The Bright White Place, a novel by Nancy Nivling
I'll be posting this a few parts at a time; at this point I haven't 
divided it all into sections yet, and it would probably crash my 
computer if I tried uploading it all at once. I'm estimating it will run 
18-20 sections. This novel was originally published in zine format a 
couple years ago, and was my first and only attempt at MSR -- albeit a 
very *dark* MSR. If graphic violence and disturbing themes bother you, 
turn back now.
Spoilers: A whole lot of stuff up through "Nisei/731." After that, it 
goes *way* AU.
Rated NC-17 for language, graphic violence, rape, explicit sex, and 
disturbing themes.
Acknowledgments to: Carol and Margaret for fine beta and encouragement 
above and beyond the call of friendship; and to Don, for being there, 
and for telling me I could finish this novel, even when I was having 
those 4 a.m. doubts.

Feedback may be addressed to: dnivling@redshift.com
    
        
Hell is murky.
        -- Macbeth, Act V, Scene I
She could feel the thin, thready rhythm of his pulse under the pad of 
her thumb, and told herself it was getting stronger.

//It will get stronger. It has to. And then he'll open his eyes and look 
up at me with that lopsided grin of his and everything will be all right 
yes everything'll be fine please God let everything be fine...//

But she'd been repeating that same silent prayer for the last six hours, 
and he hadn't moved or made a sound. All she was aware of was the 
shallow rasp of his breathing and the heart monitor's beep.

Her gaze drifted downward, resting finally on his bandaged chest, on the 
rust-brown disk of moisture seeping through where the bullet had torn 
him open.

He'd been on his way over to her apartment when it happened. The past 
week had been sheer hell for both of them, flying out to Los Angeles on 
a case that took them from one dead-end to another. He'd been brooding 
and irritable the entire time they were there, rushing them through the 
investigation and back to D.C. in a record three days. They'd spent the 
rest of the week trying to catch up on their respective mountains of 
paperwork.

By Friday night she felt like the ragged end of nowhere, but Mulder 
seemed intent on pulling another all-nighter.

He'd been saying something to her and caught her in mid-yawn. "Sorry I'm 
keeping you up."

She'd learned a long time ago to let his smartass remarks pass without 
comment, but this time there was a caustic edge in his tone that rubbed 
her nerves raw. "I'm tired, Mulder. This week's been an absolute bitch."

Her language shocked him speechless -- for about five seconds. "Well, I 
guess you'd know."

She shot him a look that could have frozen fire at a hundred paces, 
snatched up her briefcase and started shoving papers in it. "See you 
Monday," she snapped, heading for the door.

"Hey, what about your report on L.A.? Skinner wants it first thing 
Monday morning."

She'd spun around to see him standing over his desk, hands on his hips, 
collar open, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Even through her anger she 
couldn't help thinking he looked as exhausted as she felt. "I'll finish 
it over the weekend. Okay?"

"Fine," he snorted, tossing his pen down on the desk. "Far be it from me 
to keep you from your hot date with David Letterman."

She stared back at him, stunned. He'd been curt, even callous with her 
before, but never downright mean. "What's the matter with you? You've 
been sniping at me ever since we got back from L.A."

He let out a half-strangled sound, raking one hand through his hair. "I 
just want to get this damn case closed. Do you mind?"

"I'll leave you to it then," she replied hollowly, backing out the door 
and heading for the stairs.

She'd arrived home to find her phone ringing.

"It's me," he said the second the receiver touched her ear.

"What a surprise."

"Look, Scully...I'm sorry for what I said. It was completely out of 
line."

"No argument here."

"So...am I forgiven?"

Did he really have to ask? "Mulder...look, I know this trip to L.A. 
bothered you, and not just because of the case."

For a few seconds she wasn't sure he was still there. Then she heard his 
soft, resigned chuckle.

"You want to talk about it?" she asked.

"Yeah...yeah, I think I would."

"Why don't you come over tomorrow and we could--"

"What's wrong with right now?"

She stole a glance at her watch. Nearly eleven. "It's awfully late."

"I'll stop by Yang's for potstickers and moo-shu pork."

As if on cue, her stomach rumbled. She hadn't eaten since that 
afternoon, and he knew it. "Bribery's beneath you, Mulder."

"Not tonight it isn't."

He was grinning. She could hear it in his voice. "Okay, okay. Throw in 
some kung-pao chicken and you've got a deal."

"Be there in half an hour."

Only he'd never shown up. Around two a.m. she'd gotten a phone call from 
Georgetown University Hospital. The restaurant where he'd ordered the 
food was being held up when he'd walked in, and the two perps had shot 
both Mulder and the restaurant's manager. The manager had been 
pronounced dead on arrival.

And the shooters had vanished without a trace. The police and the Bureau 
had canvassed the neighborhood five square miles around the restaurant 
without finding one person who could describe them, or their vehicle.

But she couldn't think about that now.

All she could think was that if she hadn't been so angry with him, if 
she hadn't stormed out of the office, he wouldn't have called her and 
wouldn't have been coming over and would never have gone to that damned 
restaurant and walked into that bullet...

//Come on, Dana...wallowing in your own damned self-pity isn't going to 
help find the bastards who did this...or make him wake up any 
faster...//

He would wake up. He had to. She wouldn't let herself think otherwise.

She gripped his hand tighter, willing his heart to keep beating, his 
blood to keep coursing through the veins and arteries and muscles 
beneath his skin.

God, how many times had she done this? How many times had she sat at his 
bedside, not knowing if he'd ever look up at her again?

"Mulder...I don't know if I should tell you this, but...I read your 
report on what happened in Los Angeles the last time you were 
there...the one about the vampire case that you investigated during the 
time I was...missing..." she whispered. "And I know you probably 
wouldn't have wanted me to, but it was right there in the filing cabinet 
and...well, it wasn't like you were trying to hide it from me...and I 
could tell from the way you were on this trip that something must have 
happened to you back then, something that wasn't in the 
report...something you couldn't tell me until now..."

She felt a tendon jerk in his wrist, and told herself she had to be 
imagining it. Could he really hear her?

"And I-I just want you to know...I'll be right here, waiting to hear it, 
whenever you're ready to tell me..."

Then his fingers moved, entwining with hers, gripping her hand as 
tightly as she had his.

And his eyes opened.

"Hi," he rasped.

"Hi yourself." God, she knew she had to be grinning like an idiot, but 
she didn't care. Leaning over the bed, she smoothed back a stray lock of 
hair that had fallen over his forehead, apprehension seizing her as she 
looked down into his eyes, their usual deep hazel color now hazed over 
with pain. "I'll be right back."

But he wouldn't let go of her hand.

"I have to get the nurse," she said. "You need medication."

"I can...last a few more minutes without it."

"Mulder..."

"Don't go yet. Please."

"Okay," she replied, letting him pull her back over him, his hand 
gliding up, cupping her cheek. She shivered, but didn't pull back.

"Your face is all wet," he whispered, wiping away a stray tear with his 
fingertips.

She hadn't even realized she was crying. "H-how do you feel?"

"Like I've just had my ass kicked by Bigfoot."

He was okay. God, he was going to be okay. "Well, that's better than you 
were feeling ten minutes ago."

"Actually, I was having this really great dream..."

"You're impossible." Maybe it was the bright hospital lighting, but his 
eyes looked so beautiful just now, their color muted to a soft, 
translucent jade green. She couldn't help leaning closer.

Their lips touched, his silky and moist, hers trembling. A hot jolt shot 
up her spine, and she jerked back.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Why did you do that?"

"Why not?"

"Stop trying to be funny, Mulder."

Something flickered behind his eyes -- surprise, apprehension, 
bewilderment, she wasn't sure which. "Why'd you call me that?"

"*What*?"

"You keep calling me Mulder. It sounds...I dunno, kinda strange."

"Well, I tried calling you Fox once, but you told me you hated it." She 
sat down again, a sudden chill sweeping her. "You mean you don't 
remember?"

"Can't...remember much of anything...it's all jumbled up..."

"It's okay. You're just disoriented from the anesthesia. You were in 
surgery for almost six hours," she whispered, taking hold of his hand 
again. "Do you remember who I am?"

"Ummm...Dana..? Is that right?"

"Yes." Relief flooded her, so strongly she almost laughed aloud. "Do you 
remember the last time we talked?"

"N-no..."

"How about earlier last evening? At the office?"

"We...work together?"

"Almost three years now."

"And that's all we are to each other?"

She nodded.

An unreadable expression passed over his face, then he half-smiled, 
half-winced, drawing a thin, ragged breath. "Too bad."

This time she didn't let him stop her from getting the nurse.

*   *   *

Skinner was waiting for her outside Mulder's room when she returned to 
the hospital early the next morning.

"What's happened?" she asked, anxiety seizing her. God, if his condition 
had deteriorated during the night...but no, they would've called her 
before now if--

"We're not exactly sure yet. But I'm going to have to ask permission to 
search your apartment."

"My apartment? Why?"

"We suspect that this was not a random incident."

Somewhere in the back of her mind she'd suspected the same thing. "What 
evidence do you have?"

"There's no sign that it was a botched robbery -- no money was taken 
from the register, and the office safe was untouched as well. Besides, 
there was a liquor store two doors down that would've been an easier 
mark, if that's what they were looking for."

She nodded numbly. "Anything else?"

"We lifted at least two dozen prints, but I doubt that'll lead anywhere. 
Nobody saw anything, and this was a busy neighborhood on Friday night. 
It just smells like a professional job. The shooters couldn't have been 
in there more than a minute and a half, yet they took the trouble to 
shoot out the security camera in the foyer."

"So you're saying they knew Mulder was coming? That they were waiting 
for him?"

Skinner nodded, his expression turning more sympathetic than she'd ever 
seen it. "We've swept your offices for bugs, but there was nothing."

"So they must have been listening in from my end?" She paused, fighting 
down a sudden wave of nausea. "By all means, sir, do whatever you feel 
is necessary to expedite the investigation."

"Thank you, Agent Scully. I wasn't looking forward to executing a 
warrant on this."

"Sir, I would never stand in the way--"

"There'll be a conference on this matter in my office at one o'clock. 
I'll expect to see you there."

"Of course."

Without another word, he headed for the elevator.

Nodding to the agent stationed outside Mulder's room, she went in, 
relaxing slightly when she saw him lying there, propped up on a pile of 
pillows.

He smiled and flicked the remote control, turning off the TV. "Jesus, 
I'm glad you're here. If I have to watch another five minutes of Martha 
Stewart, I'm gonna lose my breakfast."

"How d'you feel?" she asked.

"You mean, aside from a splitting headache and a hole the size of a 
peach pit in my chest?" Before she could protest, he caught her hand, 
carrying it to his lips. "I missed you. Couldn't sleep at all last 
night."

Her mouth went dry, her heart giving a tiny lurch. "You should have 
asked for a sedative."

"Didn't want one. I had too much to think about." He shifted on his 
pillows, grimacing. "I still can't remember anything."

"Mulder, it's not at all uncommon to suffer short-term memory loss after 
a serious physical trauma. You'll remember, I'm sure of it, you'll just 
have to give it time."

"But it's not just being shot that I don't remember. There are other 
gaps...whole years that I can't account for...bits and pieces of my life 
that're just...missing."

"How do you mean, missing?"

"Well, I remember high school and just about everything about Oxford and 
my first few years with the Bureau...but I can't remember where I grew 
up or my parents's names or even what they looked like..."

"Or your sister?"

"I...I have a sister?"

//Oh, God. Oh, Jesus God...//

"Had. Her name was Samantha. She...disappeared when you were twelve."

He shook his head. "I guess it all must've gotten sucked into some black 
hole in my brain. Along with the last three years."

"You don't remember our working together, yet you knew me as soon as you 
woke up. Do you have any idea how that could be?"

"I don't know...but when I saw you sitting there, I felt something, a 
connection..." He shrugged. "I can't explain it any better than that."

"Well, it's a place to start, at least."

"You're blushing."

Her free hand flew to her cheek, felt the heat rushing there. The 
realization that he could see it made her even more uneasy.

"Look, I don't mean to embarrass you," he said softly. "I know you said 
we don't have that kind of relationship. But when we do this" -- he 
indicated their clasped hands -- "it feels right to me. Natural. Like 
we've been doing it for years."

"Mulder..."

"Skinner said you were the last person I talked to before the 
shooting...that I was on my way over to your place when it happened."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I...don't understand..."

"Why was I coming to see you so late at night if we're not..." He 
stopped, giving her hand a squeeze. "Sorry. I've got no right to ask--"

"We'd had a fight at the office and I walked out on you. You called to 
apologize, said you had something to talk to me about."

"But I didn't say what it was?"

"No. No, you didn't." She stole a glance at her watch. "I have to go. 
Skinner's called a meeting and I've...got a few things to do before 
then."

"Come back tonight? Please?"

His woozy, lopsided smile threatened to make her knees wobble. "Of 
course," she replied, her voice sounding thin and forced to her own 
ears. "Get some rest, okay?"

"Like I've got a choice?"

A blanket of coldness settled over her as she marched to the elevator 
and searched the hospital directory for Mulder's surgeon's office. Then, 
after finding it, she waited nearly forty-five minutes for him to put in 
an appearance after morning rounds.

"You have to understand, Agent Scully, he was in cardiac arrest when the 
paramedics brought him in. It took the E.R. trauma team several minutes 
to revive him. We replaced his entire blood volume twice during surgery. 
Under those circumstances, the kind of amnesia you describe is hardly 
unexpected."

"I know. But it just seems so bizarre...entire years of his life wiped 
out..."

"And some or all of it may come back to him eventually. Right now 
patience is of the essence."

"But it might not come back to him. He may never remember what he's 
lost. Is that what you're saying?"

"There is always that possibility." The surgeon paused, looking her 
straight in the eye. "But the important thing is that he's come through 
the surgery much better than I expected. The next few days will be 
critical, but there's every reason to believe he will make a complete 
physical recovery."

She made her way down to her car and drove back to the Hoover Building 
in a daze, digesting the morning's events, trying to tell herself not to 
dwell on the worst-case scenario.

But, bottom-line, she knew exactly what that scenario was. If Mulder's 
memory didn't return, he'd be put on permanent disability and dismissed 
from the Bureau.

And they'd close down the X-Files, this time for good.

She'd be reassigned, and Mulder...he'd have to find something else to do 
with his life. Without his memories of Samantha, his quest to discover 
what had become of her would no longer drive him onward.

And the saddest thing was, he wouldn't even know the difference.

She pulled into her parking spot, cut the engine, and stared into empty 
space, a sudden bereftness sweeping over her.

Whichever way it went, one thing was certain -- their relationship could 
never go back to the way it was. Even if Mulder's memory did come back 
and they resumed working together, they'd come dangerously close to 
saying things that partners should never say to each other. They had -- 
or at least, Mulder had -- acknowledged something they'd both known had 
existed between them almost from the start.

All that remained was for her to acknowledge it -- and she had, 
privately, a long time ago. After all, Mulder was an attractive man. 
Half the women at the Bureau would fall into bed with him if he gave 
them a second glance. And she was a normal, healthy woman...and yes, 
she'd allowed herself a fantasy or two...

Especially when he'd leaned in close the way he did when they were 
talking, and she could smell his skin's scent, warm and spicy, and 
wondered what it would be like to press her lips to his throat, just to 
taste him a little--

//Stop it, Dana...you can't be thinking of him this way...he's still 
your partner, damn it!//

But what if he wasn't? What if they had no working relationship to 
maintain, no Bureau regulations to uphold?

No invisible line between them, never to be crossed?

Shivering, she got out of the car.
     



"The Bright White Place," MSR, NC-17
Part 2/?
Disclaimers attached to Part 1.
*   *   *

The conference in Skinner's office was brief and to the point. The sweep 
of Scully's apartment had uncovered bugs in her phone, in one of the 
lamps in her living room -- and behind her bedside table.

It was all Scully could do to keep her breathing level and gaze steady 
when she heard this last piece of information. Then, after a few prickly 
moments of silence, Skinner continued with the briefing.
The slugs removed from Mulder and the restaurant manager's body were 
standard nine-millimeter; ballistics reported that the analysis would be 
completed shortly. Agent Pendrell's team was working up the prints 
lifted at the scene, as well as the security camera videos.

"That will be all for now. There will be another conference tomorrow 
morning at nine, barring any new developments," Skinner said, typically 
brisk and succinct. "Agent Scully, you'll stay, please."

Scully said nothing as the other agents filed out, leaving her alone 
with the A.D., who shut the door behind them and sat down behind his 
desk. She couldn't help noticing his distinctly uncomfortable 
expression.

"Sir?" she prompted finally.

He reached over to the right hand side of his desk, pulling an oversized 
evidence envelope onto his blotter, reaching inside.

It was a bundle of clothing, rumpled grey sweatpants and white t-shirt. 
Men's clothing.

Mulder's clothing.

//Oh, God...//

"We found this when we searched your apartment this morning," Skinner 
said.

//Eyes front, Dana...don't let him intimidate you...don't let him make 
you feel like you've got something to be ashamed of.//

He didn't say anything more. He didn't have to. His next question hung 
in the air between them, silence thickening the tension.

"We...that is, Agent Mulder and I...were working on a report at my 
apartment one evening. We finished up the report and it was still light 
out, so we decided to go running...but it started pouring down rain and 
we both got soaked..." She paused a moment, knowing that if she didn't, 
her voice would crack. "He changed back into his suit, and I kept his 
wet clothes to wash and return to him later."

"And apparently you never got around to returning them."

"Apparently."

He studied her in silence for another endless moment. "Agent Scully, I'm 
not saying I don't believe you. But if you have anything to tell me, 
anything that will make a difference to this investigation, let me urge 
you to do so now."

"Sir, I won't deny that Agent Mulder and I are...close. I trust him with 
my life, and I'm sure he feels the same about me. But there is nothing 
improper or unprofessional in our relationship."

//Not yet, at any rate...//

"But surely you can see how it would appear that way," he said, 
indicating the bundle on his desk.

//I can see how you *want* it to appear that way.//

She nodded, biting back what she was dying to say aloud. "Sir, I 
want...I need to be a part of this investigation. Perhaps I could 
perform the autopsy of the restaurant manager--"

"There won't be an autopsy," Skinner cut in. "The man's family refuses 
to allow it, and there's nothing to indicate that it's warranted. The 
cause of death is clear, and we already have the bullet. That will have 
to be enough."

"Then perhaps you'll allow me access to the crime scene. There might be 
something the other team missed, and I can--"

"No."

"Sir, please..."

"I said no, Agent Scully. And that's final," he replied. For the 
briefest of moments, she could have sworn she saw sympathy in his eyes. 
"You're too close to this. I can't allow an agent whose judgment may be 
impaired anywhere near this case. I think we both owe Mulder better than 
that."

"Yes, sir," she murmured.

"Go home, Agent Scully. I know it's going to be impossible to forget 
what's occurred, but try to put it in perspective. We will do everything 
possible to find the men who did this and bring them to justice. Believe 
me, I want them found as much as you do."

She was across the room and at the door before another thought occurred. 
A thought she had to verbalize. "I'm curious, sir...about what you 
wanted to know earlier...if I'd been partnered with anyone other than 
Mulder, would the question have come up at all?"

A muscle jumped, worked in Skinner's cheek. "I have an obligation to 
ensure that this investigation is not compromised. In any way." And he 
drew a stack of files toward him, effectively dismissing her.

But she didn't go home. She headed straight for the basement, straight 
for her office, hers and Mulder's. And stopped short, standing there, 
staring at the door -- sealed, taped and padlocked.

She supposed she shouldn't be so stunned. It was standard procedure, 
after all. But somehow none of it had seemed real until now, until she'd 
seen right in front of her the physical evidence of all she and Mulder 
had at stake. She turned and fled back up the stairs.

She didn't think she started breathing again until she stepped into the 
hospital elevator, pressing the button for Mulder's floor.

His room was half-dimmed when she entered, and for a moment she thought 
he must be asleep. Then he turned his head toward her. "Hi."

"Hi," she answered, trying to smile, not wanting him to see how the day 
had worn her down.

"I was starting to think you weren't coming back."

"I said I would, didn't I?"

He looked away, his expression turning sad, pensive. "My mother came 
today. She'd been visiting some friends on the Vineyard, didn't even 
find out what had happened till this afternoon. Hell of a thing to come 
home from a vacation to."

She sank down into the chair beside his bed, blinking her eyes against 
the dry grittiness that lived there, grateful for the relative darkness.

"I didn't know her. I couldn't remember her at all. I let her do all the 
talking, tried to agree with everything she said...but she knew 
something was wrong. It was all there in her eyes, in the way she 
hesitated before she kissed me good-bye. The son she loved and raised 
isn't here anymore. I don't know who is."

"I do. You're the same person you were on Friday night, Mulder. Your 
brain's just a little more scrambled than usual." That thought made the 
corners of her mouth quirk up. "Then again, the jury might still be out 
on that last part."

"Thanks. I think." He looked off into one of the darkened corners of the 
room for a moment or two, then back at her, patting the side of the bed. 
"C'mere."

She hesitated, then moved, sitting down on the edge of the warm 
mattress, very much aware of how close his thigh was to hers. Of how 
comforting his hand felt covering hers, his thumb softly sliding under 
her fingers, tracing featherlight patterns on her palm.

Her pulse was racing. She wondered if he could feel it.

"You look tired," he said. "Rough day?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me."

So she did, giving him a carefully edited version of the day's events, 
leaving out the details of what the search of her apartment had 
uncovered, as well as the more disturbing aspects of her interview with 
Skinner.

"I'm not worried, though," she said, hoping it sounded like she believed 
it. "They'll reopen our office as soon as the investigation is 
completed. I expect to be back at work by the end of the week."

"Good," he said softly, pausing a moment. "But I think we have something 
else to talk about."

"Mulder..."

"I've got a feeling this is something we've never talked about before. 
Am I right?"

She wanted to look at him, but she couldn't. Those eyes of his would see 
all the way down into her soul. "N-no...no, we haven't. I mean, 
we've...teased, flirted a little, but...to be honest, I never really 
thought you were interested. You always seemed so...consumed by your 
work."

"I must've been if I worked with you for three years and never made a 
move. That, or lobotomized. Or blind."

//Oh God oh God oh God let this be over with soon I can't stand it...//

"I had this really weird...dream or nightmare...maybe it was an 
out-of-body experience, I don't know, I think it was when they were 
trying to revive me in the emergency room...it was like I was floating 
in this room, this bright white place...and I could hear a voice...a 
woman's voice, calling out to me...and somewhere in the back of my mind 
I knew it was you..."

He gave her hand a squeeze, and she suddenly felt compelled to look up, 
into his intense hazel gaze.

"It was so nice, so warm, this floating feeling...I didn't want to let 
it go, to come back to where the pain was, but I did...and I think it 
must've been because I didn't want to leave you behind."

She felt as if she'd waded into a too-deep pool, and the water was 
closing over her head, crushing her, drowning her. "Mulder, I...I'm not 
ready for this. I'm sorry."

He looked crestfallen for a second or two, but managed to cover it. "I 
didn't mean to push."

"I know, it's just...the last week's been awful. I can't think straight, 
and I need to if I'm going to make any sense of this." She got to her 
feet, tried to smile. "We'll talk about it when you're better, okay? 
When you're home and rested."

"Okay," he said, pressing a soft kiss to her palm, then closing her 
fingers over it, as if he were entrusting her to keep that small part of 
him safe.

Her breath stopped in her throat, and she tugged her hand away, her skin 
feeling instantly scalded.

"See you tomorrow?"

She looked back at him as she reached the door, as her fingers closed 
over the latch, her initial urge to run from the room now replaced by a 
desire to lie down next to him, wrap her arms around him and hold him 
and chase his nightmares away.

"Of course," she answered. "First thing, I promise."

*   *   *

Her apartment wasn't exactly a disaster area, but even if she hadn't 
known about the search, it was readily apparent that someone other than 
herself had been there today. Magazines dangled off the edge of her 
coffee table, picture frames hung at a slightly crooked angle, and the 
furniture was all just a hair out of place.

She let her purse and briefcase slide to the kitchen table and sighed. 
Screw it. She wasn't in any mood to straighten the place up tonight.

What she really needed was a long soak in the tub, a hot cup of tea,
and a talk with her mother. God, she hadn't called her in days. She 
didn't even know what had happened to Mulder.

The bath first, though. She needed to wash the day away.

Padding into the bedroom, she flicked on the overhead light--

And stopped short, her gaze drawn to her bedside table, pulled away from 
the wall, still slightly turned to its side. She moved closer, her 
fingertips finding, tracing the faint outline where the bug had been 
attached.

And she dropped onto the edge of the bed, awash in instant nausea. How 
long had it been there? How long had those bastards who'd shot Mulder 
been listening to her? How long had it taken them to get the information 
they needed? A day? A week? A month?

They'd used her -- not only to get to him, but to cast a stain on her 
own reputation. Skinner wouldn't be able to keep the details of the 
investigation under wraps, not forever, anyway. She knew exactly what 
everyone would be gossiping about around the watercooler in a few days.

She shivered, feeling suddenly clammy. Dirty. Inside and out. As if 
she'd been physically violated.

She couldn't stay here. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

Pulling down her suitcase, she stuffed enough clothes and toiletries 
inside to last four or five days, shoved it in the trunk of her car and 
started driving. She found a nice but relatively inexpensive hotel 
halfway between the hospital and work, and checked in.

She hadn't realized how ravenous she was until she spied the 
room-service menu on the table. She ordered a caesar salad, grilled 
chicken breast with mixed vegetables and iced tea, then hopped into the 
shower.

She scrubbed herself so hard she felt like she'd taken off two layers of 
skin, but when she emerged she was feeling marginally human again. 
Slipping into her nightgown and robe, she flicked on the TV and waited 
for her food.

She didn't allow herself to think again until she'd slipped beneath the 
covers and turned out the light.

And her thoughts kept coming back to her conversation with Mulder that 
afternoon, mulling it over, trying to filter it through her exhausted 
brain.

But it was all quite simple, what he'd said. Though he hadn't spoken the 
words outright -- she supposed he wouldn't be Mulder if he ever did 
anything the way everybody else did -- his meaning was clear.

He was in love with her.

And, she realized with a sharp, heart-searing pang, she was in love with 
him. She had been for a long time.

So why did she also feel this profound, aching sense of emptiness and 
loss?

Chances were, they wouldn't be working together anymore anyway, so there 
would be no further conflict on that score...

And there lay the crux of it. She wanted to love him and go on working 
with him. Mulder was the best partner she'd ever had. Their work 
together on the X-Files had never failed to stretch and challenge her, 
both in ability and belief. She wasn't ready to give that up. She didn't 
think she ever would be.

She stared at her travel alarm clock, watching the little green second 
hand until her eyelids began to feel heavy. She drifted off to sleep 
thinking of his fingers entwined with hers, and the intense warmth of 
his eyes.

*   *   *

There was a bird chirping somewhere, shrill and insistent. All the way 
across the room.

Not a bird. Her cell phone.

She opened one eye, caught sight of the clock. Two-ten a.m.

Scully dragged herself up with a groan, staggering over to her jacket, 
still draped over the chair she'd sat in to eat her dinner, somehow 
finding the offending object in the inside breast pocket.

She fumbled around until she found the lamp, squeezed her eyes 
half-closed against the sudden glare, and punched the answer button. 
"Scully."

"This is Skinner, Agent Scully. I tried your home number, but you didn't 
answer."

"I'm not at home. What is it?"

She sensed he wanted to question her further on that account, but for 
some reason he restrained himself. "I'm at the hospital. I think you'd 
better get here right away."

"Why? Is Mulder--"

"Just get over here." Click.

She was dressed and in her car in five minutes flat, and at the hospital 
ten minutes later. Her stomach started twisting into knots the second 
she saw Skinner standing in the hallway, his face as pale as the 
hospital walls. "What's happened?"

"There was a bullet fragment that they somehow missed Friday night. It 
moved into his lung. They took him back into surgery to try to remove 
it."

"And that's where he is now?"

"No." To her surprise, he took her gently by the elbow, steering her 
away from the door to Mulder's room. "They weren't successful. He went 
into cardiac arrest and died on the table half an hour ago. I'm sorry."

She saw his lips move, heard the words leave his mouth, but her brain 
refused to process them. "But...that's not possible. I spoke with his 
surgeon...he said Mulder would be fine...there must be some mistake..."

"There's no mistake, Agent Scully. I was here when it happened. I tried 
to get ahold of you earlier, but--"

She pushed past him, moving toward Mulder's room, shoving open the 
door--

And found an empty, neatly-made bed where she'd left him lying that 
afternoon.

//No no no Jesus no this can't be happening if I just close my eyes and 
open them again he'll be here yes I know he'll be here--//

She closed her eyes, and opened them again. And he still wasn't there.

She did it again. And again.

Strange, but in all the hours she'd logged in hospitals, she'd never 
noticed how white they got their sheets, so incredibly snowy-white they 
almost blinded...

But he still wasn't there.

//He's gone it's true he's gone oh God oh God ohhhh God...//

The room swam before her eyes, its wobbly image permanently imprinting 
itself on her brain. "Where is he now?" she asked, her voice coming out 
small, raw-sounding.

"In the hospital morgue, until we can have the autopsy done."

She backed out of the room, her knees turning rubbery. The wall was the 
only thing holding her up. "I want it."

"I'm sorry?"

"The autopsy. I want to do it."

She supposed she should have felt a tiny pang of triumph at the sight of 
the assistant director struck momentarily speechless, but somehow the 
emotion managed to elude her. "I...I'm afraid that won't be possible."

"Why?"

"You know why, Agent Scully. I can't allow a potential conflict to cloud 
the remainder of this investigation."

"Fine," she snapped, anger centering her, giving her back her 
equilibrium. "Then I'll go over your head, as high up as I have to, but 
I will do this autopsy. Nobody's going to cheat me of the last thing I 
can do for him."

And she started walking, all the way to the elevator, all the way down 
to her car. It must have rained while she was inside, she thought idly, 
catching a tiny cold droplet on her fingertip as she opened her car 
door, carrying it to her lips, tasting it, sweet and clean as 
wildflowers...

Strange...he was gone, yet she could still sense, still feel. Even with 
half her heart torn out, she could still function.

It shouldn't have been possible. But then, she'd seen plenty of things 
that shouldn't have been possible over the past three years.

She slid into her seat, closed the door, closed her eyes. Then she 
pulled her cell phone from her pocket, punched in a number.

"H'lo?" a sleep-thickened voice answered.

"Mom...it's Dana."

"Dana?" There was a tiny pause. "Where are you, honey?"

"At Georgetown Med Center. Could...could I come over? I need to talk..." 
A hot pain shot up the bridge of her nose, pooling behind her eyes. No, 
she wasn't going to lose it, she couldn't lose it, not now, not on the 
phone with her mother...

"Sweetie, it's almost three a.m. What's wrong? Are you okay?"

She couldn't do it. She couldn't hold it in any longer. "No...I...I'm 
not okay..." Stinging wetness poured down her cheeks, clogging her nose, 
choking off her air. "He's gone, Mom...Mulder's dead, and it's my fault. 
He's dead because of me."



"The Bright White Place," MSR, NC-17
Part 3/?
Disclaimers attached to Part 1.

*   *   *

She couldn't get warm. Even wrapped in her mother's thick flannel 
nightgown and robe, she still felt cold all the way to the bone.

She couldn't even remember how she'd gotten to her mother's house. One 
moment she'd been sobbing her eyes out in her car in the hospital 
parking lot, the next she'd found herself sitting at Mom's kitchen 
table, a steaming mug being pressed into her hands.

But two cups of tea later, the shaking still wouldn't stop. Mom had been 
talking to her softly, patiently for the past few minutes, but she had 
no idea what she'd said. She couldn't focus, couldn't concentrate on 
anything.
A tiny corner of her mind recognized, acknowledged the classic symptoms 
of shock. The rest of her refused to care.

"Dana..?"

A warm hand closed over hers, gently squeezing her fingers. Not 
Mulder's. This hand was small, fine-boned...nothing like Mulder's.

"Talk to me, honey. I know you're in there."

She blinked, trying to clear the blurriness from her eyes, her 
surroundings finally beginning to show their edges.

"What happened, Dana? Tell me."

"Mom..." Her voice sounded like it belonged to someone else; she'd never 
heard such a thick, scratchy noise from her own throat. "I don't think I 
can..."

"Sure you can. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

Then she felt tender fingers smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear, 
touching her cheek. And she was suddenly nine years old again, and the 
world was so big and terrifying and Mom was the only thing between her 
and it, the only safe haven left to her...

And she told her. Everything.

Her mother said nothing for the longest time after she'd finished, 
simply looked straight ahead, her chin resting on her hand. "Oh, honey, 
I had no idea..."

"Neither did I until...well, it doesn't matter now, does it?"

"What I meant was that I had no idea the two of you hadn't discovered 
how you felt about each other. And of course it matters. You can't 
disregard your own emotions."

She couldn't think of any reply to that.

"I suppose I should have said something a long time ago," her mother 
said, her voice whisper-soft, "but I didn't think it was my place to 
speak for Fox. God, what a thing to regret--"

"Mom, what are you talking about?"

"You should have seen him, honey, during the time when you were...gone. 
He was so lost without you, his eyes looked so wild and desperate...when 
the time came execute your living will, to turn off your life 
support...Missy and I were afraid he might actually try to take his own 
life."

//Oh sweet Jesus oh God she can't be saying what I think she's 
saying...//

"I knew then that he loved you...and when you woke up in that hospital 
bed and looked up at him, I knew you loved him too."

"Mom..." She was going to start crying again if this kept up. She hated 
crying, hated how small and weak it made her feel.

"Why didn't you tell him, sweetheart?"

"I couldn't. I was afraid."

"Of what?"

"That if our relationship...progressed, things would change between us. 
I didn't want anything to change."

"Are you sure that's the only reason?"

"I don't understand..."

"From what you've told me, Fox isn't...wasn't exactly a predictable man 
even in the best of times. Being with him wouldn't be like being with 
any other man. You wouldn't be in control in that kind of relationship, 
and I think...I think that's what you're really trying to say."

Anger spurted through her veins, but ran its course quickly. As much as 
she loathed admitting it, her mother was right; control had everything 
to do with it. She'd lost control only once before in her adult life -- 
during her affair with Jack Willis.

He'd been exactly the kind of man she should never have gotten involved 
with -- intense, driven, a co-worker, for God's sake. Yet she hadn't 
been able to help herself. She'd plunged in headfirst, danced too close 
to the flame and had gotten herself well and truly burned.

She'd sworn then never to let her heart overrule her head again, 
especially where it might place her career in jeopardy. And it really 
hadn't been all that hard keeping her vow...

Until that day almost three years ago when she'd walked into that office 
in the basement, and realized how easy it would be to let herself lose 
control again. And how much she wanted to...

But she hadn't. She'd held herself firmly in check, ignored all the 
temptation he'd thrown her way, told herself he didn't mean it, that he 
was only teasing, trying to get under her skin.

She'd turned denial into an art form. Jesus, if she'd only let the 
scales drop from her eyes...if she'd only made herself see what was 
really there, even for a minute or two...

"...but you can't go on blaming yourself, honey. There's no way you 
could have known."

"Wh-what?"

"About what they planted in your apartment. You can't let yourself feel 
responsible."

"No. There's no excuse. I should have known, Mom. I should have realized 
something wasn't right."

"What, are you suddenly supposed to be psychic? How could anyone expect 
you to--"

"I'm a Federal agent. How much faith do you think my superiors will have 
in me now when I couldn't even figure out my own home was bugged?" She 
paused a moment, lowering her voice. "Mom, do you understand how all 
this looks, to Skinner, to the rest of the Bureau? It looks like Mulder 
and I were...having an affair and...and...they somehow used that as a 
way to get to him."

"'They?'" her mother said softly.

"They. Him. Whoever pulled the trigger."

Neither of them spoke for the longest time, the only sound in the room 
the slow, ponderous ticking of the clock on the kitchen wall. She 
glanced up, staring out the window above the sink, dimly aware that the 
sky was turning hazy grey.

"You should try to get some sleep, honey."

"I can't. There's a meeting at nine. I have to be there."

"It's still early," her mother said, giving her hand a squeeze. "Come 
on. I'll wake you at seven-thirty. That should give you enough time to 
get ready."

She lay down in her bed in the room she and Melissa had shared, felt her 
mother draw the fluffy down comforter over her shoulders, place a gentle 
kiss on her cheek. Rolling onto her back, she stared up at the ceiling, 
bits and pieces from the past three years reeling through her mind, like 
a videotape on an endless loop...

God, it was so tempting to just lie here all day, to pull the covers 
over her head and stay here, drowsy, lost in her memories...

She wasn't crying anymore, she realized. Her eyes still burned from the 
tears she'd already shed, but she no longer felt as if they would 
overwhelm her again. On the contrary, she felt strangely calm, composed. 
In control.

Mom was right. She needed to get some sleep. The next few days would be 
hellish, and she had to make herself equal to the challenge. She had 
things to do. Things only she could do.

There was someone she had to call as soon as she woke up. The only 
person she could think of who might be able to help her.

*   *   *

She wasn't surprised to receive a terse call from Skinner, requesting 
her presence in his office before the nine o'clock meeting. In fact, 
she'd been expecting it.

Skinner looked mad enough to bite her head off. But she'd been expecting 
that too.

"I received a call from Senator Matheson's office an hour ago," he said, 
his lips set into an even tighter, grimmer line than usual. "I assume 
you know why."

"Yes, sir," she replied calmly, evenly.

"Mulder's body will be brought here from the hospital no later than 
noon. You've been assigned the autopsy. I expect a complete report on my 
desk within twenty-four hours. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"Let me make this clear as well: I want this procedure done by the 
numbers. If anything's missed, I'll have you hauled up in front of a 
review board so fast you won't even see your skid marks on the carpet."

"Nothing will be missed, sir. I will treat this like any other case--"

"Don't insult my intelligence, Agent Scully," he snapped. "Just get me 
the report."

She squirmed through the rest of the morning, the staff conference 
revealing nothing but dead ends -- no identifiable prints, no usable 
hair and fiber, nothing remarkable in the ballistics findings.

Skinner's look as she left the room said it all -- the remainder of the 
investigation was now resting squarely on her shoulders, and God help 
her if she screwed it up.

God help her.

The body was delivered to the Bureau morgue at eleven-fifteen. Her 
fingers felt so numb and clumsy it took her twice as long as it normally 
did to wash up and put on her pale green scrubs.

She hesitated outside the autopsy room, anxiety pumping in her veins, 
making her pulse and breathing rapid. She dragged in several deep, 
cleansing breaths, then reached for the door latch.

They hadn't taken him out of the body bag. It lay there on the table, 
dark and shiny in the lamp's harsh white glare.

She moved toward the table, pulling her mini-cassette recorder from her 
pocket, sliding in a tape, fast-forwarding it. Anything to put off 
touching that bag, even for a few seconds.

//Unzip it, Dana...come on, get it over with...you can't back out of 
this now...//

She stared down at the bag, at the outline of the body within the bag, 
and reached for the zipper.

Inside lay the body of a muscular, thirtyish black man.

Her first thought was that it was somebody's idea of a joke -- a sick, 
ghoulish joke. Or that she'd somehow wandered into the wrong autopsy 
room. But no, the medical chart on the opposite table indicated that she 
was exactly where she should be.

It was Mulder's body that wasn't.

She checked the other two autopsy rooms, found them both dark and empty.

Reaching for her cell phone, she punched in Skinner's extension, waited 
for his assistant to patch her through. "It's not him."

"What?"

"The hospital sent us the wrong body."

"Are you sure?"

She glanced down at the body on the table. "Very."

A pause, short and strangled. "I'll call the hospital administrator 
right now."

He was hanging up the phone as his assistant ushered her into his 
office. He waved her to a chair, his expression murderous. "They said 
one of their morgue attendants must've mixed up the toe tags. The body 
you got is some gangland stabbing victim."

"So where's Mulder? Do they even know?"

"There were several bodies -- bodies of indigent patients -- that were 
scheduled to be shipped out to a private mortuary for cremation and 
interment in potter's field this morning. They think Mulder's body must 
have been among them."

"They think? Are...are you telling me they can't find him?"

"Yes."

