
Washington.  The Reflecting Pool, where he and Scully used
to meet on occasion, the first time the X-Files were closed
down.

"Is this seat taken?"

He looks around, and is unsurprised to see Melissa Scully
standing a few feet away.  Today she's wearing jeans and a
t-shirt, with a map of Puerto Rico, overlayed by the outline
of a radio telescope, emblazoned across her chest.  A
'Stonehenge Rocks' baseball cap is on her head.

"Not at all," he replies, moving over slightly to make room
for her.  Actually the seat is taken, he thinks.  It belongs
to Scully.  But he figures it's okay if her sister keeps it
warm for a few minutes.

"Thanks."  Melissa sits down next to him, glancing down at
her clothes as she does so.  "I have to say your taste is
improving, Fox.  I didn't really care for the string bikini.
 Tacky.  I haven't worn anything like that since I was a
teenager."

Mulder nods, accepting the criticism without protest.  It
was his dream, after all.  For a minute or two they sit
together in silence.

"You know, Fox, sometimes you're very, very smart, but
sometimes you're pretty dumb."  Mulder looks at her in
surprise.  Somehow he knows that the 'you' includes both
himself and Scully.  She nods, and continues, "It always
amazes me what things you choose to follow up on, and what
things you don't."  Her eyebrow quirks, proving her
membership in the Scully clan.  "And I'm not just talking
about your emotional lives, although *that* was certainly a
mess, too -- until recently."  She glances down at her
t-shirt, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

"What do you mean?"

She sighs in exasperation.  "Think back, Fox.  Way, way
back.  Theater of the mind, you know?  All the cases you and
Dana took on, then dropped like hot rocks as soon as you had
anything remotely resembling closure."

"That's not fair," Mulder objects.  "We ... we did the best
we could.  We *do* the best we can.  But evidence disappears
-- hell, *people* disappear.  Leads dry up, informants
suffer from 'amnesia'."  He glares at her pointedly.  "Other
informants step out of nowhere, deliver a few portentious
and obscure phrases, then disappear again."

"Those are all excuses, Fox," Melissa says severely.  She
peers at him, and Mulder shifts uncomfortably in his seat,
realizing that she's examining his aura.  So this is what it
feels like to know that someone is profiling you.  "There's
almost always more that you can do.  The weird thing is, you
don't seem to mind taking risks.  You just don't take the
*right* risks.  You sit there in some poor widow's home and
urge *her* not to let the matter drop, but --"

As happened at the beach, Mulder is suddenly distracted by a
sense of motion.  He turns his head -- and there are those
children again, the ones from the beach.  They are far, far
down the Mall, so far that he can't really see them --
again, like the day at the beach, when the glare of sun on
water dazzled his vision -- but he knows that they're there.
 And that they're moving closer.  He turns back to Melissa.

"No, Fox," she says, shaking her head wearily.  "I'm not
going to give you the answers.  I can't.  Just watch your
ass, okay?"  Despite the seriousness of the situation, she
apparently can't keep herself from smirking.  "I know you
already watch Dana's."  And she's gone.

Mulder awoke in a cold sweat, and it took him a few seconds
before he realized that he'd been dreaming, and that, once
again, it had been about Melissa Scully.  He lay perfectly
still, breathing as shallowly as he could as he tried to
remember, but all he had was a few fragments, and even they
were quickly fading.  Something about informants and a
widow, and Melissa had accused him of  ... of *something*
....

It was gone.

Mulder swore softly, and struggled to a sitting position. 
He was on Scully's couch, of course.  He'd fallen asleep
there after the air conditioning tech had left.  The TV was
still babbling softly on the other side of the room -- some
soap opera or other.  And the room was, thank you, Jesus,
finally starting to cool down.  The heat wave in Washington
still hadn't broken, and before the tech arrived Mulder had
been starting to wonder if he was going to drown in his own
sweat.

He was also starting to feel better.  His ankle didn't hurt
quite so much today; he'd actually skipped his morning dose
of painkiller, and wasn't doing too badly.  Of course, that
also meant that he was more alert, and that in turn meant
that he was getting restless.  The air conditioner man had
come and gone, and that meant he no longer had to stay put.

He wanted to go for a run.  Or play basketball.  Or
*something*.  Might as well admit it.  He was going stir
crazy.  He'd been cooped up, first in that hotel room, and
now in Scully's apartment, for going on four days now.  He
needed to get out.  He needed to *do* something.

Unfortunately, a lot of physical activity wasn't an option. 
He sighed in annoyance, and tapped the floor with his cast. 
What to do, what to do.  His eye fell on a copy of 'The Lone
Gunman', sitting on Scully's coffee table.  There was a
thought.  If he couldn't exercise his body, maybe he could
at least exercise his mind.  He pulled out his cell phone,
and punched speed dial number three.

#          #          #

Office of Assistant Director Skinner
2:02 p.m.

"Agent Scully, I believe you know Special Agent Griggs of
the ATF?"

