Title: Yo Creo Author: Elanor G Email: ElanorG@yahoo.com Distribution: Wherever you wish. I'd be thrilled! Please send me an e-mail, just so I know. Spoilers: Seventh season. Post-ep for En Ami, contains small spoilers up to All Things. Rating: R for language, as well as light sex and violence Classification: X-File Keywords: MSR, Angst Disclaimer: The X-Files is the property of Chris Carter, Fox, et al. I'm writing this simply to amuse myself - and a few others, I hope. Summary: Tensions run high between Mulder and Scully after the events of En Ami. A new lead on Cobra threatens to lead them further into darkness. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx Scully has endured three days of Mulder's sullen, stony anger and doesn't think she can stand it any more. She's not used to him being angry at her for this long, in this way. She hates it. She hates feeling like she's let him down or displeased him. And, most of all, she hates herself for feeling this way. Scully stops pretending to work on the report and rubs her temples. The cursor blinks at her mockingly. Her concentration is shot. Spender's words to her in the car keep coming back to her, painting this absurd picture of herself drawn to powerful men. Just ridiculous, she thinks defensively. But there was a slight truth in it, out of reach but enough to irritate, like an itch under a cast. She hates this most of all. Goddamn Spender anyway, if that really is his name. Goddamn Mulder too. He chooses that moment to stride into the office, a place he's been avoiding these past few days. Scully has tried to use the time to do research and catch up on paperwork, but has not made much progress. She looks up and briefly meets his flat face, then looks back down. Mulder doesn't bother to take off his coat. He stands in front of her and pauses, making Scully wonder what's coming next. From the expression on his face, Scully can see that he's carrying on some kind of internal debate. Scully neither encourages nor discourages him. She merely waits. Finally he spits it out. "The Gunmen detected more e-mail that matches Cobra's signature. We don't have the content, just records of another correspondence over the past seven months." Scully doesn't even want to know how this feat was accomplished. Mulder tosses a file unceremoniously on the desk in front of her. She opens it and sees a photo of an ordinary middle-aged man, dark eyes in a pale face. "Dr. Martin Romero. Former NIH scientist. Author of innocuous consumer guides to health care as well as some rather controversial books exploring the connection between immunity, viruses, and, uh, cancer." Scully nods, familiar with his work. "And now CEO of HealthQuest Online," she says. HealthQuest was one of those sites that offered discount prescriptions, advice from certified physicians, and patient chat rooms. "They just went public last year." Mulder nods as well. "Making Dr. Romero another dot-com millionaire. But money can't buy everything." He tosses something else in front of her, this time the Style section from The Washington Post. He has circled the Style Plus! column, glorified gossip about D.C. elites. The lead paragraph: a charity function for the American Cancer Society with a glittering set of speakers - none more poignant than special guest Teresa Romero, brave wife of HealthQuest CEO Martin Romero, herself in the middle of her own fight with cancer. "She's in serious condition at Georgetown right now, probably dying. She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer a year ago," says Mulder. Is it Scully's imagination, or does his voice trip over the words? "I think we need to pay Dr. Romero a visit. He lives just over in Alexandria. Are you ready to leave now?" he asks curtly. "Let's go," answers Scully, matching his tone. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx They ride in tense silence. The warm late spring weather has given way this week to chill gray dampness. The Potomac River is swollen from nights of rain. George Washington Parkway lies just a few feet from the dark water. Mulder drives smoothly along its curves - Scully imagines that he could drive this route in his sleep. She glances over at Mulder once or twice. Today his eyes are the same color as the gray sky. They pass through Mulder's own modest Alexandria neighborhood, a cluster of low brick apartment buildings just beyond the airport. He maneuvers expertly through the narrow streets of Old Town. Scully looks out the window at the gentrified rowhouses, the antique stores, the spring flowers bent in the cold rain. Spender's words are still rattling around in her head, no matter how hard she works to push them out. She is furious with herself for letting him get to her. Why am I letting what he said bother me, she wonders impatiently. Why am I still dwelling on a few cruel words from that corrupt old man? For the past few days she has carried on this stern interior monologue, with little success. Because the small truth in his insinuating words has crept past her defenses. And rankles. And hurts. She wonders if they know about Daniel. Probably so - they know everything else. Once, just thinking about this would have sent her into a spiral of shame and guilty panic. Now it just makes her tired. Mulder's voice startles her. "You've read some of Dr. Romero's work?" "I've read *about* it." "You think he's a crackpot." It's not a question. "Well..." Why does she feel as if she's being challenged? "There's a lot we don't know about cancer. Some can be attributed to environmental factors, some to genetics, even some to viruses. But Dr. Romero has declared that viruses cause *all* cancer. He posits an elaborate colony of viruses within us, some harmful, some benign. According to him, even environmental cancers like lung cancer are actually caused by viruses that have been activated by external factors. Such as toxins or cigarette smoke." Mulder takes his eyes from the street to spare her a brief look. Perhaps that was a bad example, Scully thinks. "And," she continues, "He also says that the way to fight cancer - the way to fight all disease - is basically to introduce more of the so-called 'good' viruses into an affected system in order to they can fight the 'bad' viruses." "Sounds like vaccination. That's not so far fetched." She shakes her head. "Mulder, it's completely different. He's talking about viruses actually doing battle with each other. Come on. He couldn't have published these theories if he didn't have money to burn. It's fringe science in the worst sense of the term. He was a respected author and researcher until he decided to indulge himself with these messianic claims of miracle cures." "Seems like only yesterday that you were swallowing messianic claims of miracle cures," says Mulder. "But today, you lump it all together with witch doctors and snake charmers and New Age healers with crystals." Where did that come from? "That's not fair, Mulder." She speaks to the window. Mulder gives her another dark look before returning his concentration to the wet pavement. They spend the rest of the ride in silence. Scully has no idea how to react to Mulder's anger and hopes it will evaporate soon. Even his sarcasm comes as a relief. Anything but his silence. And it's a shame, because things between them have been particularly good recently - despite of, or perhaps because of, the tragedies of the past few months. "Things between us" has always been her favorite euphemism for their relationship, because she can never think of a better phrase to explain it. Scully feels she deserves some of Mulder's rage, God knows, but how much? She feels her own resentment and anger at Mulder grow. They have been in this same situation with their roles reversed, after all. How many times has Mulder hurled himself alone into a reckless, ruthless pursuit of the truth? She is tempted to brood, but they are nearly there. They have work to do. She attempts to shake off her dark emotions and thoughts and prepare herself for meeting this Dr. Romero. Just a few more blocks, and they are at Custis Landing: one of several pricey new townhouse developments just on the edge of the river and next to Jones Point Park, each house probably worth several million. Their genteel stone and brick facades unsuccessfully imitate the 18th century homes in the surrounding neighborhood. Only a thin concrete walkway separates them from the surly Potomac. A few homeowners have moored their boats here. Scully briefly wonders if they have adequate flood insurance to have such luxurious homes idiotically close to the water. They park and walk along the faux cobblestone street to Dr. Romero's townhouse. Scully must move quickly to keep up with Mulder's long steps. 