She closed her eyes, exhaling a slow, ragged breath. "You know, Mulder 
would probably find this all very funny, but somehow I can't see it." 
Despite that, she heard a dry chuckle escaping her lips. "We've got 
nothing."

"I'll wait for the final reports from ballistics and materials analysis, 
but I don't expect them to turn up anything new."

She trudged downstairs, changed back into her clothes and headed to the 
hotel. She packed her suitcase, checked out and drove back to her 
mother's. The idea of returning to her own apartment still repulsed her. 
She wasn't sure she would ever shake the feeling.

She showered, changed into a sweatshirt and jeans and sat down to a 
dinner that tasted like straw and ashes.

Everything felt...wrong. She felt wrong, broken inside, out of joint, 
incapable of experiencing the sense of grief and loss that had 
overwhelmed her the night before.

It was too strange. She should be mourning him more now than ever, 
especially since it appeared that his killers would never be found, 
especially since they had no evidence, no body...

"Oh, my God," she breathed. "They didn't lose the body. There was no 
body to lose."

Her mother's eyes snapped up, locking on hers across the kitchen table. 
"Honey, what are you--"

"He's not dead, Mom."

"But...how can you know that?"

"Because if he was, I'd feel like there was this huge hole blown through 
me, the way I did last night. Because if his heart had stopped beating, 
if his brain had ceased to function, I'd know. I'd feel it."

"You're starting to sound like Melissa."

For some reason that remark struck a deep chord. "Maybe I am," she said 
slowly. "Missy was always so intuitive...maybe that's something I need 
from her now. God knows, clinical detachment's gotten me absolutely 
nowhere."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I don't even know if I can do anything."

"But what about--"

"Mom, I've got no hard proof. All I've got is this feeling, and that 
won't be good enough for Skinner."

"You have to try, honey. For Fox's sake."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do," she said, shaking her head. "I can't believe 
this. I can't believe I'm actually going to go to Skinner and ask him 
to keep the investigation open on the strength of a feeling." She 
laughed, actually laughed aloud. "Oh, Mom...Mulder would be proud of 
me."

*   *   *

"Agent Scully."

She whirled around in the bullpen hallway to see who had called after 
her. "Agent Pendrell."

The materials analysis tech beckoned her from the doorway of his lab. "I 
just found something I think you should see."

"Well, I was..." she gestured toward Skinner's office, but something in 
Pendrell's expression made her drop her hand, follow him inside the lab.

"I've been working on the videos from the Chinese restaurant's security 
camera," he said, waving her over to a TV monitor near the far wall. 
"Most of the footage from the night in question had awful resolution, 
but luckily I was able to scan it onto laserdisc, digitize it, break it 
down frame by frame."

"And?"

"Take a look."

Pendrell flicked a button on the remote control he was holding, and the 
monitor filled with Mulder's image moving quickly past the camera, 
followed by interminable seconds of dead air. He touched another button, 
and the image jumped forward.

Scully's breath caught as the door flew open, two men dressed in black 
entering, the first swinging his arm up to the camera, firing--

The screen dissolved to snow.

"Is that all?"

"Wait," Pendrell said, hitting another button on the remote.

And the image reversed, frame by frame, until the shooter's profile came 
into grainy, soft-focus view. Pendrell made a few more adjustments, 
centering the frame, sharpening its resolution, blowing it up until it 
filled the entire screen.

She stared at it, thinking there had to be something wrong with her 
vision, that she couldn't be seeing what she thought she was seeing--

Alex Krycek.

"Can you get me a hard copy of that?" she asked, her voice barely above 
a whisper.

"No problem."

Holding it in her hand, on paper, made it finally begin to feel real. 
"What did Skinner say when you showed him this?"

"I haven't. I'd just finished optimizing the disc when I saw you walk 
by." He glanced from her face to the paper and back again. "That guy 
looks little familiar. You know who he is?"

"I hope so," she replied, heading for the door. "Thanks."

"He's been waiting for you," Skinner's assistant said, her expression 
tight, anxious.

Scully didn't even stop to acknowledge her, just pushed through the door 
to Skinner's office, slapped the paper onto his desk. "Pendrell just 
gave me this."

Skinner fingered the paper, studying it in silence. "From the security 
camera video?"

"Yes."

He sighed, pushing the paper away. "It still proves nothing."

"How can you say that? This man attacked you just a few months ago, and 
you know what Mulder suspected him of--"

"Mulder's suspicions were never proven. Alex Krycek's been missing for 
over a year. If you've got any idea where to find him, you're welcome to 
let me know."

The words she'd rehearsed in her head all last night leaped to her 
tongue, then hung there, suspended, frozen. She couldn't say it. She 
couldn't tell Skinner she sensed that Mulder was still alive -- it would 
sound too insane, especially coming from her. And the last thing she 
needed right now was to lose her credibility in Skinner's eyes. She 
slumped in her chair, defeat threatening to wrap her in its leaden arms. 
"Without a body, we don't have conclusive proof that Mulder's really 
dead."

"I saw them wheel him out of that operating room, Agent Scully.  And we 
have a signed death certificate."

Frustration set her teeth on edge; she had to struggle to keep her voice 
level. "You can't close the investigation yet."

"And I can't justify keeping it open much longer without any new leads." 
He paused, drumming his fingers on the blotter, pulling off his glasses. 
"I'm putting you on one week's paid leave, pending reassignment."

"I'd prefer to keep on working, sir. I need to--"

"There's nothing for you to work on, Agent Scully. Word filtered down to 
me this morning. The X-Files are being closed. Permanently."

//Well, it's not like you weren't expecting it, Dana.//

"I see," she said numbly. "I don't suppose...they'd let me petition to 
keep the project open...let me work on it alone."

His look told her the answer to that question. "You're one of my best 
people, Scully. I need you sharp and focused and rested, and you are 
none of those things right now. Go home and get that rest. If any new 
developments arise, I promise I'll let you know."

She made her way out of Skinner's office, down the hall, feeling adrift, 
rudderless.

No Mulder. No work. Nothing to put her back up against.

She drove to her apartment and parked outside, staring blankly out the 
window, her hand frozen on her car's door latch.

But she couldn't get out. She couldn't go in.

And she wouldn't be going in ever again -- except to pack up her things 
and get them into a moving van.

Maybe this week off wouldn't be so unproductive after all. She'd start 
looking for a new place tomorrow.

She didn't want to think about anything after that.

*   *   *

He gazed down at the figure lying motionless on the bed, and lit another 
cigarette. "What's the prognosis, Doctor?"

The other man rubbed a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. 
"Physically, he should be fine, though I think recovery'll take longer 
than expected. He's strong, but that second surgery was rough on him."

"Regrettable, but necessary," he said, taking another puff. "And 
mentally?"

"I don't know." The doctor lowered himself into a chair on the opposite 
side of the bedroom, taking off his glasses, massaging his eyes. "His 
brain's like a crashed hard drive -- some memories completely erased, 
some there, but only partially so. I'm not certain I can do anything for 
him in that regard."

"Fine, then. Rinse him out. We'll start over from scratch."

The doctor stared at him for an endless moment. "I've never attempted a 
complete wipe. I don't even know if it's possible."

"Then I suppose you'll have to find out, won't you?"

"He's the last one left. And I am not about to have his death 
or...anything else on my conscience."

"This project was your brainchild, Doctor. We supported you over the 
years, when no one else would. It's a little bit late in the game to 
decide you don't have the stomach for it." Dropping the cigarette, he 
crushed it under his heel. "Get to work, Doctor. And keep him sedated 
until you're finished."
 



"The Bright White Place," MSR, NC-17
Part 4/?
Disclaimers attached to Part 1.

*   *   *
She'd forgotten how exhausting apartment-hunting was. By Friday she'd 
seen at least a dozen places, none of them right -- either too small, 
too large, too expensive, too far away from work...

Well, there was really no great rush. If something didn't turn up by the 
end of her leave time, she'd give her landlord notice, move her 
furniture into a storage unit, and stay on with her mother for awhile. 
Mom had already said she wouldn't mind and, much to her own surprise, 
Scully realized she found the notion of moving back home oddly 
comforting. It would be nice coming home to better company than her TV 
or yet another case file for a change.

She was getting dressed for another hunting spree Saturday morning when 
she heard her mother's soft rap on the bedroom door. "Dana, there's 
someone downstairs for you. Your boss."

"Did he say what he wanted?" she asked, pulling her sweater over her 
head, opening the door.

"No. And I didn't ask."

She slipped on her shoes, ran a quick comb through her hair and bounded 
down the stairs two at a time, finding Skinner in the living room. He 
was dressed casually, in slacks and sweater; the sight took her somewhat 
aback for a moment or two.

"My assistant told me I might find you here," he said. "I hope I'm not 
intruding..?"

"Not at all, sir. Please..." she indicated the couch, sat down on it a 
discreet distance away from him. "Is there some news regarding the 
investigation?"

"No, I'm afraid not. This is about something else entirely." He leaned 
forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You've received two offers 
for new assignments. Naturally, Quantico is more than eager to have you 
back. But the Violent Crimes Section is also quite interested. In fact, 
they want you to head up their new forensics unit."

She stared back at him, stunned. Either offer by itself would be well 
worth killing for, but two, and at the same time... "I...I don't know 
what to say. This is all a bit overwhelming."

"I had the feeling it would be. That's why I decided to come in person 
to tell you."

Her mind boggled, awhirl in confusion. The time she'd spent at Quantico 
had been good for her, a great learning experience, but the thought of 
returning there now left her feeling strangely empty and unmoved.

But the V.C.S...after what had happened with Tom Colton on the Tooms 
case, she would never have thought in a million years that the V.C.S. 
would make her an offer. Especially since she'd been Mulder's partner, 
and he was pretty much a pariah in their eyes.

But he'd been their fair-haired boy once, and there were times when he'd 
spoken of his years with them with what had almost sounded like 
affection. His work with them had made an impact that could be felt 
throughout the entire Bureau even now. If she couldn't work on the 
X-Files, the V.C.S. might just be the next best thing.

And it would also give her first crack at any new evidence that might 
come to light regarding Mulder's shooting. She tried to convince herself 
that that was of secondary importance -- and for a few fleeting moments, 
she almost succeeded.

"You don't have to give me an answer now," Skinner said, rising. "I just 
wanted to make you aware of your options."

"It's all right, I've already made my decision. Tell Violent Crimes I'd 
be happy to accept their offer."

Skinner's left eyebrow arched. "Not Quantico?"

"I've done all I can do there. I want to stay in the field."

To her relief, he accepted her explanation at face value. "I'll tell 
them, then."

She walked him to the front door, ushered him out, stood in the doorway 
watching him walk to his car at the curb, felt the sun shining down on 
her face. Soft and warm, like Mulder's lips brushing her palm.

For the first time in days, she felt grounded. She had a purpose again, 
a goal. And that in itself felt good.

*   *   *

"Have you finished yet?"

The doctor nodded, glancing up from the man lying on his back in bed, 
his bandaged chest slowly rising and falling. "I've done as much as I 
can, considering his condition."

"But the scenario we discussed has been implemented?"

"The implants seem to have taken, but I can't be completely sure of that 
until he regains consciousness. However, there is one thing I think you 
should be aware of."

He put a fresh cigarette between his lips, reached in his pocket for his 
lighter. "Which is?"

"He's thirty-five years old. There are certain thought patterns, core 
memories which are set, imprinted in a person by this age. Patterns and 
memories which cannot be altered or erased, though they can be repressed 
into the subconscious. Hopefully that is what's happened here."

"Hopefully?" he repeated, his tone dripping scorn. "What are you saying? 
That the implants may not work after all? We might as well terminate 
this project now and have done with it, if that's the probable outcome."

"There is always a chance they won't work, but I don't believe that will 
be the case here. This subject has always proven quite...pliant, 
malleable. If he does happen to remember something, it will probably 
come out as broken dream fragments he won't make any sense of. Or some 
crazy childhood incident no one would ever believe."

He smiled, exhaling smoke through his nose. "Excellent."

"However, he will always be Fox Mulder. Core identity was established 
with the first implants years ago and cannot be changed."

He paused, looking down at the bed, at the man lying there, pondering 
the exquisite irony of it all, the bittersweet satisfaction of seeing 
fifty years' work finally come to fruition. "He'll wake soon?"

The doctor nodded. "I've stopped administering the sedative, so he 
should regain consciousness naturally within the next few hours."

"Well, there's no reason we need to stay for that, is there?" he said, 
turning to leave, gesturing for the doctor to follow.

He stopped in the living room, right in front of the the couch, where 
another, younger man sat, lazily flicking channels with the TV remote.

The younger man gave him a look, then stood, hands shoved in his jeans 
pockets, saying nothing, awaiting his orders.

"Keep close watch over him. Let me know if anything unusual happens. You 
know what to look for?"

"Yeah."

"The doctor will return in a day or so to check him." With that, he and 
the doctor moved toward the front door. "And remember -- under no 
circumstances are you to drink from the tap in this apartment."

"But what do I do if he asks me about--"

"You know the scenario. Play along with it. Understood?"

"Sure," Alex Krycek replied with a feral smile. "No problem."

*   *   *

His vision cleared slowly, as if he were moving up through deep water, 
reaching for the light shimmering at the surface--

And the room slammed into sharp, glaring focus, making him roll to his 
side, force his face down into the pillow until the angry red glow 
behind his eyelids subsided to something bearable.

//Jesus...feels like there's a fucking nuclear explosion in my head...//

He slitted his eyes open, letting illumination in a little at a time, 
his surroundings gradually becoming visible.

It was a small, clean room, with plain off-white walls, green drapes, 
brown furniture. Other than the pair of jeans flung over a chair and his 
wallet and watch on the bedside table, there were no personal belongings 
in view. Nothing remarkable. Nothing he'd have any trouble leaving 
behind if he had to.

Pain shot its jagged arrows through him when he tried to raise himself 
up on his left elbow, and he slumped back onto his pillows, gasping. 
Then he looked down, saw the bandages on his chest, rubbed his hand 
gingerly over where the ache was centered, halfway between his heart and 
left shoulder.

He tried flexing the fingers of his left hand, felt them move stiffly 
but without discomfort, then tried the same thing with his elbow. But 
when he got to the left shoulder joint, the pain kicked in again, hard, 
sending ghostly patterns whirling behind his eyes. Rolling onto his 
right side, he somehow maneuvered himself into a sitting position, swung 
his legs over the side of the bed, held onto the bedside table until he 
managed to pull himself to his feet. Luckily, there didn't seem to be 
anything wrong with his legs.

He could see a bathroom a few steps away, just outside the bedroom door, 
and made it there by sheer strength of will, his legs suddenly turning 
rubbery after about three steps. Flicking the light on, he glimpsed the 
toilet, realized his bladder was ready to burst.

Stripping off his boxers -- the only thing he had on -- he propped 
himself up against the wall with his one good arm, gratefully relieving 
himself.

Then he grabbed ahold of the edge of the sink, staring into the mirror.

Blood-veined eyes gazed back at him from a face covered in thick 
stubble. His hair stuck up in haphazard tufts, his lips cracked, dry...

God, he was thirsty. He twisted on the cold water, swallowed two 
handfuls without even tasting it, splashed more on his face.

He felt a little better then, but only a little. He dragged in a couple 
of deep breaths, wincing at the searing stab it sent tearing through his 
chest, his nose wrinkling at his first real whiff of himself.

//Women aren't exactly gonna be lining up for a date with you, pal...//

Staggering to the shower, he climbed in, turned on the hot water, 
adjusting it until the temperature hovered a bare degree below scalding. 
He stood under the spray until the water turned lukewarm and his skin 
felt so tight he thought it might split open.

His bandages got soaked but the tape still pulled when he tugged it off, 
making his breath hiss out through his teeth. He traced his fingertips 
over and around the silver-dollar-sized wound, relieved to find it clean 
and dry, with no apparent sign of infection. At least whoever'd patched 
him up this time had known what the fuck he was doing.

He finished toweling off as best he could with one hand, then shaved. 
Lifting up his left arm still hurt like hell. Christ, his whole body was 
a pain factory -- head pounding, arm aching. And trying to take more 
than a shallow breath made his chest feel like there was a fucking rhino 
kneeling on it.

He found aspirin, fresh gauze and tape in the mirrored cabinet over the 
sink, swallowed four of the tablets, chased them down with water, then 
started rebandaging himself--

//*flash*//

//he was standing in a room a bright white room all by himself no not 
all by himself there was someone else someone standing in the shadows 
standing in the doorway saying his name raising his arm his hand lifting 
up his gun firing his gun--//

Slumping forward, he caught himself on the sink with one elbow, agony 
lancing him, jolting him back to reality. He raked a hand over his face, 
felt it come away coated with chill perspiration.

He slapped tape on his new bandage, lurched back to the bedroom, grabbed 
the jeans hanging on the chair, somehow managed to pull them on. 
Riffling through the dresser near the bed, he found a plain white 
t-shirt, worked his left arm into it, dragged it over his head, flopped 
down on the bed, shaking, sweating, exhausted.

Then he heard something -- a noise far down the hall -- and sat straight 
up, this time ignoring his body's discomfort. Pure instinct kicking in, 
he jerked open the bedside table's one drawer, rummaging through it, 
looking for his gun--

Nothing.

Nothing in the dresser either, except more clothes--

And a leather belt, hidden under a pile of underwear. Crude, but it'd do 
the job.

He crept slowly down the darkened hallway, into the empty living room. 
The TV was on, though for some reason its volume was turned all the way 
down. Plates and beer cans and newspapers covered the table in front of 
the couch, spilling onto the floor.

There was a light on in the kitchen; he could smell the odor of frying 
beef hanging thick and greasy in the air, hear plate and fork making 
contact. His stomach rumbled.

Flattening himself against the wall, he inched up to the door, sensed 
rather than saw shadowy movement from the table to the sink, heard 
dishes clanking on stainless steel, then the sound of running water--

And he lunged, stretching the belt between both hands, slinging it 
around the man at the sink's throat, dragging him over to the far wall, 
slamming him against it.

Krycek gasped, sputtered, somehow managing to work two fingers under the 
belt. "What...the fuck're...you doing--"

"You oughta know. You shot me, you son of a bitch." He tightened his 
grip, the sight of Krycek squirming and thrashing sending a gelid sense 
of satisfaction pumping through his veins.

"Had to...the old man didn't...give me a choice..."

"Nice try."

"'S'true, man...you gotta believe me..."

He wanted to give the belt one more jerk to finish the job, but hot 
knives of pain stabbed his arm, pulsing down into his chest. Dark 
blotches danced before his eyes and he fell back, losing his grip on the 
belt.

Krycek stared at him, eyes wild, rubbing his throat, sucking in air. 
"Fifteen years, man...we've been like brothers...you know I'd never sell 
you out..."

"Do I?" Pushing Krycek flat on his stomach against the wall, he grabbed 
the gun the other man kept tucked under his waistband at the small of 
his back.

"Just let me tell you what happened--"

"Maybe I will. Then again, maybe I'll let you eat a piece of this 
first," he hissed, shoving the gun in Krycek's face.

"Jesus, they really did a number on you..."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Let me go and I'll tell you."

He didn't let him go.

"C'mon, man...you got the gun. I'm not going anywhere."

He weighed his options for a second or two, then stepped back, waving 
Krycek over to the kitchen table. "Sit down. Keep your hands on the 
table where I can see them."

Krycek sat down, put his hands flat on the table, still breathing hard.

He slid into the other chair, keeping the gun trained on Krycek. "You 
wanted to talk. So start talking."

"One of the old man's cronies tried to recruit me. Said he wanted to 
even out the balance of power in the consortium. I told him no, but 
somehow the old man found out. He said I'd disappointed him, made him 
doubt my loyalty."

"So?"

"So I asked him what I could do to prove it. He said I had to kill you."

For some odd reason, he wasn't surprised. "Looks like you fell a little 
short of the mark."

"He wanted me to shoot you in the head."

"And I'm supposed to be grateful you didn't?" Jesus, but he was getting 
thirsty again. His mouth tasted like a fucking desert. "Lame story, 
Alex. I've read better in the Sunday funnies."

"It's the truth."

"Yeah, right."

"You think I give two shits about their stupid power plays? I didn't ask 
for any of this. The old man knows I'd never cross him, neither would 
you. We both owe him too much."

It was getting unbearable, this dryness in his mouth and throat. He 
rose, moving slowly toward the sink, keeping his bead on Krycek as he 
picked up a glass from the sideboard, turned on the faucet to fill it, 
gulped it down. "And what exactly do we owe him, Alex?"

"Shit, Mulder, you know as well as I do--"

"Why don't you tell me anyway?"

"You still don't trust me?"

"I don't even know if you are who you appear to be."

Krycek laughed, incredulity written plainly on his face. "You want to 
cut me, see if I bleed green?"

"Maybe later," he replied, sitting back down before the pressure 
building up in his chest could make his knees buckle. He felt hot and 
prickly all over, like somebody had just dusted his skin with itching 
powder. "How'd we get here? How'd we end up working for the old man?"

Krycek licked his lips, his hands clenching and unclenching on the 
table. "We were kids when we hooked up, eighteen or nineteen. Did 
small-time jobs, robbing laundromats, liquor stores, stuff like that. 
When pickings were good, they were good. When they weren't...we ate out 
of garbage cans, slept in doorways."

He remembered. God, he could still smell the stench of urine and rotting 
food in those cold, filthy alleys. Thought he'd gotten it out of his 
system a long time ago. "So how'd we end up here?"

"It was a couple days before Christmas, and we were starving. So we saw 
this mom-and-dad convenience store, decided to hit it. Only problem was, 
Dad had a thirty-eight special under the counter. I shot him, we took 
off, but the cops grabbed us before we'd gone two blocks."

"Then what?"

"The guy died. They charged us with murder one, special circumstances. 
Trial, conviction, death row. We were there nine years."

He remembered that too. Remembered the first time he was attacked in the 
showers, remembered cornering the bastard who'd done it and plunging a 
homemade knife in his ear. Remembered the four months he'd spent in 
solitary for it. Easiest time he'd ever done.

"You went to the chamber a week before I did," Krycek continued. "I 
remember walking down the hallway, the guards strapping me into the 
chair, putting the hood over my head. I heard the door slam shut, the 
pellets dropping..." He paused, exhaling. "Then I woke up."

"And the old man was there. And he told you you were a dead man, but if 
you wanted to live, he'd give you that chance. And you've done whatever 
he's told you to do ever since."

"Yeah," Krycek replied. "You believe me now?"

God, he needed another shower; fresh sweat was breaking out all over his 
body, acidic and foul-smelling. Dizziness almost overwhelmed him as he 
stood up, handed Krycek his gun. "Yeah. I believe you." He turned, 
moving toward the door, stumbling against the jamb when a wave of nausea 
crashed over him.

"C'mon, I'll help you--"

But he jerked back the instant he felt Krycek's hand on his arm. "Get 
the hell away from me. I can do my own walking."

"Hey, I was just trying--"

"If you want to help, clean up that fucking mess you left in the living 
room."

"Yeah. Sure. Whatever you want."

He wouldn't have thought it possible, but this shower felt even better 
than the last one, loosening the knots in his muscles, making the pain 
in his arm and chest almost bearable. Maybe the aspirin was finally 
starting to kick in. He dried off, went back to the bedroom, flopped 
down on the bed, closed his eyes.

The room spun, even in the dark. His heart felt like there was a hand 
closing over it, squeezing extra beats out of it. He forced himself to 
breathe as deeply as he could, willing his pulse to slow.

Alex had been telling the truth, as far as it went. But he still had the 
uneasy feeling there was something he was holding back, probably on the 
old man's orders.

He wasn't worried, though. He'd find out what it was. Sooner or later, 
Alex would get a few too many beers in him and tell all. The old man 
knew that. Hell, the twisted bastard was probably banking on it.

But there was no need to rush. He had all the time in the world. They 
couldn't kill him. Nobody could.

He was already a dead man.





"The Bright White Place," MSR, NC-17
Part 5/?
Disclaimers attached to Part 1.

*   *   *

No matter how late she got in, her mother was always waiting up for her, 
ready to talk about their respective days. It made her feel like a 
teenager sneaking in after a date -- a little bit guilty, but at the 
same time comforted there was somebody who cared enough to do it.

The past month had been a combination of exhausting and exhilarating. 
Her new position with Violent Crimes had kept her on the move from the 
day she started; she hadn't spent more than a couple waking hours a day 
at home, and that even included weekends.

//Almost as hectic as when I was working with Mul--//

No, she wouldn't let herself make that comparison. If she did, she'd 
feel like a traitor.

Skinner had let her back into hers and Mulder's office the day she'd 
returned from her leave, but only to pack up her things -- and with 
Skinner himself keeping a gimlet eye trained on her. She hadn't been 
allowed to touch Mulder's things at all, or even go over to his side of 
the office, which had still been taped off. His papers would be boxed up 
and shipped to his mother later, or so Skinner had told her.

So she'd taken her own files home, spent every spare minute she could 
scrounge poring over them, looking for any possible clue that might shed 
new light on the investigation. But so far, she'd come up with 
absolutely nothing.

And even with her new contacts in the V.C.S., she could find no trace of 
Alex Krycek's whereabouts. Apparently he'd crawled into a crack in the 
wall last year and only slunk out every now and then to shoot FBI 
agents--

"Earth to Dana."

She looked up a touch sheepishly, realizing she must have been staring 
into the depths of her coffee mug. "Sorry, Mom. Just zoning out again, I 
guess."

"You should go to bed, honey. Before those bags under your eyes turn 
into steamer trunks."

She chuckled, stealing a glance at the kitchen clock. Only nine thirty. 
"Not yet. If I go this early, I'll just wake up around three or four and 
never get back to sleep."

"So that's what I heard last night. For a while there I thought we had 
king-sized mice in the walls."

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay. I was awake anyway. I haven't slept a night straight through 
since...well, since we lost your father."

She looked down, studying her fingernails, her mother's serene, intent 
gaze suddenly too uncomfortable to bear. "Do you have dreams, Mom? About 
Dad?"

"All the time."

"And are they...I mean..."

"About the good times we had? The years we didn't have?"

She nodded.

"I wish I could tell you it gets easier, sweetheart."

She tried to summon up a reply, but the words wouldn't come. All she 
could do was blink away the telltale sting behind her eyes.

The phone's ring split the silence. Her mother got up to answer it. 
"Hello? Yes, she is. One moment." She wrapped her fingers around the 
mouthpiece. "It's for you, honey. It's Mrs. Mulder."

Panic plunged its jagged blade in her for a split-second, but she forced 
herself to shake it off, get to her feet, reach for the phone. "Mrs. 
Mulder? How...um, nice to hear from you."

"How are you, Ms. Scully? Well, I hope." Her tone was warm, sincere.

"Yes, fine. Work is good."

//Why the hell did I say that? Brilliant, Dana, just brilliant...//

"Yes, well...I was over at Fox's apartment earlier today. I have to have 
his things packed up and ready to move out by Saturday, and I came 
across a few books that I think are yours. I was wondering if you'd like 
to have them back."

//Oh, God, not this. Not now.//

"Ms. Scully?"

"Um...yes. Yes, I would like them back."

"All right. I'll bring them by over the weekend. Is there a time that 
will be more convenient for you?"

Suddenly her brain unfroze, kicking into high gear. "Oh, please don't go 
to that trouble. I'd be glad to come by and pick them up myself."

"Well, that's...very kind of you to offer. And I must admit, I'd enjoy 
the opportunity to speak with you again."

"Saturday morning, then? Ten or eleven?"

"I'll be looking forward to it."

She hung up, her hand lingering on the receiver, finally letting the 
weariness lurking behind her eyes take full hold of her. Murmuring good 
night to her mother, she trudged upstairs to bed, slid under the covers, 
turned out the light.

Maybe there was something in Mulder's apartment that could help her, 
give her some hard evidence, anything to keep the investigation open. 
She couldn't give up. Mulder hadn't given up on her when she'd 
disappeared, even when it seemed everyone else had.

Somewhere out there he was waiting for her, depending on her.

She had to keep believing that.

*   *   *

//it was hot and dark Christ it felt like the inside of an oven but 
outside he could hear the wind howling whipping against the sides of the 
shelter making the walls rattle--

//and she was standing there red-haired petite blue eyes holding a gun 
on him and he was screaming at her to put it down but she wouldn't she 
said he had to understand but he didn't he didn't understand any of it 
at all--

//and she said Mulder you may not be who you are--//

And he sat bolt upright, trembling, his scream lodged stillborn in his 
throat. It took him a few seconds to register that he was lying on the 
couch, an old movie playing on the TV.

He swung his legs over the side of the couch, rubbing his eyes, blinking 
away the bleariness there. Reaching for the glass of water he'd left on 
the table, he downed the last of it, bathing his parched tongue.

*Crash.*

James Arness was busting through a door on the TV, roaring and 
shrieking, taking a swipe at Kenneth Tobey, the Arctic wind wailing in 
the background--

He grabbed the remote and punched it, relief washing over him as the 
screen went black. Christ, no wonder he'd been having weird dreams, 
watching crap like that. Like anybody'd believe giant carnivorous 
carrots from outer space really existed anyway.

A key twisted in the front door lock, and Krycek came in, pulled off his 
jacket, threw it over the back of another chair. "I'd say you looked 
like shit, but that'd be an insult to shit."

"I love you too," he grunted, slumping down, resting his head on the 
back of the couch.

"Jesus, Mulder, don't you ever fall asleep in bed? That's what they're 
for, y'know. Among other things," he added with a snicker.

"You sleep where you want, I'll sleep where I want."

"Yeah, well...since we're on the subject, you really should've come with 
me tonight. I met this incredible blonde--"

"Save it, Alex. I'm not in the mood."

"No shit," he retorted, sinking down in the chair he'd hung his jacket 
on. "What the hell's wrong with you anyway? You never used to pass up a 
chance to go bar-crawling."

"Guess the magic's gone. Getting shot by your partner'll do that to 
you."

Krycek's grin faded. "I thought we'd gotten past that."

"I'd still feel a lot better about the situation if I had my gun back."

"I told you, the old man took it. He doesn't want you to have it--"

"Until I'm fully recovered. Bullshit," he snorted, sitting up, wincing 
as he did so, his back muscles stiff and sore from lying on the too-soft 
cushions. "I'm starting to wonder if it's really your loyalty he was 
worried about."

"Maybe you should ask him."

"Yeah, right. Like he'd give me a straight answer."

"Look, the old man's consortium buddies think you're history. He wants 
them to keep on thinking that for awhile."

"Figures. I knew there had to be a good reason for him keeping me 
stashed in this fucking rathole. Which of the other cold-blooded 
bastards does he want whacked this time?"

"The English guy -- Markham, Morrell, whatever the hell his name is. 
He's the one who tried to recruit me."

He shivered involuntarily, remembering a chance meeting he'd had with 
the man, the slimy way the old queer had looked him up and down. "When 
the time comes, count me in," he said, getting up, heading down the hall 
to the bedroom without waiting for Krycek's reply.

He stripped, taking care not to move his left arm any more than he had 
to. Christ, it still felt like he was wrenching his shoulder from its 
socket whenever he tried lifting the arm over his head. The old man'd 
never put him back to work in this piss-poor condition.

The old man's doctor made the exact same assessment the next afternoon. 
"The tissue's healed as much as it's going to under the circumstances. 
You'll need physical therapy if you want full use of that arm again."

He had to bite back a bitter chortle. He couldn't count the number of 
times he'd been shot or stabbed or beaten in his life, yet he'd always 
managed to recover with no problem. It was just too fucking ironic.

//Congratulations, Alex...you're a better shot than I gave you credit 
for.//

"That's it," he muttered. "End of the ride."

"I can arrange for a therapist to come here two or three times a week," 
the doctor continued. "Your...um, employer's already given his 
approval."

"Did he?"

"He was quite insistent about it, in fact. Said you were far too 
valuable an operative to lose."

Cold, practical. Just like the old man. "How long will it take?"

"Depends on you. Work hard, and you should be good as new in two or 
three months."

"Months? Christ, I'm going stir-crazy here already--"

"All the more reason, I'd think, for you to get started." The doctor 
rose, stood motionless by the couch, waiting for an answer.

He couldn't stand it -- not the pain, that was negligible -- but the 
weakness in his body, the way it had betrayed him. He hadn't felt like 
this since he was a kid, beaten on by his father for any old excuse, 
vowing mutely that once he was strong enough to fight back, nobody'd 
ever hurt him again and get away with it. And they hadn't, not for the 
last twenty-five years, at least.

"All right," he said finally. "Send someone."

*   *   *

Scully's heart nearly stopped when she saw the door to Mulder's 
apartment slightly ajar. Then she heard voices inside, the shuffle of 
the movers lifting and carrying, and she relaxed a little.

But only a little. Her fingers closed over the cold brass of the 
doorknob, and for the fiftieth time that day she wondered what in the 
world had possessed her to come here. Mrs. Mulder was waiting for her on 
the other side of the door, and she had absolutely no idea what to say 
to her.

//You can still back out...just turn around and get back on that 
elevator, call her later and say you were called in to work 
unexpectedly. She'll believe that.//

Then the door swung open and the movers emerged, wheeling hand-trucks 
stacked high with cardboard boxes. She barely stepped back in time to 
avoid getting flattened.

"Ms. Scully?" She heard the voice, soft and low-pitched, before she saw 
the older woman appear in the doorway, brushing back a stray lock of 
gray hair. She was dressed comfortably in blouse and slacks, but looked 
worn down, her eyes puffy, slightly red. "I'm so glad you could make 
it," she said, coming forward, her hand extended.

Scully pasted on a smile, wondering if her reluctance showed as much as 
she suspected it did, or if Mrs. Mulder's comment was simply mere 
coincidence. "You look busy."

"Yes, but fortunately this is the last of it. The real work was in 
boxing it all up. I'm almost done with the clothing, though," she added, 
gesturing for Scully to come in.

All the furniture with the exception of the kitchen table and chairs was 
already gone. The walls looked stark and bare, the morning sun pouring 
through the curtainless windows, glaring off the white paint. She 
stopped in the middle of the living room, her throat tight and dry, her 
hand clutching her purse's shoulder strap, feeling it bite into her 
palm. For a second or two she couldn't help thinking--

"Looks like he never lived here, doesn't it?" Mrs. Mulder said softly, 
meeting her gaze straight on.

"Yes," she managed to get out. "H-how did you know I was--"

"You have a very expressive face. Fox even mentioned it to me once. He 
said he could always tell what you were feeling, if something was 
bothering you."

"He spoke about me?"

"Every time I saw him, or talked with him on the phone. He always called 
you by your last name, but it didn't take me long to realize you were a 
woman."

She turned, spying her books on the kitchen table, going over, opening 
one, running her fingers along her bookplate on the inside flyleaf. 
"Thank you for calling me about these. To be honest, I'd forgotten he 
still had them."

"No trouble," the older woman said. "I was wondering, though, if there's 
something of Fox's that you'd like to take for yourself, as a keepsake. 
I still have some of his personal things here."

Heat flushed her cheeks, and she wished now more than ever that she'd 
never come. This was too intimate, too private to let anyone see, much 
less Mrs. Mulder. The woman had an uncanny talent for making her feel 
vulnerable, defenseless. "Oh...no. I couldn't."

"Then will you at least sit a few minutes and have a cup of tea with me? 
I have to admit, I'm in need of a break."

"But what about the movers?"

"Oh, they won't be back for at least another hour. I've got them booked 
for the whole day, so there's no need to rush."

So they sat, drinking hot Earl Grey from a pair of chipped mugs, sharing 
words and silence. To Scully's surprise, she found herself actually 
beginning to unwind, drawn in by Mrs. Mulder's quiet, gentle manner.

"Would you mind if I ask...what was he like as a boy?" she ventured 
shyly. "I mean, before...what happened when he was twelve."

Mrs. Mulder flinched slightly, growing pale. "Fox told you about that?"

"Yes."

"All of it?"

"Well, yes. I didn't get the impression he was keeping anything 
purposely hidden from me."

Mrs. Mulder's fingers tightened around her mug, and she cast her gaze 
downward. "I had no idea you and Fox were so...close."

"Not that close, Mrs. Mulder. Not in the way you're thinking, at least."

"Well, he must have had an inordinate amount of trust in you to tell you 
about..." She trailed off, wiping at her eyes.

"It must have been terrible."

"Yes," the older woman said thickly. "It was."

"Muld...Fox never lost hope, you know. Even last year, when he thought 
you'd found Samantha again--"

"That woman was not my daughter."

"I know. But even when it turned out not to be her, when most people 
would have given up, he became more determined than ever to find out 
what really happened--"

"Dear God," Mrs. Mulder gasped, one hand flying up to cover her mouth. 
"You don't understand, do you? You don't understand any of it at all."

The haunted, anguished look in the older woman's eyes sent a liquid 
chill shooting through her. "What don't I understand?"

Mrs. Mulder folded her hands as if praying, pressing her lips to her 
steepled fingers. "I don't have a daughter, Ms. Scully. Fox is my only 
child. Samantha does not exist."

The words echoed in her ears, sinking slowly into her brain like pebbles 
cast in a still pond. "But...how can that be? His memories of her were 
so vivid--"

"His memories were false. Constructs of an emotionally disturbed mind. 
That's what all the doctors said, anyway." She closed her eyes, 
breathing deeply. "I should start at the beginning, I suppose, if any of 
this is to make sense. Bill and I...we were married several years, but I 
could never become pregnant. We tried adoption, and ended up on waiting 
lists for...I don't know, a very long time. I started believing we would 
never have a child, but then one of Bill's associates in the State 
Department pulled a few strings, helped arrange for a private adoption. 
And Fox became our son." Her lips curved upward slightly at the memory. 
"Things were wonderful for the first few years. But Bill's work started 
keeping him away from home for sometimes weeks at a stretch, and...well, 
our marriage and his relationship with Fox began to suffer greatly. Even 
when he did manage to come home for a few days, he was cold, distant. It 
progressed to the point where he would barely speak to us at all. But I 
stayed...kept telling myself that he needed us, that he was just going 
through a rough patch at work, that things would get better between us 
in time. God, if I'd only listened to my heart instead of my head..."

"What happened?" Scully prompted softly.

"It was summer, 1973. Bill had had...well, I called it a breakdown, he 
called it exhaustion. Either way, he was forced to take time off from 
work, the whole summer, in fact. By mid-July he was feeling like himself 
again, and he asked me if he could take Fox and go up to our summer 
house in Rhode Island for a week, just the two of them. I was 
overjoyed...I thought this would be the beginning of a reconciliation 
between them. But it turned out to be anything but that, I saw as soon 
as they got back. Bill had become as uncommunicative as ever, and 
Fox...he'd always been such a happy boy, always laughing, cracking 
jokes, but as soon as they returned from the trip I could see the change 
in him -- sullen and belligerent one minute, completely withdrawn the 
next. He'd stay in his bedroom for hours...I could hear him through the 
door, muttering to himself, but I couldn't make out what he was saying. 
Then one day I went in and he was lying on the bed, in the fetal 
position, whimpering piteously. I couldn't rouse him, so I packed him up 
in the car as best I could and took him to the doctor."

Silence followed, while Mrs. Mulder took a sip of her tea, swallowed, 
lifted a trembling hand to her cheek.

"Our pediatrician took one look at him and referred me to a 
psychiatrist. Bill didn't want me to take him, but for once I wasn't in 
any mood to cater to his wishes. The psychiatrist was an older woman, 
very gentle. She won Fox's trust and mine immediately. But after two 
sessions, she asked permission to hypnotize him, said there was 
something he was repressing, something that needed to come out. I didn't 
know what else to do, so I said yes. God help me, I said yes..."

Scully couldn't help but start blinking herself at the sight of fresh 
tears welling in the older woman's eyes. Her heart felt like a hot lance 
had just skewered it. She eyed her watch, hoping fervently that the 
movers wouldn't return within the next few minutes.

"The hypnosis revealed that Bill had abused him...done horrible, 
unspeakable things to him, both physically and mentally. It had probably 
been going on for years...years, and I hadn't a clue, until this trip 
finally brought everything to the surface. I took Fox over to my 
mother's, then I went home to confront Bill. He denied everything, of 
course, but by then I was past the point of reason. I screamed myself 
hoarse, called him every filthy name I could think of, then I marched 
upstairs, packed my things and Fox's and left. Two days later I filed 
for divorce and custody. Bill didn't bother to contest either one. As 
far as I know, he and Fox had no contact whatsoever for well over ten 
years, at least until after Fox returned from Oxford."