"We've met," Scully said, warily eyeing the ATF man.  He was
sitting in the chair Mulder normally used when they were
summoned to Skinner's office, and she found that
subliminally annoying.  His arms were folded across his
chest, and his lips were pursed in disapproval.  Whatever he
was here for, it didn't look like she was going to enjoy it.
 She turned her attention back to Skinner, and sat down in
her accustomed chair.

"Agent Scully," the A.D. said, "Agent Griggs has come to me
with a number of concerns about the events that occurred at
the Watergate Saturday morning.  Rather than allow things to
get blown out of proportion, I thought it best if we handled
this informally, just between the three of us.  Do you have
any objection to that procedure?"

"Sir, if this about the tracheotomy I performed --"

"No, Agent Scully," Skinner interrupted, holding up his
hand.  Griggs stirred in his seat, but the A.D. ignored him.
 "Agent Griggs did raise that issue, but I have pointed out
to him that neither he nor I have the expertise to evaluate
your performance when you're practicing medicine.  I also
contacted the individual's physician at Georgetown, and he
assured me that your action almost certainly saved that
young woman's life.  I think we can dispose of that
complaint."

Skinner paused to glare at Griggs, then turned his attention
back to Scully, and continued, "There are, however, some
questions that need to be answered.  I don't believe this
will take very long, and I have every confidence that you'll
be able to give satisfactory explanations."

"Yes, sir."

"Agent Griggs?"

Griggs nodded and rose from his chair, moving to take a
position that allowed him to see both Scully and Skinner. 
His gaze flicked to Scully, then focused on the A.D.  His
bearing and facial expression reminded her of nothing quite
so much as a ten year old boy full of his own
self-importance and showing off before a teacher.  In spite
of herself, she felt herself begin to relax.

"First," Griggs said, "Agent Scully did not accept the
assignment I gave her, but attached herself to the triage
activity.  This was despite the fact that I had explicitly
told her that triage was adequately covered, and that she
was needed in search and rescue."

Skinner did not speak, but nodded and looked at Scully,
apparently inviting her reply.

"Sir," she said, "when Agent Mulder and I arrived, we did
inquire about triage, and Agent Griggs did state that no
assistance was needed in that area.  However, when he
assigned us to search and rescue, he told us to report to
Special Agent Bothwell, also of ATF, and it was my
understanding that we would then be working under his
supervision."  

Scully paused.  God, she didn't need this bullshit.  She
took a deep breath, and went on, "When we located Agent
Bothwell, he informed us that triage was overloaded.  In
fact, the first words out of his mouth were to ask whether
either of us had any medical training.  I assumed that he
had more current information, and since I believed I had
been assigned to work under his direction, I didn't question
his orders to report to triage."

"That seems fairly straightforward," Skinner commented. 
"Agent Griggs?  Have you spoken to Agent Bothwell on this
matter?"

"No, sir, I --"

"I suggest you do so," the A.D. interrupted.  "Let's move on
to your next point."

Griggs frowned at Skinner for a moment, looking to Scully
like a bull that was annoyed with a fly.  Then he shrugged,
and seemed to dismiss the matter.  "The second issue," he
said, "is that Agent Scully left the crime scene without my
knowledge or consent.  Later, when I tried to contact her, I
was unable to do so."

This time Scully didn't wait for Skinner.  "I have the same
explanation as before, sir," she said.  "The workload in
triage had dropped, I checked with Agent Bothwell, and he
told me I could leave.  As to why Agent Griggs couldn't
reach me, I don't know.  I had my cell phone switched on and
with me, but it never rang."

"I didn't have her cell phone number."

"What number did you try?" Scully asked sharply.  She was
tired, both physically and emotionally, and she was
therefore having to struggle to keep her temper.  "There
were no messages on my home answering machine, and if you
had called the Bureau duty officer, he could have given you
my cell number."  Rising to her feet and speaking to
Skinner:  "Sir, I have to question the legitimacy of this
... this accusation.  I checked out with the agent I had
been assigned to work under before I left, and there is no
evidence other than this man's word that he actually tried
to contact me."

"Are you saying that I'm a liar?"

"Are you saying that I was derelict in the performance of my
duties?"

"Agents!"

There was a moment of silence, while Scully tried to get her
breathing under control.  At last, she said to Skinner,
"Sir, I do not believe that I am being treated fairly. 
Agent Griggs appeared to have a chip on his shoulder about
my participation from the moment I arrived at the site.  His
manner was rude, and his treatment of me was demeaning and
unprofessional.  It had not been my intention to take any
action against him, since we were all under stress that
night, but if this matter is going to proceed --"

"Oh, you'll get your chance to testify, Agent Scully,"
Griggs broke in.  He pulled a folded up newspaper from his
inside jacket pocket, and took two steps forward to drop it
on Skinner's desk.  "And when you do, you can have lots of
fun explaining this.  I won't have ... *underlings*
badmouthing my investigations to the media."  

Scully waited in silence while Skinner unfolded the
newspaper and laid it out flat on his desk.  It was tabloid
style, with the typical oversized headline, but from her
angle she couldn't quite make out what it said.  The A.D.
studied it for a moment, his face expressionless.  At last
he looked up, and turned the paper so she could see.  