12 Cardinal Lane is at the end of the development, it commands a sweeping view of the river and the tree-filled park. Pansies in an antique planter decorate the stoop. The wind from the river is wet and biting. Mulder rings the bell once, then again with visible impatience. Finally they can make out shuffling sounds behind the door. The door opens and Dr. Romero peers out. "Yes?" he asks in a flat, uncaring voice. "Can I help you?" He looks as if he were the sick one instead of his wife. His black eyes are bleary, his face puffy and tired. Scully remembers Dr. Romero's photos on the back of his books - calm, healthy, smiling, the picture of competence and sensitivity. "Dr. Romero, I'm Agent Mulder from the FBI." They both display their badges. "And this is my partner Agent Scully." Dr. Romero starts a bit but says nothing. "We're very sorry to trouble you." Mulder has smoothed out the rough edges of his impatience and anger and uses his most soothing, understanding tone. "We have reason to believe you may have exchanged e-mail with an individual involved in a current investigation. May we speak with you for a few minutes?" Dr. Romero hesitates. Then, "Yes. Certainly. I don't know how much help I'll be, though. I just got back from the hospital, I'm beat. Please come in." He pulls the door open and lets Mulder and Scully step into the marbled foyer. Scully takes in her surroundings - very tasteful, except for the vaguely Art Deco chandelier that dangles so low it almost brushes Mulder's hair. "Follow me," Romero says, padding down a short hallway in stockinged feet. They emerge in a large room with lofty cathedral ceilings and enormous windows. The spectacular view encompasses the river and the woods. The Woodrow Wilson bridge crosses the Potomac in the distance, part of the Beltway that joins Virginia to Maryland. The drone of its traffic can be heard as a faint whisper. Scully and Mulder survey the room quickly - again, quite tasteful. An archway leads to a large dining room. Expensive-looking abstract art adorns the walls. A grand piano occupies one corner, and Scully edges closer to get a better look at the photographs sitting on top. A few old sepia- toned family photos, but mostly the doctor and a dark, striking woman who must be his wife. Scully hopes they get this over with quickly so they can leave this man with his grief. Dr. Romero sees Scully studying the photos. "That's Teresa," he says. "She plays that thing, I can't carry a tune in a bucket. I got it for her last Christmas. I found this place for her." He indicates the room, the view, with a sweep of his hand. "She loves the water." He had met them at the door cloaked in numb depression - now it has been replaced with something agitated and skittery that Scully can't put her finger on. "Beautiful damn place, isn't it? Beautiful damn place." 'We're very sorry about your wife, sir," says Mulder softly. "We hate to intrude, but if you could answer a few questions for us." Dr. Romero shrugs. "Are you familiar with the name 'Cobra?'" Dr. Romero purses his lips, shrugs again. "Should I be? Is it the name of a person, a boat, a sports car, what?" "'Cobra' is the alias of a government researcher that we believe has been corresponding with you for several months - or attempting to correspond. Several messages with his signature also bear the signature of a private account that belongs to you." "I'm very sorry, but I've never heard of anyone with such a name. I keep in touch with many people, many former colleagues, through e-mail but I'm afraid I don't know anything about this Cobra." He straightens up and seems to muster some lost dignity and strength. "And frankly, I must say I find this inquiry disturbing. The idea of federal agents tracking my e-mail troubles me. It seems unethical if not illegal. I wonder if I should contact my lawyers." "We have not been tracking your personal e-mail, Dr. Romero," Scully assures him, speaking for the first time. "But there is a possibility that someone else has been tampering with it. Your incoming messages may have been intercepted and replied to by a third party, without your knowledge or consent." He sits down and rubs his tired face. "This is outrageous. Outrageous," he murmurs. "Outrageous, but possibly true," says Mulder. "We need you to think, Dr. Romero. Have you received any disturbing or unusual messages over the past several months? It may have been something you dismissed as a prank, or junk mail. Strange people hanging around your neighborhood. Weird phone calls. Anything, even if it seems trivial." "You're not giving me much to go on," says Romero, staring at the floor. "Dr. Romero, we realize this is a very bad time for you," says Scully, "but your personal safety may be compromised. It's important that you be honest with us." She doesn't want to tell him that Cobra is dead, she does not want to frighten him. At least not yet. Suddenly Romero looks up and stares at Scully as if he has never seen her before. It makes her distinctly uncomfortable. "Forgive me. Are you...are you *Dr. Dana* Scully?" "Yes," she answers warily. She gives him an expectant look: And you are familiar with my name because...? Romero avoids her eyes, fidgets. "I, um, I remember the paper you coauthored on the Van Blundht case a few years back. The Journal of Genetic Abnormalities, wasn't it?" Scully knows this is a blatant lie. An obscure paper in an obscure medical journal has not exactly made her a household name, even among the medical profession. She lets it drop for now. "Is there anything you can tell us, anything at all?" His agitation grows and he tries, poorly, to disguise it. "I...I really can't. This is all a bit much." He stands and runs a hand through lanky black hair. "Would you excuse me for a moment, please? Headache. I just need to get something for it. Please wait here," he adds. "I'm sure there's something, I just need a moment to get my thoughts together." They watch as he retreats hurriedly down the hall. His footsteps are light on the carpeted steps. Mulder inhales deeply. He turns to the huge windows and looks out at the sweeping expanse of gray water. His arms are crossed, he is very much contained inside himself. "Nice view." "Mulder, we have to take this man with us. His life is in danger." Scully moves toward the impressive stone fireplace and studies more pictures of Teresa Romero. Glossy black hair and enormous brown eyes, startling in her pale face. A relaxed smile that contrasts with her fine, sharp, aristocratic features - Scully remembers vaguely