Scully sat up straight, the solid feel of the chair beneath and behind 
her the only thing that grounded her in reality. Any minute she expected 
to see pink elephants come dancing out of the woodwork.

Cold fingers wrapped around her windpipe, squeezing tight. And she was 
suddenly very frightened, more frightened than she'd ever been in her 
life. Because everything Mrs. Mulder had just said made sense. Too damn 
much sense.

It certainly explained Mulder's problematic relationship with his 
family, why even visits and phone calls to his mother were such an 
ordeal for him. Why he'd immersed himself in his work, avoiding all 
opportunity to cultivate other relationships.

It also explained Samantha -- the sister he couldn't save, whom he'd 
been forced to watch taken away while he stood by, paralyzed by fear. 
Samantha was Mulder, or at least the part of him that had been helpless 
to stop his father's abuse.

He'd invented her as a way to disassociate himself from the pain he 
couldn't allow himself to feel, events that had wounded him, scarred him 
so deeply and irrevocably he couldn't even face the fact that they had 
happened.

So it hadn't happened -- not to Fox Mulder, but to a sister who had 
never existed. And she hadn't been molested or beaten, just abducted. 
And her abductor wasn't her own father, but a bunch of faceless, 
nameless grey aliens.

Disassociation, substitution, transference. So classic it could have 
come straight off the pages of a psychology textbook.

"I...don't know what to say," she murmured, fingering her mug. "But I 
appreciate your telling me. I know it must have been painful for you to 
relive it all again."

To her surprise, Mrs. Mulder reached across the table, placing her own 
hand over Scully's. "Thank you for listening. By just doing that, you've 
helped me more than you can know."

A knock sounded at the front door, and Mrs. Mulder rose to let the 
movers back in.

"Well, I'd better get back to work," the older woman said, coming back 
over to the table. "I still have the bedroom closet to do."

"I'd be happy to help."

Mrs. Mulder smiled. "I think I'd like that."

It felt so strange, handling the clothes she'd seen him wear at work, 
running her fingers over fabric that had touched his skin. She folded 
each shirt, each pair of pants with care, placing them in the box with a 
final caress, as if bidding farewell to old friends.

She had to chuckle, though, when the next hanger she pulled out held his 
New York Knicks t-shirt. The thing was so ripped and ragged she was 
amazed it could even stay on a hanger. It still smelled like him, musky 
and warm.

She looked up, right into Mrs. Mulder's intent gaze. "Um...would you 
mind if I took this?"

"Not at all. I think Fox would want you to have it."

They finished in another two hours, sighing their exhaustion as the 
movers wheeled out their last loads of boxes. Afternoon sunlight slanted 
through the living room windows, casting amber-gold patches on the wall 
and floor. In all the time she'd spent here, she'd never noticed how 
pleasant it was during the day. Mulder'd always kept the blinds closed.

Funny, but she only realized just now how many times she'd been here 
when he wasn't. In fact, she'd probably spent more time in this 
apartment than he had.

She turned at the feel of a hand touching her arm.

"I suppose it's time to go," Mrs. Mulder said softly. "Again, I can't 
thank you enough for coming, Ms. Scul--"

"Dana, please. After today, I feel I know you as well as my own family."

Mrs. Mulder looked slightly startled for a moment, then pleased. "I'm 
Catherine."

She couldn't help smiling. "That's my middle name. Only I spell it with 
a 'K.'"

"Something else we have in common, it seems."

She gathered up her books and the t-shirt, followed Mrs. Mulder out into 
the hallway, down toward the elevator. Then a question she had been 
meaning to ask all day popped into her head. "A.D. Skinner told me Fox's 
books and papers from the office were going to be sent over to you. 
Would you let me go through them sometime soon?"

"Of course, as soon as I receive them. But do you mind if I ask why?"

The look on her face must have said it all, for Mrs. Mulder went 
suddenly pale.

"I'm not even sure if I'll find anything, Mrs. Mulder. All I do know 
right now is that I can't let the Bureau close the investigation yet. At 
this point, I'm grasping at straws, looking for any possible leads. In 
fact, if you don't mind, I'd like to go through his personal things 
too."

"I'm more than willing to do anything you think will help."

She stood at the curb, watching Mrs. Mulder's car pull away, a strange 
feeling settling over her, half-apprehension, half-dread, all numbing. 
The warm spring sunshine barely had the power to touch her.

She turned, stared back at Mulder's apartment building, committing every 
brick, every crack in the paint to memory. When she walked away from 
here, a chapter in her life would close.

Then she saw it -- a sign in the window of the building's foyer, 
advertising an apartment for rent. Apartment 42.

It was seventy-five dollars a month less than she was paying for her own 
apartment.

She started back up the stairs, into the foyer, heading straight for the 
manager's office.
 



"The Bright White Place," MSR, NC-17
Part 6/?
Disclaimers attached to Part 1.

*    *    *

"Come on, you can do it. Just five more and we're done. Lift."

Gritting his teeth against the burning, tearing pull in his arm and 
shoulder, he lifted the five-pound weight slowly, steadily, each 
millimeter an agony. Once, twice, three times, four--

Five. "Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered, slumping over, dropping the 
weight to the floor, taking perverse pleasure in hearing it hit with a 
hollow thump. "You're killing me."

"That's what you said last week. And two days ago, if I remember right," 
she said, opening her bag, taking out lotion and a towel. "At least this 
time you didn't say it until the end of the session. Guess I should take 
that as a sign of improvement."

A choice reply jumped to his lips, but died as he looked up, his gaze 
sweeping her up and down and back again. Petite, brunette, pretty face, 
nice tits. The old man sure knew how to pick 'em.

Well, at least he hadn't sent a man. He didn't think he could've stood 
another guy touching him the way she had, massaging and manipulating his 
injured muscles, making them move even when he was so sore and stiff, 
the slightest pressure felt like he was being stabbed with hot knives.

"On the couch, please," she said briskly, opening the bottle of lotion, 
pouring some into her hands.

He did as she asked without protest, lying face down, closing his eyes. 
Her hands felt good on him, cool and surprisingly strong for a woman of 
her slight size. She worked slowly and efficiently, kneading the knots 
from his neck and shoulders, moving lower, down to the small of his 
back. He sighed, drowsy, drifting.

She leaned closer, and he could feel her soft warm breath on his skin, 
her breast grazing his arm. He groaned, his sense of relaxation draining 
away, growing painfully, instantly hard.

He dug his fingernails into the couch cushions, waiting for her to 
finish, fighting the urge to pull her down under him, tear off her pants 
and his and thrust deep inside her. God, he'd bet anything she was hot 
as an August day, tighter than a fist--

"Done," she said, straightening, reaching for the towel to wipe her 
hands.

He turned onto his side at the same time, grabbing her wrist, his eyes 
locking on hers. Her gaze dipped lower, widening. She froze.

He stared up at her for a few endless seconds, then let her go.

She backed away, now looking more anxious than fearful, picking up her 
bag, shoving her things inside it, zipping it up. He made no move toward 
her, simply sat up, looking at her. But that only seemed to make her 
more uneasy.

"I...I never get personally involved with my clients," she said finally. 
"Nothing against you, it's just bad business."

He had to bite back a laugh. The poor bitch had no idea. The old man 
would never let her live past her usefulness -- that would be the 
definition of bad business. "Yeah, well...I can see how that would be a 
problem. Especially in your case."

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

"Just that you're attractive woman, and I'm attracted. And I bet I'm not 
the first one of your clients to feel that way."

She looked away, her cheeks bright pink. "I'd be lying if I said I 
wasn't flattered, but it's not going to happen. Sorry."

"Sure. Fine. Whatever," he snorted, flopping back on the couch. He 
wasn't in the mood to expend any more energy on her if it wasn't going 
to get him anywhere. He grabbed the remote, flicked on the TV, barely 
registering the sound of the door shutting behind her.

He stared at the screen, flipping channels, not finding anything that 
held his attention for more than five or ten seconds. His eyelids 
drooped, and he let himself drift, floating in the dreamy feel of it, 
surrounded by a soft white light that grew gradually brighter, 
enveloping him...

//and he felt so light weightless hovering on the ceiling in an 
unfamiliar room all chrome and cold steel with these bright lights so 
bright it almost blinded and he looked down and saw himself lying on a 
table blood all over his chest--

//but he didn't hurt couldn't feel anything at all just cold so cold 
cold as death--

//and they were working on him opening up his chest but he still 
couldn't feel anything massaging his heart that's what it looked like 
anyway but it didn't hurt looked like it should hurt like hell so why 
didn't it--

//and the monitor beeped and beeped droning on and on flatline--//

And he came awake with a sharp, sudden intake of breath, thrashing at 
the hand shaking his shoulder.

"Hey, take it easy. It's me," Krycek said, backing away a step, both 
hands upraised. "You okay?"

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, waiting for his pulse to stop roaring in 
his head. "Yeah...give me a minute."

"Jesus, that must've been some nightmare. You just about took my fucking 
head off."

His only response was to haul himself off the couch and into the kitchen 
for some water.

Krycek followed, standing in the doorway. "Guess I missed Cathy, huh?"

"Who?"

"Your little therapist. Shit, Mulder, she's been coming here two weeks 
and you don't even know her name?"

He pulled out a chair, sat down at the table, chugging back half his 
glass of water. Jesus, he felt like he hadn't had anything liquid in 
days. "Didn't seem important at the time."

"I'll bet," Krycek laughed. "So how was she?"

He shot Krycek a look.

"You mean you haven't fucked her yet?"

"Anybody ever tell you you're a pig, Alex?"

"Yeah, but I'm a charming pig," he said, sitting down on the opposite 
side of the table. "What's the matter, Mulder -- she a dyke or are you 
just losing your touch?"

He remembered the look he'd seen in her pretty blue eyes -- apprehension 
tempered with barely-concealed hunger. For that brief second or two 
she'd wanted exactly the same thing he had. If he'd tried, he could've 
overpowered her easily, even with his bad arm.

Maybe next time he wouldn't back off without a fight. "She's not a 
dyke," he said.

Krycek let out a long whistle. "Just biding your time, huh?"

"Something like that."

"Yeah, well, remember to save a piece for me."

"You couldn't get that lucky," he retorted, getting up, setting his 
glass in the sink, heading down the hallway to the shower.

He was feeling a lot better the last few days, he realized as he toweled 
off and padded naked into his room, closing the door behind him. The 
low-grade fever he'd been running since the shooting had finally abated, 
and along with it the persistent hot, itchy sensation just under his 
skin. And despite all his bitching and moaning, he had to admit the 
therapy was doing its work; his arm felt much stronger now than it had 
two weeks ago. Yeah, everything was returning to normal...

Except for the dreams. They came every night now, every fucking time he 
dozed off, so vivid they didn't even seem like dreams at all, more like 
scenes from life, but Jesus, one strange life...

//she was floating out a window this little girl and he was screaming 
her name and reaching out for her but he couldn't move or do anything 
and when he heard the high terrified sound of his own voice he realized 
he was a kid too--//

And he'd dreamed of getting shot over and over, almost dying and waking 
up in a hospital bed -- several different hospital beds -- and every 
time he'd opened his eyes, she was there...

The redhead who'd been pointing a gun at him in one of his other dreams. 
The one who'd told him that she had no choice, that he had to 
understand--

//Mulder you may not be who you are.//

Just what the hell did that mean? That he wasn't himself? What a fucking 
revelation. He hadn't felt like himself for over a month.

He yanked back the covers, rolled into bed, letting out a slow, grateful 
sigh as his skin touched the cool sheets, his muscles settling into the 
mattress. His right eye twitched, the persistent throb above it 
beginning to subside.

The redhead...he kept coming back to her. He couldn't shake the feeling 
that he knew her from somewhere. The little girl too--

Christ, he had to stop this, and stop it now, or he'd drive himself out 
of his fucking mind. Sometimes a dream was just a dream. Nothing deep 
and dark and mysterious. Just a dream.

He tried to drift, tried to make his mind a blank, but it wasn't 
happening. Jesus, were a few hours of peace too much to ask?

All he wanted was sleep, without dreams. Just tonight. Just this once...

His eyes fluttered open and he saw her, standing at the foot of the bed. 
The redhead. Wearing a slim black skirt and cream-colored blouse. Her 
hair fell forward, brushing her cheeks like a curtain of silky flame. 
The tip of her tongue darted out, moistening pouty, coral-colored lips.

Jesus, he was getting hard again, hard enough to cut glass. His hand 
drifted downward, grasping his cock, stroking...

She was unbuttoning her blouse slowly, teasing him, pulling the filmy 
material from the waistband of her skirt, letting it swing open, 
revealing delicate, flawless ivory skin. With her next breath it was 
falling from her shoulders, her hands sliding down to the front closure 
of her bra, lingering there as she lifted her head, looking him straight 
in the eye.

His pulse jackhammered, his breath coming in rapid, labored gusts. He 
wanted to climax, and at the same time he didn't. This was too damn good 
to end...

Her nipples were the exact same color as her lips, stiffening at her 
fingertips' touch. She moaned, lifting, kneading her tits, full and 
round, two perfect handfuls. Then her hands moved down, around to the 
back of her waist, undoing her skirt, letting it slide from her hips to 
the floor. She was bare underneath. No slip, no panties, just naked skin 
and a thick cluster of dark auburn curls...

Her fingers slid between her thighs, opening herself, searching, 
finding, her head thrown back, soft cries escaping her parted lips...

And he came with her, a scream torn raw from his throat, spurting hot 
and sticky all over his hands and belly.

He couldn't even move for what seemed like half an hour. Then he sat up, 
reached for the bath towel he'd dropped on the floor, somehow managing 
to clean himself up.

A heavy numbness settled over him as he lay back, weighing down his 
limbs, clouding his brain. It felt good. He didn't want to start 
thinking again. He didn't want anything except...

His eyes drifted slowly closed, and he slept. Without dreams.

*   *   *

"Dana, we have to talk."

She heard her mother's voice but didn't turn away from her task, pulling 
open another drawer, scooping out its contents, dropping the wrinkled 
clothing into a suitcase on the floor. "C'mon, Mom, you know I can't do 
this now. I have to finish packing."

"Right this second?"

"As close to it as possible. I could only get today off to get this 
done."

Fingers closed firmly over her wrist, tugging her down to sit on the 
edge of the bed.

"Mom, I told you I don't have time for this!"

"Be quiet," her mother said, sitting down beside her. "Just this once, 
you're going to listen to me. This is a bad idea, Dana. A terrible idea. 
I think you should reconsider this move."

"I can't. I've already given up my apartment, put money down on this new 
one--"

"On Fox's apartment, you mean. Why don't you say it, get it out in the 
open?"

She hadn't wanted to start a fight, but the steely challenge in her 
mother's tone raised her hackles. "All right, on Mulder's apartment. 
There, I've said it. Are you happy now?"

"No, I am not happy, Dana," her mother said softly. "Not seeing you like 
this. It's been long enough that I thought you'd at least be starting to 
get over your grief, but all I can see are its claws digging their way 
deeper into you. You work yourself to exhaustion every day, then you 
stay up half the night reading and pacing. You're making yourself sick."

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror right across from the bed, 
and quickly averted her gaze. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not. Have you taken a good look at yourself lately? Your 
clothes hang on you, your skin has no color. You're acting like 
a...a..."

"Like what?" she cut in acidly. "A grieving widow?"

Hollow silence.

"Dana, this can't go on," her mother said finally. "Do you honestly 
think Fox would want you to mourn him until you're in your own grave?"

"I'm not mourning him. He's alive. He has to be..."

"Honey, it's been two months. If that were the case, don't you think he 
would've turned up somewhere, even if he couldn't remember who he was?" 
She felt something warm covering her hand, dimly realized it was her 
mother's fingers. "I know it hurts, but you have to let him go."

A cold, gnawing sensation pulsed slowly in the pit of her belly, 
radiating outward, every fiber of her suddenly heavy, useless. A tiny 
voice at the back of her brain whispered its name to her.

Despair. Hopelessness.

//No...//

She wouldn't let herself give in to it. If she did, she might as well 
put her gun in her mouth and pull the trigger.

"If you hadn't been there when Dad had his heart attack...if you hadn't 
been at his side when he died, would you believe he was gone? Would you 
just take someone else's word for it, with no further proof demanded?" 
She swiped angrily at a strand of hair that had fallen in her eyes. 
"Maybe that's good enough for you, Mom, but not me. Show me his body, 
let me cut him open and pull his heart out and see with my own eyes that 
it's not beating and never will again, then I'll believe he's dead. Not 
before that. Never before that."

"Honey, I know this is hard...probably more so for you, because what you 
and Fox felt for each other was left unresolved. But this has gone way 
beyond love, Dana. You took the job with Violent Crimes because Fox once 
worked with them -- oh, don't bother denying it, we both know it's the 
truth -- and now you're moving into his apartment. I've never seen you 
so obsessed. I'm frightened for you." She dipped into the pocket of her 
sweater and tugged out a white card, pressing it into her daughter's 
palm.

She looked at it, blinking away the blurriness that had somehow crept 
into her vision. Anger flashed through her veins when she saw what was 
written there, its elegant black lettering taunting her. "I don't need a 
damn psychiatrist," she snapped, crushing the card and tossing it to the 
floor, jumping up, opening another drawer, yanking out more clothes.

"Well, you need help from somebody, and you don't seem to want it from 
me."

There it was -- that tone again, the same one her mother'd used when she 
was a teenager, the 'I know what's best for you' tone. It rubbed her 
nerves raw. "Maybe I just want to be left alone to make my own decisions 
about my own life without having to listen to all your sanctimonious 
bullshit." A bitter laugh suddenly spurted from her lips. "God, how did 
Mulder put up with me for so long? I used to sound just like you."

Pain flashed in her mother's eyes, flickered across her face for several 
moments, then she rose slowly, moved toward the door, silent, her back 
ramrod straight.

"Mom, I'm sorry," she said, regret instantly sweeping her, lodging in 
her throat. "I...I don't know what made me say that. I didn't mean to 
hurt you. But I need to make this move. And if you can't support my 
decision, at least respect it enough not to stand in my way."

"All right," her mother murmured. "But only if you do something for me. 
Go see Dr. Harmon. Two sessions, that's all I ask. She saved my sanity 
the year after your father died."

"I...I'll think about it. That's all I can promise right now."

"Fair enough, I suppose." She hesitated, then came forward, enfolding 
her daughter in her arms. "You'll get through this, honey. I know it 
doesn't seem possible now, but it is." Her voice caught, and she reached 
over, smoothing a lock of auburn hair back. "Your father and I had 
thirty years together, and it wasn't enough. No matter how long you 
have, it's never enough."

Her eyes, her soul burned, but the release of tears felt far out of 
reach. She couldn't allow it, not here, not now. Maybe not ever.

She had to remain in control. Cool, calm, focused. It was the only 
comfort left to her.




"The Bright White Place," MSR, NC-17
Part 7/?
Disclaimers attached to Part 1.

*   *   *

He couldn't get her out of his mind. She was driving him fucking crazy.

Literally. He'd rubbed fresh callouses on his hands from jacking off to 
visions of her every night. Last night he'd even imagined that she'd 
climbed on top of him, that red hair of hers spilling over his chest 
like a goddamned fire shower, and rode him until they both--

He pulled a t-shirt out of the drawer, yanking it over his head so 
viciously it almost ripped, tucking it inside his jeans--

Christ, he was turning into a walking hard-on.

He trudged back into the bathroom, stripped, turned on the cold water in 
the shower and got in, teeth rattling as the icy spray splashed his 
skin.

For the third time that day. And it wasn't even noon yet.

He dried off, feeling frozen but finally clear-headed. Now if he could 
stay that way for more than five minutes.

He heard a noise down the hall, and realized it was someone knocking on 
the door. Scooping up his wristwatch, he saw that it was eleven-thirty.

Time for his therapy session. And Cathy.

Just what he needed -- a living, breathing woman parading her body 
around in front of him.

It wasn't as torturous as he'd thought it would be, though -- as long as 
he kept his mind on the exercises and resisted the temptation to admire 
the way her tits looked encased in that grey leotard.

But there really wasn't that much for him to keep his mind on -- he 
could do the weights in his sleep now, with only a slight pulling in his 
shoulder, but no real pain to speak of. And with her stooping down to 
inspect his every movement, wispy locks of dark hair escaping her 
ponytail, her presence was becoming a little hard to ignore.

"That's enough," she said, reaching to take the weight still in his 
hand. But when their fingers collided, she jerked her hand back.

"Take it easy," he said. "I haven't bitten anybody in years. Not on 
purpose, anyway."

She snatched the weight out of his hand, then turned to pack it away in 
her bag. "There's really no reason for me to come back. I've done as 
much as I can. There'll still be some stiffness, but that'll work itself 
out with regular exercise."

Her choice of words conjured up a very hot, very sweaty image in his 
mind. All of a sudden his shoulder wasn't the only thing that was 
feeling stiff. "No kidding?" he laughed.

She obviously got his meaning, for she hesitated in what she was doing, 
but didn't turn around, didn't rise to the bait.

He rose, coming up behind her, putting both hands on her shoulders, 
stroking, caressing. He heard her soft, sharp intake of breath at the 
first contact of his skin on hers, felt her tremble under his touch.

"I already told you, I don't do this," she whispered. "Not with 
clients."

He leaned down, his lips close to her ear. "Didn't you just tell me I'm 
not your client anymore?"

"Yes, but..."

His hands slid upward, loosely encircling her throat, his thumbs rubbing 
the sides of her neck. "Give in. You'll like it."

"I'd like it a lot better if I didn't feel like you're trying to choke 
me."

He gritted his teeth, fighting the impulse to throw her down on the 
couch and shove himself into her. It didn't matter much even if he did; 
sometime tonight or tomorrow somebody'd find her in an alley somewhere 
with her neck broken or the back of her head blown off.

He didn't know why it mattered that this be consensual, but it did.

Dropping his hands, he stepped back, moving silently away from her, down 
the hallway to his room. He'd just stripped off his shirt when he heard 
a sound from the doorway, and turned around.

She was standing there, looking at him, the silence between them 
thickening. Then her hands went to the straps of her leotard, peeling it 
down, baring her breasts to him.

They were small and creamy-white and his mouth went dry as he imagined 
how they'd feel with his hands on them, rolling the nipples between his 
fingertips, turning them into hard little pebbles. Too bad she didn't 
have red hair to go with those blue eyes--

Christ, the fantasy wouldn't leave him alone, even when he had a 
flesh-and-blood woman right here in front of him. Okay, so she wasn't 
who he really wanted, but she'd do.

He came close to her, tipping her chin upward so that she had no choice 
but to meet his gaze, leaning down to touch his lips to hers--

"No," she said, pulling back, looking away. "You can do anything else 
you want, but not that."

He stared at her, mingled anger and disbelief finally forcing a dry 
chuckle from him. "Go on, get the hell out of here," he said. "I don't 
need a pity fuck."

"Does it look like I'm taking pity on you?"

No, it didn't, he realized, looking at her, at the wary expression in 
her eyes, the white lines of tightness around her mouth.

She looked anxious...anxious and scared. Scared to death.

Jesus, she knew. She knew what was going to happen to her.

And she wanted him to help her. So badly she was willing to open her 
legs for him to make sure of it. Well, he wasn't about to put his ass on 
the line for a piece of hers. Never had, never would.

But there was no reason she had to know that.

He pushed her onto the bed, and followed her down.

*   *   *
                
He rolled off her as soon as he was done, lay there on his back for a 
few seconds, then got up, pulled his jeans on and went into the kitchen 
for a glass of water. He didn't want to talk to her, or even look at 
her.

She probably didn't want to talk to him either. He'd been rough and 
quick. No consideration, no finesse at all. From the blank, stony look 
on her face when he'd been on top of her, he doubted she'd felt much of 
anything.

Well, what the hell had she expected? She knew what he was, who he was. 
Hearts and flowers weren't exactly his style.

The water flooded his mouth and throat, seeming to burn all the way down 
to his stomach, pooling its hollow ache there. He needed to eat 
something.

He heard a noise out in the living room and moved to the kitchen 
doorway, leaned against it. She was already dressed and fumbling with 
her bag, and she jumped when she saw him, her expression like a fawn 
caught in a speeding semi's headlights.

"Guess this means I shouldn't bother asking for a second date?"

For a moment she looked like she was going to say something, but 
obviously she'd figured out there was no point.

"Get out. Now," he said flatly, coming toward her. "Get on the first 
plane to anywhere and disappear. If you're lucky, the old man might not 
find you. In a few months, he might even stop looking for you."

"But...can't you--"

"No, I can't, and I won't. And I never said I would."

She didn't even try arguing with that.

Then there was the crunch and twist of a key in the front door lock, and 
Krycek sauntered in. He had the loose, bleary-eyed look that told Mulder 
he'd been out cruising bars again. His glance darted from Cathy to 
Mulder and back again.

"Hi, kids. Sorry if I'm interrupting," he smirked, tossing his jacket 
over the back of a chair. "Leaving so soon, Cath? Guess Mulder's lost 
that lovin' feeling, huh?"

She was trembling now, so much she almost stumbled trying to get to the 
door.

But Krycek beat her to it, pushing the door closed, blocking the way 
with his body. "Why doncha stay awhile? I could show you a better time 
than Mulder any day of the week."

"I...I can't--"

"Oh, I think you can," he said, stroking her cheek with one finger. 
"Just for me this time...how 'bout it, baby?"

"Let me pass. Please."

Krycek stared at her, smile fading, eyes going cold and hard. "You 
little cunt," he ground out finally. "You can't wait to spread 'em for 
him, but *I'm* not good enough?" Grabbing her arm, he dragged her to the 
couch, pushed her down.

An electric jolt skidded up Mulder's spine at the sight of what Krycek 
was doing to her, but he shook it off, its wake leaving him dizzy, 
nauseous. "Let her go," he said, reaching for the other man's arm. "I 
mean it, Alex."

"No way. She's mine."

"For Christ's sake, you've got women falling all over you every time you 
go out. You don't need her."

"Yeah, but I *want* her. Right here and right now," he said savagely, 
shaking off Mulder's grasp. "What's the matter, partner -- you jealous?" 
He spat out a caustic chortle. "Maybe the real question's who're you 
jealous of -- me or her?"

Sudden rage turned his blood to acid, and he seized the neck of Krycek's 
t-shirt, dragging him off her, pulling back to smash him in the jaw. 
"You sick son-of-a-bitch--"

"Go on, do it. Hit me," he goaded. "Bet you get off on that more than 
you did on her."

Black spots danced in front of his eyes, making him blink. God, he 
wanted to do it so bad...wanted to feel the old familiar crunch of 
flesh and bone, the surge of power right there in his hands, the way it 
used to feel when he held a gun, fired a gun--

"What's the matter, Mulder?" Krycek jeered. "Lost your nerve? Or maybe 
you're afraid I'll hit you back, mess up your pretty face?"

//Christ, he's grinning like some smug...almost like he--

//Like he wants me to hit him. Like it'd prove he's stronger.//

He let go of Krycek's shirt, fell back, his arm dropping to his side, 
dragging in deep, cleansing breaths.

He'd almost done it. If anybody knew where his hot buttons were and how 
to push them, it was Krycek. Well, Alex'd be sucking flames in hell 
before he'd let him have the satisfaction of seeing him lose it. He 
wasn't worth the trouble.

His gaze traveled to the couch, to the woman lying there, meeting his 
glance straight on, begging him with her silence.

She wasn't worth it either. She was dead already anyway.

Krycek pulled his knife from its sheath on his belt, grabbing a handful 
of her leotard, slicing through it, peeling it away from her body, 
baring her from tit to crotch. He yanked the last shreds of it from her 
thighs, opened his pants, and climbed on top of her.

Mulder watched, not moving, not wanting to, the terror written on her 
face sending exhilaration pounding its hot pulse in his head, spurting 
through his veins. This was what he'd wanted earlier -- to ram himself 
so far inside her he could forget everything else, lose himself in 
oblivion's mindless rhythm...

She started screaming when Krycek entered her, beating her fists against 
his chest. He tried to grab hold of her wrists, but she twisted one hand 
free, raking her nails across his cheek.

"Fucking bitch!" he yelped, backhanding her so hard blood spurted from 
her lip. He held onto her wrist with one hand, wiped at his face with 
the other, hissing out a breath as it came away coated with his own 
blood. "C'mon, Mulder, get over here and hold her for me."

He still didn't move.

She kept flailing at Krycek with her one free hand, wailing and 
whimpering, her voice thin and raw.

Krycek stared at him. "You want the whole building to hear her? Get your 
ass over here!"

He felt like he was walking through water but somehow he made it to the 
couch, one hand getting ahold of her wrists, pinning them up over her 
head, the other clamping down hard on her mouth. Her teeth scraped his 
palm, caught a tender piece of flesh, but he squeezed her jaw until he 
could feel the bones grind, then pop, and she let go.

She stared up at him, blue eyes huge with fear and agony.

Krycek moved on top of her, pumping and grinding in rapid momentum, 
finally thrusting hard one last time. After a minute or so he pulled out 
of her, stood up, rezipped his jeans. "Your turn."

Christ, there was a bonfire in his spine, searing every fiber of him, 
inside and out. His dick had been hard as a rock from the second he'd 
taken hold of her wrists and jaw. He could've snapped her pretty neck so 
easily, anytime he wanted. He still could.

He moved to the opposite end of the couch, settling between her splayed 
thighs. The soft, clammy feel of her skin made him shiver.

But she wasn't moving, or making a sound. Her head lolled to one side, 
jaw slack, her eyes open but glassy, unfocused. The rapid flutter of the 
pulse in her throat was the only thing that told him she was still 
alive. Blood oozed from her split lip, a viscous line smeared all the 
way down to her chin.

It was all over the palm of his hand too. He stared at it, sniffed at it 
like a dog, its tangy smell thick in his nostrils...

And he licked it from his skin, tasting salt and coppery-warmth, letting 
it wash over his tongue, down his throat...

He felt like a god, taking life itself into his mouth, his body. He 
wanted more. And it didn't matter what he had to do to get it. Nothing 
mattered anymore. Nothing but this...

He pushed into her, gasping as she enveloped him, hot and tight and 
slick with Krycek's semen and his own. But she still wasn't moving, 
wasn't even acting like she knew he was there...

He closed his eyes and saw a veil of red...red like the redhead's 
hair... red like blood, like a nuclear explosion going off in his head, 
burning up his brain...

And he thrust and thrust and thrust harder and deeper and faster until 
the red behind his eyes cracked, shattered into black--

And he saw and heard and felt and knew no more.

*   *   *

He woke to a strange smell. Bitter, acrid, like something was on fire.

Cigarette smoke.

"Congratulations," the old man said. "You passed."

His eyes came open slowly, stinging from the smoky haze, trying to blink 
it away. He was in his own bed, he realized, feeling the solidity of the 
mattress under him. But he couldn't remember if he'd been brought here 
or had somehow made it back under his own steam. The old man was 
standing across the room, near the window. "What the fuck does that 
mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like," he said, taking another puff. "A test. I 
had to make certain you were your old self again. Surely you can 
understand why."

"If you hadn't made Krycek shoot me, none of this would've been 
necessary at all."

"Sometimes we all have to do things which are distasteful. And sometimes 
the distasteful actually becomes quite desirable, under the right 
circumstances." He smiled, dropping his cigarette to the floor, grinding 
it out with his toe. "But then, I don't think I need to tell you that, 
do I?"

He didn't bother answering, just sat up, swinging his legs over the edge 
of the bed. His brain felt like somebody'd run it through a blender. The 
light and the smoke made his eyes burn and water.

Then he heard a familiar click and looked up to see the old man standing 
next to him, holding a gun out to him. His gun.

"Take it," the old man said. "You've earned it."

It felt good having it back, holding it in his hand, his fingers tracing 
every seam, trying to convince himself it was real. He felt like an 
amputee who'd just woken up to find that his missing limb had grown back 
overnight. "What do you want me to do?"

The old man gave him a look, but said nothing.

"You didn't give this back just because you like me. What's the deal?"

"I have a job for you. Tonight."

"The English guy? You want me to do him?"

"You and Alex. Think you're up for it?"

"Yeah. I'm up for it." God, he was getting that itchy feeling of 
anticipation already, just thinking about it. "Where is Alex anyway?"

"Disposing of a problem. He'll be back shortly." He moved toward the 
door, paused there a moment. "You've done well, Fox. Your recovery's 
even amazed the doctor. But I've invested a good deal of time and money 
in that recovery, and I wouldn't want it to be wasted. Understood?"

He nodded.

"Good. Be ready by midnight."
 



"The Bright White Place," MSR, NC-17
Part 8/?
Disclaimers attached to Part 1.

*   *   *

It took her the better part of a Sunday afternoon to go through the ten 
boxes of books and papers from Mulder's side of their office.

She sat back on her heels, blowing out a sigh that made the hair that 
had fallen into her eyes go flying up. God, she'd known he was a 
packrat, but this was ridiculous. And she hadn't even started on the 
stuff from his apartment yet.

"How's it coming?" Mrs. Mulder asked from the doorway.

"I'm not sure yet," she answered, laughing ruefully. "I may have to 
enlist the Library of Congress's help to get through all this."

"Fox always did love his books."

"Yeah, well...I don't." She picked up a magazine, glanced at it -- and 
blushed when she saw the cover photo. Definitely something from his 
leisure time reading list. She shoved it under a pile of news clippings, 
hoping fervently that Mrs. Mulder hadn't seen it. "I...um, should be 
done here in a few minutes. For today, anyway."

"Take your time, please. I'm enjoying your company," Mrs. Mulder 
replied, then disappeared down the hallway.

She stared at the piles of stuff encircling her, her eyes glazing over. 
Even if she took two weeks off there was no way she'd ever be able to 
read all this, much less read it and take notes.

Well, she had to at least take a good stab at it. Reaching for the 
nearest stack, she threw it in an empty box and lugged it downstairs.

"My goodness," Mrs. Mulder said, eyes widening when she saw it.

"Would you mind if I took this home to look over?" she asked a bit 
sheepishly. "I'll bring it back as soon as possible."

"Feel free to keep it as long as you need to. It's not like I'd ever 
make sense out of it anyway." She paused, looking out the living room 
window for a moment. "I appreciate your doing this. I think I'd rest a 
lot easier if I had a reason why. The Bureau certainly doesn't seem 
interested in pursuing the matter any further."

She bit her lip, a pang of mingled anger and frustration sailing through 
her. Skinner had officially closed the investigation earlier that week; 
she'd hoped that Mrs. Mulder hadn't been told yet. "I did what I could 
to convince them, but the Bureau simply doesn't have the manpower to 
keep cases like these open indefinitely."

"Oh, of course. It's just that...I suppose I knew in the back of my mind 
from the time Fox joined the Bureau that there was always the chance 
he'd be killed in the line of duty. But at least that way, his death 
would have some kind of meaning. The way it happened...it seems so 
damned pointless, wasteful, like his life was something to be thrown out 
with the trash. I wanted better than that for him."

"So did I." God, she wanted to reach out, embrace the older woman, but 
she found that she couldn't. She felt powerless, impotent, enraged with 
herself for having nothing left to offer but empty empathy and the 
company line.

Mulder did deserve better. There was no excuse good enough to refute 
that.

She loaded the boxes -- she kicked herself into going upstairs and 
getting another one, telling Mrs. Mulder she'd be back in a week or so 
-- into her car and started the long drive from Greenwich back to D.C. 
Luckily, it was foggy and rainy enough that she had to spend all her 
time concentrating on the road instead of the jumbled thoughts whirling 
around in her mind.

It was still light and relatively dry when she got home, so she went 
running, showered, and fixed herself a light supper before diving into 
the first box.

The only thing she was sure of two hours later was that psychologists -- 
even Oxford-trained psychologists -- had even worse handwriting than 
medical doctors. She'd been through three of his notebooks and the words 
were starting to run together. Her eyes and brain ached.

She stole a glance at her watch and sighed. Almost ten. Okay, so she'd 
get through this one and call it a night. She supposed she owed it to 
herself to get a decent night's sleep every once in a while.

Her gaze drifted over the next few pages, halfway zoned-out. She wished 
there was something here that would stand out, grab her attention, tell 
her she was on the right track.

Her finger skimmed, keeping her place, finally halting on what looked 
like a list of serial numbers at the bottom of the last page of the 
notebook.

040159GEM. 101361GEM. 012964GEM...

And on it went, three relatively neat rows of numbers, all followed by 
the suffix "GEM." No other indication as to their origin or meaning.

God, count on Mulder to make everything a puzzle. They could be vehicle 
identification numbers, winning lottery tickets, anything. Or nothing.

Her gaze dipped down, to the very last line of the page. Scrawled there 
were three cramped words: get Gemini report.

"Gemini." She rolled the word around on her tongue. The astrological 
sign? No, that was a little too obvious, even for Mulder. If it carried 
some other significance, she had no idea what it could be. It was 
probably another dead end he'd come across, some lead that hadn't panned 
out.

She wasn't really surprised. He had no reason to tell her everything he 
researched in his spare time. God knew, he'd kept her in the dark plenty 
of times, even with cases they'd worked on together.

She frowned, tapping her pen against the page. There was something about 
those numbers that bothered her, something she couldn't quite zero in 
on. She grabbed a blank notebook of her own, copied the numbers into it.

101361GEM.

Her pen halted, traced over the number again and again, doodling as her 
mind mulled the possibilities. For some reason, she thought it might be 
a date.

10/13/61, she wrote directly beneath it.

"Oh, my God," she breathed. "October 13th, 1961."

Mulder's birthday.

She slid to her knees on the floor, dumping out what was left in both 
boxes, going through it all painstakingly, page by page.

Her watch was beeping midnight by the time she finally made herself 
stop. Nothing. No mention of this Gemini report or any other strange 
lists of numbers. If he'd even had the report, it must still be at his 
mother's house.

She swore softly, climbing to her feet, kicking the nearest empty box. 
She'd have it if she'd only known what to look for today. Now she'd have 
to wait until next weekend to drive back up to Connecticut to look for 
it. Unless...

The thought streaking through her mind shocked her. She'd never called 
in sick to work before, not when she really wasn't.

She collapsed on the couch, picking up her notebook, glancing at the 
numbers she'd written there. Why was Mulder's birthdate incorporated 
into one of them? Was it some kind of code? If so, what the hell did it 
mean? Did it have something to do with all those files she and Mulder 
had discovered in that abandoned mine in West Virginia?

She eyed the doorway to her bedroom with an impending sense of doom. No 
way would she be getting any sleep tonight. She might as well take an 
unscheduled day off and try to silence the tiny voices whispering in the 
back of her brain. The V.C.S. could survive one Monday without her.

*   *   *

Even standing out on the sidewalk, he could hear the music blaring so 
loud it made his ears ring.

Krycek gestured for him to follow, led him into the alley around back. 
"I saw him go in about half an hour ago."

"You sure he hasn't come out already?"

"Yeah. He comes here two, three times a week, has a drink, goes into one 
of the back rooms for about an hour, then leaves. Same routine every 
time."

"So what's my job? Find him, shadow him?"

Krycek nodded. "There's a long hallway running down the row of rooms 
with a door at the end leading this way. Get him out here and I'll help 
take care of the rest."

He grunted, one hand moving under his jacket, checking his gun, tucked 
under his belt at the small of his back. He would've liked it better if 
he'd been the one stationed in the alley, but that wasn't possible this 
time -- the element of surprise was crucial, or so the old man had said. 
The Englishman wasn't expecting to see him alive, would probably look 
right past him even if he did see him. Alex he'd spot in a hot minute.

Krycek snapped a fresh clip into his own gun, cocking his head toward 
the street. "Showtime."

He turned, heading for the end of the alley, pulling the collar of his 
jacket up to his ears. It was still damn cold for April. But the old 
fire was starting its familiar song in his blood, making his nerve 
endings tingle and vibrate. He felt raw, on edge. Strong and alive and 
powerful. Like nothing in this world could touch him.

The door swung shut behind him, music wrapping around him like a thick, 
wet blanket. But after a few seconds his hearing adjusted and he 
grinned, recognizing the plaintive moan and wail of Hendrix's guitar. 
This stuff was made to be played loud.