The first thing that caught her attention was the word
//A--HOLE!!!//, in large, black letters across the top of
the page.  Underneath that was a subhead:  //Hero Doc Rips
Watergate Cop//  The third thing that drew her eye was a
photograph, grainy but recognizable, of herself.  

Carefully, struggling to maintain her composure, she picked
up the paper and skimmed the story.  It was brief, and gave
an essentially accurate account of the events surrounding
the tracheotomy -- except that the author had taken every
opportunity to make Scully look good and Griggs look bad,
including an implication at the very end that there *might*
have been unnecessary deaths, due to the ATF man's
mishandling of the situation.  She put the paper back down
and once again looked at Skinner.

"Sir, I can assure you that I was not the source for this
story.  I haven't spoken to any reporters about anything
concerning the Watergate."  She looked at Griggs.  "Nor
would I."  Griggs shook his head and started to speak, but
Skinner cut him off.

"Do you know who the source is, Agent Scully?"

"I'm not sure," she said.  It had to be Johnny, the EMT.  He
was the only one who'd witnessed the argument, so far as she
knew.  "I do have a suspicion, but I'd like a little time to
confirm it."

"That seems reasonable," Skinner replied.  "Agent Griggs?"

"I don't believe this."  The man snatched up the paper and
strode briskly to the door, then paused with his hand on the
knob.  "This doesn't end here.  You may be willing to brush
this crap off, but I'm not.  The Bureau's internal affairs
people will be hearing from me."  And with that, he was
gone.

==========END CHAPTER SIX==========

===========
Chapter Seven
===========

Residence of Dana Scully
Washington, DC
Wednesday, August 9, 2000
2:22 p.m.

Today she is Viola again.  It seems most suited to her
mission.  Cesario is in Alexandria.

They hadn't been sure where they would find Mulder and
Scully, or even if they would find them in the same place,
and so for today they've split up.  As soon as she arrived,
however, early this morning, Viola knew that they both were
here.  She'd recognize their auras anywhere.

She's been waiting here all day for her opportunity,
alternately loitering on the street corner and sitting in a
swing on the rusty old swing set in the small park at the
end of the block  Scully left early, only a few minutes
after Viola arrived, but Mulder stayed inside.  At least
some of the time he was asleep, and she toyed with the
notion of going to him, but that isn't part of the plan. 
Not yet.  

And so she waited and watched, imagining what the future
might hold.  She watched as tenants left for work and
mothers took their children for walks and on errands.  She
watched as the handyman worked with a hedge trimmer in the
sweltering heat.  She watched the man in coveralls came and
went, feeling her heart race as she detected Mulder's
presence on him when he left.  She watched.

At long last, her waiting is rewarded.  Mulder comes down
the steps of the apartment building and gets into a van that
pulled up to the curb a few minutes before.  He's wearing a
cast on his foot and using crutches, and she wonders if he
hurt himself at the Watergate last weekend.  If he did, so
much the better.  Cesario will be pleased.

The van pulls away, and Viola hefts her suitcase and leaves
her post.  It never ceases to amaze her how many people will
walk right by her without noticing her presence.  She knows
that the abilities she and Cesario have developed have
something to do with it, but she's watched others who are
out by themselves, people who don't have such an aptitude,
and has seen them being ignored, as well.  Casual passersby
just don't want to get involved.  They don't want to see
loneliness, and that has worked to Viola and Cesario's
advantage more than once.  It will make her entry into Dana
Scully's apartment a breeze.

The building super is home; she detected his presence before
he came to the door.  He's dressed in jeans and an
undershirt, and from his spiky hair and the fact that the
top button of his jeans is unfastened, it looks as if he was
taking a nap.  Viola gives him her best innocent, apologetic
smile, trying to project the persona of a teenage girl.

"Hi.  I'm terribly sorry to bother you, but I've just
arrived in town to visit my Aunt Dana.  My name is Viola
Scully.  I wasn't supposed to get here until this evening
and, well, I don't have a key ...."  

She probes his mind, and finds him soft and pliable.  Just
the slightest //push//, and he accepts her statement without
question, nodding sleepily and reaching for a keyring that
hangs from a hook by the door.  He steps across the hall and
opens Scully's door, standing aside to allow her to enter
ahead of him.  She moves inside, taking in every detail with
one sweeping gaze -- and suddenly, she stops.

There's something wrong here.  She shifts her weight
uneasily in the entryway, moving the suitcase from one hand
to the other.  She can feel Mulder and Scully in this room,
as well as many others, less strongly.  But dominating
everything is a *presence* ... a presence that is not at all
happy that Viola is here.  A presence that's trying to push
her away, exclude her, with a ferocious intensity that she
has seldom experienced.

And then she can see it; she's actually in someone else's
head.  Another woman, standing in this place in the dark at
some time in the past.  Shadows move among shadows, two of
them, and then one raises his hand in her direction, there's
a gunshot, and she's falling --

"Miss Scully?  Are you okay?"

Viola shakes off the vision, and forces a smile as she turns
to face the super.  "Oh, yes," she assures him.  "I'm just a
little tired.  I've had a long day.  I came all the way from
California."  She tastes his mind again, and finds that he's
curious, but not overly so.  Nevertheless, he must be
silenced, in a manner that will not arouse suspicion. 
Fortunately, she has a plan for that, too.