that she comes from a wealthy and prominent Peruvian family. Some of the capital for Dr. Romero's business came from her. One more picture of Teresa Romero completes the collection, more recent than the rest. She is sitting on the stone patio of this very house, enjoying the sun. A bright scarf is wrapped jauntily around her head to disguise the fact that her hair is gone. She has lost at least twenty pounds, weight she could not afford to lose. Waves of conflicting emotions wash over Scully: grief, anger, pity. She experiences a kind of shameful relief, but it is quickly replaced with a tight knot of dread in her belly. She wants desperately to leave. "What do you think Cobra would want from Romero?" she asks. Mulder still does not look at her. "Money. Advice. A sounding board for his ideas." Scully moves away from the fireplace. "Mulder...what if it's the other way around? Perhaps it's not like my... situation at all. Romero's hiding something. Perhaps it's Romero who wanted something from Cobra. Maybe *he's* the one who instigated the contact somehow. Romero wants something just as badly as Cobra does...maybe more." "More badly than you wanted, Scully?" asks Mulder quietly. He turns and looks Scully squarely in the eye. She doesn't flinch. His expression is very still and blank - knowing Mulder, this could represent any one of a number of strong emotions. "It's entirely plausible. Cobra was desperate for help - Romero is desperate for a cure. I can understand making risky decisions, bad choices if the prize is that great." How exactly did this conversation return to her - to them? Mulder bewilders Scully, even more than usual. And the feeling is probably mutual, she realizes. "Mulder, look..." she begins, but doesn't have a chance to finish. Romero is standing in the archway that leads to the dining room. In his right hand he aims a small gun at Mulder. In his left he holds a scalpel. Dammit. There must be a service staircase in the kitchen. While she and Mulder were embroiled in conversation, Romero must have crept down the back way. Excellent work, agents. "Agent Mulder," says Romero shakily, "stay where you are. Come with me, Dr. Scully. I don't want to hurt anyone but if you don't come with me I'll shoot your partner. I will. I've got nothing to lose. You have something in you that my wife needs. Come with me please." "Dr. Romero, you're not thinking clearly. This won't help anyone," says Scully. Her heart races and the skin on her neck tingles. She imagines she can feel that tiny, tiny device beneath her skin itching and burning. "So you're going to trade one life for Teresa's?" asks Mulder. "It's not that simple. It won't work." Mulder holds his hands away from his body, using nonthreatening body language. His voice is hypnotic and smooth. "I understand how desperate you feel. I understand more than you know. But this is not the way. Is this what your wife would really want? A life sacrificed for her own?" "I don't care," whispers Romero. His hands tremble. "He was supposed to get more chips. He was supposed to send me more. He never did. After all I did for him. I don't know where he is now." "He's dead," says Scully. "He was shot to death in front of me. I was nearly killed myself. He tried to betray some incredibly dangerous people and he was killed for it. You're in even greater danger. Put down your weapon now and let us help you." Then she walks carefully toward Romero. "Scully," hisses Mulder. Still she walks until she is barely three feet in front of Romero, until she stands between his gun and Mulder. A bizarre calm has settled on her. A small voice tells her that tells her how risky and stupid this is, but she ignores it. "You seem to know more about this thing than I do, but do you really understand it?" she asks calmly. She touches the spot on her neck with her left hand. Romero blinks and tears form in his eyes. "It's saved my life, and I'm glad of it. But it comes at a high price. I'm not just talking about losing my own life, even though it's valuable to me. Have you thought about the price you and your wife would pay if you gave this to her? Ask yourself. Are you willing to accept this alien presence in your lives?" Romero shakes violently. "I just...I just want her to live," he chokes. "Oh God." He drops his hand, pointing the gun at his feet. The scalpel clatters to the floor. Swiftly, firmly, gently, Scully disarms him. The weapon is heavy and well-balanced in her hand, a expensive toy. She kneels and retrieves the scalpel. From the corner of her eye she sees Mulder exhale. And Romero is still standing, staring at the rich rug. Thick sobs escape his lips. "Oh God. Oh God. I don't know what came over me. I'm so sorry. You don't know." He is no longer a threat to them - he never really was. Neither Scully nor Mulder make further moves to touch him. Still he stands and sobs. Carefully Mulder asks, "How do you know about Agent Scully?" Romero exhales a short, bitter laugh. "Oh, she's quite the famous case study in some circles." The cold fearful knot returns to Scully's gut and sends icy tentacles through her body. For a moment Mulder's face twists in sick fury, before his still mask falls back into place. "Dr. Scully is very well known in...the literature of the subject." "What subject might that be?" Scully manages to ask. Her voice sounds far away and choked. "You really are in the dark, aren't you," says Romero curiously despite his tears. "You don't realize how rare you are." He wipes his eyes. "God. He promised me he would use the research to manufacture more chips. Or at least try to replicate their essence, the substance that they release into the body." Substance? Scully tries not to react visibly to this image - the thing in her neck releasing a steady stream of - what? - into her system. "You have to come with us now, Dr. Romero," says Mulder. "Cobra is dead. I think you knew that. They killed him to keep his knowledge a secret. You might be next." Mulder fixes him in his intense gaze. "You have to tell us everything." Romero looks blearily from Mulder to Scully. "Nothing was helping Teresa. The entire resources of the American medical establishment at my command - worthless. She got worse every day. I put feelers out. I was desperate. The man came to me for money. He proposed a collaboration. His work was sound. Guess he wasn't careful enough. Never called himself Cobra to me. God. Stupid bastard must have watched too much James Bond." Romero loses his battle to keep his composure, he begins to break down again. "That was my last chance. That was it." Tears flow freely down his face. "Come with us," says Scully. "We can protect you from the men who killed him." She hopes she is telling the truth. "Do you think I care what happens to me now," Romero mutters. "Teresa's suffering. But I'm the one who has to watch. It's harder to be the one that's left behind." He shuffles forward a bit toward the window, drawn to the darkening day outside. A terrible thought occurs to Scully. Her eyes meet Mulder's - it has also occurred to him. This is not a good idea. Mulder reaches out a hand to steer him away from the window. What happens next unfolds with slow, surreal clarity. Romero jerks once, twice, before falling heavily to the floor. Scully hears the slight crunch of broken glass before she sees the impact of the bullets. Two perfect holes in the window now mar the view. Scully drops behind a couch. Mulder scrambles away from the window and crouches next to it. They have both futilely drawn their own weapons. Romero's blood begins to pool on the polished floor. He stares resignedly at the ceiling. Scully