Well I stand up next to a mountain
I chop it down with the edge of my hand...
Well I pick up all the pieces and make an island
Might even raise a little sand
'Cause I'm a voodoo child...

The place was packed, a wall to wall meat market. He hadn't been in a 
joint like this since he'd been shot. He'd forgotten how much he used to 
like it -- zeroing in on his choice for the night, buying her a drink or 
two, maybe dancing a little, taking her home, screwing her to the 
mattress. He and Krycek would go out four, five nights a week, different 
women every night. AIDS didn't scare him. He knew he wasn't going to die 
of any damn disease.

It didn't take him long to find his target -- there he was, the 
Englishman, down at the far end of the bar, talking to a tall, leggy 
blonde. He elbowed through the crowd, grabbed a vacant stool, ordered a 
beer, keeping his eyes trained on the mirror hanging behind the bar, 
giving him a perfect view of the whole area. Funny, but he wouldn't have 
thought this kind of place was the Englishman's style. A leather bar 
maybe, someplace as cold and perverted as he was, not a relatively 
normal pickup joint like this.

The beer tasted good -- biting, ice cold. He needed it, he realized; his 
hands were starting to shake, and there was cold sweat slowly trickling 
down the back of his neck. All this waiting was making him anxious. He 
wanted it over with, and over with soon.

A brunette in a spray-paint black minidress slid onto the stool beside 
him and opened her purse, pulling out a cigarette. She didn't light it, 
just shot him a glance, like she expected him to do it.

He looked the other way, pointedly ignoring her. He was working. He 
didn't have time for this, not tonight. Besides, she looked a little too 
much like--

"Guess you're not in the mood for a date, huh?" she said.

"Not really," he replied, hoping his curt tone would tell her to take a 
hike.

No such luck. All she did was smile. "Then why'd you come here?"

"Maybe I just wanted a drink."

"Yeah? Then why didn't you go to that place down the street? You know, 
the one without any rooms in the back?"

He looked at her, his gaze raking her up and down. "You a pro?"

"Why?" she retorted. "You a cop?"

He couldn't help smiling at that. "Do I look like a cop?"

"No," she said, looking him straight in the eye. "You look like a really 
great fuck."

That made him laugh, but he didn't have time to answer her. His prey was 
moving -- moving toward the hallway in back, along with the blonde. He 
followed.

The hallway was dimly lit, all smoky-blue. He slipped in behind the 
Englishman with ease, pulling his gun, reaching for the Englishman's 
arm, grabbing it, slamming him up against the wall. The blonde teetered, 
fell,  landing flat on her ass, shrieking her head off.

But there was something strange about the sound of her voice. He looked 
down, saw that her wig had fallen off. Her real hair was brown and very 
short. As short as a man's.

"Jesus," he muttered, aiming the gun, firing.

The shrieking stopped.

The Englishman jerked, tried to twist away, but Mulder ground the gun 
right into his kidneys. "You want to see your guts decorating this wall, 
keep it up."

"Whatever he's paying you, I'll double it."

"Nice try," he laughed, pulling him off the wall, shoving him down the 
hall. The gun's silencer had muffled the sound of the shot, but somebody 
was sure to come out of one of those rooms any minute. "Get going."

The night air felt icy on his skin, banishing the last of his anxiety. 
Krycek was there, waiting, gun drawn, waving the Englishman out into the 
alley.

The Englishman stopped, breath steaming from his mouth and nose, taking 
in his assailants, his gaze finally settling on Mulder. "So my esteemed 
colleague's got the FBI doing his dirty work for him now? Why am I not 
terribly surprised?"

Mulder glanced at Krycek, then back at the Englishman. "FBI?" he echoed. 
"What the hell're you talking about?"

"Oh, don't play coy here. We both know--"

"This is bullshit," Krycek spat. "You gonna do him, Mulder, or am I?"

He didn't move, just stared at the Englishman, at his cold, dead eyes.

"Looks like it's up to me," Krycek said, coming forward, shoving the 
Englishman to his knees--

But he ducked at the last moment, twisting away, taking off for the end 
of the alley--

And Mulder took off after him, catching him easily, but not before the 
older man flailed out with one hand, raking his nails down the side of 
Mulder's neck, hard enough to take off skin, draw blood--

He heard the rage pouring hot and raw from his throat as he seized the 
Englishman, flung him to the ground, planting his foot square in the 
middle of his back, pinning him down. His gun felt like a living thing, 
pulsing in his hand, begging for release--

And he fired, seeing the bullet fly in eerie slow-motion, slamming into 
the base of the Englishman's skull--

And suddenly the smell hit him, the warm, thick gush of blood, red and 
metallic, reeking of life--

He looked down, saw it spattered on his hands, spreading slowly across 
the pavement, creeping toward his shoes...

"C'mon, Mulder." It was Krycek, but he sounded funny -- muffled, 
distant. "We're done."

But he didn't move. He couldn't. It was too beautiful. He didn't want to 
stop looking at it.

"What's the hell's wrong with you? We gotta get out of here!"

Krycek's hand on his shoulder jolted him abruptly from his trance. With 
a shaky nod, he followed Krycek out onto the street, back to the car 
parked three blocks down, back to the apartment.

Krycek headed straight for the phone as soon as they got there, punching 
a number. Mulder went to the kitchen, got himself some water. From the 
few brief snippets of the conversation that he could hear, Mulder knew 
he had to be talking to the old man.

"What'd you tell him?" Mulder asked when Krycek finally appeared in the 
kitchen doorway.

"That everything went off fine."

He laughed.

"We got him, didn't we?"

"Yeah. Yeah, we got him." He waited until Krycek sat down before he said 
anything else. "So when were you planning to tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"That you're FBI."

Now it was Krycek's turn to laugh. "Oh, that's good, Mulder. And when 
did you think I joined up -- when we were both on death row?"

"Anything's possible," he said, drawing his gun.

"Look, the old bastard was just messing with your head -- he would've 
said anything to save his miserable skin--"

"Yeah, and you clammed him up but fast. I'm wondering why."

"For shit's sake, Mulder...if I was FBI, why the hell would I be living 
in a rathole like this, huh? Why would I have done what we did this 
afternoon--"

"Shut up," he snapped, standing up, leveling the gun in Krycek's face. 
"You just shut up about that."

"Why? Because you got off on it? On the blood, the power?" Krycek shot 
back. "We're the same, Mulder. We do it because we like it, and because 
the old man pays us. We're exactly the same. Like brothers."

Fifteen years of memories reeled through his mind, fifteen years of 
knowing there was only one other person he could count on, one man he 
could trust. It couldn't end, not here, not now. He had to believe Alex. 
He wanted to believe...

He lowered the gun, laid it down on the table, dropped back into his 
chair, exhaustion finally washing over him. He sipped his water, 
dragging in deep breaths, trying to clear his brain. He rubbed gingerly 
at his neck; the scratches there were starting to sting.

"Better put something on that," Krycek said, rising, going into the 
living room. He heard the front door open, then close a few seconds 
later.

He poured out the rest of his water, trudged down the hallway to the 
bathroom, wetting a washcloth, taking it into the bedroom with him, 
lying down, laying it on his torn skin. The coolness of it burned and 
soothed at the same time.

Just like when the redhead touched him in his dreams.




"The Bright White Place," MSR, NC-17
Part 9/?
Disclaimers attached to Part 1.

*   *   *

She found it at the bottom the fifth pile of papers she went through, 
still sealed in a plain brown manila envelope. "GEM" was written in the 
top right hand corner in blue pen.

She turned it over in her hand, tracing her fingertips along its rough 
surface. Mulder might very well have been shot for this, and it looked 
like he hadn't even read it. The irony made her heart ache.

Tucking it into her briefcase, she made her way downstairs.

Mrs. Mulder smiled at her from the living room couch. "Find your 
glasses?"

"Yes," she replied, forcing a smile, patting her purse. "Right where I 
thought I'd left them." Her conscience gave her pangs at the lie, but at 
seven o'clock this morning she'd been a little too woozy to think of a 
better reason to drive back up on such short notice.

"Well, it's too bad you had to miss work, but then you probably couldn't 
have gotten much done without your eyes."

She laughed, made a quick excuse about having to try to make it in to 
the office for at least a few hours, and got on the interstate. She 
pulled off about at the first sign of a coffee shop, her stomach finally 
rumbling a loud, acidic protest at being fed nothing but tea and Ritz 
crackers sometime around dawn.

//Besides, I'll never be able to keep my mind on the road with that damn 
report sitting here in my case. I might as well skim it a little, ease 
the curiosity factor.//

She went inside, slid into a booth, staring at cholesterol-laden menu. 
They didn't call these places greasy spoons for nothing. She ordered 
coffee, two eggs over easy with bacon and whole-wheat toast -- she had 
to at least give a token nod to healthy eating -- and pulled the 
envelope from her bag, slitting it open with her thumbnail.

A sheaf of paper-clipped papers fell into her lap. "The Gemini Project," 
she read softly from the top sheet. "A study in the chemistry of 
memory." So far, so good. Sounded right up Mulder's alley. "Dr. Allan 
Hargraves, University of California, Los Angeles, 1954."

She recognized the name. Allan Hargraves had been one of the most 
promising voices in neurobiochemical research in the last half-century; 
his findings had helped in the development of new drugs for the 
treatment of a wide range of mental illnesses, including schizophrenia 
and manic depression.

But his career had been cut tragically short by a fatal plane crash in 
1956. This report she was holding now was probably one of the last 
pieces he'd ever published. Strange, but she'd never even heard of it 
before.

For the next hour she sat and read, brow knit in concentration, picking 
at her food. Finally, she set it aside, folding her hands on the table, 
thinking.

Dr. Hargraves certainly lived up to his reputation. This report was a 
brilliant, if unorthodox, piece of work, presenting the theory that many 
mental illnesses were due to an imbalance in brain chemistry. That much 
was accepted now, she conceded; high serotonin levels were often found 
in the spinal fluid of patients with psychotic disorders and depressive, 
even suicidal, tendencies.

Mental illnesses were like a foreign code written in that 
neurochemistry, Dr. Hargraves had postulated. But by breaking down that 
code, altering it -- rewriting it in a new, stronger language -- most 
known forms of mental illness could eventually be eradicated.

Or so Dr. Hargraves thought.

But for all its brilliance, there was something about the theory that 
bothered her. It sounded a little too detached, clinical -- like 
resurrecting a crashed computer rather than treating a patient. 
Sometimes it was impossible to effect that resurrection without turning 
the machine off and rebuilding the contents of its hard disk from 
scratch.

And there lay the problem -- this treatment would not only eradicate the 
illness, but probably wreak severe damage on the memory centers of the 
patient's brain, and, by extension, on the patient's existing 
personality. The technology didn't exist, even today, to alter an 
individual's brain chemistry so radically without disastrous results. A 
fascinating idea, she admitted, but totally unworkable--

Her cell phone chirped, and she dug in her jacket pocket for it. 
"Scully."

"Agent Scully, this is Janet. I tried getting in touch with you at home, 
but there was no answer. I hope you're feeling better?"

Oh, God, it was her administrative assistant. "Um...yes, I am," she 
replied, remembering she was supposed to be sick. "But I'll probably be 
stuck here at the doctor's for most of the day. Is something wrong?"

"Well, we've had a possible break in the Cartagnia case. There's a new 
body. NYPD's flying it in this evening. And since Agent Stone's out in 
the field, there's really nobody else in the unit available to do the 
autopsy. So Agent Colton asked me to call and see if you think you'll be 
in tomorrow."

She sighed, rubbing her forehead with two fingers. This case was Tom 
Colton's baby; he'd never forgive her if she didn't haul her butt down 
to the office for this one, even if she was on a respirator.

"Tell Agent Colton I'll be there with bells on, okay?"

"Okay. See you tomorrow."

She hung up, stared at the report spread out on the table for a minute, 
then picked up the sheaf of papers, shoving them back in the envelope. 
She got up, paid her check and trudged out to her car, all the while 
feeling very disgusted with herself.

The whole trip had been a complete waste of time. If there were any 
clues as to the whys and wherefores of Mulder's shooting, they certainly 
weren't in that damn report. Her mother was right. She had to stop 
grasping at straws. It was past time she faced facts--

//Face facts? You mean give up, don't you?//

It did no good for her to go on obsessing like this. She needed to get 
on with her life, make new friends, start going out again--

//Mulder didn't give up on you, did he -- and you were missing three 
months. Your mother gave up, even bought you a fucking headstone...and 
she's the one you're listening to...//

"Stop it!" she half-gasped, half-shrieked, gripping the steering wheel 
so hard she thought she'd snap her fingers in half. "Stop it...goddamn 
it, shut up..."

She was shaking so bad she had to pull over to the side of the road, 
wait for her heart to stop racing.

She couldn't think about this anymore, not today. She was tired, so damn 
tired, all the way down to her bones. She'd go home, crawl into bed, 
turn her electric blanket up to six, and sleep until tomorrow morning. 
She'd feel better then. More like herself.

That is, if she didn't wake up around two or three a.m. and lie there 
until the sun came up, thinking about him.

*   *   *

//she was smiling at him holding her hand out to him saying it's all 
right don't worry everything will be all right--

//and he went to her wrapped his arms around her God she felt so good so 
soft and warm her red hair smelled just like summer rain and 
wildflowers--

//and she was lying under him cradling him in her arms between her 
thighs and he was in her moving hot and deep and slow and sweet--

//and she was gasping clutching at him arching her back digging her 
heels into his thighs and he could feel her tightening around him 
gripping him inside and out like she never wanted to let him go and he 
never wanted her to--

//and God Jesus God her eyes deepened to the color of midnight in July 
when she came--

//and he dipped down touching his mouth to hers--

//and the taste spurted onto his tongue all warm and coppery--

//and he looked down and he saw the blood on her face streaming from her 
cut lip and the look in her eyes the blank dead look in her eyes--//

And he woke up screaming, hanging half off the bed, pulse pounding in 
his ears, stomach churning acid. Scrambling to his feet, lurching into 
the bathroom, he flung up the toilet seat and puked his guts out.

He leaned over the sink when he was done, propped himself up on his 
elbows while he splashed cool water on his face, rinsed the sour taste 
from his mouth.

But the sight of his face in the mirror sent the vomit rising in the 
back of his throat again. This time he choked it down.

God, what he wouldn't give to spin the clock back a day, to let Cathy 
walk out of here, alive and untouched. What he wouldn't give to spin it 
back even further, back to the time he couldn't remember, back to the 
time he'd met *her*...

He went back to his room, plopped down on the edge of the bed, chuckling 
hollowly. He wasn't even sure she was real. For all he knew, his mind 
had conjured her up out of nothing while he'd lain here half-delirious, 
recovering from Krycek's bullet.

Jesus, this was too fucking rich. He was falling in love with a woman 
who probably didn't even exist outside of his jack-off fantasies. And 
even that temporary solace had been taken away, swallowed up by the 
horror.

He'd had it all turned around before. His dreams of her were his escape, 
the only thing that could touch him, remind him he was still human. It 
was the rest of his life that was the nightmare.

And there was no way out.

*   *   *

She stared down at the body lying on the autopsy table, her scalpel 
poised in mid-air.

She'd seen this man before, had a conversation with him. Last year, at 
Mulder's father's funeral. He'd told her someone close to her, someone 
she trusted, would try to kill her--

And Melissa had ended up dead in her place.

She put down the scalpel, her fingers gripping the edges of the table 
until the metal threatened to cut through her surgical gloves. She 
looked down at the body again, this time with a sense of detachment that 
surprised her.

Whoever had killed this man had done the world a favor. But she wasn't 
here to pass that judgment. She had a job to do, and Tom Colton was 
waiting for her report.

And he wasn't going to like what it said, she thought a few hours later, 
zipping the body back into its bag. She headed upstairs to her office to 
give her tape to Janet for transcription, a sense of foreboding creeping 
into her bones.

Her intercom buzzed at exactly two minutes to five. "It's him," Janet 
said, her tone half-resigned, half-apologetic. "You want me to say 
you've left already?"

"No, he'll just call me at home. Put him through."

There was a moment or two of silence, then a voice exploded into her 
ear. "I just got your report. Do you mind if I ask where the hell you 
come off saying this has nothing to do with the Cartagnia case?"

"Because I don't believe it does. Granted, the shooter's style is 
remarkably similar to a standard mob hit, but I don't think this one 
belongs to the Cartagnia family -- they'd never be so sloppy as to just 
leave the body lying out in some alley behind a bar. And if you'll wait 
for hair and fiber to come back from the lab, I believe my theory will 
be borne out--"

"Damn it, Dana, this wasn't what I wanted to hear, and you know it! 
Christ, I've worked my ass off on this case, and now I'm back at fucking 
square one."

She pulled the receiver away from her ear, stared at it in utter 
amazement. Tom had often behaved like an insensitive jerk, but this was 
taking it beyond the limit. "What do you want me to do, Tom? Manufacture 
evidence where there is none, just to get you another bump up the 
ladder? You know I can't do that."

She heard him sigh, could almost envision him rubbing the space between 
his eyes. "Look...I'm sorry, I didn't mean to blow up at you like that. 
But I was really counting on this one cinching it. I want to get that 
bastard Cartagnia so bad I can taste it."

"And you may still, if Pendrell finds something I missed. I got skin and 
blood from under the victim's fingernails, so if it is Cartagnia, you'll 
know tomorrow morning."

"But you don't think it will be, do you? I'm still not certain I 
understand why you feel this way."

She hesitated, not sure whether she should tell him. "To be honest, I'm 
working off intuition here. All I know is I took one look at that body 
and I just knew something wasn't right..."

"Dana, are you trying to say you've got a *feeling* about this?"

He sounded so absolutely flabbergasted she had to smile. "Something 
wrong with that?"

"No, of course not...I...uh, just never thought I'd see the day when 
you'd let that five-gigabyte brain of yours be overruled by intuition. 
It's kind of a difficult concept to absorb."

"Thanks, Tom," she retorted dryly. "You just made my week."

They talked for a few minutes more, going over the agenda for the 
department meeting the next day, then hung up. She eyeballed her watch 
and decided to call it a night. She still had plenty of work to take 
with her anyway.

So she sat on the couch, papers spread out on the coffee table, eating a 
Budget Gourmet dinner, sipping Diet Coke and wondering why her 
conversation with Colton was still prickling at the back of her mind. 
His comment comparing her brain to a computer still irritated the hell 
out of her.

Was that really the way he saw her -- as some frigidly efficient 
machine, an automaton who cut up dead bodies, gathered evidence from 
them without giving a single thought to what these people had been in 
life, what their deaths had meant to those they'd left behind?

Was that the way everybody down at the Bureau saw her? Oh, she'd 
overheard a few of them -- men, mostly -- calling her the "Ice Queen" 
behind her back. It had hurt, but she'd forced herself to shrug it off. 
The Bureau was a boy's club, after all, and if they let a few girls 
play, it'd better be the ones who could take the punches.

So she'd hardened her heart, schooled herself to a cool, impassive 
demeanor, put on invisible armor along with her suit every morning, 
hoping it would work. And it had, apparently. With everybody but Mulder. 
She'd never been able to hide from him.

The phone rang, shattering her reverie. With a sigh, she got up to 
answer it. "Hello?"

"Agent Scully? This is Agent Pendrell. Sorry to call you so late."

She glanced at her watch. Nearly nine. "You're still at the lab? And I 
thought I was a workaholic."

"Yeah, well, Agent Colton didn't give me much choice. He wanted this 
blood and tissue breakdown processed tonight."

He paused, and she didn't quite get why. "Was there something?"

"I, uh...think you could say that. Would you" -- he cleared his throat 
-- "mind if I brought it by for you to see?"

"Here? Tonight? I mean...um, can't it wait until tomorrow morning? I was 
planning on being in early."

"This is definitely something you should see before Agent Colton. In 
fact, I'm not even sure he should see it at all."

Something in his tone sent a blade of pure ice twisting through her. 
"All right. Come over now." She gave him the address and directions, 
then sat down to wait.

She jumped at the sound of his knock, bolting for the door, ushering him 
in. "What have you got?" she asked curtly, reaching for the manila file 
folder he was holding.

"The victim's name was David Howard Morrell, born Great Britain, 
mid-1930's. He and his parents emigrated to the U.S. a couple years 
before WWII broke out, became naturalized citizens soon after. 
Apparently he held a key position with the State Department until his 
retirement in 1980." Off her look, he added, "I got all that from the 
database when I ran his prints."

She flipped through the pages of test results, scanning quickly, 
frowning. "I don't see anything here on the blood and tissue analysis."

He took the folder back from her, turned all the way to the end, pulling 
out a sealed clear evidence envelope containing two transparencies. He 
opened the envelope, handed the transparencies to her.

It was the DNA breakdown of the skin and blood she'd found under the 
victim's fingernails. It had to be. She held the transparencies up to 
the light, side by side, then one on top of the other. An exact match.

"Not Cartagnia?" she half-whispered, looking to him for confirmation.

He shook his head grimly. "This" -- he indicated the first transparency 
-- "is the shooter's DNA. And this" -- pointing at the second one now -- 
"belongs to Agent Fox Mulder."

Some small part of her had known what he was going to say before he said 
it, but that still didn't keep her vision from blurring, her head from 
spinning. She felt sick and relieved and elated all at once.

He was alive. She had her proof, right here in her hand.

"Does anyone else know about this?" she asked.

"No, of course not. I told you--"

"Is there any reason they have to?"

"Well, Colton's going to be wondering where the results are if I don't 
give them to him with the rest of the report."

"Think you can stall him? Even for a day, a few hours?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "I'll tell him the lab equipment screwed up, 
and we have to run the blood and tissue again. He'll believe that."

"Good," she replied, reluctantly handing the transparencies back to him, 
steering him toward the door. "Thanks, Pendrell. I really owe you for 
this one."

He looked like he wanted to say something, but she shut the door before 
he could get it out.

She drifted back into the living room, paralyzed, numb, still absorbing. 
Mulder was alive. Somewhere in this world his heart was still beating, 
his brain still functioning--

And he'd killed a man, horribly, brutally, in some filthy alley in New 
York City.

Is that where he was now? Only an hour plane ride away all this time, 
and she'd never had a damn clue. And a lot of good the knowledge did 
her, even now. What the hell was she going to do, hop the next shuttle, 
rent a car and cruise the streets until she found him? New York was 
huge. A man could lose himself there and never be found unless he wanted 
to be.

Well, she'd just have to hope that's what he wanted. Because she wasn't 
going to throw in the towel now, not when she was so close.

She padded into the kitchen, yanked open a drawer, rummaging through it 
until she found a roll of masking tape. Then she went to the window 
facing toward the street, tearing off two strips of tape, pasting them 
to the glass in the shape of an X.

It was all she could think to do. Hopefully, the man who'd been Mulder's 
informant for the past year still kept an eye on the apartment. God 
knew, there'd been several times since she'd moved in when she'd felt 
sure someone was watching her.

She stepped away from the window, suddenly very cold, shivering all 
over. She brought her hands up to her mouth, blowing warm breath into 
them; they felt like two chunks of ice. She went to the kitchen, brewed 
herself a mug of tea, wrapping her fingers around it, sipping at it more 
for the heat than the taste.

Then she perched on the edge of the couch, her gaze fixed on the front 
door, on the sliver of light leaking under it. Somehow she knew she was 
in for a long wait.

*   *   *

It was the sunlight that woke her up, streaming in the window, all 
bright and golden.

She sat up, rubbed her eyes, defeat slumping her shoulders. Nothing. 
She'd stayed on this damn couch all night, and nothing. She dragged in a 
breath and let it out as a sigh, glancing at her watch.

Almost seven. She'd better get going. Maybe if she took another look at 
Morrell's body, maybe she could find something new, anything to point 
her in the right direction. It was all she had right now.

She showered, pulling on her robe, padding into the kitchen for some 
coffee. Her stomach rumbled, but she didn't bother with food -- she 
could never eat anything this early in the morning.

Then she saw it -- a tiny square of white paper, stuck under the front 
door. She picked it up with shaky fingers, slid into a chair at the 
kitchen table, and unfolded it.

Ten words, printed neatly in blue pen. "John Doe #14. Wayland State 
Psychiatric Hospital. Wayland, West Virginia."

Spreading the paper out on the table, she smoothed its creases with both 
hands, staring at it, anxiety and anticipation roiling in her mind and 
belly.

Her coffee was stone cold by the time she got up to look for her road 
map of West Virginia.
 




"The Bright White Place," MSR, NC-17
Part 10/?
Disclaimers attached to Part 1.

*   *   *
                              
She pulled up in front of the building, got out of her car, and walked 
slowly, deliberately up to the front steps. It was a converted 
nineteenth-century mansion, very neat and clean, very Victorian.

It looked like a pleasant cage, she supposed, as cages went.

The charge nurse stared at her like she had two heads when she asked to 
see John Doe #14. "He's been here twenty years, and you're the first 
visitor he's ever had," she said, suspicion narrowing her eyes. "Mind if 
I ask why?"

"Government business," Scully replied, flashing her badge. "May I see 
his chart, please?"

"I'll need to get permission from the administrator before--"

"I'm a medical doctor. And I already have the proper clearance." She 
pulled a sheet of paper from her notebook and slid it across the 
counter, saying a silent, fervent prayer that Langly, Byers and Frohike 
hadn't screwed up her fake security pass.

Apparently not, for the nurse forked over a thick, ragged file folder 
without further ado, then led her down the hallway. "You ask me, you 
made this trip for nothing. If the guy says five words a week, it's a 
banner week."

She flipped through the file quickly, absorbing as much as she could in 
the time it took to get to the patient's room. Thirty-nine years old, a 
ward of the court from the age of fifteen, when he was admitted 
following a complete psychotic break, attributed to a drug overdose. No 
known family. Every possible treatment attempted, with no appreciable 
change in his condition.

They stopped outside a locked door with a tiny window cut in the center, 
and the nurse opened it with her key. "You want an orderly in there with 
you?"

"Is he violent?"

"No, but he can get a little agitated sometimes. I'll call Danny down 
here if it'll make you more comfortable."

She shook her head, handing back the file. "That's all right. I doubt 
I'll be that long." Especially since she hadn't a damned clue what she 
was doing here in the first place.

"I'll wait out here till you're ready to go, then."

The room was small, white and bare, with only a cot, a chair and a tiny 
table. Sunlight poured through the uncurtained window, bright and 
utterly colorless, as washed-out as the walls, floor and ceiling.

A figure sat huddled in the center of the cot, knees drawn up to his 
chest, rocking rhythmically back and forth, eyes open but totally blank. 
He wore pale blue pajamas and black wool socks, but nothing else. His 
hair was dark and stubbly, shaved almost down to his scalp.

"Hi," she said softly, pulling out the chair. "Do you mind if I sit?"

He didn't answer, so she took it as a yes.

"My name's Dana Scully. I'm a doctor."

His rocking slowed slightly, and she thought he might be looking at her 
from the corner of one brown, drug-dulled eye. She supposed it was 
progress of a sort.

"A...friend sent me here to see you. Maybe he thought you could tell me 
something, I don't know. I don't even know what I should be asking you. 
Maybe if I just sit here with you I'll absorb it through osmosis." She 
knew she had to be rambling, but she didn't know what else to do. She 
had to figure out some way to make him talk. "I have another 
friend...he's been gone a long time, but he always had this gift for 
getting people to open up, tell him just about anything...I wish I'd 
paid more attention to how he did it."

He was resting his chin on his knees now, looking right at her, his eyes 
as gentle and limpid as a five-year-old's. "You're pretty," he said, 
then ducked his head, his cheeks pinkening.

To her surprise, she found his sweet innocence touching. "Thank you," 
she replied.

"A lot prettier than the nurses. An' I 'member a lot of nurses," he 
added, staring down at his fingernails.

"Can you remember how long you've been here?"

He was silent for a moment, then shrugged. "Long time..."

She was going at this all wrong, she realized. He wouldn't have any 
concept of time in here, not with all the drugs they'd been giving him. 
She got up, went to the window, looking out. "It's a really nice day. Do 
you ever go outside, walk around on the grass?"

"Sometimes...they let me go out on my birthday. It was warm."

"When was your birthday?"

"Last week, I think..."

Last week. The middle of April. Her mind spun back, freezing on a recent 
memory, on the list of numbers she'd read in Mulder's notebook. She 
could've sworn she'd seen one for April 12, 1957.

And that was John Doe #14's birthday. She'd skimmed over it when she'd 
read his file.

She went to the door, opened it, stepping out into the hallway. "Could I 
see that chart again, please?" she asked, pulling it out of the nurse's 
hand before the other woman even had a chance to answer. Turning all the 
way to the back, she found the man's admittance records--

And there it was, near the bottom of the page, a faded, blurry photocopy 
of the admitting physician's signature.

She didn't recognize the name, but she did the handwriting. The same 
handwriting she'd seen in Mulder's surgical notes from the time he'd 
been shot.

His eyes locked on her like a pair of lasers when she came back into the 
room, sat down once more, hugging the file to her chest. "I need for you 
to tell me something, if you can," she said softly. "Do you remember 
when you came here for the first time...do you remember the doctor who 
treated you then?"

He just stared at her, then wagged his head, looking away.

"Please try, John. It's very important."

"That's...not my name."

Her breath caught. "You remember what your name is?"

He nodded.

"Would you tell me?"

"It's a weird name. People used to look at me funny when I told them..."

"I promise I won't."

He looked at her, smiling his sweet little-boy smile. "My name's Fox. 
Fox Mulder."

*   *   *
 
She drove seventy-five miles an hour all the way home, where she slapped 
the masking tape back on her window and sat down on the couch to wait 
again, fuming, furious and frightened out of her mind.

The phone finally rang sometime around midnight. She snatched it up on 
the first ring.

"I hear West Virginia's lovely this time of year."

It was him. Mulder's informant. She'd recognize that voice anywhere -- 
low, silky and warm as a mausoleum in the middle of December. "What kind 
of sick joke are you playing, you bastard--"

"No joke at all, Agent Scully. I would've thought you'd figured that out 
by now."

"Figured what out? I don't even know why I'm talking to you."

The line crackled with silence for a moment. "There's a park two blocks 
down from your apartment building, three blocks over. Be there in half 
an hour."

"Look, I am through chasing all over hell and back--"

"Half an hour." *Click.*

She stared at the receiver in her hand, then hung it up and went to get 
her jacket.

The crisp night air stung her skin, making the hair on the back of her 
neck prickle. At least, that's the reason she gave herself as she 
entered the deserted park, heading for a bench near a tiny duckpond.

Not five minutes later he appeared, sitting down next to her. He looked 
the same as the last time she'd seen him -- tall, black, elegant, 
dressed simply, in dark slacks, shoes and trench coat. "Glad you could 
make it," he said.

"What did you drag me all the way out here to tell me?"

"You've got most of the pieces to the puzzle, Agent Scully. I'm 
surprised you haven't tried putting them together yet."

"It would help if I knew where to start."

He chuckled, looking out over the pond. "I was having a conversation 
with a friend the other day, and we started talking about an argument 
we'd had a month ago. But I remembered him starting it, and he 
remembered I had. Strange, funny thing, memory. How it molds our 
perceptions, our emotions...makes us who and what we are. Allan 
Hargraves knew that all too well."

She suppressed a shiver. "I'm still waiting."

"The papers you found among Mulder's effects are only the barest edge of 
the iceberg, Agent Scully. The Gemini Project became reality, thanks to 
certain parties who saw the potential in it. You spoke with one result 
of that project today."

"The man who claimed to be Fox Mulder?"

He nodded.

"You're lying."

"Am I?"

"Allan Hargraves died in 1956. Somehow I doubt he was up to performing 
experimental procedures on someone born in the next year."

"You really do believe everything you read, don't you?" he said, fishing 
in his inside jacket pocket, pulling out a small, faded snapshot, 
handing it to her.

It was an old picture, a group shot of several men, most of whom looked 
to be in their late thirties, early forties. She recognized at least 
three of them.

The first was Mulder's father. The second was the one Mulder had called 
Cancerman.

The third was the surgeon she'd spoken with when Mulder had been shot. 
Allan Hargraves. At least twenty years younger in the photo, but 
definitely the same man. Only he hadn't been using that name when she'd 
talked to him.

"He didn't die in 1956, Agent Scully. He went underground. He'd found a 
new sponsor for his work, you see. A sponsor who'd let him do what was 
necessary, with no questions asked. A sponsor who found him new test 
subjects whenever the need presented itself. And in the early years of 
the project, the need arose frequently. You don't want to know how many 
other John Does there are rotting away in mental hospitals because of 
what Allan Hargraves did to them."

"What did he do to them?"

"Stole their memories. Rewired their brains. Remade them."

"How?"

"That I can't say."

"I see. You can make the accusations, but you can't back them up with 
concrete evidence. Yet you still expect me to believe you."

"I assume you remember a case you and Mulder investigated early on in 
your partnership -- the Budahas case? According to your own report, 
Mulder was caught in the act of trespassing on Ellis Air Force Base and 
taken into custody, yet after he was released he told you he remembered 
nothing of what'd happened when he was there, that they'd somehow 
removed the memory, sucked it out of his mind. If they can do that with 
one memory, what makes you think they can't wipe the whole slate clean, 
replace it with any set of memories they choose?"

She remembered the time he was speaking of, remembered watching Mulder 
walking out through the base's front gate, weaving on his feet like a 
drunken man. And then his utter confusion as to where he was, what he 
was doing there...

She'd told herself that he was suffering from hysterical amnesia, that 
sooner or later his memory of the incident would return. But as far as 
she knew, it never had. At least, Mulder'd never told her it had.

But that still didn't mean what this man was telling her was the truth.

"What you're suggesting is not medically possible," she said.

"I'm not suggesting anything -- I'm saying it outright. They've been 
taking Mulder, altering his memories ever since he was a child. With his 
father's express blessing, I might add. Nothing in his life is what he 
thought it was."

A bone-deep chill twisted through her as she flashed back to her 
conversation with Mrs. Mulder in Mulder's apartment, remembering what 
the older woman had told her about the summer vacation Mulder had taken 
with his father in 1973 and everything that had flowed downstream from 
that.

No UFO's. No aliens. No Samantha. Parents who weren't really his 
parents. Everything Mulder'd ever believed in, gone. All of it an 
illusion. A manufactured illusion.

"Let's say for the sake of argument that I buy into this story of 
yours," she said finally. "If Dr. Hargraves's experiments turned that 
man I met today into a drooling mental case, then how did Mulder's mind 
survive relatively intact? Why was he spared and none of the others?"

"Bill Mulder lost access to him after he and his wife divorced. The 
experiments were...interrupted."

"So why resume them now, after all this time?"

"Mulder had the Gemini report. He would have uncovered the truth 
eventually. They couldn't let that happen. So they staged the restaurant 
shooting, figuring it would either kill him or put them in a position 
where they could bring him in with little risk of compromise."

Silence fell as she tried to digest everything he'd told her. He got up, 
walked down toward the pond, standing there, waiting. After a few 
seconds, she followed.

"You know where he is, don't you?" she asked.

He said nothing in reply.

"Answer me."

"And what good would it do even if I did know? You can't get him back, 
Agent Scully. He's descended so far into darkness he can't see the 
surface anymore. Leave it alone."

"Then why the hell did you bother coming when I called you? Why are you 
standing here talking to me now?"

"You were asking too many questions, getting too close. You had to be 
warned."

"Why?" she retorted with a derisive laugh. "Even if I discovered 
something, they could just suck it out of my brain, right?"

"Don't think they haven't already done that. There's still three months 
out of your life you can't remember, isn't there?"

He was trying to throw her off-balance, and he nearly succeeded. "Where 
is he?"

"David Morrell's death was no accident, but then I'm sure you've already 
surmised that. It was a cold-blooded, premeditated act."

"I won't be losing any sleep over it. Tell me."

He studied her for long moments, his eyes flinty, black as ink. "The 
body of a young woman identified as Catherine Lynn Thomas was found 
lying in an alley behind a nightclub in Manhattan's Lower East Side two 
nights ago. Jaw broken, death from a gunshot wound at the base of the 
skull. Brutally raped by two men. This is all catalogued on the Bureau's 
violent crimes database, if you want confirmation."

She saw his lips move, heard the words leave his mouth, but her mind 
refused to accept what he was implying. Such things were simply not 
within the realm of possibility.

"Alex Krycek was one of her assailants. Mulder was the other. Of course, 
you won't find that on the database."

"Or anywhere else, since it is patently not true."

"You still don't get it, do you? The man you knew as Fox Mulder is dead. 
And there is no hope for resurrection."

She reached very calmly under her jacket and drew her gun. "You tell me 
where he is or I'll shoot you where you stand, you son-of-a-bitch. I 
don't care if we are out in the open."

"You can't help him, Agent Scully. Even if you do find him, he won't 
remember you."

She altered her gun's aim a hair, squeezing off a shot that bit the 
ground not ten centimeters from his right foot. "The next one'll be more 
to the center, and much higher."

Satisfaction rippled through her when she saw the fear flickering in his 
cold, dark eyes.




"The Bright White Place," MSR, NC-17
Part 11/?
Disclaimers attached to Part 1.

*   *   *

She saw him from a distance, coming down the front stairs of an old, 
run-down brownstone, Krycek following close on his heels.

Shivering, she shifted in her rental car's cramped driver seat, her hand 
poised on the door latch, watching in the rearview mirror as both men 
crossed the street a few yards past her, headed down the next block.

She knew where they were going -- the same place they'd gone the last 
two nights. Waiting a minute or so for them to get a discreet distance 
ahead, she climbed out of the car and followed.

The evening breeze was sleek and sharp as a butcher knife, freezing her 
legs even through her heavy coat, but at least it jolted her back to 
alertness. She'd barely slept since she'd arrived in New York two days 
ago, wouldn't even have bothered getting a hotel room if not for the 
need to shower and change every now and then. She'd been eating 
street-vendor food for so long the car was starting to smell like a 
falafel cart.

She hung back, waiting for them to go into the bar, but when she reached 
the door herself, she hesitated.

But she'd mulled the various possibilities in her mind a dozen times 
over, and this was the only way. He hadn't left the apartment at all 
during the day. And though she'd given serious consideration to just 
going up and knocking on his door, something in her cringed at actually 
doing it. She didn't think she'd be able to stand it if he looked 
straight at her with those deep hazel eyes and registered absolutely no 
recognition at all.

It wasn't because of what his informant had told her about that woman 
found dead in the alley. That had nothing to do with it--

The door swung open, almost hitting her in the face as a pair of giggly 
patrons emerged.

Now or never. She pressed her fingers against the cold glass and pushed 
her way in.

It was so crowded she could barely inch her way forward, the air smoky 
and hot, searing her nostrils when she inhaled. Between the music and 
the rumble of about three hundred raised voices, her eardrums were 
starting to palpitate. She hadn't been in a place like this since 
college. She'd forgotten how much she didn't miss it.

She nudged her way over to the bar, ordered a soda, took a sip. Its 
cloying sweetness coated her tongue, almost making her gag. She pushed 
it away, sliding onto an empty stool, shrugging her coat off her 
shoulders. She somewhat nervously adjusted the top of the dress she'd 
bought in a boutique that afternoon after making the decision to come 
here, warm air tickling the triangle of skin bared by the garment's low 
neckline, raising goosebumps.

She didn't know what had possessed her to buy it -- short, black and 
form-fitting definitely wasn't her style. But one of her sensible suits 
would've made her stand out too much in this kind of crowd, and tonight 
that was something she didn't need. Better to blend in.

Her gaze made a slow, careful circuit of the room, trying to penetrate 
the dense sea of bodies swirling and flailing under the dance floor's 
ice-blue strobelights. She finally glimpsed him, sitting at a 
postage-stamp-sized table a few yards away from the bar, hunched over a 
beer. She watched as he carried the bottle to his lips, gulped down a 
mouthful, grimacing as he swallowed.

The strobe caught him in momentary profile, startling her. She'd seen 
that bleak expression on his face before, back when the Bureau had 
broken up their partnership, reassigned him to mind-numbing phone 
surveillance...

God, yes, she knew that look. Miserable. Tormented. Haunted.

He wasn't drinking for enjoyment. He was drinking to get drunk. To 
escape.

Krycek sat nearby, absorbed in close conversation with the same blonde 
woman she'd seen him leave the bar with the previous evening. With any 
luck, he'd do the same tonight.