"This is a lovely apartment," she says, setting her suitcase
down and moving farther into the living room.  She nods
approvingly at the sofa, smiling as she detects the raw
sexuality rising from it.  These two are hot; really, really
hot.  She doesn't remember such an inferno from before,
although the desire was there, even then.  Well, well, she
thinks.  Congratulations, young lovers.

She detects motion out of the corner of her eye, and turns
to see that the super has moved over to one of the windows. 
He glances over his shoulder at her, and she lifts her
eyebrow, the way she remembers Scully doing.

"Your aunt mentioned that this window was sticking," he
explained.  "Not that anyone in their right mind would want
the window open the way the weather's been lately."  He
grunts and pushes, and at last the window jumps upward with
a loud *screech*.  He adds, "Yep, that sucker's pretty
stiff.  Gonna have to come back with a little 3-in-1."  He
forces the window back down and turns to face her, unaware
that he's just given her the perfect opening.

"You're very strong," she says, keeping her voice low and
giving the man another //push//.  He blinks in confusion,
and passes his hand across his eyes.  She walks slowly
towards him, until her body brushes lightly against his. 
She can feel in his mind that he wants to step back, but she
gives him still another //push//, and he does not.  "So
strong," she murmurs, running her fingertips up the length
of his arm, from wrist to shoulder.  Then she cups the back
of his head, draws it down, and kisses him.

And it's good; it's so very good.  It's always good.  She
delves deeply into his mind, finds the expected resistance
and brushes it aside as she explores his inner self, with a
callous disregard for any sense of privacy or propriety. 
She's raping his mind, and she knows it, and loves it, loves
this validation of her power of others.

She deepens the kiss, probing his mouth with her tongue and
running the fingers of both hands through his hair.  She
feels his body and his mind tense as he still tries to
struggle against her, but she gives one more //push// -- and
he moans and surrenders, and his arms start to go around
her, one hand sliding down to caress her ass --

She pushes him away, deliberately stumbling away from him
and falling on her back on the sofa.  She looks up at him
with big, round eyes, now projecting terror and violated
innocence as he blinks at her in confused stupidity.  He
takes a tentative step towards her, one hand extended, and
she scrambles backwards on the couch to a sitting position.

"Don't come any closer!"  Tears well up in her eyes. 
"Please ... please don't come any closer.  Please don't hurt
me."

"Wha --"  He blinks again, and suddenly seems to become
conscious of what just happened.  "I ... I didn't ...."  His
voice trails off, and he looks down at the hand that touched
her bottom.  "I didn't ...."

"Please ... please, just go away!  Please ...."  She moans,
curls up into a ball, shuts her eyes, and begins to sob into
her arms.

It doesn't take very long.  She's aware of the man standing
over her for a few seconds, and of the growing horror in his
mind as the full import of what he's done sinks in.  She
suppresses a smile as he moans in despair, and gives him a
//push// ... and then he's moving away, across the apartment
and towards the door.  A few seconds later the door shuts,
and she hears his footsteps receding.  A last sampling of
his of emotions tells her that she's succeeded.  This man
will remember her, and remember her vividly.  But he will
mention their encounter to no one.

Perfect.

She waits another minute or two, wanting to make sure that
he's really gone, then uncurls and rises to her feet.  Her
suitcase is sitting by the door, just where she left it. 
She crosses to the door and fastens the chain, then picks up
her suitcase and moves purposefully towards the kitchen. 
She has a lot to do, and not much time in which to do it.

#          #          #

3:51 p.m.

Scully resisted the urge to slam the door as she stepped
into her apartment.  Mulder might be asleep, and although
she did intend to wake him up if he was, there was no point
in being violent about it.  She paused in the entryway,
briefcase in one hand and laptop in the other, and surveyed
the living room.

She'd half expected to find her partner sprawled out on the
sofa, either asleep or channel surfing, but he wasn't there.
 Probably in the bedroom, then.  She dropped her things by
the end of the couch and headed on down the hall ....

To find that the bedroom was empty, too.  No Mulder.  Shit. 
There was, however, a note sitting on the pillow.  She
picked it up.

//Hey there, G-Woman.  Gone out with the guys for a while;
this place was making me crazy.  Or crazier.  Give me a call
when you get in, and I'll come a-runnin'.//  There was no
signature.  Just a scrawl that no one but Scully would
recognize as the letter "M".

She sighed, crumpled up the note and dropped it in the waste
basket.  This was just great.  After Griggs had left she'd
stayed and talked to Skinner for a while longer about the
situation.  In the end, he'd agreed to give her until Monday
to provide a memo in response to the issues the ATF agent
had raised.  She didn't expect to have a lot of trouble
writing that report, but she wasn't looking forward to it,
either, and she'd been hoping to spend some time with Mulder
to help her calm down.  He was sure to be full of creative
things she could add to her memo, and would probably also
offer intriguing hypotheses concerning Agent Griggs'
ancestry, habits and eventual destination.