crawls toward him, staying low. She has slipped into her shell of cool professionalism and keeps away the frightening thought that this man, her last chance for answers, is slipping away from her. Mulder dares a quick glance out the window. "Do you see anyone?" Scully asks. "No. No one on the river. Could be someone in the park, behind those trees." Scully's attention returns the dying man before her. With his free hand, Mulder draws out his cell phone. Scully only half-listens as he gives his badge number, requests backup and an ambulance. He crawls next to Scully. "How is he?" he asks. Scully only shakes her head. She fears his lungs have been punctured. He could drown in his own blood. And the frightening head wound... "Stay here with him," says Mulder unnecessarily. He starts toward the front door, keeping low. "Where the hell are you going?" asks Scully, incredulous. "Wait til backup gets here!" "That'll be too late," he snaps. "Dammit Mulder!" But he's already gone. She tries to control her fear and anger. What good does he think this futile gesture will bring? Briefly she imagines Mulder riddled with bullets instead of Romero - she pictures herself crouching over Mulder's body the way she crouches over Romero now. She thrusts the horrific image away and forces herself to focus. It's harder to be the one that's left behind. She dare not leave this man, he could still be saved, he could still give them answers. This can't all be for nothing. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX Mulder moves swiftly down the trail through the park. Trees drip with rain, their bark black and wet. He is very familiar with this path along the river - it's one of his regular running routes. Over the years, over many hard and punishing runs, Mulder has memorized every turn, every fallen tree and overgrown bush. His senses heightened with adrenaline and anger, he scans the undergrowth along the trail for anything out of the ordinary. An unfamiliar shape draws his eye and he leaves the path. He picks his way through dead wet leaves and dripping branches until he is only a few feet from the muddy shoreline. It takes Mulder a moment to see the body in the mud behind a large rotting log. It blends well into the browns, grays, and blacks of the day. Only when he draws close can he see the shattered head, the darkening blood. The mud sucks at Mulder's shoes as he walks to the body. From what he can tell, the man was blond. The head is slightly twisted, revealing a pale blue eye staring into the mud. Jeans, sneakers, an all-weather jacket. The barrel of an impressive rifle is nearly hidden underneath the body. Its black metal gleams dully in the brown mud. Mulder thinks furiously and scans the shoreline and the woods behind them. This patch of mud forms a small point, with an excellent view of the townhouse development. Here is where the man shot Romero - he had a perfect line of sight to his window. Mulder looks but can't see Scully from here. The mud is full of indistinct footprints, too many and too different to belong to one man. Only one set leads back to the woods. Whoever assassinated the assassin had the sense to retrace his footsteps. There was no way he could have gone past Mulder and escaped into the townhouse development and the neighborhood beyond. Only one direction to take. He races back to the path. Mulder emerges from the woods near a soccer field and parking lot at the south end of the park, in the shadow of the looming Wilson bridge. A few men fish from the little fishing dock. A group of local Salvadorans play a half-hearted soccer game; a small crowd of spectators huddles forlornly in the drizzle. Two little girls chase each other giggling around the parking lot. No one seems to notice Mulder running through the grass. He stops one of the girls. She is perhaps eleven, her jet hair pulled into a ponytail. Mulder towers over her like a giant and she returns his gaze apprehensively. He bends down to be a bit closer to her level. The other girl busily continues to splash puddles. "Don't be afraid," Mulder says, and despite his size and fierce eyes the girl is not afraid. "Sweetheart, did you see a man come this way? Did he come from over there?" He points at the trail head. The girl's face is uncomprehending and Mulder with a sinking feeling realizes that she may not understand his language. He casts about desperately for his high school Spanish - languages are one of the few things that have never come easy to him. "Un hombre?" He gestures again, helplessly. Recognition dawns in her liquid dark eyes. "Un hombre vestido en negro. Estaba fumando." She points away. At the far end of the parking lot, near the entrance to Jones Point Park and directly under the bridge, is the old Army Reserve building. Behind it sits an abandoned steam plant, an empty shell of red brick, surrounded by a tall rusted fence and a moat of weeds and old trash. Huge broken windows stare blankly into the gathering dusk. The girl points to this. Mulder jogs toward the crumbling structure. He reflects only briefly on the questionable wisdom of pursuing the shooter into this hole without backup - oh, how Scully would harp if she could see him now. Scully. A wave of anger distracts him as he runs. Goddamn her anyway. How many times had she refused to take off her blinders and acknowledge the truth dangling before her eyes? Evidently she just needed the right bait, thought Mulder bitterly. She picked a fine time to get in touch with her credulity. He pulls himself easily over the fence and lands with a plop on the muddy grass. Gun drawn, Mulder edges around the old plant. Odd pieces of rusted metal litter the yard. The boards that once covered the door have been pulled off by determined vandals. He crouches behind a pile of timber, pauses to collect himself and his racing thoughts. Scully, I want to understand what you believe: a just God, a miracle cure, a chance at redemption for an evil man. For years, Mulder wanted her to believe. Yet when she did believe, too often he found it baffling and upsetting. He admits this to himself with some shame. Forgive me Scully, Mulder thinks. I try to understand what you believe, I really do, but I fail. He pushes the image of her face away and pares down his extraneous thoughts and emotions into a hard sharp edge. He has no choice but to follow this trail. Mulder sucks in a breath and steps into the gloom. Despite all the windows, the space inside the plant is surprisingly dark. Rusted metal stairs twist up in several directions, blocking the light. Piles of junk and discarded machinery fill the central space. The fishy smell from the river and the smell of old mildewed brick are overpowering. Warily Mulder circles the room, looking up and around. Nothing. He takes a careful step up one flight of stairs. Is that a slight, stealthy noise from above? He turns quickly towards it, but in the gloom he doesn't see a twisted metal strut jutting out from the wall. With a solid crack it connects with Mulder's forehead. He bites back the string of gasps and curses that threaten to bubble up and touches his throbbing forehead gingerly - his fingers come back sticky with blood. Irritated at his own clumsiness he continues up the stairs. At the first landing he stops and tenses, every nerve jangling in alarm. The acrid smell of cigarette smoke overwhelms every other odor. A figure stands on a landing above him, looking out the shattered window and smoking distractedly. Gray light from the fading day illuminates his plain face. Mulder takes aim at his head. The figure neither moves nor looks at him. "Agent Mulder," says Spender pleasantly. "I