As if on cue, he leaned over, said something to Mulder, then got up, 
drifting off toward the bar's entrance, his and the blonde's arms around 
each other's waists.

He sat there motionless for the longest time, seemingly unaware of 
anything going on around him, then took a final pull on his beer and 
rose, coming over to the bar, gesturing to the bartender for another.

Her breath nearly stopped when she saw him in full light for the first 
time. His hair was longer now, shaggy, spilling over his forehead, 
brushing the collar of his brown leather jacket. Light stubble covered 
his face. His jacket was unzipped, revealing a light grey t-shirt tucked 
into faded, knee-scuffed jeans.

She'd never seen anything so wonderful. He looked...alive. Gorgeous. 
Like Christmas and Easter and a thousand birthdays rolled into one--

And at that precise moment, he looked up, all the way across the bar. 
Right into her eyes.

She froze, not even sure if her heart was still beating, watching him 
watch her, watching the rapid rise and fall of his chest, watching him 
start to move in her direction, pushing roughly through the crowd--

He stopped not two feet in front of her, his hand reaching out to grip 
the edge of the bar, looking at her as if he expected her to dissolve in 
a puff of smoke any second.

"It's okay, Mulder," she said, so softly she wasn't certain he'd heard 
her. "It's me."

He slid his hand along the bar's sleek, dark wood until his fingers 
brushed hers.

"Jesus," he breathed. "You're real. You're flesh and blood."

"Yes."

"I...I thought I'd made you up in my head..."

"I'm real, Mulder. And I'm here."

He reached over, touching, caressing her cheek with the back of his 
hand. Her mouth sought out his palm, pressing a kiss there, tasting the 
salty warmth of his skin. Even in the bar's muted light, she saw his 
eyes dilate, turn to soft green.

He drew closer, and she felt his hands sliding around her waist, lifting 
her from the stool. She couldn't help leaning heavily against him, 
wrapping her arms around his neck--

And he started to sway, moving to the music's slow, liquid throb, taking 
her with him. She could feel his lips grazing her forehead, her eyelids, 
soft and moist and warm...

Love is blindness
I don't want to see
Won't you wrap the night around me
Take my heart
Love is blindness...

Breathing him in, she savored his clean, heated scent, resting her cheek 
against the silky patch of skin at the hollow of his throat, feeling the 
insistent tremor of his pulse beating there, awakening an answering 
rhythm in hers. He was holding her so gently, almost reverently, as if 
she were made of bone china and he was afraid he'd break her--

//the alley was filthy garbage everywhere blood everywhere seeping into 
the pavement and a body lying there limp broken dead--

//a woman's body--//

She shook her head, clearing it of the horrifying image. No, she 
wouldn't let herself think that. It wasn't true. It couldn't be. This 
was Mulder. She knew him. He wasn't capable of such an act.

Love is drowning in a deep well
All the secrets and no one to tell
Take the money honey
Blindness...

He tipped up her chin so that their eyes met. "You okay?"

She nodded.

"You want to get out of here?"

A chill shot through her, but she tamped it down. She had to get him 
somewhere she could talk to him, and this crowded place definitely 
wasn't it. "Yeah," she said. "Let's go."

He grabbed her hand and held onto it all the way out of the bar, then 
down and across the chilly streets to the apartment. Unlocking the door, 
he steered her past the couch, out of the living room, into the kitchen.

There was a light on over the sink, faint and eerie and golden, but he 
made no move to turn on the lamp over the kitchen table, just slipped 
off his jacket, hanging it over the back of a chair. She did the same 
with her coat.

His t-shirt was sleeveless, revealing slender yet muscular arms. Much 
more muscular than she recalled. Her surprise must have been evident in 
her expression, for he took it as a cue to come closer, grinning. "See 
something you like?"

"You've been...um, working out."

"Yeah, well...it helps the time go by faster."

Her mouth already felt like a desert, and the intensity of his gaze 
wasn't helping at all. "I could use something to drink, if you don't 
mind."

"Oh. Sure." He stepped over to the fridge, pulled it open. "All I got is 
beer and some iced tea I made a couple days ago."

"Water's fine."

He filled her a glass from the tap, handed it to her. She drank down 
half of it in one long swallow, wrinkling her nose at its sweet, 
semi-metallic taste. Oh, well, at least it was wet.

He reached for her hand as soon as she put the glass down on the table, 
wrapping her fingers around his, his thumb caressing her palm. "Look, I 
know this is going to sound weird, but...I had an accident a few months 
ago, and there're a few things I can't remember. Like your name and 
where we met."

It was just like before, when he'd woken up in the hospital. He knew 
her, but not the specifics. "You used to call me Scully."

"Your parents must've been really pissed off at you to give you a name 
like that. Believe me, I know."

"Dana's my first name. But you only called me that a few times."

"Why?"

"It's...complicated." God, how was she going to explain this? It was 
like trying to tell a blind man what color the sky was. "We worked 
together for almost three years. I was your partner."

His eyes widened and he rubbed at his lower lip, chuckling grimly. "I 
can't imagine somebody who looks like you doing what I do. And I've 
never worked with a woman, period."

"I know it sounds a little insane, but you have to hear me out."

"I'm listening."

"You were shot about three months ago, right?"

"Right. But how'd you know that?" Hands on his hips, he moved back a 
step or two, but was still standing in her space, staring at her.

A warm flush was creeping under her skin, shooting up her spine, making 
her dizzy. It felt disconcerting yet weirdly pleasant at the same time. 
"You...disappeared from Georgetown Med Center not long after it 
happened. I've been looking for you ever since."

"I've never been to Georgetown, much less the med center. I woke up in 
this apartment three months ago. I've been here all this time."

Anger, and something else, something chill and brutal, flickered in his 
eyes for a moment, freezing her to her marrow. But in the next second, 
it was gone.

"Mulder, you have to believe me. Try to remember--"

"I remember this," he said, drawing her into his arms, his expression 
now tender, gentle, the way it had been when they were dancing. "I've 
been dreaming about it since I was shot."

A tiny voice inside told her if she pulled back he'd let her go, but she 
didn't move. Her head was spinning now, her knees suddenly dissolving to 
water. "We...weren't like this before..."

"You trying to tell me dreams lie?"

Then his mouth came down on hers, and there were no more barriers.
Threading her fingers in his hair, she parted her lips eagerly for him, 
fire shooting through her veins as she felt his tongue darting inside, 
warm wet velvet entwining with hers. His hands were like silk sliding up 
her back, pulling her closer, enfolding her in his body's heat.

She was trembling when he finally let her catch her breath, her vision 
momentarily blurred. "This feels...really dangerous..."

"Do you want me to stop?"

God, oh God, he was giving her that intense hazel gaze again. He looked 
like he was going to die if she said yes.

She knew she would. "No. I don't want you to stop."

He kissed her again, and she suddenly felt as if she were plunging into 
the ocean, more than willing to let herself drown. She felt something 
solid hitting the back of her thighs, and somewhere in the dim recesses 
of her mind realized it had to be the table. He lifted her up, balancing 
her on the edge, spreading her thighs with a nudge of his knee, pulling 
her legs up around his waist.

He was hard already; she could feel his erection rubbing her belly 
through his jeans and her dress. Their mouths still locked together, she 
snaked one hand downward, unzipping him, caressing, stroking his rigid 
length--

He jerked back, his breath coming hard and quick, his expression 
desperate. "I want you so damn much...but I can't..."

"Can't what?"

"If you keep touching me like that, I'm gonna embarrass myself."

She took her hand away, reaching up to touch his cheek, run her 
fingertips along the line of his jaw. "Shhh, it's okay...I want to make 
you happy."

"But I want to make you happy first..."

"So who's stopping you?" she said with a smile.

He tried tugging her dress over her head, but the row of buttons halfway 
down the back made that impossible. Snorting his frustration, he thrust 
one hand under the tight black material, finding the waistband of her 
panties, pulling hard, tearing the wispy cotton away--

And then he was in her, pushing forward relentlessly, stretching and 
filling her, sweet pressure thrumming through her as he started moving 
slowly, giving her all of him, the sensation verging almost on pain.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on, their mouths meeting, 
devouring, his tongue imitating the thrusting of his shaft between her 
thighs. His hands were everywhere, gently, urgently kneading her 
breasts, cupping her bottom, holding her for even deeper, faster 
strokes...

It was hot and furious and primal, physical yet mind-shattering at the 
same time, the way he was touching her, like her pleasure was the only 
thing that mattered to him. Any second now she'd either split apart or 
go up in flames...

She heard soft cries, and in the next moment realized it was both of 
them, clutching, convulsing, collapsing sweaty and spent in each other's 
arms. She felt  his fingers tangling in her hair, his breath warm, rapid 
on her cheek, his chest heaving.

Then her vision finally cleared, and she looked up, into his eyes--

And just past his shoulder, to the kitchen doorway. Where Krycek stood, 
watching.

"Congratulations, Mulder," he said, a smirk spreading across his face. 
"You just fucked a Federal agent."

*   *   *

At least he had the presence of mind to rezip his pants before whirling 
around, rage pumping in his veins. "How long have you been there?"

"Long enough. Nice show, by the way," Krycek replied, stepping from the 
doorway. "You got a gift for picking the noisy ones. Think she'll moan 
like that when I'm giving it to her?" His glance shifting, he added, 
"What's the matter, baby? Didn't Mulder tell you we share *everything*?"

Mulder heard a soft gasp and looked back to where she was, still leaning 
against the table, gripping its edge with one hand, like she was afraid 
she'd fall if she let go. Her eyes had a dazed, disoriented cast to 
them, the glazed-over look of someone half-drunk. But she hadn't looked 
that way in the bar, when they'd been dancing--

Then he saw Alex reaching out, one hand poised to stroke her cheek, and 
something in him snapped. "Not this time, you sick bastard," he snarled, 
shoving Krycek so hard he went bouncing off the wall.

Alex glared at him for long silent seconds, massaging the shoulder that 
had made contact with hard wood. "She's FBI. She's been tailing us for 
two days."

"Yeah? So why the hell didn't you tell me?"

"Because the old man'd have my balls on a string around his neck if I 
tried." He cocked his head in the direction of the doorway. "Bring her. 
He's waiting."

She gazed at him numbly but made no protest as he took reluctant hold of 
her arm and followed Krycek into the living room. She slumped against 
him, wobbling, unsteady on her feet.

The sight of the old man gave her a visible start, clearing some of the 
haze in her eyes, shaking loose her confusion. But not because she was 
surprised to see him--

No, she didn't look surprised at all. She looked like she'd been 
expecting it. So did the old man.

"Good evening, Agent Scully," he said, lighting a cigarette. "I was 
wondering when you'd be paying us a visit. You look a bit unwell. Fox, 
let her sit down. I think the couch would be appropriate."

He stared at the old man, then moved toward the couch, let go of her 
arm, and stepped away as quickly as he could. She was sitting near the 
far end of the couch, he realized, the exact same spot where he'd--

He looked away, at the old man, waiting.

"Agent Scully and I have a few things to discuss. Alex, take Fox back 
into the kitchen. I'll call when I want you."

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me--"

"And don't forget to take his gun, Alex."

"Right," Krycek said, drawing his own gun, waving Mulder toward the 
kitchen. "Let's go."

But he couldn't move. All he could do was stare at her. But she wasn't 
staring at him. She was staring down at her hands in her lap, like she 
couldn't stomach the sight of him.

FBI. She'd been trying to trap him, probably intending to use him to get 
close to the old man and his consortium cronies.

His fantasy girl was a fucking Federal agent. Literally. Now all those 
dreams of her holding a gun on him started to make sense.

"Funny, I didn't know the Bureau hired whores," he spat. "Next time I'll 
let you suck my cock. Might as well make you work for your pay."

Her back and shoulders went stiff, but she still didn't look at him, or 
show any other reaction.

"C'mon, Mulder," Krycek said, tugging his arm.

He shook him off, turned, and went back into the kitchen.

Krycek shut the door behind them, flicking on the light, moving to the 
table, searching her coat until he found her gun. "I knew she didn't 
have room to hide this in that skimpy thing she was wearing," he 
smirked. "Gotta hand it to her, though -- the lady's dedicated to her 
work."

"Just shut your goddamned mouth, okay?"

"Aw, what's the matter, Mulder? Got your feelings bruised 'cause she 
only wanted you for your body?" He held out his hand. "Don't make me 
beg."

He bent down, tugging his gun from his ankle holster, handing it over.

"Sit down," Krycek said, nudging a chair out from the table with the toe 
of his boot. "When the old man's finished with her, I'm gonna have a 
little fun. Ask me nice and I'll even let you watch."

"Fuck you, Alex."

"That's what I'm counting on." Kicking out a chair for himself, he sat 
down, laying his gun on the table, muzzle pointed toward Mulder. "Kinda 
petite, isn't she? Bet she's tight as a virgin."

Krycek's words stirred remembered sensations in him. Sensations he 
didn't want to remember. The warm, silky skin on her inner thighs, that 
tiny little gasp she made when he entered her, the way their bodies fit 
together so damn perfectly--

"Guess you're not gonna tell me, huh?"

A glare was his only reply.

Krycek grinned. "Okay, Mulder, keep your little secret. I'll be finding 
out for myself soon enough anyway." He kicked back, putting his feet up 
on the table. "I've always wondered if she was a natural redhead. Maybe 
that's the first thing I'll check."

He sat in silence, mulling Krycek's last remark. Something about it hung 
in the back of his mind, nagging. Finally he realized what it was. "How 
long did you know she was following us?"

"I told you. Two days, at least."

"What tipped you off?"

"I saw her parked outside. She moved the car every couple hours, but 
that's standard procedure." He sat up straight, raking a hand through 
his hair. "Shit, you can stick me under a headstone the day I can't spot 
a Fed a mile away in this fucking town."

"Yeah, but why were you so sure she was a Fed? She could've been a cop, 
or just somebody new in the neighborhood."

Wariness flickered in Krycek's eyes for a split-second, and Mulder knew 
he had him. "You already knew who she was the minute you saw her, didn't 
you? The old man sure did. He called her by name."

"Look, I wanted to tell you, but the old man--"

"How do you know her? Where've you seen her before?"

No answer.

Mulder's glance flicked down and over to where the gun rested on the 
table.

Krycek picked it up, lazily aiming it at him. "Don't try it, Mulder. I'd 
put one through your forehead right now if I didn't think the old man'd 
skin me alive for doing it before he gives his say-so."

"Guess this means our partnership's on the rocks."

"Oh, c'mon -- you didn't really think the old man was gonna keep you 
around now that he's caught you consorting with the enemy?" he laughed. 
"Don't worry, I'll let you have a farewell taste of her for old times' 
sake before I blow both your heads off."

"No thanks. I'm through taking your sloppy seconds."

"Your choice," Krycek shrugged.

But it wasn't his choice, he realized. It hadn't been for a long time. 
Everything that had happened since he'd woken up in this apartment 
felt...wrong. Twisted. Like somebody else's life.

Like a life that shouldn't be happening at all.

*   *   *

Her head felt like someone was holding it underwater, yet strangely 
enough she could still breathe--

But the air had become liquid fire, invading her lungs, searing every 
nerve ending--

She slumped over, head in her hands, desperately trying to concentrate, 
dimly recognizing the sound of a door shutting--

And she could hear his voice in her mind, echoing, reverberating, thick 
with anger, hurt, disgust--

Calling her a *whore.*

She forced herself to sit up straight, meet the gaze of the man across 
the room from her. The old man, Krycek had called him. The air was 
cloudy with foul-smelling smoke; it took all her will to keep from 
vomiting. "What have you done to him?"

"Only what should have been finished years ago," he replied.

"Why?"

"To see what's possible." He took a long last drag, then pitched his 
cigarette out a nearby open window. "And because we can."

"And it doesn't matter how many lives, how many minds you throw on the 
scrap heap in the process?"

"We know so little of the human mind, Ms. Scully. But one thing we do 
know is this: control a man's memories and you control what he does, 
what he feels, who he is. It's the key to everything."

"But how is that possible? There are no drugs in existence that could 
effect the kind of changes in brain chemistry--"

He put up his hand, making her stop. "I'm afraid those questions are 
beyond my limited expertise. Dr. Hargraves could answer them, but 
unfortunately he's already returned to Los Angeles."

A frigid pang of nausea radiated up from her belly, but she refused to 
let him have the satisfaction of seeing it weaken her. Wetting her lips 
with the tip of her tongue, she wished she had thought to bring that 
glass of water with her from the kitchen.

Los Angeles...so that was where Hargraves was now.

But he hadn't let that information slip casually. He just didn't care 
about maintaining a deception where there was no need. He didn't intend 
to let her live.

"Maybe you can alter a man's memories," she said, "but you can't 
completely obliterate everything he was."

The corners of his mouth curled up. "You think so?" He flicked on the TV 
and the VCR atop it, then hit the play button. "Let's see if this 
changes your opinion."

An image flashed onscreen in harsh, grainy color. This room. The same 
couch she was sitting on now. A woman pushed flat on her back on the 
couch, legs spread. A man on top of her, hips pumping--

Krycek.

And another man, his face offscreen, gripping both of her wrists with 
one hand, her jaw with the other--

There was no sound, but somehow that only heightened the obscenity.

It was like watching surgery being performed with bare hands and no 
anesthetic. Too stunned and horrified even to flinch, she stared 
wide-eyed at the screen as Krycek finally finished with her, got up--

And Mulder moved between the woman's legs, mounting her, thrusting 
inside her.

God, Jesus God, if she closed her eyes she could still feel his hands 
all over her body, the way his touch had driven her out of her mind only 
a few minutes ago...

The warm stickiness he'd left between her own thighs.

A sour, bitter taste rose in her throat, but she choked it down, hugging 
her arms around her abdomen, feeling suddenly as if the floor had just 
dropped out from under her.

There were certain truths she had always held sacred, immutable. The sun 
would always rise in the east and set in the west. The phone would 
always ring right after she got in the shower. Mulder would always be 
Mulder.

Now nothing sacred would hold.

He flicked another button on the VCR, and the image froze. "Alex," he 
said, voice raised, "bring him in here."

The kitchen door opened and the two men moved into the room, Krycek 
still holding his gun on Mulder.

Mulder stopped dead, his gaze riveted on the screen, darting to the old 
man, then to her. She could see the muscles in his shoulders and neck 
bunch with tension, his jaw tightening.

"Give him his gun back, Alex."

Krycek hesitated a millisecond, then did as he was ordered.

Mulder took it, looked at it with narrowed eyes, fingers flexing around 
the dark metal, hefting the weight of it.

"The events of this evening have called your loyalty into question, 
Fox," the old man said. "You're an invaluable operative, and I would 
deeply regret losing you. But if our association is to continue, I will 
need assurance of that loyalty." He nodded at Krycek, who strode to the 
couch, grabbing her by the arm, yanking her roughly to her feet. "I 
think you know what assurance I require."

"Yeah. I know," Mulder said, raising the gun, aiming it right in her 
face.

His expression was cold, impassive, his pupils black and bottomless. The 
face of a stranger.

"Mulder, you have to listen to me." Her voice sounded foreign to her own 
ears, ragged, desperate. "What they've told you, what they've made you 
believe, it's all a lie--"

"Shoot her," the old man rasped. "Do it now. That's an order."

"You're an FBI agent, like me. You hold a doctorate in psychology from 
Oxford. You worked for the Violent Crimes Section, profiling serial 
killers--"

"Kill her, Fox. Put a bullet in this lying little bitch."

"--until you came across an old discarded project called the X-Files. 
That's what we've been working on for almost three years. You and me."

He looked at her, eyes deep and fathomless. And kept looking.

"They've tried to make you into something else, but I know better. The 
man I worked with, the man who--" she stopped, willing her voice not to 
crack "--made love to me is kind and gentle and decent. But right now 
you're not who you are."

He started, blinked, lips parting, fingers wavering on the gun. Then he 
fired.

Krycek slumped, fell, hitting the couch with a heavy, sick-sounding 
thump, a perfectly round hole in the center of his forehead. The 
cushions underneath him grew a very slow, very dark red.

"Good enough?" Mulder said, turning, facing the old man. "Did I pass 
your little test this time?"

But if what had just happened shocked or horrified him, the old man gave 
no outward sign. "Not the solution I was expecting, but acceptable 
nonetheless. It'll be difficult replacing him, though."

"But not impossible."

"No. Not impossible." Reaching into his coat, he pulled out another 
cigarette, lit it. "We still have another problem to take care of, 
however," he added, nodding at her.

"I want her."

His words went straight through her, a hot chill lodging in her belly.

The old man's eyebrows lifted. "Surely you realize she can't be 
allowed--"

"Yeah, I realize. But you owe me a reward after all the bullshit you've 
just put me through."

"Fair enough," he replied after barely a second's consideration. 
"Twenty-four hours. Do whatever you want with her tonight and tomorrow, 
but I want her dead by this time tomorrow night."

"Fine."

"I'll be back tomorrow to make sure of it," he said, heading for the 
door, opening it, disappearing into the hallway outside.

Mulder turned, his glance caught by the TV screen, by the image still 
flickering there. Punching a button on the VCR, he yanked out the tape 
and opened up its casing, ripping the tape off the reel inside, hurling 
it to the floor. The black plastic cracked, splintered, tiny pieces of 
it scattering all over the carpet.

Then he looked at her, moving toward her, slowly, deliberately, tucking 
the gun into the waistband of his jeans.

She gasped when he reached out, touching her cheek with his fingertips, 
drawing them up to trace her ear, down her throat--

And he leaned down until she could feel his breath warm and tingly on 
her skin, his lips hovering close to her ear--

And she felt suddenly, violently dizzy again, dizzy and sick all the way 
down to her soul.

"You got a car?" he whispered.

She looked up at him, every inch of her going numb. "Y-yes."

He pushed her away, stooping down to where Krycek's body lay on the 
couch, picking up Krycek's own gun that had fallen to the floor, 
riffling through the dead man's jacket until he found yet another gun.

Her gun.

He checked to make sure a clip was still in it, then held it out to her. 
"Go get your coat," he said. "We're getting out of here."





"The Bright White Place," MSR, NC-17
Part 12/?
Disclaimers attached to Part 1.

*   *   *

He got on the first interstate he hit after exiting Manhattan, and 
started driving south. He didn't know where he was going, and he didn't 
care. He just wanted to put as much distance as possible between him and 
New York.

He didn't even know how long they'd been on the road; he'd left his 
watch back in the apartment and the car's digital clock kept flashing a 
neon green "12:00" over and over. A bright golden sliver of sun had just 
peeked over the rim of a hill bearing to the east, making his eyes sting 
and water.

Warmth bathed the pavement, pouring through the windshield, onto his 
face and hands. He hadn't gone out in the sun much lately, he realized. 
It felt good.

He looked over to where she sat next to him, slumped down in her seat, 
head resting against the back of it, dozing. Her pale skin was finally 
beginning to lose some of the sickly greenish cast she'd had when they'd 
started out; he'd had to pull over twice in the first two hours for her 
to throw up.

He supposed it wasn't all that surprising that he inspired such 
revulsion in her. Even a woman with her training didn't fuck murderers 
and rapists every day.

He drove on until the sun hung directly overhead and the road's 
relentless glare started giving him highway hypnosis. Turning off at the 
next sign, he found a tiny but clean-looking motel and pulled in the 
parking lot.

She was just opening her eyes when he came back from the office with the 
key. "I need some sleep" was all he said as he moved the car over to the 
parking spot in front of their room, then got out, heading for the door.

"I have a bag in the trunk," she said. "You've got the key."

She was putting on a brave front, doing her best to sound steely and 
unflappable, but he couldn't miss her tremulous undertone, the nervous 
way she kept brushing a stray lock of hair back from her face.

He went to the trunk, opened it, took out her bag, carried it to the 
door, ignoring her attempts to take it from him. Unlocking the door, he 
let her go in first, felt her back stiffening as he touched her there, 
guiding her through the doorway.

She stopped short about three feet in, staring at the walls, at the 
furniture. At the one double bed in the middle of the room.

"You want to go somewhere else?" he asked.

She sighed, shook her head, dumping her bag on the ugly grey bureau 
against the far right wall, dropping into a chair. "One place is as good 
as another, I suppose."

He pulled his shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor, sank 
down on the bed, stretched out, covering his eyes with the back of one 
hand. He was just beginning to drift off when he realized she hadn't 
made a sound in minutes.

She was still sitting in the chair, staring at him.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"I'd...um, like to take a shower."

"Go ahead. You don't need my permission."

She gave him a look he couldn't figure out, then got up, went over to 
her bag, pulled out some toiletries and a terrycloth robe, and 
disappeared into the bathroom.

She'd left the door slightly ajar; he saw a finger-wide slash of light 
dancing on the wall across from the bed, heard when she turned on the 
water, pulled back the curtain once, then twice. God, he could almost 
imagine the spray misting her silky skin, warm water sluicing down her 
breasts and belly, between her--

He flipped over on his side, facing toward the window, punching the 
pillow. Shit. He should've kept driving. Being in close quarters with 
her was too damned tempting.

He closed his eyes, but when he opened them again he wasn't even sure 
he'd slept at all. But the light from the window had shifted, coming in 
from a lower angle. He could still hear the soft patter of water hitting 
tile.

Water, and something else. Something low and muffled and desperate.

He got up, went to the bathroom door, pushed it open. Condensation 
coated his fingertips, completely fogging the mirror. The air's humidity 
was so thick it felt like he was trying to breathe soup.

He could see her through the clear curtain, a dark blotch huddled in one 
corner. Then he realized what the sound he'd heard was.

She didn't move when he pulled the curtain back, didn't show any 
reaction at all. She was turned away from him, face and hands pressed to 
the tile, standing half out of the shower's spray, the water hitting her 
in the small of her back. Her entire body shook with the force of her 
sobbing.

His body tightened at the sight of her, but he pushed the reaction 
aside. The water was only lukewarm now, and getting colder by the 
second. He had to get her out of there before she froze.

"C'mon," he said, reaching out, touching her arm as gently as he could, 
"I think you're clean enough now."

She jerked back, then turned, tears spilling down her face, mixing with 
the droplets of shower water beaded there. "Don't, please...I don't want 
to..."

Jesus, she thought he'd come in here to...*Jesus.* "I'm not going to 
hurt you."

"Then go away...leave me alone..."

"And let you catch pneumonia?"

"I don't care."

"I do."

"Yeah, I guess if I'm dead I can't suck your cock."

If she'd been holding a knife, she couldn't have cut him deeper. "I'm 
sorry I said that. I was mad and hurting. I didn't think."

"No," she whispered, "you didn't."

"Look, you want to get dressed and walk out of here, go ahead. I won't 
try to stop you."

She laughed softly, grimly.

"I gave you your gun back, didn't I?"

She gazed at him, her expression softening by slow degrees. This time 
when he touched her, taking her hand, she didn't pull back.

He helped her out of the shower, flicked off the water, then turned back 
to her. She stood there shivering, dripping onto the floor, making no 
move to dry herself. His eyes lingered on her lips, her breasts, both 
flushed rosy-moist from the shower.

He'd never seen her breasts bared before, not outside his fantasies. 
They were perfectly soft, perfectly round, all pink ivory-colored, even 
more beautiful and womanly than he'd imagined. His palms itched to cup 
them, his fingertips to tease her upturned nipples into tiny rigid 
peaks.

She teetered, grabbing hold of the edge of the sink to steady herself.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Just a little dizzy. Guess I did stay in there too long."

He went to the tiny window above the toilet, opening it a sliver to let 
out the steam still hazing the air. "Better?"

She nodded, dark, wet strands of hair swinging into her eyes.

He could see gooseflesh popping up on every inch of her. Grabbing a 
towel, he draped it over her shoulders, started rubbing it through her 
hair. She gave a surprised little gasp, but didn't try to stop him.

He squeezed most of the excess water from her hair, then started on her 
shoulders and arms, running the rough cloth over her skin with brisk, 
efficient strokes, keeping the towel wrapped around his hands. It was 
torturous enough this way, without his skin making actual contact with 
hers, without letting his fingertips trace every smooth curve and 
indentation.

She swayed, falling back against him, her shoulders hitting him 
mid-chest. He could feel his jeans growing wet in patches, her bottom 
pressing insistently against his crotch.

Leaving the towel around her, he turned and left the room, shutting the 
door firmly behind him.

He sat down in the same chair she'd sat in earlier, rubbing his hands 
over his face. All he'd wanted was to take care of her, but his dick had 
developed an agenda of its own. He wondered if she'd felt how hard she'd 
made him in a matter of seconds.

He eyed the door, almost getting up to go back in.

No. If he did that, they'd end up fucking on the floor or on the edge of 
the sink. She didn't deserve to be treated so cheaply.

She came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, relief washing over 
him when he saw she was wearing her terrycloth robe. She went over to 
the bed, pulled back the covers and slid under them, propping herself up 
on a pillow, drawing her knees up to her chin. "Where are we?" she 
asked, still sounding a little groggy.

"About nine, ten hours out of New York. As to what state...outside of 
the state of confusion, you got me."

She smiled softly, accepting his non-answer. "What're you doing over 
there? I thought you were tired."

He slouched down, resting his head on the back of the chair, balancing 
his heels on the foot of the bed. A stone slab might've been more 
comfortable, but he didn't see how. "I'll be okay here."

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

"Yeah," he laughed, "I do."

She looked at him for a long time, almost like she was trying to 
memorize him. "I almost gave up, Mulder. Everybody said you were dead, 
and I was the only one who believed differently. But after awhile...I 
was starting to wonder if I was losing my mind. Even my mother thought I 
was becoming obsessed. Guess now I know how you used to feel most of the 
time."

"I wish I knew what you were talking about."

Sighing, she swept her still-damp hair back from her face. "It's a very 
long story, and I'm not sure I can cover it all now."

"You'll have to tell me sometime. I'd rather have it be sooner than 
later."

She looked down, studying her fingernails. "Okay," she said finally. 
"I'll tell you what I know, but it won't begin to answer all your 
questions. God knows, I've still got about a thousand of my own."

The sun coming through the curtains had faded to a faint glow by the 
time she finished. He sat staring at her, trying to read her expression. 
For some reason, he desperately needed to know what she was feeling.

He had no idea what he felt yet. None of what she'd told him had had a 
chance to sink in. It felt right, though -- a part of his life he'd 
always known was missing. The part that kept coming back to him in his 
dreams, just as she had...

"You don't believe me," she murmured.

"I don't think you could or would lie to me. I don't even think it'd be 
possible for somebody to make up a story like that. But it's just so..."

"Unbelievable?"

He nodded.

"Well, I know it's no consolation, but we've seen stuff as weird or 
weirder than that over the past three years."

He slouched forward, elbows on his knees. "I can't get used to you 
talking about things we've done together, things I can't remember. It's 
like it all happened to somebody else, but inside I know it really did 
happen to me. I mean, if you say it did--"

"I know. Just stop thinking about it for now, okay? It'll drive you 
crazy if you let it," she said. "There is something I was hoping you 
could tell me, though..."

"What?"

"How did you know me? When you saw me in the bar, it just seemed 
so...immediate--"

"Like no time had passed at all."

"Yeah," she said softly. "You mentioned dreams, but I thought..."

That was one subject he didn't want or need to get into with her right 
now. "All I know is that when I saw you, there was...God, I can't 
describe it. It was like this buzz, this emotional resonance. I looked 
at you, and I just knew."

"I just knew..." she repeated with a quiet laugh.

"What, did I say something funny?"

She nodded, throwing the covers back, getting up, coming toward him, 
hand extended. "I'll tell you about it later. Come to bed."

He stared at her hand, then looked away. "I can't."

"Why?"

"For Chrissakes, you know why. You saw it right there on that fucking 
TV--"

"Hey," she whispered, kneeling down before him, cupping his chin, "it's 
still going to take me a little while to sort all this out, but I know I 
can't blame you for what's happened. You weren't responsible for what 
they made you believe, what they made you do."

"That girl's dead. How do you know I didn't kill her?"

She paled, but managed to get back her composure quickly. "Because if 
you had, you would have killed me back at the apartment instead of 
bringing me with you. You would never have said I could leave whenever I 
wanted to. And you certainly wouldn't have given back my gun."

Her palm's heat was sinking slowly into his skin, his blood, her body's 
proximity starting to work its magic on him. "I...don't understand how 
you can still want me after--"

She slipped one finger over his lips. "I don't feel like talking anymore 
right now." Standing up, she took his hand, gently tugging on it.

What was left of his resistence went flying away like a scrap of paper 
in the wind. Following her to the bed, he let her draw him down beside 
her. "You said we were never...together like this when we were 
partners..."

"No. Never."

"So...last night in the kitchen was our first time?"

She nodded.

"Oh, Jesus..."

"It's okay," she smiled. "As I recall, I wasn't complaining too much."

He stroked her cheek, leaning in for a kiss. She tasted, smelled sweet 
and clean, like fresh rainwater. "You deserve to have your whole body 
kissed...hours of foreplay..."

"Well, here's your chance," she replied, shooting him a witchily sexy 
look.

"I want you to know...I'll never hurt you," he said softly. "I'll never 
do anything you don't want."

"Mulder..."

"What?"

"Shut up and make love to me."

He started with her lips, teasing them open, his tongue darting inside 
to duel with hers. One hand wandered downward, to the belt of her robe, 
undoing the knot, sliding underneath to trace the soft underside of one 
breast with his fingertips, slowly trailing up to her nipple.

She shivered, gave a tiny moan at the exact same second he felt the warm 
flesh begin to pucker and contract. Peeling back the terrycloth, he bent 
down, bathing her velvety tip with his tongue, then blowing gently, 
watching in rapt fascination as her desire for him blossomed right 
before his eyes.

He could feel her fingers in his hair, her body shifting beneath him. 
"Mulder...God, that feels..."

"Beautiful," he murmured, looking up at her. "You're beautiful. Like a 
rose opening for the sun."

She smiled drowsily, her eyes heavy-lidded, relaxed. Trusting.

She trusted him. Believed in him.

*Loved* him.

The realization shot through him like an electric shock. This woman 
loved him. Loved him enough to spend three months looking for him, to 
risk her life getting him out of that black abyss he'd been wallowing 
in. Enough to accept him, all of him, without question.

Even the dark side. The side he still couldn't accept.

She deserved all the love he could give back to her, for as long as he 
could give it. The only way he could give it, right here, right now...

Tomorrow felt like a year away, next week an eternity.

His mouth traced a warm, wet path down to her belly, his fingers pushing 
aside more of the robe as he went. She tried to sit up and wriggle out 
of it, but he stilled her with a touch. "I feel like a kid at Christmas. 
Let me unwrap my present."

"When do I get to unwrap mine?" she murmured, eyeing his jeans.

He was already painfully stiff, but her hungry expression almost made 
him burst through his zipper. Sliding off the bed, he shucked his jeans 
in record time, kicking them into the corner, lying down beside her 
again, stifling her tiny moan of protest with a kiss. "Sorry...but if I 
let you do that, this'll be over before it's started."

"Not fair..."

"See if you say that in a couple minutes." With that, he flipped back 
the last flap of terrycloth covering the lower half of her body, gently 
slipping his hand down between her legs, into her moist, silky heat.

His fingers alternately teased and stroked, her hips slowly writhing, 
then arching off the mattress as he discovered her most sensitive spot. 
Moving down, he held her thighs apart with both hands, replacing his 
fingers with his tongue.

She tasted as sweet as the shade of her hair, taffy mingled with 
cinnamon. He felt her hand drift down, fingers weaving in his hair as he 
licked and lapped and bathed her softness, guiding him to a tender, 
urgent rhythm, her breath coming short and ragged--

And she exploded into his mouth, all hot, spicy musk, yelping her 
ecstasy, holding back nothing.

It took a few minutes before her eyes refocused. She looked down at him, 
his head now resting on her belly, and blushed. "Nothing like that's 
ever happened to me before."

"You mean what I did, or what you did?"

He wouldn't have thought it possible, but her face got even redder. 
"What you did...and, obviously, what I did in response."

A sharp pang sailed through him, and he pressed a soft kiss to her 
belly, slowly moving up, kissing a trail between her breasts, up the 
curve of her throat to her ear, then her mouth. Her lips parted, 
welcoming him, eagerly tasting her own taste still clinging to his lips 
and tongue, her thighs wrapping around him as he shifted, settled 
between them.

"Now," she whispered, "please..."

He was nestled right where he needed to be; he gave a tiny push, letting 
just the tip of him enter her, then withdrew. Another thrust, this time 
a little deeper, withdrawing again.

She groaned, digging her fingernails into his back, burying her face in 
the hollow of his throat. "Just do it...come on...put me out of my 
misery..."

It was all he needed to hear. Sliding both hands beneath her, he impaled 
her with one long, slow thrust, both of them crying out their joy.

He closed his eyes, giving himself over to pure sensation, feeling her 
engulf him, grip him like a fist, her breath so soft and warm and 
desperate on his throat, his shoulder--

They moved together, hot and slow and wet and deep, their bodies melding 
in an effortless rhythm--

And then he felt it, a tiny winglike flutter at her center, radiating 
outward, her muscles contracting around him--

Moaning, whimpering, she clung to him, back arching, orgasm taking her--

And his followed like an undammed flood, surging upward from the base of 
his spine, ripping, tearing him open from the inside out.

They lay together afterward, arms and legs still tangled, both too 
exhausted to breathe, much less move. Finally he made the supreme 
sacrifice and pulled the covers over them once he saw her shivering.

She snuggled up to his side, then frowned, reaching over, pressing the 
back of her hand to his forehead. "You're hot."

"You're kidding, right?" he laughed.

"No, really, you feel a little feverish--"

"Maybe you're just cold."

"Not that cold," she retorted with a smile.

"Guess that makes two of us."

"Mulder..."

"Go to sleep," he said, shifting so that they spooned, his front 
nestling against her back, his cheek against her shoulder. "We'll argue 
about it later."
                              
*   *   *

Harsh, white fluorescent light shone through the window when she opened 
her eyes. Blinking groggily, she reached for the bedside table lamp, 
then for her watch. Twenty minutes to nine.

As if in reply, her stomach growled, reminding her rather insistently 
that she hadn't put anything in it all day.

Well, even if this was the back end of nowhere, there had to be 
someplace they could get something to eat. Right now even McDonald's 
sounded good.

"C'mon, Mulder," she said, shaking his shoulder, "up and at 'em. I'm 
starving."

He groaned, his eyes fluttering half-open, closing again. "Turn the 
light out."

"Unh-uh. You owe me dinner."

One hand flew up, covering his eyes. "It hurts. Turn it off."

Something in his voice told her he wasn't just complaining for the sake 
of it, and when she glanced at him, she was sure he wasn't. His skin was 
ashen under his two-day stubble, hot to the touch.

"What's wrong?" he mumbled.

"Looks like whatever bug I had yesterday, you've got today," she sighed. 
"I'm sorry, Mulder. I didn't mean to--"

"Hey, don't worry about it. At least now you can't say you never gave me 
anything."

She chuckled, smoothing back a lock of his hair. "You feel like going 
out for food, or shall I bring you back something?"

He tried pushing himself up from his pillows, but it was a lost cause. 
"Some soup sounds good, if you can find it. And iced tea."

"Okay," she said, getting up, rummaging in her bag for her jeans and a 
sweater, heading for the bathroom. He looked even paler when she came 
out a minute or two later; her heart lurched when she saw him try to sit 
up. He was shaking all over. "Hey, take it easy. Don't kill yourself 
before you even get out of bed."

"Jesus, I feel like crap. What the hell did you give me?"

She sat down by him, rubbing his shoulder. "I don't know, but it seems 
to run its course quickly. You'll probably be fine by this time 
tomorrow."

"Hooray for me tonight."

"Look, grab a shower and a shave while I'm gone. That in itself should 
make you feel better."

He shot her a glance as she got up, pulling some money from her coat 
pocket, scooping the car keys from the bedside table. "Is it my 
imagination, or are you trying to tell me something?"

"For once, Mulder, it's not your imagination."

Luck was with her, for she found a coffee shop three blocks down the 
road, with a late-night pharmacy right across the street. She ordered 
vegetable-beef soup and iced tea for Mulder, a chicken sandwich and 
coffee for herself, then ducked into the pharmacy for aspirin and some 
generic cold-and-flu medicine. Might as well be prepared for the worst, 
she supposed.