She shook her head and walked back down the hallway to the
living room.  One thing for sure, she wasn't going to call
Mulder, despite his invitation to her to do so.  He was
entitled to some time out with his friends, and one thing
Scully had sworn to herself when they became lovers was that
she wasn't going to become clingy, possessive or dependent. 
Mulder would come back when he was ready, and that was going
to have to do.

She found herself standing in front of the refrigerator. 
This morning she and Mulder had finished the orange juice,
and if she recalled correctly there was only about a half a
cup of milk left.  Well, it was better than nothing.  Maybe
Mulder would stop and buy some beer on the way home.

She paused and blinked as she replayed her own words in her
mind.  Home?  This was her home, certainly -- but when had
she started thinking of it as *their* home?  What was really
strange was that she didn't feel restricted or confined at
the thought.  She felt ... comfortable.  Content.  For the
first time in years.

She shook her head again, pushing the thoughts away, and
opened the refrigerator.  As she'd thought, a small amount
of milk and not much else -- but there was a two liter
bottle of diet Coke sitting on the main shelf.  It was open,
and it looked like one glass was gone.  For a moment she
wondered where the hell it had come from, but she was hot
and tired and thirsty, and didn't really seem to matter. 
She'd probably bought it herself and just forgot about it. 
It wasn't beer, but it was the next best thing.  Probably
the best thing, really, since she needed to work on her
autopsy reports.

She poured herself some Coke and took it out into the living
room.  A moment later she was seated on the couch, her
briefcase open on the coffee table and her lap top balanced
on her knees.  Just before she left the Hoover the rough
drafts she'd asked Jeremy to forward to her had arrived,
each one consisting of a printout of the transcript, the
same thing on floppy disk, and copies of the autopsy photos
and background materials on each victim.  

Scully's task now was to review each transcript, correct any
typos, and make whatever changes and elaborations as were
necessary.  The final reports wouldn't be finished for
several weeks -- not until after all the lab results were
back -- but the preliminary reports were due within 48 hours
of the exam.  Scully had been given an extension due to the
volume of posts involved, but she still needed to whip them
into shape as quickly as she could.  *Then* she would have
to tackle the report concerning Agent Griggs.

This was not shaping up to be a fun evening.  But there was
nothing for it but to get to work.  The sooner she started,
the sooner she'd be done.  She took a sip of diet Coke --
wrinkling her nose, because it seemed a little sweeter than
normal -- and picked up the first envelope.

Tamara Winston, the little girl from Mississippi.  Scully
forced herself to examine each autopsy photo, as well as the
copy of a family photograph that had been FedExed from the
field office in Jackson.  Short, curly black hair, jet black
eyes, dark complexion ... a little thin in the face.  Thank
God, she looked nothing like Emily or Samantha.  Performing
autopsies on children was hard enough for Scully without
adding a personal dimension like that.  Fortunately, there
was rarely any need.

She resisted the temptation to skim the report, but read it
thoroughly instead.  There was nothing to be gained by
rushing.  She found half a dozen spelling errors, corrected
her grammar in a couple of places, and inserted a word here
and there to clarify her meaning.  She slipped the floppy
disk into the laptop and entered the corrections, then moved
on to the next one.

An hour later she was still at it, having finished reviewing
five of the nineteen reports, and two glasses of Coke.  She
ejected the floppy disk for the current report from her
laptop, returned it and the other materials to the proper
envelope, and reached for the next one on the stack.

Ah, yes.  Mulder's "handcuff man".  And there was a note
stapled to the outside of the envelope, from Jeremy.

//Dr. Scully:  We finally managed to I.D. this guy.  Raised
enough of a fingerprint to get a match from some old Army
records.  FYI.//

She glanced through the documents Jeremy had included. 
Shinichi Nomura, 77 years old, professor emeritus of
microbiology at U.C. Berkeley, in Washington for a year as a
guest lecturer at Georgetown.  Honorable discharge from the
U.S. Army, 1946, which is how the Bureau had finally
identified him.  

She flipped through the autopsy photos, hoping that they'd
found an old file photo of him somewhere ... and there it
was.  A head and shoulders shot that looked like it had been
taken for a passport or a security clearance.  Round, almost
chubby face, with a fringe of hair even sparser than
Skinner's.  Dark eyes, and a flattened nose.  Pronounced
epicanthial folds ....

Scully blinked, as she suddenly had trouble focusing.  The
man's features blurred, and she realized that her hands were
also shaking.  Her mouth felt dry and cottony, and she was
breathing in short, ragged gasps; she couldn't catch her
breath.  Her heart was pounding in her chest and there was a
ringing in her ears ....

The papers and photographs slipped from her hand and fell,
but when she bent forward to retrieve them she was assaulted
by a wave of dizziness and nausea.  Her laptop slid from her
knees; she tried to grab it and missed, and it clattered to
the floor.  She was cold, and the light in her apartment
seemed to be getting brighter ... brighter ... brighter ...
until she felt as if the sun were falling on her ....

She landed on the floor, but she couldn't remember falling. 
Spots danced before her eyes and the room seemed to be
spinning, faster and faster and faster.  She pushed herself
to her hands and knees, and for a moment she wobbled on all
fours before finally spiraling down into the darkness.