should kill you where you stand," says Mulder. "I don't think you will," he answers in a mild and reasonable voice. Spender - Cancer Man - whatever the hell his name is - finally turns away from the window. He looks terrible, gray- faced and gaunt. Scully was right about his illness, Mulder thinks. If he is armed, he keeps it well concealed. "That's a nasty cut you have there. You really ought to have someone look at that." Still Mulder keeps his gun trained on Spender's head. "We're not going anywhere until you tell me what I want to know." "And what exactly might that be?" "You *know* what. Why you killed that man on the path. Why you killed Romero. Why you tried to destroy Scully and me. And my sister. I know you're behind it all. I know it. Don't bother to pretend otherwise." Mulder's voice shakes a little. "As usual you toss around a great many accusations for which you have no proof. I don't know what Agent Scully's been telling you - " Mulder's knuckles whiten " - but my ultimate goal is not to kill you or your partner. Far from it. I have taken great pains to ensure that you both remain alive, no matter how...inconvenient you prove." "Coulda fooled me." "I should have guessed we would run into each other today. Great minds think alike, you know." "We can stand here until you decide to talk." Mulder says with a sudden dangerous smile. His voice echoes against the brick walls. "I'm in no hurry." "I doubt very much you want to hear real answers," Spender answers sharply. "Would you allow a single man to unleash unimaginable power upon an unsuspecting world? Surely you can imagine the consequences. Does one man's grief outweigh the good of the planet? Does one life?" "I see. Have to break a few eggs to make an omelet." "How little you understand, despite your formidable intellect. You fail to grasp the larger picture, as always. I am a public servant. I have only ever had the good of this nation - indeed, this planet and its people at heart." "You're a real humanitarian." The frightening part is that Spender really does see himself that way, Mulder thinks. And at that moment, Mulder understands Scully completely. The man standing before him smokes calmly, perfectly assured of the righteousness of his cause. The path behind him is piled high with corpses, but he is convinced they were all necessary sacrifices. Of course Scully saw a glimpse of frustrated good in this monster, a flicker of regret. It's not that she *wanted* to see it - she *had* to see it, for the sake of her own sanity. To understand this man fully is to step on the edge of madness. And with a sickening jolt, Mulder thinks how close he once was to becoming Spender: Consumed with a bitter obsession. Blind to the destruction left in his wake. Convinced of his unerring rightness. On the outside of humanity looking in. The vision passes and Mulder gratefully comes back to himself. Because of Scully he did not become that man after all. Because of her the truth is tangible. "It's a tempting idea, to hold the answers to all human suffering in the palm of your hand," Spending is saying. "I understand the temptation. And so does your partner." Mulder chooses to ignore this. "Why did you kill the man on the path?" he asks again. "It is unfortunate, but if left unsupervised, the man who killed Dr. Romero would have very easily dispatched you and Scully. I have no desire to see you finished off in such a fashion." "I'm out of patience with your lies, Spender." Spender looks perturbed at the interruption. "Believe what you will. But I saved your lives today, Agent Mulder. I have saved Agent Scully's life many times over." Mulder releases a short, bitter laugh at the man's brazenness. "After you put her in danger in the first place." Spender crushes his dying cigarette beneath his foot and switches track. "I haven't had a chance to offer you proper condolences for your mother," he says casually. "We are not talking about my mother." A trickle of blood from his cut drips near Mulder's left eye. He wipes at it impatiently. "I can still vividly picture the summer I first met her, out on the Vinyard," Spender goes on, glancing out the window again. "A lovely woman. Yet troubled. I wonder if you ever realized how lonely she was. Probably not: the young are oblivious. Renounced by her family for marrying outside the religion. Barely tolerated by Bill's cold, narrow-minded WASP Establishment family. Bill himself gone much of the time, buried in his work. She needed a friend." He regards Mulder with small shrewd eyes. For a moment Mulder's heart freezes. Then he chuckles. The spell is broken. Spender looks disconcerted. "You're pathetic," Mulder says with quiet triumph. "You keep trying to get at me through my family, but that won't work any more. You can't touch my family. They're all beyond your grasp now. You can't dangle my sister in front of me any more. You can't hold *anything* over me any more." "Oh really." Spender expertly lights another smoke. "It seems to me that now you are more vulnerable than ever." He almost seems to pity Mulder. "You clutch your fragile treasure so tightly that you risk letting it fall from your grasp. Yet at the same time you are quite blind to its value. You hoard her like a miser. You will not let yourself enjoy her, yet you are determined to keep her exclusively to yourself." Mulder blinks. Oh, he's good. He knows how to choose the right words, words that worm their way through heart and mind like thin ribbons of black slime. But he doesn't realize that they're too late to do any damage. Now Spender's words glance off Mulder like dull-tipped arrows. "Very pithy. Maybe you should submit something to one of those Chicken Soup for the Soul books. Or Reader's Digest. They're always looking for new hacks." Something about this seems to stick in Spender's throat. He fixes Mulder with a cold, heavy- lidded glare. "So. What now? Are you going to kill me now and get it over with?" The idea of executing the sick, unarmed old man is tempting yet revolting. Mulder does not answer but tightens his finger on the trigger. "It wouldn't make a difference anyway," he consoles Mulder. "I'm already dying, didn't Scully tell you? Wouldn't you rather I die a death of slow torment? You'd be doing me a favor if you put me out of my misery now." "Shut up." "Then again, murdering an unarmed man might finally bring your checkered law enforcement career to an end." Puff. "I know that you and your partner still have many questions unanswered. If you kill me here, now, many answers will die with me. I am the last link. Do you really want to risk that?" No answer. "I thought not." Spender smirks slightly and turns as if to walk away. Mulder finds his tongue. "I don't think we're finished here." "You're not actually contemplating *arresting* me, are you?" He is briefly incredulous. Then he sighs tiredly. "How absurd. You have neither the evidence nor the authority, Agent Mulder. Very well." Spender puts his hand in his pocket. Mulder steps closer, his eyes glinting. Spender gives him a deprecating smile and pulls out his hand very, very slowly. He opens his fist to reveal a pair of small white pills. "This is a form of aconite. Quite deadly. It offers a painless and speedy death. If you decide to be a Boy Scout and attempt to take me into custody, I will not hesitate to take my own life." "What, with a pair of Tic Tacs? Death by minty freshness? Spare me." Spender shrugs and tosses the pills on the concrete floor. "Ask Agent Scully about them if you don't believe me. I assure you I have plenty more concealed on my person." He must have been a snake charmer in a previous life, Mulder