He looked scrubbed and smooth-faced when she got back, but that was 
about the only improvement she could see. Still, he managed to stagger 
to the table by the window and choke down a few spoonfuls of soup before 
pushing it away.

"You must be feeling terrible if you can't eat," she said, shaking out 
two aspirin. "Take these. They'll help keep your fever down."

"Okay, doc," he replied, slugging them back with the last of his iced 
tea. Her surprise must have shown on her face, because he groaned. "What 
the hell did I say this time?"

"I'm a medical doctor. It must've been something else you remembered 
subconsciously."

Hauling himself out of the chair, he moved back to bed, flopping down on 
it with a relieved grunt. "God, I wish we didn't have to get out of here 
tomorrow."

She was tempted to suggest they stay another day, but good sense stopped 
her. They had to keep moving, keep ahead of whoever was coming after 
them. Even this brief respite was probably stretching their luck too 
far.

She pulled an oversized t-shirt out of her bag and was just about to go 
in the bathroom to change when she stopped herself. There was no reason 
for false modesty between them any longer. Stripping off her sweater and 
jeans, she had just tugged the t-shirt over her head when she heard a 
strangled sound from his direction. "What's wrong?"

"You," he replied, pointing at the V-shaped patch of skin exposed by the 
t-shirt's neckline. "How'd that happen?"

Looking down, she saw deep pinkish-red marks blotching her skin, 
trailing all the way down between her breasts. "Three guesses."

"Oh, God," he breathed. "I didn't mean to do that."

"It's okay," she said, kneeling beside him on the mattress, trying to 
laugh, trying to ease his mind. "They don't hurt. I don't even remember 
them hurting when it happened."

"They sure look like they hurt." He traced one of the marks with his 
fingertips. "I'm sorry."

"Mulder, this is not your fault. I've got the redhead's curse -- skin 
like tissue paper. The marks'll be gone by tomorrow morning."

"Yeah, well...let's hope this fucking flu or whatever it is follows 
suit. Otherwise it's gonna be a real long trip for both of us."

"Where are we going? Back to D.C.?"

He looked at her, shaking his head. "Hell if I know. I'll think about it 
in the morning. C'mere," he said, taking her wrist, tugging her down to 
lie next to him.

Funny, but she would have thought doing this, being so casually intimate 
with him after three years of a working together would feel strange, 
foreign. But it didn't. It felt like the most natural thing in the 
world. Almost like it was meant to be, destined for them from the 
beginning.

She closed her eyes, listening to the slow, muffled thump of his heart 
in his chest, wishing time could freeze, that she could capture this 
moment in a bottle and keep it with her forever.

His skin still felt warm, uncomfortably so. Reaching up, she put her 
hand on his forehead, trying to gauge his temperature. She could've 
kicked herself for not buying a thermometer at that pharmacy while she 
was out.

"Think I'll live?" he mumbled.

"I think we both need sleep if we're going to hit the road again 
tomorrow. Come on, under the covers."

"Too hot for that..."

"Doctor's orders."

His eyes drifted shut as soon as she pulled the sheet and blanket over 
him, dozing deeply, his breathing shallow and raspy.

She sat there looking at him for a long time, touching his hand, his 
shoulder every now and then as if to keep convincing herself that he was 
real.

He was real. Flesh and blood. She'd found him. They were together.

She didn't want to think about how much longer it would last. Right now 
was miracle enough.
 



"The Bright White Place," MSR, NC-17
Part 13/?
Disclaimers attached to Part 1.

*   *   *

He wasn't there when she woke up.

Her heart almost skidded to a halt before she spied the bathroom light 
splashed across the far wall.

The door yawned half-open. She pushed it in the rest of the way, 
stopping dead at the sight of him sprawled on his knees over the toilet, 
hanging onto it with both hands.

He barely had a chance to glance up at her before another spasm wracked 
him, his whole body bunching and heaving.

Darting to the sink, she wetted down a towel, kneeling to wipe his face 
when he finally stopped. His skin felt hot enough to singe her fingers 
on contact.

"When did this start?" she asked.

"'Bout...um, two hours ago, off and on."

"Why didn't you wake me?"

He smiled shakily. "I wanted to, but I was too busy driving the 
porcelain bus."

She cast a furtive look into the toilet bowl, but jerked herself back 
immediately, her nostrils assaulted by the sour tang of bile.

Bile, and something else.

She made herself look again, turning to ice at the streaks of red she 
saw clinging to the curved sides of the bowl.

"Open your mouth," she ordered tersely, tightly.

"What?"

"Don't argue with me, Mulder, just do it."

She looked, but she couldn't see much of anything. God, what she 
wouldn't give for a penlight. "You must've torn a couple capillaries in 
your throat," she said finally. "Come on, let's get you back to bed."

"I...um, think I'd better stay right here..."

"Mulder, you're just dry-heaving. There's nothing left in your stomach 
to bring up. If you keep doing this, you're really going to hurt 
yourself."

He hung his head, pushed some hair out of his face, then nodded.

Between his staggering and her holding him up, they finally made it back 
to the bedroom, where she helped him to lie down as gently as she could. 
"Stay here and rest. I'll be right back," she said.

Throwing on her jeans and sweater, she dashed outside, found the nearest 
vending machine, plunked in three quarters for a can of 7-Up. Sometimes 
Mom's home remedies worked best.

She prayed this was one of those times.

The soda appeared to settle his stomach, but did nothing for his fever. 
She pressed a hand to his cheek for the umpteenth time, biting her lip. 
His temperature had to be at least one hundred degrees.

But that didn't stop him from trying to get up. "We're not going 
anywhere today," she said, gently but firmly making him lie back down. 
"You're in no shape to travel, even if I do the driving."

"Gotta keep moving...can't let 'em catch up..."

He was starting to toss his head on the pillow, his skin now one shade 
darker than its dingy off-white case. Panic seized her by the throat, 
coursing through her in a blinding jolt, and she ran to the bathroom, 
turned on the water in the sink until it ran icy, soaking a washcloth in 
it.

God, Jesus God, she couldn't understand it. She'd thought they'd had the 
same thing, yet he was much sicker than she'd been. If his fever didn't 
ease by this evening, she'd have to take him to the hospital--

No, she couldn't. She couldn't take him anywhere he'd have to identify 
himself. Far too dangerous.

She wrung out the cloth, watching the excess water swirling down the 
drain, her mind suddenly swirling, spinning back--

Back to two nights ago, in the kitchen. Back to that glass of water 
Mulder had given her--

That funny-tasting, sweet, metallic water.

She hadn't startedfeeling sick until after she'd drunk that water. Half 
a glass of it.

"Oh, my God," she whispered. "They've been poisoning him. Just like 
last year..."

But of course, he would have no memory of that, of the time she'd found 
the dialysis filter in his apartment's water tank. She'd suspected LSD 
or dopamine then. God only knew what they'd been using this time.

Well, whatever it was, potent was its middle name. She'd drunk half a 
glass and nearly overdosed. He'd been ingesting it for three months. 
That kind of prolonged exposure could easily lead to addiction.

He didn't have the flu. He was in withdrawal.

And it was going to get worse before it got better.

She knelt on the bed beside him, laying the wet washcloth on his head. 
His eyes were closed now, his lips slightly parted, letting out labored, 
wheezy breaths. He'd sleep for awhile, then it would start all over 
again.

She knew the drill, and it wasn't pretty. By tonight he'd be convulsing, 
hallucinating, vomiting up more bile and blood.

Maybe if she gave him a mild sedative, it might be enough take the edge 
off. Enough, at least, for him to make it through this without tearing 
himself up too badly.

Grabbing the keys, she hopped in the car and floored it back to the 
pharmacy, where she wrote out a prescription for three vials of liquid 
Valium and a box of insulin syringes. A nervous pang went through her 
when she had to flash her medical license, but she tamped it down. She 
couldn't think about the possible risks right now. Mulder needed this.

She added a digital thermometer to her order, then tried not to choke as 
the clerk rang it all up and quoted her the price. Almost a hundred and 
seventy-five dollars.

She ripped open her wallet when she got back to the car, counting what 
she had left. Two hundred eighty-seven dollars and thirty cents.

Driving back to the motel, she dashed into the office, paid for another 
night with some of her precious cash, and requested no maid service. The 
manager stared at her, then shrugged and took her money.

Mulder was still sleeping, so she went through his jean pockets. One 
hundred forty-eight dollars and fifty-two cents.

Not even five hundred dollars between them. And at the rate they were 
going, it'd disappear fast. Of course, she still had her credit cards 
and her ATM card, but using them would leave a rather obvious paper 
trail. And they'd still have to hold aside some cash for food and gas 
while they were on the road.

But on the road to where? He wasn't even sure where he wanted to go, and 
neither was she. What were they going to do -- just keep driving until 
they ran out of money or got caught or killed or...

He moaned, turned over, opened his eyes. She went over, sat down on the 
edge of the bed, taking his hand. His pulse thrummed rapid and thready 
under heated skin. "How do you feel?" she asked.

"Like somebody just drop-kicked me for a field goal," he muttered, both 
corners of his mouth quirking up. "Sorry. This can't be much fun for 
you."

"Don't worry about me, Mulder. I'm fine."

"I'm not. I've been lying here dreaming about all the things I'd be 
doing with you if my head wasn't pounding so much."

"Want some more aspirin?"

"Yeah."

She got him some water, then helped him sit up to take the pills. "Water 
tastes funny," he said, grimacing.

She almost said something, but stopped herself just in time. Better to 
wait till this was all over. It would serve no purpose to upset him with 
what she suspected now.

He handed the glass back, his arm looping around her waist, pulling her 
onto the pillows with him, resting his head on her belly. She tousled 
his hair slowly, absently, feeling his breath soft and warm on her 
midriff where her sweater had hiked up.

With his eyes half-closed he looked like a sleepy little boy, all drowsy 
innocence. Hard to believe this was the same man who'd made her body 
sing with ecstasy only a few hours before.

Then again, maybe not. She recalled the way he'd looked when he'd loved 
her, the child-like delight in his eyes at her every response, how he'd 
made sure he'd satisfied her needs before his own.

She'd never had a man love her with such sweet tenderness before. She 
hadn't even had to tell him what she wanted -- he'd seemed to know 
already, instinctively. It was almost as if they'd found a way to 
communicate without words, through touch and taste and pure sensation.

But they'd always had that ability, she suddenly realized. Even when 
they'd worked together, half the time they could finish one another's 
sentences. She could tell what he was thinking and feeling from a single 
look.

They'd been lovers for the past three years. She just hadn't figured it 
out until now.

"God, this sucks," he mumbled. "In bed with you and I can't do a damn 
thing about it. Guess I should be careful what I wish for."

"Keep on wishing. It'll come true as soon as you're better."

"Yeah, well...I hate to break this to you, but there's a certain part of 
me that doesn't know the rest of me's sick."

He shifted, and she could feel his erection rubbing against her thigh. 
They both groaned in unison, his eyes meeting hers.

For one endless, tantalizing moment, she was sorely tempted. Then common 
sense reared its ugly head. "Mulder, we shouldn't..."

"I know," he replied, softly kissing her belly. "I just wanted to show 
you how much I want you, even now."

She tried to focus on how silky and fine his hair felt under her fingers 
instead of the way her heart was beating, hard and fast, like it would 
split in half any second.

Maybe she was worrying over nothing. He seemed better now; maybe he'd 
breeze through this without a hitch. Maybe he wouldn't even need the 
Valium at all. Maybe by tomorrow morning he'd be good as new.

"Rest, okay?" she whispered, bending down, her lips touching his 
forehead.

"'Kay..."

His breathing shallowed, steadied, his stubbled chin tickling her 
midriff. But his skin still felt warm. Too warm.

She cradled him close, staring out the curtained window, watching the 
day seep away by slow degrees.

*   *   *

He was dying.

His fever was one hundred and three point seven. It had spiked two and a 
half degrees since six that morning. Two and a half degrees in two 
hours.

She'd had to give him some of the Valium around midnight to help him 
sleep, but she hadn't told him that. He thought it was an antibiotic, 
and she was content to let him go on thinking that. But now she wondered 
if the shot had been such a good idea. It seemed only to have made him 
more sluggish and disoriented, but she didn't dare try anything else. If 
a relatively mild drug like Valium reacted like this with whatever was 
already in his system, she wasn't about to take a chance with something 
stronger. He was already in enough agony.

He was lying on his side, knees drawn up to his chest, shaking so hard 
she couldn't hold him anymore. Just getting the thermometer under his 
tongue had been an ordeal.

The cold compresses were doing no good; it took only a few minutes 
before his body heat leeched all the coolness from the cloth. She kept 
trying to get him to drink, but he'd been shivering so much he hadn't 
been able to choke anything down for the couple of hours.

She had to do something to ease his fever. If it climbed even one degree 
higher, he'd run the risk of brain damage. Or worse.

She dashed into the bathroom, scooping up the ice bucket near the sink, 
then sprinted across the parking lot to the ice machine. Filling up the 
bucket, she brought it back to the room and dumped its contents into the 
sink. Then she grabbed a towel, spread it out flat, and began filling it 
with ice. She made up two packs, one large, one small, then carried them 
into the bedroom.

He didn't speak, didn't move, didn't do anything to indicate that he 
even knew she was there. His eyes were closed, his mouth half-open, his 
chest slowly rising and falling.

He was still alive, and it was up to her to keep him that way.

She took the smaller towel and laid it on his forehead, smooshing the 
pillow down to hold it in place, then placed the other bundle on his 
chest and tucked the flat sheet over and under him until it pulled 
tight. At this point she didn't give a damn if the bedding got wet.

It took only a few minutes for damp patches to show on the sheet, thin 
rivulets to start trickling down his cheeks, his neck. He started 
thrashing, hands pushing, clawing at the sheet, almost tearing off the 
towels--

She moved to straddle him, her legs landing on either side of his, 
grabbing his arms, trying to hold him down, make him lie still--

And his eyes snapped open, staring up into hers--

And he collapsed, the breath sailing out of his lungs with a soft 
whoosh. "What're you trying to do...freeze me for next week's dinner?"

She bowed her head, relief sweeping through her like a hurricane. "God, 
Mulder...I thought I was going to lose you. I was afraid I already had."

His hand slid up, stroking her throat, curling around the back of her 
head, bringing her mouth down softly on his. "You're the best medicine 
around...they oughta bottle you, but I don't want to share."

She smiled, resting her cheek momentarily on his. He felt cooler, but 
not enough to ease her mind completely. Shivering, she sat up, icy water 
starting to seep through her sweater, pulling the cold packs off him, 
tossing them to the floor with a squishy plop. But when she tried to 
move off him, his hands flew to her waist, holding her fast. "Mulder...I 
must be crushing you..."

"Are you kidding? You weigh about as much as a speck of dust--"

"Let me go."

He grinned softly, weakly. "Make me."

"I could."

"I'm waiting."

"Hmmmm...let's see, I think I left my gun right over there in the 
bedside table..."

"You're gonna have to do better than that. I know an empty threat when I 
hear it."

"Oh, really?" she retorted, her fingers sweeping down to his left 
shoulder, tracing a scar roughly indented in the flesh there. "I'm the 
one who gave you this."

Startlement flickered behind his eyes, his mouth falling open. "Why?"

"Because you were going to kill Krycek. I had to stop you."

This time he couldn't even get out a monosyllabic reply.

"You thought he killed your father," she continued, knowing he'd 
probably want her to, "but if you'd killed Krycek, there would've been 
no way to prove you hadn't killed your father yourself. So I did what I 
thought was right at the time."

He gazed up at her, his eyes still fever-bright, the look on his face 
tell-ing her he was processing what she'd just told him. "I, um...bet 
you were kicking yourself for that one a couple nights ago."

"Not really," she replied quietly. "I mean, I regret causing you pain, 
but I never regretted stopping you from killing. If I hadn't, I would've 
lost you over a year ago." Smiling, she reached down, gently removing 
his hands, lifting herself off him, sliding onto the comforter by his 
side. It was chilly and damp, but she hardly noticed. "And now that we 
know what we're like together, I don't think that would've been a good 
thing, do you?"

His only response was to take her hand and carry it to his lips.

She sighed, biting her lip, glancing toward the window. She could see 
the maid's cart parked in front of another room across the way. In maybe 
half an hour she'd be knocking on their door.

They had to leave; she'd felt it in the pit of her stomach since last 
night. They'd already raised enough suspicion with their request for no 
maid service the day before -- another such request would most certainly 
prompt the manager to investigate in person.

"Mulder, I'm going to have to ask you for a big favor."

"What?"

"I need you to get dressed and walk out to the car like nothing's 
wrong."

"But...I thought you said we were staying here until--"

"Just be quiet and listen to me, okay? I'm still not sure exactly where 
we are, but this is a small town -- a small *Southern* town. And we're 
outsiders who've been shacked up in a motel room doing God knows what. 
That's bound to attract some notice."

"But they've got no reason to suspect anything."

"We've been here two days, Mulder. That's way too long. It's my fault, I 
should've had you get in that car with me yesterday, but I thought you'd 
be better today. We can't risk staying any longer. Any lead time we 
had's been eaten up by now."

Her argument sank in slowly, and he nodded, the clouded look in his eyes 
starting to fade. "Okay," he said, shifting, trying to lift himself up. 
"I'll give it my best shot."

It took a few minutes, but he finally managed to sit up, sliding his 
legs over the edge of the bed. But the effort made him slump over, 
elbows resting on his knees, breathing hard through his mouth.

It tore her heart to see him like this, but she had to be strong, had to 
get him in his clothes, in the car before the maid got to their room. 
"C'mon," she said softly, wrapping her hand around his arm, helping him 
to his feet, "I'll give you another shot once we're away from here, if 
you want it. It'll help you sleep through most of the trip."

He wobbled, teetered, would have fallen on his face if she hadn't been 
shoring him up. "I, um...think I need to use the bathroom, okay?"

"That's fine. I rinsed out your t-shirt in the sink, it's hanging over 
the shower rail." She hesitated, uncertain whether she should let go of 
him. "Um...do you need help, or..."

"If you want to hold my dick while I go, that's fine with me," he said 
with a grin.

She glared at him, pushing his shoulder. "Get in there."

"Yes, doctor. Anything you say, doctor..."

He ducked inside a scant second before a very damp and heavy pillow 
thumped into the bathroom door.

She listened for a minute or two, expecting to hear him fall, but to her 
relief, nothing happened. Snatching her bag, she started stuffing her 
things and his into it until it was full to bursting.

That done, she turned to the bedside table, pulled open the drawer, 
finding a phone book, Bible and an ashtray with a pack of matches 
inside. Her breath hissed out in triumph when she saw the name of the 
motel stamped on the matchbook. The Breezyday Inn, Allport, North 
Carolina. Progress at last.

The local map on the back cover of the phone book seemed to indicate 
they were about a hundred miles south of the Raleigh/Durham area.

"Okay," she whispered, "so where to now?"

They couldn't return to D.C., not until their present situation changed. 
She didn't even know why she'd asked him about it before; it was 
probably just her homesickness surfacing. She couldn't expose her 
mother, her family to the danger she'd be in if she came back now.

And she couldn't go to the Bureau on this one, either. There had to be 
more than one copy of that video, and she'd bet her last dollar it was 
sitting on Skinner's desk or winging its way there right now.

Of course, that didn't even take into consideration the fact that she'd 
been away without leave for almost a week. In all likelihood she no 
longer had a job to go back to.

And even if she did, she wouldn't go back to it without Mulder at her 
side. So it looked like both their Bureau careers were smelling about as 
fresh as a month-old corpse.

A pang of regret sailed through her, but she swiftly shuffled it aside. 
No time. She had to think of a place for them to hole up for a few days, 
at least until Mulder was well again. Too bad they couldn't drive up to 
his father's house on the Vineyard, but that was way too risky...

And then it hit her. Jack Willis's cabin at Pine Barren. It lay further 
north, about a hundred and fifty miles from D.C., but she felt sure no 
one would think to look for them there. And the location was remote 
enough that Mulder could recuperate in relative quiet and privacy.

She only hoped it hadn't been sold after Jack's death, but somehow she 
didn't think it had. At any rate, she really didn't have many more 
options open to her, unless they just found another motel in another 
town in another state and stayed there one night, then moved on again 
the next day.

No. Mulder needed someplace he could rest. And it was her job to get him 
there.

He stumbled out of the bathroom after about ten minutes, looking worn 
but more alert than he had since yesterday, wearing his jeans and grey 
sleeveless t-shirt. She'd have to stop somewhere along the way to buy 
him a couple changes of clothing; the t-shirt she could keep washing out 
in the sink, but the jeans looked like they could stand up in a corner 
by themselves.

"Ready?" she asked, hoping she sounded more cheery than she felt.

"As much as I'll ever be. Let's go."

She picked up the soggy towels and deposited them in the bathroom sink 
and checked the room one final time before putting the key on the 
bedside table, then shutting the door. He ambled down the steps to the 
car, one hand up, trying to shield his eyes from the sun. He was doing 
his best to cover for anyone else who might be watching, but she could 
see how much the bright light was hurting him.

They pulled out of the parking lot, headed for the nearest interstate. 
Then, after driving about twenty miles, she pulled off and into a gas 
station. "Might as well fill up now," she said, in answer to the look he 
shot her. "We've only got a quarter tank left."

He nodded, slumping down in his seat, looking absolutely miserable.

She stuck the pump in the gas tank and switched it on, then went into 
the mini-mart attached to the station and paid for fifteen dollars' 
worth of unleaded.

Then something on the counter caught her eye, something black and 
sleek-looking. Sunglasses. Cheap sunglasses. Three dollars a pair. She 
bought two pair.

The look he gave her when she handed them to him was so grateful, she 
thought it would shatter her heart. "Um...would you mind giving me that 
shot now? I really think I'm gonna need it."

"Sure," she replied, pulling behind the station, reaching in the back 
seat for her bag, rummaging through it until she found a fresh vial and 
syringe. "Hold out your arm," she said, drawing the proper dosage into 
the syringe, then shooting the excess air from the end of the needle.

She found a vein with no trouble at all, pierced it cleanly, injected 
the Valium, then gently withdrew the needle, folding back his elbow to 
seal the puncture. "Okay now?"

"Yeah. Thanks," he mumbled.

She sat there watching him until his features finally eased, relaxed, 
his head resting on the back of the seat. His breathing was so soft now 
she could barely hear it, but she took that as a good sign.

She pointed herself at the northbound interstate, glancing at her watch. 
A little after nine. With any luck, they'd hit Pine Barren by 
mid-afternoon, if she didn't get lost somewhere along the way. She'd 
have to snag a map of the Virginia-Maryland-D.C. area when she stopped 
for gas next time.

"Hang on, Mulder," she murmured, rubbing his shoulder. "We're almost 
there."




"The Bright White Place," MSR, NC-17
Part 14/?
Disclaimers attached to Part 1.

*   *   *

The cabin looked deserted through its grimy front window, leaves 
scattered all over the floor, dust covering everything. Nobody'd been 
inside the place for months, if not years.

It was *perfect.* A gift from Heaven.

She walked back to the car, tapping on the half-rolled-down window until 
Mulder's head jerked up. "We're here," she said. "Come on."

She remembered Jack keeping a key under the mat for emergencies, and 
relief surged through her as she saw that it was still there. She hadn't 
wanted to break a window if she could help it.

The place smelled as stale and musty as it looked, but she didn't care. 
This was escape, refuge. Someplace where she could set aside her fears 
for awhile.

It was a small cabin, with a kitchen, a tiny living room, larger bedroom 
and a bathroom no bigger than a closet. Hot and cold running water, no 
electricity. Still, it'd serve their needs for the few days they'd be 
there. She could ask for nothing more.

He swayed on his feet, grabbing the wall to steady himself. She took his 
hand, led him to the bedroom, to the queen-sized brass bed there. It had 
no linens on it, so she sat him down in a chair by the bedroom door and 
started pawing through closets. She found blue cotton sheets, pillow 
cases and a matching comforter and made up the bed in record time.

He was slouching forward in the chair when she came back over to him, 
eyes still hazed and glassy from the Valium. Without asking, she pulled 
off his shoes, then motioned for him to lift his arms to allow her to 
pull his shirt over his head. He didn't protest.

Tugging his hand, she finally got him out of the chair and pulled him 
over to the bed, where she unbuckled his belt, unzipped him and skinned 
down his jeans, nudging him to step out of them. Her throat went 
suddenly dry when she saw his lack of underwear. She wondered how she 
could have missed it before.

He lay down on the crisp, cool sheets with a blissful sigh, sinking 
contentedly into the mattress, his eyes floating shut.

Satisfied that he was finally settled, she trudged back down to the car 
and unloaded the groceries she'd picked up in town. Since it was half an 
hour down the mountain to the nearest store, she'd thought it prudent to 
stock up on the essentials. She didn't want to have to leave him alone 
unless absolutely necessary.

There was no refrigerator and only a wood-burning stove, so her 
provisions were spartan, to say the least -- Lipton's chicken noodle 
soup, bottled water, eggs, canned fruit and vegetables. She'd grabbed 
just about anything that could last two or three days without being 
refrigerated. Mulder would need plenty of liquids and simple sugars to 
keep his body fueled through whatever lay ahead.

But she couldn't let herself think about that right now. She had a house 
to clean up.

She swept the leaves out of the kitchen and living room and wiped most 
of the dust off the surfaces she figured they'd be using, but after that 
she gave up. With any luck, they wouldn't be here long enough to worry 
about the rest.

She collapsed in the bedroom chair when she was done, watching him, his 
features peaceful, child-like in sleep. Then he turned over, opening his 
eyes, smiling at her. "What're you doing all the way over there?" he 
asked, patting the edge of the bed.

She came over, only intending to sit, but he slid to the middle of the 
bed, pulling her down next to him, spooning her. She stiffened for a 
moment, remembering the times she'd slept with Jack in this bed, then 
finally gave herself permission to relax. That was another time, another 
life. Mulder was here and now.

"Feeling better?" she asked, rubbing her cheek against his, savoring the 
warm, stubbly feel of it.

"A little bit. Guess I really needed all that sleep."

"You hungry?"

"Yeah," he whispered, his mouth teasing her earlobe. "I am."

"Mulder..."

"C'mon, d'you really think making love's gonna kill me?"

"It's been known to happen."

"Can't think of a better way to go than in your arms."

A protest rose to her lips, but died stillborn when she felt his fingers 
tracing tiny circles on her belly, slowly moving up to do the same with 
her nipples. Her flesh grew tight, pebbled under his touch, a sweet, 
stabbing ache starting between her thighs.

He warmed her with his soft, wonderful hands, setting every fiber of her 
from shoulder to waist on fire, finally slipping his hands under the 
waistband of her jeans, unzipping her, sliding the heavy material from 
her legs, tossing it onto the floor along with her panties.

Then she felt his fingers touching her there, gently probing, checking 
to see if she was ready for him. Shifting, she parted her legs for him, 
making sure he got the message. She'd been ready from the moment he'd 
first started caressing her.

But when she tried to roll onto her back, he stopped her with one hand 
at her waist. "I don't want to move out of this position," he said, 
brushing soft, wet kisses to her ear, the nape of her neck. "You feel so 
good this way..."

She knew what he was going to do before he did it, but that didn't stop 
her from moaning when he slid his hands under her bottom, lifting her, 
entering her from behind, sinking into her so deeply she could feel him 
under her skin--

He was everywhere at once -- within her, around her, behind her, in 
front of her, his hands and mouth doing things that made her pulse spin 
out of control, the blood in her head rush and roar--

And it hit her like a freight train at full steam, her vision 
splintering as the world crashed, unfurled like a ribbon of brilliant 
white light around her.

His eyes staring down at her in concern were the first thing she was 
aware of when she finally came back to herself. "God, you had me 
scared," he breathed, relief evident in his expression. "For a second 
there I thought you'd checked out permanently."

She said nothing, just let herself be pulled into his arms, resting 
against his chest. He was starting to get warm again; a glance at the 
bedroom window told her evening was quickly drawing near. That was when 
his fever usually spiked highest.

"Thank you," he whispered, kissing her forehead.

"For what?" He gave her a look that made her blush. "Oh, well...I 
enjoyed it too. As if you couldn't tell."

"It's a very sweet memory."

"And the last two times weren't?"

"This just felt...I don't know, special. Stolen, outside of time. Makes 
it all the more precious."

She was going to reply, but something in his voice made her stop. A 
slow, bone-deep chill coursed through her blood as she realized what he 
really meant.

He thought this was going to be their last time together.

"Mulder, you'll be fine," she said, willing her voice to steadiness. 
"Just give it a couple days..."

"Look, I know I don't have the flu. And I know those shots you've been 
giving me aren't antibiotics. Antibiotics don't knock you on your ass 
for hours at a time, then fog your brain for hours after that."

"No, they don't," she said softly. He already knew; she might as well 
make a clean breast of it. "You've had long-term exposure to a powerful 
drug. I'm not sure exactly what it is, but it obviously has 
hallucinogenic as well as narcotic properties."

"How? How was I exposed?"

"Through your apartment's water supply. I got sick when you gave me that 
glass of water to drink, but since it was only one dosage, my body threw 
it off fairly quickly. You, on the other hand..."

"Have three months' worth to throw off."

"Yes," she said. "The shots I've been giving you are Valium. You need 
them for rest, and to ease you through the rough patches. Otherwise 
you'd be up all night ripping your insides apart with vomiting."

"How much do you have left?"

"Two vials."

"Will that be enough?"

She hesitated, not wanting to tell him. But if she owed him anything, 
she owed him honesty. "I don't know. Let's cross that one when we get to 
it, okay?"

"*If* we get to it."

She sat up, stroking his arm. "Why don't we get something to eat? My 
stomach's been grumbling for the last hour."

They got up, got dressed -- she was pleased to see that he didn't need 
her help this time -- and padded into the kitchen, where she made 
chicken noodle soup over the wood-burning stove. She handed him a bowl 
and he slurped it down with relish. Her heart leaped with hope; he 
hadn't touched anything but water for the last two days.

They went outside for a few minutes after finishing their supper, 
looking up into the sky, enjoying the deep blue twilight. He took her 
hand as they strolled along, and for a moment she let herself pretend 
they were just an ordinary couple on vacation, lost in the evening and 
each other.

He drew her close, dusting light, sweet kisses on her forehead, her 
cheeks, her throat, tipping her chin to drink more deeply of her, their 
mouths melting together, speaking silent vows.

Her heart was pounding by the time she finally made herself pull away, 
gaze up into his eyes.

He didn't need to say the words. Neither did she.

They both just knew.

"I'm...um, a little tired," she murmured. "That drive today took a lot 
out of me."

"S'okay. Let's go in."

They locked the cabin up tight and got ready for bed, putting another 
blanket on top of the comforter. It was still cold in the mountains at 
night, even this late in the spring.

She paused in the bathroom doorway, watching him undress, waiting for 
him to turn toward her. "Do you want a shot now?"

"No," he said. "Let's save it until I really need it."

"But you probably will need it sometime around midnight--"

"Then give it to me then."

"Mulder..."

"Look, I don't want to go to sleep right now. I want to enjoy being with 
you. I've slept long enough today, all right?"

"Okay, fine. Whatever you want."

They climbed into bed together, holding each other close, silent, 
relaxed. She thought he'd wanted to make love again, but now he seemed 
content to simply lie next to her, stroking her hair, her shoulder.

His skin was growing warmer under her own, but she couldn't bring 
herself to say anything. This moment was too precious. She didn't want 
to ruin it.

*   *   *

His fever spiked to one hundred five degrees sometime past three a.m.

She'd given him a shot at his request around eleven, but that had only 
knocked him out for a couple hours. He'd woken up screaming from a 
nightmare, convulsing, tearing at the sheets, nearly tumbling out of 
bed.

Now all he could do was lie there, lips dry and open, chest heaving, 
gasping for breath, tossing his head on the pillow. She'd been talking 
to him, trying to get him to talk to her, but he hadn't seemed aware of 
anything outside himself for a very long time.

She had to get him cooled off, and fast.

Dashing into the bathroom, she started ripping drawers and cabinets 
open, looking for the bottle of rubbing alcohol she remembered Jack 
using to clean a gash he'd gotten that day he'd been teaching her to 
fish. It was under the sink, right next to an old porcelain basin.

She rinsed out the basin, poured the whole bottle of alcohol into it, 
filling it the rest of the way with icy tap water. Grabbing a towel, she 
carried it and the basin back to the bedroom, kneeling down by his side 
of the bed, setting the basin on the floor, soaking the towel in it.

She started with his face, bathing him from forehead to chin, squeezing 
the towel, letting the cold liquid trickle onto his skin, then moved 
down his throat, her fingers trembling, barely touching the febrile, 
sluggish pulse beating there.

Oh, God, Jesus God and Mary, she knew she should never have given him 
that shot. She'd given him more than last time because he'd seemed to 
need it, because he'd asked her to, because she hadn't been able to 
stand seeing the pain in his eyes.

She didn't need a PDR to tell her she'd overdosed him. She should have 
known better, should never have let her emotions sweep aside her sense 
of good judgment. This was her fault, just like him getting shot in the 
first place. If anything happened to him...

If he died...

It was on her. All on her.

She resoaked the towel, rinsing him down from neck to waist, then sat 
back on her heels, staring at him. He lay utterly still now, his head 
lolling, limp, broken-looking on the pale blue pillowcase. She could 
feel the warmth shimmering off him even from inches away.

But he was starting to look cooler, just a little cooler. She lay her 
hand over his cheek, testing. Yes, he really was cooler, it wasn't her 
imagination--

Then her hand brushed his lips, and she froze.

No breath. Not even a whisper.

She pressed two fingers to his throat, to his carotid artery.

No pulse.

Tearing back the blankets, she straddled him, bunching both hands over 
his chest, starting CPR, pumping his heart so hard she was sure she 
could've pushed her fingers through his skin, his flesh and pulled it 
out--

But he didn't move, even when she reared up and pummeled him with both 
fists, screaming, whimpering her frustration, her despair--

No good, none of it. Too late.

And this time she wouldn't get a second chance.

She rolled off him, onto the floor, onto the rug next to the bed, 
curling up in a ball, staring, her eyes focused on nothing. After 
awhile, awareness returned and she got up, stumbling into the living 
room, gazing out the window. The sky was turning grey, with light golden 
streaks in the background.

The floor, the air was chilly, digging its pointy teeth into her feet, 
her skin, but she didn't care. She felt it, but she didn't care.

Her bag was sitting on the kitchen counter. Reaching for it, she dumped 
what was left in it out on the table. Her gun skittered across the wood, 
landing in her lap.

She wasn't numb this time. She hurt. She ached and burned like someone 
had just hacked off her arm with a dull knife, then plunged that same 
knife straight through her.

It would be so easy...so easy to just pick up that gun and put it in her 
mouth and make the pain go away, make it go away forever...

But she couldn't, not now, at least. She couldn't leave him lying in 
that bed and just walk away. She couldn't leave him there for someone 
else to find.

She pulled a fresh pair of jeans and a sweater from the pile on the 
table and put them on, then stepped outside. To her surprise, it 
actually felt warmer out in the open than in the house.

It was there, out behind the tiny woodshed a few feet beyond the cabin. 
Soft, loamy earth, a clearing nestled between two tall trees.

She would bury him there, right there.

She got a shovel from the woodshed and set to work. After nearly three 
hours she stopped, filthy and exhausted, and turned back to the cabin.

She hung back, standing in the middle of the living room, staring at the 
bedroom door. She didn't want to go back in, didn't want to see him 
lying motionless in the bed where they'd made love only yesterday. In 
the bed where she'd convinced herself he was going to be okay, that all 
he needed was a little more time...

God, she could still feel his soft breath on her ear, the nape of her 
neck, hear his voice whispering dark, erotic things to her when he 
touched her, hear him moan when she touched him--

Her eyes snapped open, her ears pricking to sudden alertness. She 
could've sworn she'd just heard something. A low, half-moaning, 
half-rustling sound.

It had come from the bedroom.

He was trying to sit up when she came in, wincing, rubbing a hand over 
his chest. "Christ, what happened? I feel like I've been hit by a 
truck."

She made it to the bed before her legs could give out on her, but just 
barely. Reaching out, she touched his arm, felt the warm moisture beaded 
there, that same moisture sheening him from forehead to waist.

"The fever's broken," she whispered.

"Yeah. I woke up a few minutes ago, but you weren't here."

"I...I had to go outside for awhile."

"Outside? This early in the morning?" He took her hand, turned it over 
in his own. "How'd you get so dirty?"

She swallowed hard, feeling light-headed, shaky all over. He was alive. 
She'd come that close to putting a bullet in her brain, she'd gone out 
to dig his grave, and he was alive. "God, Mulder, I thought you 
were...you weren't breathing, I couldn't find your pulse. I tried CPR, 
but nothing happened."

He nodded, his hand covering his chest again. "So that's why..."

"Yes. I...I'm still at a loss to explain it, other than the fact that I 
probably gave you too much Valium last night. You must've lapsed into a 
coma. The fever breaking's what brought you out of it."

"I was in a coma, and you couldn't tell?"

"Well, I could have if I'd had a stethoscope. But there's only so much I 
can do without the proper tools."

"Hey, lighten up, okay?" he grinned. "Believe me, I'm ecstatic to be 
still among the living. How it happened doesn't really matter."

The basin was still sitting on the floor by the bed and she picked it 
up, soaking and wringing out the towel, bathing the perspiration from 
his body. Dark purplish-yellow marks were already blooming on his chest 
where she'd pounded him with her fists.

He caught hold of her hand as she wiped down his shoulder. "I remember," 
he said softly. "I remember everything, Scully."

A fine bolt of startlement sliced through her at the sound of her name. 
She'd gotten used to him not calling her anything at all.

"Everything?" she repeated weakly.

"Yeah."

"Us working together..."

"And you finding me in New York, and the motel, and here. All of it."

She drew in a slow, trembly breath, pulling her hand back to lay in her 
lap. "Are you sorry?"

"No. Are you?"

"No! Of course not."

"Then why are we suddenly acting so awkward with each other?"

"Would you...I mean, do you want...oh, God, I can't say this--"

"If you're trying to ask if I want to continue, the answer's yes. 
Absolutely yes." Pushing himself up, he smiled, giving her that intense 
hazel gaze that turned every bone in her body to water. "Not to change 
the subject, but what've we got for breakfast? I'm starving."

She cleaned herself up, then fixed him eggs and soup and opened a can of 
peaches and he still wanted more. She hadn't seen anyone eat so much 
since her brothers were in high school. By the time he was finished, 
their stash of groceries was almost entirely depleted.

"I was planning for this to last us two or three days," she sighed, 
eyeing the counterful of empty cans, eggshells and soup boxes.

"Sorry."

"S'okay. Since you're feeling better I guess we can drive down to town 
later on for lunch. But I think we need to get you some new clothes 
first. Otherwise I doubt there's a restaurant that will let us in."

They drove down the mountain a couple hours later, the midday sun 
blazing overhead, and headed straight for the nearest thing to a men's 
shop -- a mercantile with jeans, underwear and t-shirts stacked in the 
back of the store. They bought two pairs of jeans, four t-shirts and a 
couple packages of briefs. He changed into his new things in the 
dressing room, then they moved on down the street to the coffee shop.

He ordered a salad and roast beef sandwich and iced tea and scarfed it 
all down while she was in the ladies' room. She sipped her solitary 
coffee, laughing softly when he asked to see the dessert menu.

He shot her a half-hurt, half-teasing glance. "Hey, a guy's gotta keep 
up his strength with you around."

"Sure. No problem," she said, leaning her elbow on the table, her chin 
in her palm. "I'm just constantly amazed by you. In every way."

"And that's a good thing?"

"A very good thing."

She waited for him to finish his meal and slouch back in his seat before 
she said anything more. "So, where to now?"

"I don't know. Where do you want to go?"

"Where I want to go and where we're going are two totally different 
things. Let's not confuse the issue, Mulder. Some doors are closed to us 
now."

He nodded, tracing a pattern on his grimy paper placemat with his 
thumbnail. "Guess that means going back to D.C.'s out of the question. 
Any other ideas?"

She hesitated, mulling her thoughts. "Los Angeles."

"Why there?"

"That's where your...um, Cancerman said Allan Hargraves had gone. He'd 
have all the answers I couldn't give you." She stared down into her 
coffee cup, playing with its handle. "That is, if you want the answers."