==========END CHAPTER SEVEN==========

===========
Chapter Eight
===========

Residence of Fox Mulder
Alexandria, Virginia
Wednesday, August 9, 2000
5:32 p.m.

"-- so anyway, I told Langly he was out of his fucking mind,
as usual, and Byers even agreed with me for once.  But did
that make any difference?"  Frohike snorted, and pulled the
van to a stop in front of Mulder's apartment building. 
"Here we are.  You sure you don't want me to go up for you?"

"No, I can manage."  In truth, Mulder didn't want Frohike to
have unsupervised access to his apartment.  It wasn't that
he didn't trust his friend; it was just that none of the
Lone Gunmen had any real understanding of the concept of
privacy.  He opened the passenger door and turned around in
his seat to pull his crutches from the back seat.

"At least let me help you carry."  The little man was out of
the van and halfway around it before Mulder had a chance to
reply, and he decided not to fight it.  It really would be
tough for him to carry much of anything while still handling
the crutches.  He was here to pick up a few more clothes,
some books, a couple of files ... all the basic necessities
for an extended stay at Scully's.

Frohike helped him out of the van, and the two of them made
their way up the short flight of steps and into the
apartment building.  The elevator was waiting on the ground
floor; in a matter of seconds, they were moving upwards,
towards the fourth floor.

Mulder heard the music as soon as the elevator doors opened.
 At first he thought it must be the Perkins kids from across
the hall again.  They liked their music, and they liked it
loud.  But as he and Frohike moved down the hallway, it
became clear that the noise was coming from his own
apartment.  It was the Beach Boys, he realized, crooning
about California girls.

What the hell?

He groped in his pocket for the key, aware of Frohike
standing a few feet away, probably as full of questions as
Mulder was himself.  He reassured himself that if there was
someone inside his apartment they pretty obviously weren't
planning an ambush; not with the stereo blasting away like
that.  A good thing, too, since he hadn't carried his gun
since Saturday morning.  Narcotics and firearms don't mix
well.

"You might show a little consideration!"  

Mulder turned abruptly, fumbling his crutches as he did so,
to see Mrs. Ellison, who'd moved into Padgett's old
apartment, standing in her now-open doorway and glaring at
him.  "That thing's been going all afternoon!" she went on.

"I'm sorry," he replied.  "It ... it wasn't deliberate. 
I'll take care of it right away."

He slipped the key into the lock just as the song came to an
end.  He pushed the door open to silence ... and then the
stereo started up again.  It took only a few measures for
him to recognize Cyndi Lauper, belting out that "girls just
want to have fun!"

"That's quite a collection you got there, Mulder," Frohike
hollered above the music, a smirk on his face that said, //I
can't wait to tell Byers and Langly about this!//  "You burn
the CD yourself?"

Mulder shook his head.  "It's not mine."  He flipped on the
lights, and made his way across the living room to his
stereo.  He punched the 'stop' button, and blessed silence
fell once again.

He stood next to the stereo for a minute or two, Cyndi
Lauper's voice still ringing in his ears, and surveyed his
apartment.  Nothing seemed different.  There was the usual
collection of books and magazines on the coffee table.  An
empty pizza delivery box sitting by the computer.  Fish
swimming placidly in their watery home.  The place was
actually a little neater than in years past, due to Scully's
influence.  He glanced at Frohike, who still stood by the
door.

"Trouble?" the little man asked.

"I don't know."  

He opened the tray on his CD player and took out the disc. 
It was a standard recordable CD, with no label indicating
who had made it or what was on it.  Since Mrs. Ellison said
it had been playing all afternoon, the player must have been
set on continuous loop.  A jewel case sat on top of the
player, also unlabeled.  Mulder put the CD in the case and
slipped it into his jeans pocket.  He then stood
indecisively for a moment, still looking around the room.

"Check out the rest of the place?" Frohike suggested at
last.

"Yeah, I guess," Mulder replied, chewing on his lip and
nodding.

There was nothing in the kitchen, and nothing in the hall. 
In the bedroom, however, there was a dead man lying in the
middle of the bed.  He was naked, and there was an ice pick
-- Mulder's ice pick, the one he and Scully had used on
Friday night to break up a bag of ice for their bath, and
left lying on the nightstand -- buried in his throat, all
the way to the hilt.

"Jesus," Frohike muttered.  "Somebody you know, Mulder?"

"No."  Mulder studied the dead man for a moment.  He was of
average height, with average features and an average build. 
His skin was dark and weathered, as if he'd spent a lot of
time working outdoors.  There was a condom loosely hanging
from his now-flacid penis.  

He wasn't completely naked, Mulder noted, taking a closer
look.  A pair of dark blue men's bikini briefs were tangled
around his ankles, suggesting he'd been in a hurry to get
undressed -- or that someone had been in a hurry to undress
him.  The rest of his clothes were scattered on the bedroom
floor -- along with one small pink sock, half hidden beneath
the dead man's trousers.  Balancing on one foot, Mulder used
one of his crutches to hook the sock off the floor and bring
it up to eye level.

"I'm guessing that's not his," Frohike commented.  He
smirked.  "Or yours."