thinks, briefly paralyzed with rage and indecision. All of his lies have a small truth embedded inside. Spender holds Mulder's gaze with his own. "I can't say I'm thrilled at the prospect," he says. "I would rather not cut my remaining time short. I still have some goals to accomplish. But I do not fear death. Not at all." The whine of a distant siren reaches their ears. Spender's face is still, but is there something like worry behind his heavy-lidded eyes? "What are you afraid of then, Spender?" Mulder asks softly. He snorts. "Fear has nothing to do with it." "You *are* afraid, aren't you?" asks Mulder with a small grin. "You'd rather die than risk exposure. Yeah, that's what frightens you. Boy, you've really come down in the world. You used to be untouchable. Now look at you - reduced to skulking in abandoned buildings, doing your own dirty work. Making empty threats. How does that feel? It must be terrifying for you not to be in control any more." He gives a humorless chuckle. "I know your name now, Spender. I know what you've done. You're not afraid of death? Oh, don't worry. I won't let you off that easily." Mulder waves his gun dismissively. "Get out of my sight. I'm sick of looking at you." Spender's eyes widen briefly - it's very likely no one has ever spoken to him like this before. He starts down the other staircase. Mulder watches him go. "I know what you're afraid of, Spender," he says to his back. "Remember that." Spender gives him a final, stony look. Then he vanishes into the gloom. Dizzy, Mulder sits on the cold floor. He wipes at the blood streaming from his cut. One of the white pills rests near his foot. He picks it up and inspects it closely. He sits that way as the sirens grow closer, rolling the pill over and over between his fingers and wondering what exactly the hell he's done. "Where the hell have you been?" asks Scully as Mulder opens the door. He looks at her sourly. "Where the hell have *I* been? Is the irony of this situation escaping you, Scully?" He is pressing a cold can of soda to the lump on his forehead. She sweeps past him, under his arm into his apartment. Mulder shuts the door, resigned. "I've been running all over Alexandria looking for you. I had to talk to twelve goddamn Alexandria cops before I learned from *Skinner* that you had been sent to the hospital with a *head injury*. I went to the hospital and talked to fifteen more people before I learned you had been released. I tried to call you but you weren't picking up and your cell phone was off. What the hell, Mulder." Her voice is thick with anger. She stands with her hands on her hips and looks critically at the butterfly sutures binding the cut on his forehead. Mulder shrugs. "Not much to tell. I banged my head on a piece of metal. Cops took me to the emergency room and checked me out. Just left me with a headache, that's all, not a concussion. Nothing the matter that a dose of ibuprofen couldn't fix. I gave my statement and took a taxi home." Scully rubs her temples lightly. She has developed a dull headache of her own. This unexpectedly long and difficult day is finally catching up with her. When the police and the ambulance arrived, everything descended into chaos. After giving her statement, conducting her fruitless search for Mulder, and talking with Skinner at the hospital, she was finally able to get away and change out of her bloodied clothes into clean jeans and a fresh sweater. Bed was tempting but anger, fear, relief, and a dozen other emotions propelled her back out into the night, first to the lab, then back to Alexandria and Mulder's apartment. "Dr. Romero is dead," she says. Mulder nods. He suspected as much. "Last I heard he was in critical condition. It was hard to get straight answers out of anyone." "The body by the river has been identified," she continues, patiently, to give Mulder information, hoping that he will reciprocate. "Dimitri Khodab. Evidently a former KGB operative. INTERPOL has quite a file on him, but as far as we can tell can he's never had so much as a parking ticket in this country. The theory...according to Skinner the theory is that Dr. Romero got some of the capital for HealthQuest from some fairly shady sources. The recent devaluation of tech stocks has made it unlikely that they would recoup their investment any time soon. Russian Mafia and South American drug cartels make bad venture capitalists - not exactly geared toward long-term gains." "Well, that makes it all very tidy. And you buy this?" Again Scully looks at him with round incredulous eyes. "Mulder, what do you think? Martin Romero is being killed twice - first his body, now his reputation. Anything he hoped to accomplish will be smeared and ruined. He doesn't deserve this." She swallows. "Mrs. Romero is also dead. She slipped into a coma about 4:30 this afternoon and never awoke. She never learned about her husband's death." There was that small mercy at least. She thinks of the photos on the piano and mantlepiece, of Dr. Romero's last words. "There is no reason to suspect that her death was from anything but natural causes." Mulder doesn't think about the photos or Dr. Romero. He thinks instead of Scully in a hospital bed, pale and small and dying. And a wave of fresh anger swallows him. He puts down his makeshift compress. "Scully, you wanna do this in the morning? I'm not feeling that great. I was about to go to bed. You should do the same." Normally Scully would be pleased at Mulder acting sensibly and taking care of himself. However, right now it puts up her red flags. He's trying to get rid of her - it's all very transparent. But she has one more piece of information. She tosses a small plastic bag onto the table. In it is a small white pill. "I checked this out from the Alexandria PD evidence room. Al Gradishar at the lab confirmed my suspicions. This is aconite, but I've never seen it is this concentrated form. In this dose it's strong enough to put down a horse." "So he wasn't bluffing." "Who wasn't bluffing? Mulder, what happened this afternoon?" "Just a dead end, Scully." He rubs his eyes. Why won't she leave? "It really doesn't matter." Before, Scully was perplexed and exasperated. Now she is simply furious. "It doesn't matter? It doesn't *matter?* I'm not in the mood for your evasiveness. Three people are dead. You went out on your own in pursuit of an armed suspect, without me, without backup. The police find you injured and disoriented in an abandoned building, with an incredibly lethal poison scattered on the floor. And now it *doesn't matter?