"What do you think I want?"

"If it were me...I don't know, Mulder. I don't think I'd want to know. I 
don't think I could face having my whole life blown out of the water 
like that. But you...I think you have to know. I think you need to."

"You know me pretty well, don't you?"

"As well as you'll let me, I suppose."

A strange, slightly pained look flitted across his features, then was 
gone. "All right," he said finally. "L.A. it is."

"But in a couple of days, okay? You're still in the recovery process. So 
am I, for that matter."

"Better make it another week, then," he said when they got up to pay 
their check. "What I was planning to do with you tonight'll probably put 
us both in the hospital."

They stopped off for more groceries before heading back up to the cabin, 
this time stocking up heavily on everything. Apprehension pricked her 
when she saw how much the bill was, but she forked it over without 
comment. They had to eat.

He came up behind her as she was putting the last of their provisions 
away, his arms sliding around her waist. "You know, I'm kind of glad 
this happened when it did. If it'd happened a couple years ago, I don't 
think we would've gotten much work done."

She relaxed against him, resting her head on his shoulder. She'd been 
afraid that if his memory returned, he'd regret this new turn in their 
relationship. But now she wasn't sure whether to be relieved or dismayed 
by how enthusiastically he wanted it, wanted her.

It was what she'd told herself she wanted for the past three months. So 
why was she having misgivings now?

His kisses down the side of her throat soon swept her doubts away like 
old cobwebs. With a tug of his hand, she let him lead her to the 
bedroom.

They made long, slow, heartbreakingly tender love until the sunlight 
through the bedroom window had paled to watery yellow slashes.

Two more days, maybe three more, until their idyll here was over. Until 
the rest of the world came crashing back in.

Her mother was right. No matter how much time they had, it wasn't 
enough.




"The Bright White Place," MSR, NC-17
Part 15/19
Disclaimers attached to Part 1.

*   *   *

They left the cabin behind three days later, swinging up through
Virginia, then taking the interstate into Tennessee. The weather turned
hot and sticky their second day out, and rather than waste gas by
turning on the air conditioner, they rolled the windows all the way
down, letting the warm wind blow through their hair. He pulled her over
next to him, one arm around her, one wrist guiding the wheel. She
smiled, feeling suddenly like a teenager out on a date.

They'd done a lot of talking since his recovery, and it had become clear
that his memory hadn't returned completely. He remembered everything
that had happened since he'd woken up in the apartment in New York. His
cognitive abilities and accumulated knowledge also seemed to be intact.
But so were his memories of Samantha and her abduction, of his parents,
his childhood on the Vineyard. He claimed to have no recollection of
what his mother had told her, of his father's abuse, or of the alleged
experiments his father had let Allan Hargraves perform on him. Either
his mind had blanked it out, or he just wasn't ready to talk about it
yet.

She suspected the latter, but she wasn't about to force it. He'd tell
her when the time was right.

She had no clear theory as to why his memory had suddenly returned.
Maybe the coma had provided a necessary shock to his brain as well as
his body. Maybe part of the drug's purpose was to keep his mind clouded.
That would certainly explain why he'd gone through such agony
withdrawing from it.

He remembered everything about the last three years, too, as well as his
early years with the Bureau, in Violent Crimes. So at least she didn't
have to explain their past relationship to him anymore.

Their past relationship...God, it seemed like a hundred years ago that
they'd been working together, partners, watching each other's backs,
always there for each other, always careful never to acknowledge the way
they really felt, for fear that doing so would change things between
them, ruin everything.

That had been her fear, at least. The same fear she'd confided to her
mother the night she thought he'd died in the hospital. Well, things had
changed between them now, irrevocably, irretrievably. And nothing had
been ruined.

Had it?

No, of course it hadn't. They still talked, still told each other
everything. As much as they felt comfortable with, anyway.

They were heading into uncharted territory. Sensations, emotions were
still new between them. She'd lost her physical virginity at nineteen,
but every time with Mulder felt like the first. She'd cared deeply for
Jack during their year together, had even had herself halfway convinced
that she was in love with him, but that relationship bore no resemblance
to this one. Compared to Mulder, everything else paled.

But if he shared or even sensed her qualms, he certainly gave no outward
sign of it. In fact, he seemed happier than she'd ever seen him in the
entire three years they'd known each other, cracking jokes all the time,
teasing her. Just like the old Mulder, only more so.

She wasn't sure whether she should feel flattered or disconcerted that
she was having this kind of effect on him.

Then again, maybe she shouldn't take it so personally. Maybe the
prospect of regular sex every night was enough to turn any guy into a
grinning idiot.

He turned off at the next exit without asking her, swinging into the
parking lot of a tiny Mom-and-Dad grocery store. They went inside,
bought sandwiches, sodas and chips, then got back in the car, driving on
until they saw a green, relatively cool-looking spot near a silver strip
of water. He glanced at her, waiting for her approval.

"Looks good," she answered. "Let's stop."

He parked the car in the ample shade of a tall tree, then opened the
trunk, pulling out one of the blankets they'd brought with them from the
cabin, following her down to the water's edge, spreading the cloth out
on the ground.

They sat and ate in silence, savoring the breeze blowing softly across
the water, blessed relief feathering their moist skin. She pulled her
hair up off the back of her neck, rummaging in her pocket for a clip,
pinning it into a loose twist.

"Wish I could do that," he said, shaking his own hair back, swiping at a
few strands that wouldn't stay. "Next place we get to, you're gonna have
to buy some scissors and cut this for me. It's driving me crazy."

She smiled, rolling onto her stomach beside him, tweaking a stray lock.
"You sure? I'm getting used to it long. Makes you look like a bad boy."

She'd never seen anybody so stunned -- for a grand total of about five
seconds. Then, laughing, he grabbed her around the waist, pulling her on
top of him. "Is that what you want me to be?"

"Sounds good for a start."

"God, who'd believe it -- the cool, unflappable Dr. Dana Scully,
harboring such a wild fantasy. What else're you hiding from me under
than deceptively prim exterior?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised."

"After the bombshell you just dropped, not a chance."

"Is that a *challenge* I hear?"

"Yeah. Shock me. I dare you."

She couldn't not rise to bait like that. Sitting back, her thighs
straddling his, she reached into the waistband of her jeans and pulled
her white cotton t-shirt over her head. Then, looking him right in the
eye, she unfastened the front closure of her bra, letting it hang open
for a tantalizing second or two, then peeled it from her sweaty skin.

He said nothing, just stared up at her, at her breasts, into her eyes,
his lips parting.

"Looks like you lose," she whispered, closing her eyes, throwing her
head back, raising up her arms, arching her back as she stretched,
extending herself up into the breeze's path. It was perfect, just enough
to make her nipples draw up into tight little rosebuds.

And that wasn't the only thing getting tight. She could feel him, her
crotch pressed to his through two layers of rough denim, and the
sensation sent a ripple of something incredible radiating through her,
something exhilarating, empowering.

He wanted her as much as she did him, right here, right now. She could
do anything she'd ever wanted, everything she'd imagined in her deepest
dreams, and he would let her. Without question.

Sudden apprehension nagged, and her glance darted toward the car, under
the tree, blocking the view of any possible passersby. She wondered if
he'd parked it there for just that reason.

She leaned down, stretching out flat on top of him, her face hovering a
scant inch above his, dipping down, stopping just before their mouths
touched, close enough to taste his breath. He didn't move, just looked
up at her, waiting. Waiting for her.

She kissed the smooth line of his chin, his throat, yanked up his shirt
to work her way down his chest, smiling at his whimper of frustration,
knowing he'd wanted her mouth on his, deliberately denying him that
pleasure. He squirmed, reaching for her, trying to bring her back up to
him.

She grabbed his wrists, pinning them to the ground on either side of his
head. "Relax. Let me do the work for once."

"I'm gonna get you for this..."

Laughing, she licked a long squiggly line down to his belly, pausing at
the waistband of his jeans for an interminable moment, playing with his
fly button--

And the next thing she knew, she was flipped over on her back on the
blanket, his mouth coming down hard, tongue thrusting between her lips--

And she pushed him up and away, too stunned and angry to say anything.

"Sorry," he said, grinning, "but you were taking too long."

He tried to kiss her again, but she stopped him with a hard punch to the
chest, right where she'd bruised him the other day.

"Ow!" he cried, falling off her, onto the other side of the blanket.
"What the hell was that for?"

She scrambled up, off the blanket, grabbing her discarded bra and
t-shirt, marching toward the car, shaking with fury. She was just
pulling the shirt back over her head when she heard him come up behind
her.

"Would you mind telling me what I did?" he said.

She gaped at him, then laughed softly, bitterly. She didn't know why she
was so surprised that he didn't get it. God knew, it wouldn't be the
first time. "Exactly what I didn't want you to do."

"Since when is wanting to kiss you a crime?"

"That's not the point, and you know it. I wanted to make love to you
this time, and you just couldn't let me. You just couldn't give up your
precious control." Opening the car door, she got in, slamming it behind
her.

He came up, kneeling down, fingers hooked over the window rim. "I
thought we were making love to each other. I thought that's what we
always did. What, are you telling me I've been wrong all this time?"

"It's just like when we were working together -- whenever I disagreed
with you, whenever you felt you didn't have the upper hand, you'd start
acting like a jerk. Just like now. You don't give a damn what I want, do
you?"

"Scully, I never said--"

"You didn't have to."

That shut him up, but only for a second or two. "Okay, I'm sorry. I
didn't mean to upset you," he said, his tone apologetic, genuinely
sincere. "Next time we make love, I'll do whatever you want. Even if it
kills me," he added, grinning.

She nodded, but said nothing more until after he'd gone back to gather
up the blanket, then got back in the car. "Mulder, you know...sex isn't
really the issue here. You're not the senior partner in this
relationship anymore. I don't have to follow your lead, and frankly, I
don't want to all the time. I think we need to learn a little give and
take."

He thought about it awhile, then nodded. "Sounds fair to me. Want to get
going?"

Not exactly the answer she'd been hoping for, but it'd have to do for
now. "Sure. Fine. Whatever."

They drove on until evening, stopping at a motel just off the
interstate. She was so tired she didn't even feel like eating, just hit
the shower while he trudged down to the motel coffee shop to get
something for himself.

She got a surprise when she peeled off her panties, though -- a long,
slow trickle of red running down her legs. Glancing at her panties, she
saw they were soaked through, as was the crotch of her jeans. She'd felt
it, but thought she'd just been perspiring. It had never occurred to
her--

But it should have. She'd lost count of how many times they'd had sex
over the past week and a half, neither of them giving a thought to
protection. She sank down on the toilet seat, her legs suddenly
unsteady. They'd gotten lucky. *Incredibly* lucky.

She heard him come in a minute or two later. "Mulder," she called
through the door, "could you come here a second?"

"You okay?" he asked when she opened it a crack.

"Yeah, I...um, just need you to go to the drug store for me."

"Sure. What do you need?"

"Some Tampax."

He stared at her, realization finally dawning. "*Oh.*"

"Are you okay with that, or do you want me to go?"

"No...no, you're...I mean, you're in no condition to--" He stopped,
rubbing a hand over his face. "I've...um, never bought this sort of
thing before. You're gonna have to tell me what to get."

"Regular tampons'll be fine. Ask somebody in the store if you get
stuck."

"Are you kidding?"

She almost didn't get the door shut in time to keep him from seeing her
burst out in a fit of giggles.

She found the box of tampons sitting on the edge of the sink when she
got out of the shower, and him waiting for her in the bedroom when she
finally emerged from the bathroom. "Thanks, Mulder," she said. "It was
really sweet of you to do that for me."

"That's not the only thing I did," he replied, holding up a pair of
scissors. "I know you like it long, but you gotta get it out of my eyes.
I draw the line at wearing a baseball cap backwards."

"Okay," she smiled. "Go stick your head under the faucet for a second
and bring a towel and my comb with you. I can't cut it dry."

She trimmed the front and took about an inch and a half off all around,
regretting it but knowing it'd make him more comfortable. He'd be a lot
cooler without all that hair hanging down the back of his neck.

She put the scissors and comb down on the bedside table when she was
done, her glance caught by a purple and silver box laying there.

Condoms.

He saw her staring at them. "That okay with you?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yeah, it's, um...a good idea. Thanks. I'm glad one of us
was finally thinking."

"I brought you a sandwich," he said, nodding toward the table by the
window. "Figured you'd get hungry sooner or later."

She was, she realized, not enough to make her stomach rumble, but enough
to give it pangs. He'd brought her a turkey sandwich with all the
trimmings, some chips, and two bottles of beer. Well, at least the
sandwich and chips were for her.

She drank one of the beers herself with her dinner, handing him the last
one when she came over to the bed to lie down next to him. He was
looking at a map of the Tennessee-Kentucky area, reviewing their route.

"How many miles today?" she asked.

"'Bout five hundred. We're making pretty good time." After a few minutes
he set the map aside, putting his arm around her, pulling her close. "I
don't think there's anybody coming after us. I've been watching the road
for the last two days, and there's no sign we're being tailed. Either we
lost them somewhere along the line, or..."

"They were never following us in the first place. And you're wondering
why."

"Wouldn't you? I mean, I'm kinda insulted. According to you, I'm their
prize guinea pig. Why would they let me get away so easily?"

"I don't know, but let's not question good luck right now, okay? I'm not
up to mulling all the possibilities tonight."

"But..."

"Shhh. Come on, Mulder, I'm tired."

She fell asleep with his arms still around her and the TV casting an
eerie blue glow over both of them.

*   *   *

The car blew a rod somewhere outside Chicago. They left it by the side
of the road and walked five miles to the nearest suburb.

And that wasn't their only problem. When she opened her wallet to pay
for their lunch, she saw two twenty dollar bills. Forty dollars. They'd
had over two hundred when they'd left Pine Barren. "Mulder, how much
money do you have?"

He rummaged through his pockets, coming up with another eight and some
change.

"I think we're in trouble," she said, showing him what she had.

"Guess it's time to break out the big guns." Fishing in his pocket
again, he pulled out a Visa card.

"Mulder, you're dead, remember? That card won't work. Your mother closed
all your accounts months ago." She stared into her plate, sighing.
"We'll have to use mine."

They found an ATM and she withdrew the daily maximum from her checking
and savings accounts, three hundred from each. She had over two thousand
in her checking and five in savings, but she'd have to go into a bank to
take it out, and that was too chancy. Still, she wondered if she'd be
able to withdraw anything tomorrow. She was surprised her accounts
hadn't been frozen already.

"What now, partner?" he asked when she flashed her wallet at him,
showing him she'd gotten the money.

"Well, I guess we can get to L.A. just as easily on a plane as in a car.
If we're going to give my credit card a workout, we may as well go for
broke."

"I like the way your mind works."

They caught a cab to O'Hare Airport and bought two tickets to Los
Angeles on the two-thirty flight. Her credit card went through without a
hitch.

They got off the plane just after seven that night. Mulder wrinkled his
nose at the sight of the smoggy California sky, but didn't say anything
until they'd rented another car -- at a different agency than the one
where she'd rented the car they'd ditched earlier in the day.

"Let's drive up through the hills, look at the ocean," he suggested,
taking the keys. "I'm not ready to look for a place to stay yet."

Neither was she, she realized. Maybe she was still wired from the
flight. She never could sleep on planes. "Sounds good to me."

The sun loomed blood-red and dying over the mountains as they got on the
Pacific Coast Highway, heading toward Malibu. The sea glinted at her,
silver, then blue-green and choppy, like it couldn't make up its mind.
It seemed to go on forever, extending all the way to the horizon.

He pulled off on the shoulder of the road a few miles up, getting out,
not waiting to see if she was coming too. Hands stuffed in his pockets,
he gazed out at the ocean, his expression closed, unreadable. She hadn't
seen him like this in a long time.

He didn't react when she came up beside him, rubbing his shoulder. "I
don't think I'll ever be able to look at the ocean without thinking of
my father. He spent more time at sea when I was growing up than with us.
I don't know how my mother stood it. Guess people'll do whatever they
have to for love."

"Will they?"

"I will."

He looked at her then, half-smiling, leaning in for a kiss. "You already
have. You've given up everything for me. I hope you don't regret it
someday."

"If I had it all to do again, I wouldn't change a thing."

"It's still not too late. You can go back. You've still got your family,
maybe you can even convince the Bureau to reinstate you--"

"No. I'm right where I want to be. For today and tomorrow and every day
I see down the line."

He took her hand and they walked back to the car together, watching the
sun start to disappear behind the thin black line in the distance. He
turned, opening the door for her--

And froze, staring off into the hills, transfixed by what he saw there.
He murmured something she couldn't make out.

"Mulder, what's the matter? Are you okay?"

The sound of her voice seemed to bring him out of it, and he got back in
the car, started it, pulled back out onto the road. This time he headed
into the hills, ignoring her pleas for an explanation. Finally she just
sat back and waited. They'd get there eventually.

They drove around in circles for almost an hour, through streets and
streets of houses, up cul-de-sacs that led nowhere, finally stopping in
front of what looked like a WWII bomb site. If there had ever been a
house here, all trace of it was gone now. The ground was burned black
and brown and red, like an advertisement for scorched earth.

He started to get out, but she grabbed hold of his arm. "Mulder, what
are you doing? There's nothing here. It's just a hole in the ground."

For a second he looked like he was going to shake her off and get out
any-way, but then he just fell back in his seat, letting out a sound
halfway between a laugh and a sob. "Yeah," he said thickly. "You're
right. You're always right. Just a fucking hole in the ground."

And he pulled back out into the street, tearing down the hill at
seventy-five miles an hour, turning on the radio, turning it up until it
nearly split her eardrums.

I tell you how I feel but you don't care
I say tell me the truth, but you don't dare
You say love is a hell you cannot bear
And I say give me mine back and then go there -- for all I care

I got my feet on the ground and I don't go to sleep to dream
You got your head in the clouds and you're not at all what you
      seem...

He didn't stop until they hit town traffic, and even then he was jetting
in between other cars, almost getting sideswiped a few times.

That was it. She'd had enough. When they finally stopped at a traffic
light, she switched off the radio, snatching the keys out of the
ignition.

It got his attention, at least. "Hey, what the hell're you--"

"You're going to pull in at the first hotel we get to and let me out. At
this point I don't give a damn if you come with me or not."

The light turned green, and the cars behind them started honking.
"Deal?" she said, holding the keys out of his reach.

He nodded, took the keys from her, driving on. The next hotel was four
blocks up. He turned in, parked and got out with her. She was actually a
little bit surprised that he did.

Her credit card got them better accommodations than they'd become used
to over the last week -- this time the bed was king-sized, and the
bathtub looked big enough for both of them to stretch out in at the same
time. How fortunate, she thought acidly, since as far as she was
concerned, that's where he'd be sleeping tonight.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed when she came back into the
bedroom, a sheepish look on his face. "Look, I'm sorry about what
happened. I don't know what got into me."

"Neither do I," she replied, sitting down beside him. "Everything was
fine one minute, and the next you're driving like a crazy man. You
could've gotten us killed, Mulder. You got pretty close to the edge of
that highway a few times."

"I'm sorry I scared you. It won't happen again."

"It's not myself I'm scared for," she said, lying back on the bed,
pulling him down next to her. "You want to talk about it?"

"Not yet, okay? I'm still processing it myself."

His eyes looked so sad, so pained it hurt her inside. "Okay. I'll be
here whenever you're ready."

The corners of his mouth quirked up, and he kissed her softly. "I know
what I'm ready for now." Rolling on top of her, he started tugging at
her t-shirt, his hands sliding beneath it, palming her breasts, his
mouth on hers, teasing her lips open.

She pushed him away gently, breaking the kiss. "Come on, you know we
can't. I'm still off limits for the next couple of days."

"So that means we can't play a little anyway?"

She groaned, feeling that familiar stabbing ache down between her
thighs. Only he could make her want him at a time like this. Well, if
push came to shove, she could use her hands and mouth on him. At least
one of them would get some satisfaction out of this.

She let him pull her shirt over her head, gasping as she felt his mouth
close over one nipple, sucking softly, gently, his tongue doing things
that never failed to drive her crazy, flicking, laving, swirling over
her skin. Then she felt his fingers at the waistband of her jeans,
easing down the zipper--

And she jerked back, trying to wriggle away, but he held onto her with a
grip of iron. "Come on, Mulder, stop it. I'm still bleeding--"

"I don't care."

"I do. We'll get blood all over!"

"No, we won't. I'll be careful. I won't hurt you."

God, the way he was looking at her, so full of love and naked desire,
threatened to rip her heart apart. Whatever he needed, she would give
him.

"All right," she murmured, "but let's be safe this time."

He knew exactly what she meant; with a quick kiss, he got up and went
into the bathroom. She took the opportunity to remove her jeans, then
her tampon, disposing of it in a trash can by the door before he came
back with the box of condoms and a towel. Easing her up, he slid the
towel under her.

"My turn," she said, inching up his shirt, kissing every millimeter of
skin as she bared it, finally working her way up to his mouth. He
shrugged the rest of the way out of it himself, taking hold of her hand,
moving it down.

"Feel what you do to me," he whispered. "Feel how crazy you make me..."

She felt it, right there beneath her hand, through his jeans; she
couldn't get him unzipped fast enough. His flesh sprang free, into her
palm, steel encased in velvet, painfully swollen, ready for her.
Reaching for the silver and purple box, she slit it open with her
thumbnail, pulling out a single shiny packet, tearing it open.

The sound he made when she rolled it on him was the sweetest declaration
of love she'd ever heard, making her laugh with the sheer delight of it.
And so did he, coming on top of her, his hands under her, holding her
for his first thrust--

She started coming the instant he was all the way inside her, filling
her to overflowing, moving in her, rocking her slowly, instinctively
knowing this was how she wanted it--

Her muscles milking him sent him right over the edge, and he gave one
last, incredibly deep push into her, gasping, moaning deeply, finally
going still.

The next thing she was aware of was him lying next to her, head resting
on her belly. He seemed to like doing that, she thought, smiling lazily,
tousling his hair. He looked so relaxed now, so happy, all remnants of
the evening's previous events pushed aside.

Plenty of time to deal with that later. Now was for love, for enjoying
each other.

"Sorry," he said softly, looking up at her. "I didn't mean to be so
quick. You deserve better than some cheap wham-bam."

"Do I look unsatisfied to you?"

"Well, no, but.."

"So don't worry about it. And it wasn't cheap, it was incredible. If
that's your idea of a wham-bam, I'll take one every day."

"I'll see if I can fit you into my schedule."

They lay there together for a long time, touching, kissing, staring at
the cream-colored ceiling. She giggled when she felt his mouth inching
down her belly, the stubble on his chin tickling the inside of one
thigh. "You can't do that now, so you might as well stop it."

"Who says I can't?" She jumped as his fingers brushed her clitoris,
almost making her come again. "Jesus, you smell so damned good...I could
drink you down like wine..."

Something in his voice sent a jagged bolt of fear shooting through her,
his words suddenly taking on a disturbing new spin. Sitting up abruptly,
she pushed him away.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Why did you say that?"

"Because I felt like it. Why?"

"Mulder, did you hear yourself? I mean, it sounded like you wanted
to..." She trailed off, nausea welling in her stomach. God, she couldn't
even bring herself to think it, much less say it. "You're scaring me."

"What, because of what I said?" His expression was sincerely, totally
bewildered. He really didn't know what she was talking about.

Maybe she didn't either. Maybe she was reading too much into this. So he
had a few kinks; she should have suspected as much from his interest in
skin magazines and adult videos. What was she going to do, kick him out
of her bed, end their affair right here and now?

No. She loved this man to desperation, to distraction. If he had unusual
tastes, she'd simply have to learn to accommodate them. "Forget it.
Guess I'm still a little edgy from that plane ride."

"Never seemed to bother you before."

She shrugged, forcing a smile. "I think I'll take a shower, then we can
go grab some dinner, okay?"

"Sure."

She was already in the bathroom before she remembered she needed a fresh
tampon, and they weren't in her bag; she must have left the box in the
bedroom. Sighing, she went back in.

Mulder was sitting on the edge of the bed, turned profile toward her,
staring at his hand. His fingers were red, streaked with her blood.

And she froze, watching in sick, paralyzed horror as he carried his hand
to his mouth, licking the blood away, a look of pure, utter ecstasy on
his face.

She backed away, into the bathroom, closing the door, locking it.

God, no, this couldn't be happening. She'd thought they'd gotten through
the worst, that his memory coming back was the turning point for them.
But it wasn't that easy. It was never that easy.

Whatever they'd done to him, it was far from over.

And this time she had no idea how to help him.




"The Bright White Place," MSR, NC-17
Part 16/19
Disclaimers attached to Part 1.

*   *   *

She was staring down into her plate, avoiding his gaze, avoiding him.

She hadn't looked him in the eye since last night. She'd come out of the
bathroom looking pale as new snow and picked at her dinner when they
went out, despite the fact that she'd seemed hungry earlier.
Then when they'd come back she'd climbed into bed and turned toward the
wall, effectively letting him know she didn't want to be bothered.

And she'd said barely twenty words to him since they got up this
morning.

"You okay?" he asked finally, glancing at their breakfast check.

"Yeah, fine," she answered a bit too quickly. "Why?"

"I don't know, you've been acting funny since last night. You still
freaking out over what I said?"

"I didn't freak out, I was just...startled, that's all. I thought we'd
gone over this already."

"So why are you still upset?"

"I'm *not.*"

"Could've fooled me."

She sighed, rubbing the space between her eyes. "Could we please change
the subject?"

She was using that tone again -- brittle, snappish, the one that told
him he'd best back off. "Okay, fine. So where are we going today?  I
assume you've given it some thought?"

She rummaged in her bag, pulling out a notepad. "Allan Hargraves taught
at UCLA for over five years. Maybe somebody there will be able to give
us a lead."

"Isn't that kind of a long shot? Anybody who worked with Hargraves would
be in their sixties or seventies by now. They're probably all either
retired or dead."

"Well, if you've got a better idea, let's hear it."

He stared at her, into her half-averted eyes, clear, deep blue.
Something shone there in them, something he'd at first taken for anger,
then saw was something else entirely. He'd seen it before, not long ago,
in Cathy's eyes.

Apprehension. Anxiety.

*Fear.*

She was afraid. Afraid to look at him. Afraid to touch him, or let him
touch her. She'd tugged her hand away when he'd reached for it across
the table.

He waited until they reached the car before pulling her close to him.
She tried to wriggle away, but he backed her up against the car,
blocking her only means of escape. She could barely suppress a shudder
when he stroked her cheek, tipping her chin upward.

"Could we please put whatever went wrong yesterday behind us?" he asked.
"You know I'd sooner shoot myself than hurt you."

"Mulder, don't talk like that..."

"You do know that, don't you?"

She closed her eyes a moment, swallowing hard, finally returning his
gaze. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears, now more pained-looking than
fearful. "I know. But I just get so scared sometimes--"

"You think you're the only one? I've been fucking terrified ever since
we left New York."

"Well, you sure do a good job covering it up."

"Guess I got too preoccupied with almost dying. Next time I'll be sure
to let you know in advance."

She smiled in spite of herself, her arms wrapping around his waist,
resting her head on his chest, tucked right under his chin.

God, she really had no idea how precious she was to him, how happy she
made him, how aware he was of how much she loved him. She'd cared for
him when he was at the death's brink, felt his pain and fever of
withdrawal even more deeply than he had himself.

She didn't know that he'd walked out behind the cabin the day after he'd
recovered, that he'd seen the mound of rust-brown earth there between
the two trees, the shovel laying on the ground beside it.

She'd dug his grave with her own hands, and he'd nearly laid her in hers
last night, almost driven her off the edge of a fucking cliff.

She hadn't wanted to make love last night either, but she'd given in to
make him happy, even after he'd conveniently forgotten his promise to
let her take the lead next time.

She'd been right a couple days ago -- all he cared about was himself,
his own pleasure. He might've gotten her pregnant, for Chrissakes.
Another of his burdens for her to shoulder. It was only by purest chance
that he hadn't.

He didn't deserve her. No other woman would have put up with all the
bullshit and emotional baggage he carried around with him. Every night
when he went to sleep he half-expected her to be gone the next morning,
and every morning he opened his eyes to find her still there.

And every day he wondered how much longer she would stay.

"I hope there won't be a next time," he added, kissing the top of her
head, stroking her hair. "You've been through hell enough."

She pressed her lips to his throat, looking up at him. "So, where to
now? UCLA?"

"I love the smell of academia in the morning."

He couldn't help noticing an actual bounce in her step when she came out
of the administration building an hour later, waving a copy of the
faculty roster.

"You're not going to believe this," she said, flipping it open to the
biochemistry department, pointing. "Margaret Hargraves, M.D., department
chair."

"His widow?"

"Daughter. And her office is two buildings down."

The office was empty, but the door didn't appear to be locked, so they
started to go in to wait.

"May I help you?" came a voice from a few steps down the hallway. A
tall, dark-haired woman in her early to mid-forties approached,
frowning, obviously preoccupied with the pile of books she was carrying.
"I'm afraid office hours aren't until this afternoon."

"Dr. Hargraves?" he asked.

"Yes."

"We're not students. We'd just like to talk to you."

Her green eyes darted between the two of them. "You'll have to make an
appointment. I'm very busy right now with finals."

"It's about your father."

Her mouth fell open slightly, her eyes widening. "My father died forty
years ago. What could you possibly want to know about him?"

"*Gemini.*"

She swayed against the wall, going as white as its coat of paint. "Come
in," she said, opening the door, flicking on the light.

It was more cubbyhole than office, every shelf and surface packed and
stacked with books and papers. Reminded him of his old office down in
the Bureau basement. One glance at Scully told him she was thinking the
same thing.

Dr. Hargraves set down her books, dropped into a chair, not bothering to
offer them a seat. There wasn't anyplace to sit anyway. "What do you
want?"

They fell into their old routine like they'd done it only yesterday, him
cuing her with a nod to take the lead as he circled the desk, glancing
at the nearest bookshelf, his gaze caught by something sticking up
between two books.

A blurry Polaroid snapshot. It looked fairly recent, no more than a year
old. Margaret Hargraves with a man. An older man with salt-and-pepper
hair. He palmed it, folding it in half, slipping it into his pocket.

"We were wondering if you could tell us where we might find your
father," Scully said.

The professor let out a bitter chuckle. "In Queen of Heaven cemetery,
where's he's been since I was six. Who are you, anyway? What are you
doing here?"

"We have reason to believe he's still alive."

"Well, that's one more reason than either I or my mother have. If this
is a joke, it's a sick one. Get the hell out of my office."

"Really?" he replied, swinging around. "Then why'd you look like you
were going to have a heart attack when we mentioned him?"

"And Gemini," Scully added.

"The neurology department has all my father's papers on Gemini in their
archive. Go ask them your questions." When they didn't move, she reached
for the phone. "Leave, or I'm calling security."

"C'mon, let's go. There's no point," he said softly, taking Scully's
elbow, steering her out the door. "Well, she'd never win a poker-face
contest," he said once they were halfway down the stairs.

"That's for sure. How much do you think she knows?"

"At least this much," he said, pulling out the snapshot, smoothing the
crease he'd put in it with his thumb. "That's the doctor Cancerman had
treating my bullet wound."

"It's the surgeon I spoke with when you were in the hospital. And the
man in the photo with your father and Cancerman. It's him, Mulder. Allan
Hargraves. It has to be."

They remained silent until they got back to the car, started back to the
hotel.

"She's scared to death, Mulder," she said finally. "I don't think we can
expect any cooperation, even if we wait a day or so for the shock to
wear off."

"Which is why we're going to keep an eye on her, see if she leads us
anywhere."

"We?"

"Okay, fine, if you'd rather not..."

"I didn't say that, but -- wait a minute." She looked at him, lips
parted, incredulous. "Did I hear you right? Are you suggesting we pull a
stakeout on Margaret Hargraves?"

To his surprise, she actually sounded enthusiastic, excited. "Bad food,
pine-scented air freshener, non-stop baseball on the radio. Just like
old times."

She shook her head, smiling. "You're impossible."

"I'll toast you with root beer every night. How 'bout it?"

"Sure, why not. It's not like I'll be having any fun in that hotel room
by myself."

He took her hand, kissing the palm. "Thanks. I'm touched."

"Only in the head."

Their eyes locked, and suddenly her smile faded, memories of the past
week and a half leeching the humor out of the moment for both of them.

Glancing out the window, she watched the high-rises fly by until they
finally pulled back into the hotel parking lot.
                              
*   *   *

She chewed the last bite of her dinner, shifting in her car seat,
staring straight ahead, mulling. Something was making her stomach churn,
and she didn't think it was the sandwich she'd just choked down.

She had a bad feeling about this, sitting out here in the dark in front
of Margaret Hargraves's house. They'd been doing it for the last two
nights, without a single sign that they'd been seen, or even suspected.
That in itself was strange, considering how upset the professor had been
when they'd left her office the other day.

But now that she'd had a chance to think about it, it all seemed
strange, even weird -- their trip to L.A., finding Margaret Hargraves
the very next day. Easy. Too easy...

She felt his hand on hers, looked over at him. "I'm gonna try to catch a
few z's, okay?" he said, reaching under his seat to adjust it backward.

She stifled a sigh. "Why don't we just go back to the hotel? Nothing's
going to happen tonight if it hasn't already."

Her glance followed his to the clock on the dashboard. One-thirty a.m.
"Let's give it another hour or two, okay? At least until she turns the
lights out in there. She must be having tons of fun correcting those
exam papers."

"Okay. Get some sleep if you can."

He seemed to drop off almost instantly, his features relaxing into that
sleepy-little-boy expression that turned her insides to jelly.

They hadn't spoken anymore about what'd happened the night they arrived
in L.A., either the frantic car ride through the Malibu hills or their
lovemaking session at the hotel; apparently he thought their
conversation in the hotel parking lot the other morning had resolved
everything.

But it hadn't, not for her, at least. Whenever she remembered the way
he'd looked at her blood glistening on his hand, like it was the most
beautiful thing he'd ever seen, she couldn't stop her shuddering.

She'd tried to push it out of her mind, like everything else she hadn't
wanted to think about over the last three months, but this time her
brain wouldn't obey her. He was the man she loved, and seeing him like
that had repulsed her. And no matter how hard she tried, she simply
couldn't get past that.

She wondered if he'd sensed her new reticence toward him. He must have,
she supposed, because he hadn't tried to initiate sex since that night.
He'd held and kissed her when they lay in bed together, but nothing
else. Maybe he was too tired from their all-nighters here. Maybe he was
just honoring his promise of a few days ago to let her make the first
move. But every time she tried, she froze.

God, the look on his face...she'd never seen anything like it before,
and prayed she never would again...eerie, zoned-out, almost like he was
dreaming with his eyes open, in some kind of trance.

And she wasn't sure whether to be more or less frightened by the fact
that he seemed to have no memory of it. Just as he seemed to have no
memory of his father's abuse or Allan Hargraves's experiments. Maybe he
wasn't repressing. Maybe those memories had been erased by whatever
Hargraves had done to him. Maybe he'd suffer from blackouts like the
other night for the rest of his life.

Maybe he'd never recover what he'd lost. Maybe the best he could hope
for was to put his life back together as best he could and go on from
there.

She lay her head back against her seat cushion, sighing, a slow throb
starting over her right eye. All these maybes were driving her crazy.
Too many questions, and she had the feeling there would be no clear-cut
answers for most of them...

She jerked awake at the abrupt sound of a car engine gunning, opening
her eyes just in time to see a late-model blue Honda backing out of
Margaret Hargraves's driveway, tearing off down the street.

"Mulder, c'mon, wake up," she said, jostling his shoulder. "She's
leaving."

His eyes snapped open immediately and he started the car, following as
close behind as he could with their lights off. As soon as they hit
Wilshire he flicked them on, staying a discreet two cars back from
Margaret Hargraves's vehicle, sticking to her like cold pizza on a
plate. Finally she turned off down in Santa Monica, heading into another
residential area.

She stopped in front of a small adobe house with one light shining
faintly in a back window, got out and sprinted to the front door.

He pulled over to the curb on the other side of the street, drumming his
fingertips on the wheel, finally cutting the lights and engine,
shrugging as he glanced at her. "Might as well sit tight, see what
happens."

A sharp cracking noise split the air, then another, and the light in the
back of the adobe house flickered out.

"Shit," he muttered, tearing open the car door. He was across the street
in five loping strides, she following close behind. "Me first," he said
when they reached the front door.

On her nod they kicked it in, guns extended, sweeping the darkened
living room. Nothing but books, newspapers and furniture.

She pulled her flashlight from her jacket pocket, flicking it on, its
beam scouring the path in front of both of them.

The kitchen was empty too, which left only the back room--

With two bodies lying on the floor. Allan and Margaret Hargraves.

She didn't have to kneel down and take their pulses to know they were
dead. The blood pooling around both their heads was clue enough.

God, no...he'd come so far, they'd come so far together, and all for
nothing. It couldn't end like this. But it had.

Just as she'd feared. No answers. No resolution.

Mulder knelt down by Allan Hargraves's body, staring at it, hand resting
on the floor, centimeters away from the blood creeping slowly across the
hard wood. He dragged his fingers through the blood, holding them up,
watching them glint black-red in the beam of her flashlight, raising
them to his parted lips--

"Mulder, what's the matter with you? What are you doing?"

He blinked, his vision seeming to unhaze at the sound of her voice,
looking at her, then at his hand, then at the bodies lying on the floor
around them, then back at her, his expression horrified, disbelieving--

And then his gaze shifted, to the door leading from the back room out
into the yard beyond. To the two men standing there, less than two feet
away from her.

Cancerman, and Mulder's informant.

She brought up her gun, aiming it at the black man, but his foot was
already hurtling toward her hand, knocking her weapon across the room.
She felt an arm seizing her, dragging her up, tightening around her
neck, almost cutting off her air.

"Stay where you are, Mulder," she heard him say, his voice booming in
her ear, "or I won't hesitate to cash in this little insurance policy."

Mulder's gaze flicked to her, then to his own gun, laying on the floor
near his knee. Then to Cancerman. "This was all a setup, wasn't it? No
wonder we found Hargraves's daughter so easily."

"You responded to the stimuli we provided you flawlessly, Fox," he
rasped. "Just as Allan said you would. You truly are his crowning
achievement."

"Too bad you didn't let him live to see it."

"It's unfortunate that he regretted creating you, and had to pay the
price for it. Even more unfortunate for Margaret. She had nothing to do
with the project, but when she finally puzzled out your connection to
it, she became a liability we couldn't abide. No loose ends."

"Is that what I am now?"

"Not at all. You are still of immeasurable value to us. Agent Scully, on
the other hand, is not and never will be, I'm afraid."

She heard a click, feeling the unmistakable cold steel outline of a gun
muzzle pressed under her chin.

"Stand up slowly," Cancerman ordered. "Kick your gun over here."

"Kiss my ass."

"Do it or she dies now instead of five minutes from now."

Mulder looked like he wanted to spit in the old man's face, but he rose,
nudging his gun across the floor with the toe of his right foot. "If you
think I'm going to cooperate with you after you kill her, dream on. I'm
through being your fucking lab rat."

"You seem to be suffering from the delusion that you have a choice, Fox.
Believe me, you don't. You never have."

"So my whole life's been a lie? Is that what you expect me to believe?"

No answer.

"You're a liar. Why should I believe a liar?"

"What you believe or don't believe is immaterial. The experiments will
go on." Nodding at Mulder's informant, he said, "finish it. Now."

She felt him moving the gun, sliding it down beneath her breast, her
ribs, felt the imprint of its muzzle there, sensed the slow squeeze of
the trigger--

Saw Mulder reaching behind him, into the waistband of his jeans, drawing
a gun--

Krycek's gun. He'd had it with him all the time.

"Let her go. Now," he said, aiming it right in Cancerman's face.

"You can't be serious."

"Let her go and I'll come with you. I'll do whatever you want."

"Mulder, no..." she said, her voice thin, choked by Mulder's informant's
arm still pulled across her throat. But if he heard her, he gave no
sign.

"You'll do whatever we want whether we let her go or not."

Mulder stared at Cancerman for a long moment, then chuckled bitterly,
bringing up his gun, aiming it right behind his own ear. "Okay, fine.
Play it like that if you want. But if he pulls that trigger, so do I,
and you never get what's in my head. End of your fucking experiments."