"Too small," Mulder said, preoccupied.  "It's not Scully's,
either."  He winced, realizing that he'd just given his
friend something to think about.  Oh, well.  It's not like
his relationship with Scully was really a secret.  Scully's
mother knew about it.  In fact, they were scheduled to spend
Saturday with her at the beach at Ocean City.  It was just
... private.  He shook his head, forcing his attention back
to the present.  "I suppose I should call Skinner.  And the
cops."

"I suppose," the other man agreed.

He didn't want to do it.  People didn't show up dead in his
apartment for no reason, and Mulder wanted to reserve the
investigation for himself, at least for a little while. 
There might be a connection to some past case, or it might
have something to do with their enemies in the Consortium. 
Could it be a warning?  About what?  His lip quirked as he
thought about the mafia leaving a horse's head in his bed. 
Then his good humor abruptly died, as another thought
occurred to him.

Maybe it had been a mistake.  Maybe they'd been trying for
him, and this guy was just in the wrong place at the wrong
time.

Maybe Scully was in danger, too.

His cell phone rang, and Mulder almost jumped out of his
skin.  He reached for the phone, dropped his crutch, almost
dropped the phone, lost his balance, and sat down heavily on
the edge of the bed -- fortunately avoiding any of the
places where blood had soaked into the sheets and blanket.

"Mulder."

"Is this Fox Mulder?"  A woman's voice, with other voices in
the background.

"Yes."

"Mr. Mulder, this is Gloria.  I'm a nurse in the E.R. at
GUMC.  Do you know a woman named Dana Scully?  We've got you
listed as her emergency contact."

His throat constricted and his mouth went dry, but somehow
he managed to repeat, "Yes."  Deep breath.  Then:  "Is she
... is she hurt?"

"She was brought in a little while ago," Gloria answered. 
"She was found unconscious in her apartment, but the
paramedics were able to rouse her.  I think she's going to
be okay, but she's been asking for you.  And she's going to
need a ride home."

Mulder sat perfectly still for a moment or two, trying to
get his thoughts in order.  She was going to be okay.  Okay.
 She was going to be okay.  He glanced over his shoulder at
the dead body in his bed.  That could wait for a while. 
Scully needed him.

"Mr. Mulder?"  There was a note of impatience in the woman's
voice.

"S-sorry," he said.  "I was distracted.  I'll be there as
quick as I can."

#          #          #

Georgetown University Medical Center
6:11 p.m.

The drive across Washington seemed to take forever, and the
fact that he had to sit passively while Frohike drove wasn't
helping at all.  Throughout the trip, Mulder kept repeating
in his mind that the nurse said that Scully was okay, and
that everything was going to be fine.  She wouldn't have
said that unless she was pretty sure it was true, he
reminded himself, over and over and over.  Two times he
tried calling back, hoping to get more information, but got
left on perpetual hold both times, and he finally realized
he was just going to have to be patient.

Unfortunately, patient wasn't one of his things.

He hit the emergency room door at as close to a run as he
could manage, with Frohike close on his heels.  A nurse who
was washing one of the litters jumped back out of the way,
and an elderly man with a cane tottered precariously -- only
to be caught and steadied by Frohike.  Seconds later, they
were at the check-in desk.  And of course, they had to wait,
as a middle aged African American woman was in the midst of
signing insurance forms.  But at last, they were at the
front of the line.

"My name is Fox Mulder.  I had a call from someone about
Dana Scully?"

The clerk looked uncomprehending for a moment; then the
light dawned, and she nodded.  "Yes, sir.  Ms. Scully is in
Treatment Three."  She pointed to her left.  "Down that way,
turn right, second door on the right."

On down the hall, past a couple of residents sharing an
off-color joke, past a nurse who tried to stop him and ask
who he was.  Frohike stopping to give explanations.  She was
okay.  She was okay.  She was really, really okay.  Around
the corner, first door, second door ... knock and turn the
handle at the same instant --

She was okay.  She was sitting on the end of the exam table,
eyes closed, looking exhausted, while a man in a white coat
pressed a stethoscope against her back.  And she was okay.

"I'm still not hearing anything out of the ordinary," the
man -- the doctor -- said, straightening up.  "Dehydration
is always the first thing we suspect when the weather's like
this, but that didn't check out.  And as I said, the tox
screen and the blood work was all negative.  I saw on your
chart that you've got a history ...."  His voice trailed
off.  Scully's eyes had opened, and it was obvious that he
no longer had her attention.

"Mulder."  She gave a tired smile.

"Hey, Scully."  Mulder stood stock still in the doorway,
trying to swallow the sudden lump in his throat.  She really
was okay.  He moved forward, tucked one crutch under his
armpit, took her hand and squeezed it, and for a moment or
two neither of them spoke.  At last, the doctor cleared his
throat.

"Anyway," he said.  He looked impossibly young to Mulder. 
Much too young and fresh-faced to be entrusted with Scully's
care.  "I'd recommend that you follow up with your
oncologist.  He may want to do a CAT scan, just to be safe,
although I'm guessing he won't find anything.  For tonight,
I'm listing it as a panic attack.  Anxiety."