*" "Yeah, I know, you were worried sick. I'm sorry. Next time I'll wear a radio collar." He really didn't mean to sound so flip and sarcastic, but it's too late to stop himself, too late to retract his words. "What is it, Mulder? What is going on? Every time I think I understand you..." she trails off, momentarily at a loss. "Scully - " "You know, Mulder, I am entitled to answers." She speaks fast now, her words tumbling out more quickly than she intended. "Just as much as you are. I am still living with this mystery thing inside me. Can you understand what that's like? I'm willing to take risks to learn the truth about it. I'm willing to open myself up to the most extreme possibilities imaginable. I learned that from you." Her voice trembles a bit and her shoulders droop. She finds this kind of emotional confession more draining than cathartic. "I've watched you find *your* answers, Mulder. But when do I get my turn? Do you think you have some kind of exclusive right to the truth? Do you - " He stills her with his long hands gripping her shoulders. Scully looks down in frustration, away from his eyes. He gives her a little shake and her head jerks back up. "Scully, you know that's not it. You know that. You're entitled to answers. More than anyone. You're entitled to everything." Still she refuses to meet his eyes. What exactly is she entitled too? "Okay then, Mulder. Let's start with some answers from you. What is going on with you?" That's the hard question that Mulder has wanted to avoid. He pauses, tries to organize the jumble in his head into coherent sentences. "My whole family is dead now, Scully. They're irrevocably, unarguably gone," he explains slowly. "You are the only one now." Actually, she has been the only one for years, but there's no point in saying so. Scully closes her eyes and releases a long breath. She feels her anger begin to dissolve. "I know that, Mulder. I've known that...for a while." "Yeah, well, the problem is that they know it now too. They know what you are to me. They know what we are to each other." This is a bit presumptuous on his part, but she only nods. "And they will use it against us. They will try even harder to get at me through you. To get at you through me." Is he just now coming to that realization, wonders Scully. "Mulder...I hate to say it...but when has that *not* happened?" He takes her face in his hands and she is momentarily taken aback by the ferocious intensity that darkens his face. "It's different now. Because I know for sure now that my sister is dead and I know who's responsible. They can't mislead me any more. Everything I have is invested in you, Scully. They can see that. They're winning some battles but they're losing the war, and they're getting desperate." He clutches her suddenly, violently. "And I hate to see them use you and manipulate your trust like they've done to me for years. Because they can see your need for the truth and they take advantage of it. I don't want to see you be like me. Don't go down that way by yourself. We have to do it together. Please, please don't do that again." It all spills out in a rush. "I didn't think I had a choice," Scully says quietly, her voice muffled against Mulder's t-shirt. "I thought...well, at the time it seemed worth the risk. I've been living with this thing in my body for more than two years now. I've tried to make my peace with...with the things that were done to me. I try not to dwell on it, but dammit. Sometimes I think about it and it scares the hell out of me. I just want to know what it is. You can't know what that's like." "Oh you know I do. You know I do." He feels his anger - and his headache - dissolve away. As always, having her in his arms makes him feel relaxed and grounded. "Scully," he says into her hair. "Just know that I want what you want." Maybe there's no turning off this dark and strange road, but maybe it's finally time to fully share the burden. At least they're losing some of the luggage. "What do I want?" asks Scully. "The truth." To Scully's dismay she feels tears well up and leak from her eyes. She snuffles a bit against his chest and nods. Her hands rest lightly on his back. She allows herself to relax as well, relieved to understand the source of his anger, as she feels the tight knot in her gut slip loose for the first time in days. Mulder, somehow the truth always works its way back to you, Scully wants to say. Instead she asks, "Now will you tell me what happened this afternoon?" Mulder runs his hands up and down the curve of her back, unwilling to relinquish her. "After I found the body by the river, I kept going down the to the soccer field. And then to the plant. Spender was there, Scully. We...had a conversation." Scully is hardly surprised. She nods again, unwilling to look up and reveal her tears, even though she knows it's silly to pretend: a small wet patch now adorns the front of Mulder's shirt. She makes no move to extricate herself from his embrace. "And what did he say to you?" "Oh, you know, the usual. We did a little catching up. He tossed around some cryptic remarks. I threatened to kill him, then like a slack-jawed idiot I watched him walk away." He tries to joke, but it's difficult. Quietly and succinctly, he tells her about that strange conversation, omitting nothing. At first she answers with silence. Then she clears her throat and tightens her grip around his waist. "You did the right thing, Mulder," she says. Mulder chuckles. "Wasn't a total loss, though. Spender gave me a little free therapy. I think he missed his calling - he's a closet Freudian." "He played psychotherapist with me, too," mutters Scully. "Maybe he should come out with a book. Smart Agents, Stupid Choices." "We could go on Oprah," says Mulder with a laugh. Then he grows serious. He frames her face with his hands and absently brushes a fine strand away from her downcast eyes. "We can't let them use this divide and conquer shit on us, not now, not after everything we've been through. Do you understand me?" Finally Scully looks up at him and nods. She tries a brief, wet-eyed smile. To Mulder her face glows, lit with a secret light that he imagines visible only to him. "But Mulder. We can't let fear control us, after all this time. If we do they've won." He nods and pulls her close again. Good advice. His hand drifts daringly low, to the sweet place where her lower back meets the swell of her hips. "Stay with me tonight," he whispers into her hair. As easy as that. Scully goes very still in his arms. This is the way it would happen, she thinks. After all this time it would be this simple. No explosion, no flowers - just a long-denied need quietly but firmly asserting itself. Something that has grown too much to be contained by its fragile walls. She still hears a thousand nagging voices: this is a bad idea, you don't deserve this, don't let yourself turn Mulder into one of your dumb decisions, he's too much for you. But now the voices grow dim now, save one: You would die for him but you can't bring yourself to admit that you love him. Love. The small, poor, overused word cannot hold everything that she feels for Mulder. We've never needed to use it, she thinks. And this frightens Spender - twisted, ruined, pathetic Spender - because he can't control what he can't name. Beneath her hands Scully feels the muscles in Mulder's lower back tense as he awaits her answer. Not trusting herself with words at first, she looks up again from his chest and nods, a little frantically. She doesn't want to think herself out of this. "Your head. Are you up to this?" she asks hoarsely. His back relaxes and he rewards her with an relieved smile. "Oh, Scully, Scully, you walked right into that one." He takes her chin in one hand and contemplates her lips briefly before tipping her face up to his for an experimental kiss. When he pulls away, her eyes are closed. It's a new expression to him - it's like the familiar face she wears when she's processing an especially complicated piece of information, but now overlaid with something new and warm. Her face is flushed, her lips parted. Scully is able to open her eyes again after a few moments. Blood roars in her ears. She had forgotten how soft his lips felt. Mulder's smile has grown small and tentative, almost shy. But his eyes are piercing and black in this dim light - those strange, constantly changing eyes that she has wondered at for so long. He pulls her to him and they kiss again, this time a long, slow, exploratory kiss. And around them oblivious night falls. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX "Agent Scully." "Agent Scully?" She snaps her head up. "Sir?" "Agent Scully, are you all right?" Skinner has to wonder sometimes if the horror and strain of the past several months - hell, the past few years - has finally worn her down. Scully is a little surprised by his tone of concern, but concedes that she has been distracted all day. Very unlike her. "Of course, sir." Skinner looks at her closely and she lowers her gaze accordingly. Finally he shrugs to himself and moves on, understanding and respecting her fiercely guarded privacy. "Do have anything else to add?" "No sir." "Well then, Agents, if there's nothing else - ." "So that's it?" Mulder interrupts. He is literally bouncing in his chair - his foot shakes, his fingers play with a well-chewed pencil. "We just sweep this under the rug like everything else?" "Dammit Mulder, that's not what I'm saying." Skinner edges wearily to his window, looking out between the slats at the Pennsylvania Avenue traffic below. "What exactly are you saying, sir?" Mulder challenges. Skinner takes off his glasses and polishes them distractedly. His expression is thoughtful, he is obviously trying to phrase something just the right way. "Agents. I'm only going to say this once. You know that...these men have suffered some setbacks this past year. Different factions vie for power. The old order is fading away, but they won't go without a fight. They'll do anything to stay in power and defend their secrets." He speaks his next words with slow intensity. " I do not want to see either of you get caught in the crossfire. There is too much at stake for you to become victims. When the dust clears and their guard is down your opportunity will come." "I can't wait that long," Mulder says. He glances at Scully, then back at Skinner. "We can't wait that long. These men have names and faces now. " "Mulder, there is no evidence," says Skinner. "Yes there is," says Scully quietly. Both men turn to look at her. She raises her head and looks at him with calm and piercing eyes. It's in me, she thinks, it's in Mulder. And it's in you, Skinner. "We just don't understand how to use it yet." Skinner has to look away for a moment. "Your initial visit to Romero was out of bounds to begin with. This case does not fall within your purview. Do I need to remind you that you are not officially investigating Romero's death? If you continue your involvement in this case, and I hear about it, I can assure you there will be serious consequences. Do we understand each other." Mulder studies Skinner's expression. "Yes sir. Perfectly clear sir. Agent Scully and I are not officially investigating Romero's death." "Good." The matter has been dismissed, not to spoken of again. Skinner briskly shuffles papers. "I don't suppose you happen to have a report for me?" "As a matter of fact..." Mulder produces his own sheaf of papers. Skinner is mildly startled. "Here it is. And here are the status reports from February that you kept asking about. Let's see..." Mulder continues to hand documents to Skinner, who has gone from startled to stunned. "These are requisition forms from November on...I put the data in a spreadsheet by date and category. And I took the liberty of making a budgetary projection for the coming fiscal year based on 1999 expenses. It's in the other file on the disk." Mulder hands him a disk and notices Skinner giving him the same careful look that one might give to the dangerously insane. Mulder shrugs. "It's been a productive morning. Cleared out my inbox." He returns to bouncing lightly in his chair. "Is anything the matter, Agent Mulder?" asks Skinner after a time. He has seen Mulder in many manic phases, but this is unusual even for him. "Never better," says Mulder sincerely. After a long, puzzled look Skinner looks back at Scully. She is staring intently at an unspecified spot on the carpet, her eyes hazy and strange in a way that Skinner can't fathom. "Agent Scully, are you sure *you're* feeling all right?" She indulges herself for a moment, lets her thoughts drift back to the night before. But only for a moment. They had begun tentatively, almost clumsily, reduced very briefly to awkward strangers. Scully was accountably embarrassed by the familiar scars and imperfections of her body. Her worries had faded as she peeled off the last of her clothes and saw the expression on Mulder's face. She has a hard time remembering exactly what happened after that - it was all so overwhelming. She's still trying to understand how the ordinary biological messiness of sex can become a such transcendent experience, allowing her to touch the eternal. Scully imagines she'll get better at this, at compartmentalizing this part of herself and Mulder. She wants to keep it safely hidden and bring it out only in times of absolute safety and privacy. Right now it's a distraction, if a pleasant one. She's not like Mulder who has never compartmentalized anything in his life. In that amazing mind, she knows, everything runs together in a seamless whole. Briefly she envies him this ability, this curse and this gift, and attempts to steer her thoughts back on track. "I'm fine, sir." She says, and rises to leave. She never imagined that this would change them. This would not solve all their problems or instantly turn either of them into easier people. But she is starting to think that perhaps she *is* entitled to everything, after all. Mulder holds the door open for Scully as they leave Skinner's office. His hand briefly touches her back and just the slight everyday contact is charged with a secret electricity. Mulder hasn't felt this good, this well rested for a long time, despite his lack of sleep. We haven't changed, he thinks. We are still the same...just *more*, for lack of a better term. Just us, followed to our natural conclusion. They are the same. Except now he knows what she tastes like. He shudders briefly. Memories of the night before lay vivid in his mind, images and sounds and sensation. At first, he had been vaguely anxious when he thought about how long it had been since he last did this, how out of practice he was. Soon he lost his self- consciousness as he began to explore her body in earnest with eyes and fingers, tongue and cock. He had always imagined that sinking into her body would be like diving into a delicious soothing coolness, like a deep crystalline mountain lake. But the metaphor does not exactly suit the sensation of being inside Scully's rich warm body. And for a brief, heartbreaking moment, everything she was seemed clear to him. Maybe soon she will allow him past that last door again. Maybe not. It's more than enough for him now. Afterwards, after lying panting and still for some time, Mulder had broken the silence. "Why did we wait so long for that?" he whispered. "I can't remember," she said close to his ear. "I really can't." The End Yo creo: I believe XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX Thanks to my husband, for his good ideas and constant support ("Don't worry honey - I'll work on dinner while you write!"); to my sister-in-law K, for reading this through, making useful suggestions, and boosting my confidence; and to M, for getting me started with the X-Files in the first place. Thanks also to the Deep Background people for all the nice poison information. I started this story as a break from the never-ending X-Files novel that I've been working on since the sixth season. The Sunday that En Ami aired, my husband and I strolled along the Potomac in Alexandria. Inspiration struck, and I started this story the next day. It rapidly acquired a life of its own. I've fiddled with it endlessly, now it's time to let it go. This my first story ever posted to the world. Tell me what you thought, e-mail me at ElanorG@yahoo.com - and thanks for reading. EG