"A panic attack," Scully repeated.  A statement, not a
question.

"Yes," the doctor replied.  "The symptoms you reported are
consistent with that, and there doesn't seem to be anything
physically wrong.  We don't always know what triggers them,
but --"

"I think I know what triggered it," she said.

"Okay."  Pause.  "If you'd like a referral, I can recommend
a psychologist ...."  Once more his voice trailed off, as
Scully shook her head -- and again, she smiled at Mulder.

"That's okay," she said, giving Mulder's hand a return
squeeze.  "I've already got one."

"Okay."  The man glanced at Mulder, then held out a
clipboard to Scully.  "If you'll just sign your discharge
instructions, you're free to go."  He waited while Scully
scribbled her name at the bottom of the page, then he tore
off the carbon and gave it to her, and left.  Mulder caught
a glimpse of Frohike lurking in the hallway before the door
closed once again.

"So, Scully," Mulder said after a moment.  "What happened?" 
It occurred to him that he should mention what he'd found in
his apartment, but that could wait.

"You heard the doctor," she replied.  "It was a panic
attack."  She hesitated, then went on, "I have them
sometimes.  I've had them for years ... ever since I was
abducted."  She smiled again.  "Not so often, lately. 
Thanks to you."

Mulder nodded, remembering his own nightmares and waking
horrors, and remembering her distress during the session
with Dr. Werber, after the events at Ruskin Dam.  "You said
you know what triggered it," he prompted.

"Yes."  She was quiet again for a minute, and seemed to be
thinking.  Finally:  "I ... I was working on my autopsy
reports, and everything was going fine."  She stopped
talking again, and her grip on his hand tightened.  Mulder
was about to tell her it was fine, forget about it, when she
went on, "It was that man ... the one you found wearing
handcuffs.  They finally identified him, and there was a
picture of him in the file, and suddenly I couldn't catch my
breath, and my heart was pounding, and ...."

After another moment of silence, Mulder asked, "And what? 
Who was he, Scully?"

"He was a Japanese-American microbiologist," she said.  "He
was in his 70s, he served in the army."  She swallowed. 
"Mulder, I think he was one of Them."  Her tone provided the
capitalization, angry and lost and fearful all at the same
time.  Fearful.  Dana Scully was fearful.

"One of them."  Mulder's repeated dumbly, a terrible
constriction in his throat.  He shuddered.  "One of the ones
... one of the ones ...."

Scully nodded, and this time her voice was firmer.  "I think
he was one of the ones who experimented on me."

"Jesus.  After all these years."  He turned abruptly away,
not wanting her to see the horrible expression he knew was
on his face.  Rage.  Rage.  To think he'd actually felt
*sorry* for that fucking son of a bitch --

"Mulder?"

He sighed, and nodded, and carefully suppressed the anger as
he turned back to face her again.  "Sorry," he said.  "Just
... I've got issues."  He forced a smile.  "I'm glad you're
okay."  He meant that in so many more ways than just her
immediate problem.  I'm glad you're here, he thought.  I'm
glad you're in my life, and I'm glad you've let me into
yours.  I'm so fucking glad, I could just cry.

"I know," she said.  "Come here."  She held out her hand,
and he moved back next to her and took it.  "Mulder, I know
how important this is.  It's the first real lead we've had
in years, and we *will* pursue it."  A ferocity had entered
her voice that he'd seldom heard before; now it gentled
again.  "But we'll do it together, Mulder, and it will wait
until your ankle has healed."  He started to object, but she
overrode him.  "We will wait, Mulder.  It's been six years,
and a few weeks to make sure you're at a hundred percent
isn't going to make any difference."

Mulder took a deep breath, and nodded.  "Okay, Scully."  If
there was any case where she was entitled to call the shots,
it was her own abduction.

"And no running off on your own," she admonished, but her
tone had lightened, and it was clear she wasn't really
worried about it.  "When we go, we go together."  He nodded
again, and she smirked, and went on, "Now tell me about your
day.  Did you have fun with your little friends?"

"Uh, yeah."  He suddenly remembered that *he* had things to
tell *her*, and that his day, at least, was only going to
get longer.  She raised an eyebrow at him, and he sighed,
and said, "Actually, it was fine, right up until the moment
that I found a dead body in my bed."

"You *what*?"

Mulder nodded, and gave her a brief summary of what he'd
found at his apartment.

"But ... why would someone do that?" she asked.

"Your guess is as good as mine," he replied.  "Like I said,
I didn't recognize the guy, but it was definitely my ice
pick."  He shrugged awkwardly over the crutches.  "But as to
how, or why ... no clue."

"What did Skinner say?"

"Ah."  Another sticky point.  "I haven't actually got around
to calling him yet."

"Mulder!"

"I was about to," he said.  "Honest, Scully.  I was standing
there thinking about it, and then the hospital called, and,
well, here I am."  That sounded lame, even to him, and he
winced.  He struggled for a moment with the crutches,
looking for his cell phone.  There it was.  Flip it open. 
"See?  I'm calling him right now."  

He hit speed dial number four, knowing that his life was
about to get even more complicated than it already was.

==========END CHAPTER EIGHT==========