Cancerman just stood there. Then his gaze flicked toward Mulder's
informant. "Do it."

And suddenly the gun wasn't cutting into her side anymore, it was aiming
at Mulder, firing--

She cried out as Mulder hit the floor with a sick thud, falling sideways
into the puddle of Allan Hargraves's blood.

But it wasn't a bullet sticking out of his chest. It was a tranquilizer
dart.

She felt a searing sting below her ribs, felt her limbs turn to lead,
felt herself sliding, falling to the floor, felt the air going out of
her as she crashed into hard wood, and everything went pitch black.




"The Bright White Place," MSR, NC-17
Part 17/19
Disclaimers attached to Part 1.
*   *   *

Her skull felt like it had been run over by eighteen-wheeler, throbbing,
singing in agony. She tried sitting up, but her hair stuck to the floor.

Bile rose in her throat when she saw why. Half her head was coated in
blood. Margaret Hargraves's blood. She'd rolled over next to the body
after she'd fallen.

Taking hold of her hair, she peeled it off the floor as gently as she
could, grimacing as a few strands pulled, tore, her fingers coming away
sticky with half-congealed blood. She was coated all the way down to her
right shoulder, her jacket and t-shirt soaked through.
She shook her head, forcing her vision to refocus by sheer strength of
will. Something still stung her side, and she looked down, seeing the
dart Mulder's informant had fired into her. Its tip had bitten a
half-inch into her flesh; it took her two hard, stabbing tugs to get it
out.

A soft moan made her glance up, seeing Mulder still lying on his side
between Allan and Margaret Hargraves's bodies, just beginning to stir.
She was next to him in a second, taking hold of his shoulders, helping
him sit up, pulling the dart from his chest. He was even more
gore-spattered than she was, one whole side of his body tacky with it.

He looked at her, seeming to recognize her, staring at the scene around
them, not saying anything. She got up, darted into the kitchen, coming
back with a pair of dampened towels, starting with him, wiping him down
as best she could, then doing the same with herself.

But he still didn't say anything, just looked straight ahead into empty
space, his mouth hanging slightly open.

"You okay, Mulder?" she asked finally, tipping up his chin, forcing him
to look at her. "Talk to me."

"Scully...?"

Relief swept over her, tempered by an equal amount of anxiety. He was in
deep shock, and not from the tranquilizer. Everything he'd been through
in the past three months had just smacked into him like a wall of
concrete.

"We're going to go now, okay?" she said, trying to sound reassuring,
trying to smile. "I'll help you up, then we're going to walk back out to
the car. Think you can do that?"

"Yeah, okay..."

He stood up like a newborn foal, wobbly, weak, leaning heavily on her.
She left him standing by himself for a few seconds to scoop up their
guns, then put his arm around her shoulder and led him out of the house,
across the street, back to the car. Opening the passenger's side door,
she helped him in, belted him in.

She drove back to the hotel in a daze, mustering all her waning
concentration just to keep the car on the road. Her head still felt like
someone had used it for a basketball, but she couldn't let herself give
in to the pain, not now. Mulder needed her.

The sky was just starting to turn grey with dawn when she pulled into
the hotel parking lot. Somehow she managed to get him back to their room
without attracting any attention; the halls were mercifully deserted at
this hour.

She didn't realize what a mess she was until she saw herself reflected
in the mirror across from the bed. One whole side of her head was matted
with dried blood, her cheek and neck still smeared with it despite her
earlier clean-up efforts. Her jacket and t-shirt were ruined.

But her entire body turned to ice when she finally got a good look at
him in full light. He looked like he'd been wading through an abbatoir.
Wallowing in blood.

Taking his arm, she led him to the bathroom, stripping first him, then
herself down, turning on the shower until steam hazed the air hot and
thick, then pushing him under the spray, stepping in after him. He let
her hold him there, let her run a washcloth over his face, his arms, his
chest without protest, like an infant being bathed by its mother. He
didn't even make a sound when she lathered his hair. Red rivulets poured
down his body, swirling thick and coppery-smelling down the drain, the
water finally running clear.

She finished washing herself, then flicked off the water and got out. He
followed without any prompting from her, blinking against the steam's
sting, seeming more aware of his surroundings. He let her start drying
him, then took the towel and did the rest himself.

She was just finishing drying herself when she felt him come up behind
her, his arms wrapping around her waist, his mouth pressed to her
throat. She stiffened, then suddenly realized it wasn't a sexual
overture; she could feel his rough, stubbled cheek against hers,
streaked with warm, salty moisture that hadn't come from the shower.

He was holding her for the simple comfort of it, and to celebrate the
fact that they were still alive.

With another kiss to her throat, he disappeared into the bedroom,
allowing her privacy to get dressed.

He was sitting on the bed hanging up the phone when she came back in. He
was wearing a clean new pair of jeans and nothing else. "I ordered some
breakfast. Figured we could use it."

"Yeah. Good idea."

They didn't talk anymore until after their food arrived. He'd ordered
hot tea for her, which she used to wash down two aspirin, but she made
sure he drank some of it too. He needed to get warm all the way through
to counteract the aftereffects of the shock he'd been through. He still
wasn't himself yet.

He pulled her back on the pillows with him when they were finished
eating, burying his face in her hair. She kissed his forehead, stroking
the soft skin on the back of his neck, gasping when her fingers came
away dotted with blood. "Mulder, sit up. I need to look at something."

Something inside her already knew what she was going to see, and there
it was -- a tiny incision an inch or so below his hairline. She had one
in exactly the same place.

"What is it?" he asked, twisting around to look at her.

"I think I just figured out why they let us live." Her mouth suddenly
dry, she reached over for another sip of tea. "They put one of those
chips in your neck, Mulder. Just like the one I found in my neck a few
months ago."

"The one Pendrell said could've been used to record impulses from the
cerebral cortex?"

She nodded. "They've been recording, monitoring your thoughts all this
time."

"Jesus fucking Christ..." he muttered, rubbing a hand through his hair.
"No wonder they didn't bother coming after us. They knew where we were
every step of the way. All they had to do was reel us in whenever they
wanted to."

She closed her eyes, waiting for a sudden wave of nausea to pass.
Finding Mulder, escaping with him, his recovery from the drug...all of
it had been pre-planned, all part of Cancerman's little mind-game. The
experiment. He'd played her like some green rookie, and she'd let him.

Did she regret it? No. Even if she'd known, her only alternative
would've been to leave Mulder where he was, and she could never have
done that. The past two weeks had been heaven and hell, but she still
wouldn't change a day, a moment. Every one had been a gift.
"They're not done with us, Mulder," she whispered finally. "They left us
alive for a reason."

He picked up her wallet from the bedside table, riffling through it,
pulling out some cash, handing her the rest. "They're done with you.
Call the airline and book the earliest flight back to D.C. You're out of
this as of now."

She stared at him, stunned. "I'm not leaving you."

"I'm not offering it as a choice. Either you make the call or I will."

"Who the hell are you to tell me what to do--"

"The man who almost got you fucking killed last night," he snapped.
"This is it. The *end.* I can't take any more blood on my hands.
Especially not yours."

His words sent ice flashing through her, making her gasp. Her shock must
have been evident in her expression, because he looked at her for a long
time, then looked away, down at his hands, his jaw tightening.

"What happened, Mulder?" she asked. "At Allan Hargraves's house, when
you were kneeling down by his body, you put your hand in his blood..."

"You don't want to go there, Scully. Trust me on this one."

"I have to. If you're going to push me away, I want to know why."

He slumped over, elbows propped on his knees, head hanging down. "Do you
remember back before I was shot...the fight we had in the office?"

"How could I forget? I played it over and over in my head for three
months."

"You remember where we'd been a couple days before it happened?"

"Yeah. Los Angeles." All of a sudden, something clicked. "And you were
acting like you couldn't stand being here. Like you couldn't wait to
leave."

"That's the reason I was coming over to your place that night. To tell
you why."

She waited for him to go on, but he didn't. "Tell me now."

He swallowed hard, still looking down, avoiding her gaze. "It was during
the three months you were...gone. I got called out to L.A. on a case,
investigated it alone. I shouldn't have gone, though...I was strung out,
no sleep in days, feeling like shit warmed over. But I went. I had to
work. It was either that or go crazy."

"Was this the vampire case? The one up in Malibu?"

"Yeah," he said thickly. "The one in Malibu."

The scene of their wild car ride. It still didn't make sense, but she
could feel something coming, something he desperately needed to tell
her. "I...um, read your report on that case. It was in the filing
cabinet down in our office."

"This part wasn't in it." Getting up, he shoved his hands in his
pockets. "I went back to Kristen Kilar's house after the police left. I
spent the night with her."

Jealousy jetted through her, but she quickly tamped it down. She had no
right to feel this way about any liaisons he'd had in the past. "Mulder,
I'm not going to be angry or upset because you...for God's sake, it
happened over a year ago."

"I'm not finished." He pulled a chair out from the table near the wall,
slouched back in it, rubbing at his lower lip. "Kristen was into
some...strange stuff. Bloodsports, she called them. She showed me what
she meant when we..." He trailed off, finally looking at her. Right at
her. "It felt...weird, but incredible at the same time. It repulsed me
and it fascinated me and it scared me. And I was glad she died in that
fire, because if she hadn't, I would've wanted to see her again."

Her brain went numb, trying to absorb what he'd just said. There it was,
hanging out there in the air between them. The one thing he'd been
afraid to tell her until now.

It was nothing. A meaningless fling in a reckless, vulnerable moment. It
didn't matter, didn't make a difference between them. It was just
another memory they'd taken, twisted to suit their own sick purposes, to
manipulate him into doing whatever they'd wanted from him.

"I wanted to tell you before anything happened between us," he said. "I
wanted to give you a choice, let you know what you were getting into.
Looks like you got doubly screwed over in that regard."

"Nobody screwed me over, Mulder, literally or otherwise. I walked into
this with my eyes wide open. And I'd do it again."

"How can you say that? How can I not turn your stomach after what I
just--"

"That woman caught you in a time of weakness, and you did something you
regret, like we all have at one time or another. It's not like it's ever
going to happen again."

"God, you still don't understand..."

"Then make me understand," she said, coming over to him, kneeling down
in front of him, taking both his hands into hers. "I want to know all of
it."

He closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing. "Do you know what I was
dreaming about that night at Pine Barren? The night I woke up
screaming?"

The night he'd awoken in the throes of a hundred and five degree fever.
The night he'd almost died. "Tell me."

"I dreamed that we were making love, and it was beautiful and you were
beautiful...and I looked down at you and there was blood on your face
and your eyes...God, the look in your eyes, all cold and dead...I killed
you. I killed you while we were making love."

"Mulder, it was a nightmare. It's not real. It's never going to
happen--"

"How can you be sure of that? They've fucked with my mind so much I
don't even know who I am anymore."

"You've never been anything but sweet and gentle with me. I'm not
afraid." It was true, she realized. She'd been afraid before, last
night, the other night, but not now. Now she wondered how she ever could
have been.

"I am."

"You're the man I love. That's all that matters to me."

Her words hit him hard; she could see his eyes welling with fresh pain.
"You can't let it matter. Pack your bag and go to the airport. I want
you to." He pushed his way out of the chair, past her, going over to the
bedside table, to the phone. "Are you going to call, or am I?"

She scrambled to her feet, facing him down. "Damn it, Mulder, I'm tired
of you trying to protect me. I can take care of myself!"

"And I'm tired of you trying to pretend nothing's wrong. I killed a man
in cold blood, I raped that girl--"

"While you were brainwashed, drugged out of your mind. You had no idea
what you were doing. You weren't responsible."

"I was responsible. I *am* responsible."

He'd turned away from her, but she slid her hand onto his shoulder,
feeling his muscles bunch under her touch. For a moment she thought he
might try to shake her off, but he didn't. "Mulder, we can't change
what's happened in the past. All we can do is build the best possible
future for ourselves. And I can't imagine mine without you."

"Neither can I. But I'm going to have to," he said softly, facing her.
"You're a medical doctor, Scully, but you'll never work as one again as
long as you're with me. What are you going to do, wait tables, work
behind some store counter to support me? We'll be on the run constantly,
always glancing over our shoulders. That's no life for you."

"It's the life I choose," she replied, her hands slipping around his
neck, resting her forehead just under his chin, her lips pressed against
the hollow of his throat. "Ask me again in an hour or tonight or
tomorrow and I'll say the same thing."

She could feel his deep breath, the slow thump of his heart, his hands
on her back, pulling her close. "I couldn't live with myself if anything
happened to you," he whispered.

She almost told him what they both wanted to hear, that nothing was
going to happen to her, that nothing would ever happen. But she couldn't
bring herself to say the words. It would be a lie, and she didn't want
lies between them. She loved him, respected him too much for that. "I
know," she replied.

"I'd die for you."

She had an instant flash of him holding Krycek's gun to his head, poised
to pull the trigger. He'd wanted to do it. She'd seen it in his eyes. At
that moment, he'd actually wanted to end his own life. "Don't say that,
Mulder. Don't ever say that..."

"It's the truth," he said, chuckling softly. "All those years I looked
for the truth...I didn't have a damn clue, did I? I spent my whole life
looking for truth in a bed of lies. When the real truth's right here.
You."

She looked up at him, startled, unable to speak.

"You won't go, will you?" he asked, half-smiling, though the expression
didn't reach his eyes. They still shone with pain and something else,
something she'd never seen there before. "You won't get on that plane,
no matter what I say."

"Not a chance."

He bent down, kissing her gently. "Why'd I even bother asking?"

They fell back onto the bed, touching, bodies moving together, bringing
each other mind-spinning pleasure.

She lay beside him later in sweet, hazy afterglow, watching him sleep,
her heart aching. There was something she had to do, a possibility she'd
kept dismissing for the past two weeks, yet had always known somewhere
in the back of her mind that eventually it would have to come down to
this. Now she could put it off no longer.

She got dressed, slipped out of the room, down the hallway, taking the
elevator to the hotel lobby, heading straight for the pay phones,
dialing a Washington, D.C. number.

"Assistant Director Skinner's office."

"This is Agent Dana Scully. I need to speak with him."

The line clicked in five seconds later. "Skinner."

"It's me, sir."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," she replied. "Mulder's with me."

"So it's true, then."

"Yes."

"There's a warrant out for his arrest, but I'm sure you've already
surmised that. Pendrell had no choice but to bring me the DNA evidence
from the Morrell shooting. And I have a videotape here as well."

"I see."

"There's one out on you as well," he said, "for aiding and abetting. You
were seen quite clearly together on the security cameras at O'Hare and
LAX, and it was obvious you weren't with him unwillingly."

She couldn't think of any answer to that.

"Do you want to turn yourselves in?"

"No."

"Then why are you calling?"

It was bad, but no worse than she'd expected. Still, she wondered if she
dared. Skinner had put himself on the line for them before, but this was
pushing it.

"I need a favor, sir," she said finally. "I need your help."

*   *   *

He was sitting there in the coffee shop when she walked in early the
next morning, two booths down. She walked over, sat down, folding her
arms on the table. "Thank you for coming, sir. I appreciate it."

He rubbed at his eyes, reddened, bleary-looking. "Let me make one thing
clear. I'm not here in my official capacity, which should give you some
measure of relief, especially after what you told me on the phone. But
if you think you're going to jerk me around, think again. I don't suffer
being played gladly."

"That was never my intention, sir."

They said nothing more to each other until the waitress swung by, taking
their orders for coffee, pouring them two steaming cups.

"Where's Mulder?" Skinner asked finally.

"Sleeping." She'd left word with the front desk to flash the message
light on their phone when Skinner came in. It had flashed half an hour
ago. Five a.m.

"Does he know about this?"

"No."

"You think that's wise?"

"I'll tell him later. By then it won't matter anymore."
He pushed himself back against the booth cushions, looking at her long
and hard. "There's nothing I can say to make you reconsider?"

"No. Nothing." She glanced out the window, at the lightening sky, then
back at him.

"You're a good agent, Scully. Mulder too. Losing both of you like
this...it's a blow. Your presence will be missed. Is missed."

"Thank you, sir. But it's not like we've got much of an alternative."

"You do. I'll pull any strings I have to to get the charges dropped, get
you reinstated..."

"I'm not coming back, sir. I can't, not without Mulder. And I think we
both know how impossible that is." She stared down into her coffee,
watching the cream spiraling all white and spidery in its center. "How
soon do you think you can get in touch with him?"

"I've already paged him. He should be returning my call anytime."

"You'll let me know, then?" she asked, sliding to the edge of the booth.
Mulder would be waking up soon. She had to get back to the room before
he did.

"As soon as I do."

She got up, sprinted back to the room, relieved to find the light still
out, Mulder still snoring softly when she came back in. She sat down in
the chair near the door, staring into the dark. God, she hoped she was
doing the right thing.

It was right, it had to be. It was the only thing she could think to do.
The only thing that might turn the tide for them.

She just prayed he wouldn't hate her for it.

*   *   *

She got the call an hour and a half later, while Mulder was still in the
shower. She drummed her fingers on the edge of the bedside table while
she waited for him to come out, her nerves working overtime.

He wrinkled his nose when she said she wanted to go to the coffee shop
for breakfast again, then just shrugged and took her hand, grinning as
they walked down the hall to the elevator.

They sat in the same booth she'd sat in earlier with Skinner, and she
made sure she sat facing the door. When the time came, she intended to
be prepared.

She didn't have long to wait. She knew who he was the instant he walked
in, even though she'd never met or even seen him before. Tall, gaunt,
dark-haired, late forties. Eyes that had seen everything. Face
deep-lined and craggy, as if experience had engraved itself in flesh.
Still, she sensed kindness, decency, compassion in this face. The face
of a friend. An ally.

Mulder froze, jaw dropping when he finally saw the man sidling up to
their table. "Frank Black? What the hell're you doing in L.A.?"

"Just passing through on business. Mind if I sit?"

He slid over, shock still written fresh and large on his features. "It's
been a long time, Frank. At least four years."

"Five. Violent Crimes suffered quite a loss when you left."

He paled, a new thought suddenly occurring. "You here to bring me in?"

"No," Black replied. "I don't even work for the Bureau anymore. I left
months ago."

"Well, you'll...um, forgive the observation, but this doesn't feel like
a coincidence."

"It isn't." Turning to her, he stretched one hand across the table.
"Dana Scully, right? Your reputation precedes you."

For some reason, his remark made her smile. "I don't think I want to
know what that means."

"Nothing you need worry about." To her surprise, she actually saw a
flash of warmth in the man's dark, intense eyes. "An old contact at the
Bureau filled me in on your situation. I'm here to offer my help."

It took a few seconds for that to sink in, but when it did, Mulder's
glance bounced to her, then back to Black. She could see his jaw going
tight, a flicker of anger behind his eyes that sent nausea curling in
her stomach. "You might want to rethink that, Frank. We're not exactly
on good terms with the law enforcement community right now."

"I'm currently working with an organization called the Millennium Group.
We're not a law enforcement agency, though we do work closely with them
at times. I think the kind of work we do would interest you. Someone
with your profiling talents would be a great asset to us, as would a
pathologist of our own on staff. I'm not making this offer out of pity
or altruism, Mulder. We need people like you. And we're more than
willing to go out on a limb to get you, if that's what it takes."

"Yeah, well, be ready to hit the ground with a crash. You've got no idea
what you're getting into here."

"But I do. I know exactly what's happened to both of you."

It was true, she realized. Skinner'd told him everything -- well,
everything she'd told him, at least. And Black had come anyway.

Black sat back, studying her intently. Somehow she sensed he knew how
much this had cost her, how much it was tearing her up inside even now.
"We can offer you protection -- identity changes, relocation. Our base
of operations is Seattle, but we have agents in all the major cities.
Within reason, you can live wherever you'd like."

Mulder stared out the window, finally looking back at him, chuckling
ruefully. "This just sounds a little too good to be true."

"It isn't. You'll work for it, believe me. Maybe even harder than you
ever did at the Bureau." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a plain
white card, scribbled on it. "Here's the number of the hotel where I'll
be staying until tomorrow morning, as well as my cell number. Give me a
call when you make your decision."

Mulder didn't look at her again until Black was up from their table and
out the door. Then he just stared at her, the look on his face like
storm clouds before a hurricane.

"You bitch," he muttered, his voice flat, toneless. "You fucking bitch."
And he was out of the booth and halfway to the door, not even looking to
see if she was following.

But she was, running to keep up with him, taking the stairs up to their
room when he let the elevator doors close on her. She hit the room about
ten seconds after he did, catching the door just in time to keep it from
smacking her in the face.

He didn't turn to face her when she came in, even though she knew he
must have heard her. He just stood there, hands on his hips, shoulders
heaving with deep breaths.

"Mulder, you have to understand--"

"Oh, I understand, all right. You called Skinner. You went behind my
back and called Skinner."

"How could you know..?"

"Come on, Scully, how stupid do you think I am? We both know who Black's
Bureau contact is. He and Skinner were partners fifteen years ago."

"Mulder, I had to. There was nothing else I could do."

He swung around at that, coming toward her, stopping so close she could
feel his breath warm on her face. "What the hell were you thinking?
Didn't it ever occur to you that he could have just as easily had us
carted away in cuffs and leg shackles? He still could."

"Skinner would never do that, and you know it. Not after all the times
he's pulled your ass out of the fire."

"Yeah, well, there are limits to everything, and I think we may have
just reached ours." Sighing, he dropped onto the edge of the bed.
"Skinner took a bullet for Black a long time ago. It's a debt Black's
always felt he could never repay. That's the only reason he's here."

"Not the only reason," she said, sitting down next to him. "Skinner
believes in your innocence, so does Black. I could tell by the way he
talked."

"I'm not innocent, Scully," he said, laughing grimly. "Not by any
stretch of the imagination."

"All right...they believe in your blamelessness, then..."

"Not that either."

"They want to help. Let them."

"I don't think I can. I don't think they can."

She couldn't stand it -- the pain in his eyes, in the way he sat,
shoulders slumped, like five tons were resting on them. "Mulder, you're
going to have to learn to forgive yourself for what's happened. You'll
go crazy if you don't."

"You mean I haven't already?" He looked up finally, reaching over to
stroke her cheek. "I'm sorry about what I called you. But I don't think
I can do this."

"Not even for me?"

He didn't say anything right away, just stared down at his hands again.
"You sure this is what you want?"

"It's a chance, Mulder. New life, new city, new work. Good work. I've
got a feeling this could be the best thing we ever do. Even better than
the X-Files."

"Okay," he whispered, kissing her softly. "For you." Fumbling in his
pocket, he pulled out Black's card, picked up the phone and dialed.
"Frank, it's Mulder. We need to talk."

Black appeared at their door twenty minutes later. "Good news?"

"We're going to take you up on your offer," Mulder said, offering Black
a chair, "but I want a few things straight first."

"Let's hear it."

"Scully and I work together, and only together, or no deal." She gasped
a little when she heard this, but voiced no other protest. She supposed
she should have realized he'd ask for such a consideration.

"I don't foresee any problems with that. I've got a couple other people
I'll have to run it past, though."

"Fine. I also want you to get with Skinner, see that any criminal
charges against Scully are dropped."

"I don't know if I can--"

"It's not a negotiable point. Come through or I walk right now."

That was it. She couldn't sit still anymore, not for this. "Mulder, stop
it. You can't make him do the impossible."

"And I want you to arrange for our new identities as husband and wife."

All the breath suddenly went rushing out of her lungs, her heart
freezing in her chest. He couldn't have said what she thought he just
said. He just couldn't.

Black's eyes widened. "Anything else?"

"No, I think that'll cover it," Mulder replied, half-smiling.

"Looks like my work's stamped out in concrete," Black said, rising. "I
should be able to give you an answer by tonight. Will that be
acceptable?"

"Sounds good to me."

Her heart still hadn't restarted even when Mulder turned back to her
after seeing Black out the door. "Mulder, you didn't really mean that,
did you?"

"What do you think?" he replied, kneeling down before her, looking at
her for long, silent moments.

It was all there, right there in his eyes, those intense hazel eyes that
could see all the way down into her soul. Everything she'd ever wanted,
ever dreamed of. More than she'd ever let herself hope for. She felt
something warm  and wet on her face, reached up to wipe it away.

"If we're going to do this, we may as well do it right," he said, taking
her hand, lacing their fingers together. "I want us to be married,
Scully. Will you?"

"Mulder...I don't know what to say..."

"Say yes. Please."

She stared down at their clasped hands, their wrists pressed together,
felt his pulse beating there, strong, jerky, nervous. God, he wasn't
sure, she realized. He wasn't sure she'd accept him.

"Yes," she whispered. "I want it too. I want us to be together."

He kissed her then, long, slow and sweet, pushing her gently back onto
the bed. "Want a preview of the honeymoon?"

"Isn't that what we've been doing for the last two weeks?"

He groaned, then laughed, kissing her again. "Let's leave out the
near-death experience this time, okay?"

"Hmmm...guess that means there's only so much fun we can have."

"Scully..."

"What?"

"Shut up and make love to me."




"The Bright White Place," MSR, NC-17
Part 18/19
Disclaimers attached to Part 1
*   *   *

She leaned against the porch railing and closed her eyes, listening to
the soft patter of rain on the roof, sipping her coffee. The air
feathered her skin, breezy but not biting. Hard to believe Thanksgiving
had been only last week.

Hard to believe they were married eight months tomorrow. The time had
gone by so fast, what with moving and getting settled in their new jobs.
Still, it felt good. For the first time she could remember, everything
felt good. Right. Complete.

They'd come back to Seattle with Frank the day after Mulder had proposed
to her, and were married the following Sunday in a tiny Roman Catholic
chapel downtown. She'd been so incredibly touched that Mulder had cared
enough to arrange for them to be married in her own faith.

She wasn't quite sure how he'd arranged for their marriage license and
certificate to be in their real names, but somehow he or Frank had.
Apparently the Millennium Group had friends in intriguing places.

William and Katherine Miller. Their new names. Plain, utterly ordinary,
nondescript. Pretty damned hard to forget, though even now she sometimes
came close to tripping up in public and calling him Mulder.

But she still called him that in private, and he still called her
Scully. She'd bet they were the only married couple in the world who
called each other by their last names, but when they lay together in
those dark early morning hours, it seemed more intimate than a thousand
kisses, soft and secret.

They'd decided to remain in Seattle for the time being, finding a house
for rent only a few blocks away from where Frank and his family lived.
It was cozy but spacious enough for the two of them, with three bedrooms
upstairs, two of which they'd converted into offices, a good sized
bathroom, the kitchen and living room downstairs. And a porch. A back
porch. Her favorite spot in the whole house. Her place.

Sometimes she'd come out here and just stand and watch the rain like she
was doing now, and sometimes she'd bring a chair and a book and sit and
enjoy the quiet. It had been so long since she'd had any quiet in her
life, she intended to savor every moment of it.

Some days were not so quiet. Some days reminded her too much of the time
she and Mulder had worked on the X-Files, traveling all over, seeing the
insides of their respective apartments maybe once a week.

Some days were draining, mind-numbing in their sheer horror, more than
rivaling any day they'd spent on the job with the Bureau. But it was all
worthwhile, the work, the people they worked with. Mulder was happier
now, she could sense it. For the first time she could remember his
theories were given serious consideration, instead of being ridiculed,
dismissed out of hand. The Group was definitely more broadminded, less
concerned with structure and protocol than the Bureau; Mulder had
finally found his niche here. And to her surprise, so had she.

Everything seemed fine. Was fine, she amended silently. He still had
nightmares, but they were growing more infrequent as time wore on. And
to her infinite relief, he hadn't had one of those weird, trance-like
blackouts since the chip was removed from his neck. Apparently the thing
had been some sort of control device as well as a thought recorder. That
was her theory, at least. She had no idea what his was, if any. He still
didn't want to talk about it.

There were a lot of things they hadn't talked about, but maybe it was
better that way. Better to just take each day as it came, get on with
living their lives. Everything else would take care of itself in time.

She heard the phone's distant ring, but didn't move to answer it. Mulder
was in his office, and it was probably for him anyway.

The screen door snicked open behind her a few minutes later. She didn't
have to turn around to know he was there. His arms went around her waist
and she relaxed against him, his lips close to her ear, bestowing a
light kiss.

"That was Peter Watts," he whispered. "They've got a job for us."

"Where?"

"Phoenix. Our flight leaves in two hours."

Two hours. Barely enough time to pack and get to the airport. Sighing,
she said, "okay. Guess we'd better get ready."

"You don't want to go, do you?"

"It's not...well, it would be nice if we didn't have to go jetting out
of here every few days."

"If you want to take some time off, I can ask Watts."

"I can ask Watts too. You don't need to do everything for me."

"Scully, all I meant was--"

She turned in the circle of his arms, facing him, one finger placed over
his mouth. "I know what you meant, and it's okay. I guess I can't cure
you of all your bad habits."

"Wanting to make sure you're happy is a bad habit?"

She almost said something, but stopped herself in time. All he wanted
was to show her how much he loved her, but sometimes she found his
attentiveness a little smothering. But whenever she pointed it out to
him, he acted hurt, defensive. Better not to mention it at all. It
didn't matter that much anyway. She put her cheek against his, stroking
his hair. He was wearing it short again, though not as short as when
he'd been with the Bureau. She liked the way it curled softly against
his ears and collar. "Let's go pack. Phoenix awaits."

The flight was uneventful, even boring. They'd never been to Phoenix
before, not even during their time with the Bureau, she realized, gazing
out the plane window at the city sprawled beneath them. The Group had
always taken great care in screening their prospective assignments,
never sending them anywhere they might be recognized. Unfortunately,
that left out quite a few other cities. San Francisco, Los Angeles. D.C.

She could never go there again. She couldn't call anyone there except
for Skinner, and even then it had been agreed that Frank would have to
make initial contact with him. Anything else was still too dangerous.

She hadn't spoken with her mother in over eight months. Mom didn't know
she and Mulder were married. She probably didn't even think they were
still alive. Maybe someday, in two years or three or five, it would
finally be safe. Maybe someday she'd be able to pick up the phone and
ease her mother's mind. Someday. But not now.

Mulder's cell phone rang when they were standing at the car rental
counter. He answered it, made a few monosyllabic replies, then hung up.

"They've already taken the body to the medical examiner's office. I'll
drop you there and go out to the crime scene by myself."

"Are you sure? I don't mind coming with you."

"Yeah, I'm sure," he said tightly, opening the car door, climbing in.
"Might as well get this over with as quickly as we can."

"Mulder, there's no need to rush on my account. We owe the Group a good
job on this."

"I know." Sighing, he rubbed at his eyes, started the car. "Guess I
didn't realize how much I really don't want this assignment either. I
think I'll feel a lot better once we're home again."

They didn't talk anymore on the short ride to the coroner's office,
though his sweet grin at her goodbye kiss gave her heart a lift.

The coroner's assistant showed her into the scrub room, where she washed
up, changing into a pale green smock. The body was lying on the metal
table, still in its shiny black bag when she entered the autopsy room.
For one brief moment she flashed back to almost a year ago, to the time
she'd walked into another autopsy room in the Hoover Building basement,
expecting to see Mulder lying there cold and dead and unmoving, his
heart and mind silenced forever.

No point in dwelling on that, she thought, reaching for the zipper. What
was in the past should stay there.

The smell stung her nostrils like ammonia, thick, pungent, metallic.
Then she saw the wounds, crude gouges crusted over with blood and skin
fluids, all over the victim's arms, legs, torso, and face.

The face of a child. A little girl.

She sucked in a deep breath, looking away for a moment. God, the poor
thing couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve years old.

She swallowed hard, peeling back the rest of the bag, acid churning in
the pit of her belly. She and Mulder had seen some fairly horrific
things in their work together, and she'd thought that and her medical
training had prepared her for anything. But even she had a problem
stomaching such unspeakable violence toward a child. Something inside
her wanted to find whoever'd done this and nail him up to a wall.
Without anesthetic.

She was almost finished when the door banged open and Mulder came
storming in, throwing a sheaf of papers onto the side table. "This whole
fucking trip was for nothing," he spat. "Jesus Christ, I can't believe
it!"

"Believe what?"

"We got a confession. It was her father," he said, dropping into a
chair, slouching forward, elbows on his knees, mouth pressed to his
fists. "Her fucking father did this to her."

"Oh, my God..." she breathed, the depth of her own shock surprising her.
This was beyond horror, beyond crime. It was abomination.

"He'd been abusing her for years, but last night he went a little too
far. Was cause of death strangulation?"

"Yeah." Her gaze lingered on the bruises encircling the victim's throat,
the hematoma on her left cheek, right next to the symbol carved in her
skin. "But why would he..."

"What?"

"Come here a minute."

He hesitated, then got up, coming over to the table. The sight of the
body hit him hard, making him flinch. "If you're wondering about the
marks, they're pentagrams. The bastard saw some tabloid show about
Satanic cults in Texas and thought he'd make this look similar, divert
suspicion away from himself. That's why they called us out here.
*Jesus.*"

She gave the body a long last look, then pulled the bag up around it,
rezipping it. "Just give me a minute to finish dictating my notes, then
we'll go, okay?"

He nodded, sitting back down, burying his face in his hands.

It was dark by the time they finally trudged back out to the car, the
air brisk and stinging. Hard to believe they were in the middle of the
desert.

"Why don't we just grab dinner and a hotel," he suggested, stifling a
yawn. "We'll fly home first thing tomorrow, I promise. But right now I
can barely keep my eyes open."

"Yeah, okay. Sounds good."

They ate at a quiet Tex-Mex place a few blocks down, then checked into a
Sheraton near the airport. Mulder pulled off his shoes and suit jacket
and did a backflop onto the bed, letting out a relieved groan. "God, I
feel like I could sleep a whole fucking week..."

"Well, I'll let you get started while I take a shower, then."

"Mmmm...okay, fine..."

The bathroom almost blinded her when she flicked on the light switch,
all white tile with shiny chrome highlights. Stripping gratefully, she
turned on the water as hot as she could get it and stepped under the
spray. If there was ever a day she needed to wash away, it was this one.

She suddenly felt a whoosh of cooler air and turned around to see Mulder
climbing in after her, throwing his head back, letting the water sluice
over him. "I thought you were tired."

"Changed my mind," he muttered, coming up behind her, his arms going
around her waist, his hands moving upward, flicking her nipples with his
thumbs. They pebbled, tightened instantly, as they always did whenever
he touched her; it had become reflex, her body's learned response.

They stood there a long time, her back pressed to his front, skin
sliding slick and sensuous, a familiar warmth pooling between her
thighs, curling deep in her belly. She could feel his erection rubbing
her, teasing her at the small of her back, the crevice of her bottom.

He turned her around to face him, pushing her against the smooth tile,
lifting her, pulling her legs up around his waist--

And he was inside her in one deep stroke, burying himself in her, his
face against her throat, her shoulder, gasping, groaning--

All she could do was wrap her arms around him and hold on, riding it out
with him, stroking his back as he pounded into her, wild, desperate,
hard and fast--

Too hard, too fast. Her final swirl of impending orgasm flickered and
died, a moan of disappointment floating to her lips--

And his mouth suddenly closed over hers, his tongue thrusting inside,
invading, grinding--

He shoved himself into her again, once, twice, so deep she thought he'd
tear her apart, groaning low in his throat--

And he stopped moving, leaning into her, his breath hot and rapid,
burning her skin. Then, with a quick kiss, he withdrew from her and was
gone, leaving her alone in the shower.

She didn't know how long it was before she finally made herself move
again, but the water was getting chilly. She felt something warm and
crawly between her thighs, realized with a sudden shock that it was his
semen. He hadn't worn a condom this time.

She flicked off the water, stepping back out into the steamy room, anger
twisting its way through her, dying a quick death. It wasn't all his
fault; they'd packed in such a hurry today she'd probably forgotten to
put some in her overnight case.

Still, he could've shown a little more consideration. He'd never treated
her like that during sex before. She couldn't understand it.

He was sitting at the table across the room when she came out of the
bathroom, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, hunched over his laptop. He
didn't glance up from the screen even when she pulled out a chair, sat
down across from him. "Mulder, why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Come on, you don't need me to spell it out for you."

"What, did they suddenly declare it against the law for me to make love
to my wife?"

"You can call it making love, but I don't. It was as if...I don't know,
as if you'd turned into somebody else. I didn't like it." He still
wasn't looking at her; she was starting to get irritated. "Look, I know
some women enjoy rough sex, but I don't."

His head finally snapped up. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. I'm just trying to tell you something I thought you already
knew, but apparently--"

"I've got a report to finish here. Could we talk about this some other
time? I'm not in the mood for deep relationship stuff right now."

She stared back at him, hoping all her stunned, hurt anger showed in her
expression. "Fine. Finish your damn report. I'm going to bed."

The stony silence between them continued all the way home on the plane
the next day. She was never more grateful in her life than when she
stepped through the front door, letting her suitcase slide to the floor.
Home again, hopefully to stay a few days, at least.
Maybe it'd even be enough time for the hell they'd just been through to
fade into the background.

But it appeared she'd have to be the one to make the first move. He
didn't say anything after he came through the door, just picked up both
their suitcases and took them upstairs. Sighing, she went to the
kitchen, putting on a pot of coffee, listening to his faint footsteps in
the room above her. After a few minutes she couldn't hear anything; he
must've gone into his office to work.

Leaving the coffee to perk, she went up to change into casual clothes
and wash her face. It was such a relief to rinse the grime of travel off
her. Her skin felt so dry and tight it hurt.

But she felt tight all over, she realized, padding downstairs in her
slippers. Inside and out. She didn't like being angry with Mulder,
didn't like holding all her feelings in. He was her husband. She wanted
to be able to tell him anything, everything. She wanted there to be
nothing hidden, no walls between them. But there were walls, and she had
no idea how to begin breaking them down.

The message light on their answering machine flashed once, twice, three,
four times. For a moment she was sorely tempted to let it go until she'd
had a chance to relax, then sighed and reached for a notepad. They might
be important.

One message from their landlord about the repairs to the carport, one
from Frank, two from Watts. She frowned; Watts didn't usually call more
than once, even if it was urgent, and his tone sounded a bit strange,
upset. That wasn't like him at all.

She dialed his number, got his machine, left a return message. If it was
really that crucial, he'd call back.

She was just punching in Frank's number when a knock came at the door.
She could see a tall dark figure through the beveled window and knew
immediately who it was.

"Frank," she said with a genuine smile, "talk about coincidence. I was
just trying to call you."

"Is Mulder here?" he asked abruptly.

"Yeah, he's upstairs. You need to talk to him?"

"I think I need to talk to you first."

The look on his face sent a chill dancing down her spine, and she
ushered him into the kitchen. Mulder wouldn't hear them in there. "How
did you even know we were home? We just got in a few minutes ago."

"I was driving by, saw your car," he replied, refusing her offer of
coffee with a gesture. "Watts asked me to come over. He had a rather
disturbing phone call from Phoenix P.D. last night."

"About?"

"You mean you don't already know?"

"Know what?"

"There was a problem with Mulder at the crime scene yesterday. He took a
swing at one of the police detectives."

"What? *Why*?"

"Apparently because the guy called him Bill."

It was on the end of her tongue to ask if he was kidding, but she had
never known Frank Black to joke about anything. "I...I didn't go out to
the crime scene with him, Frank. I mean, I knew this case had him pretty
shaken up, but...he never mentioned the incident to me. Not a word."

"Maybe I should talk to him now. Before Watts does."

They went upstairs, padding down the hall to Mulder's office. But the
door was closed, locked from the inside. "Mulder, Frank's here. He needs
to see you."

No answer.

"Come on, Mulder, open the door," she said. "This isn't funny."

"...leave me alone...I'm busy..."

But he didn't sound busy. He sounded muffled, thick-voiced, desperate,
like he'd been crying. Like he was still crying.

Then she heard a tell-tale click. A nine-millimeter click.

Her eyes locked on Frank's for a second, and she darted into the
bedroom, yanking open the drawer where they kept their guns when they
weren't on assignment. Mulder's was missing.

Frank looked down into the drawer, then back at her. "Where's the key to
his office?"

"He's got the only one in there with him."

"I'd better call Catherine," he said, reaching for the phone.

She arrived five minutes later, long auburn curls flowing behind her as
she took the stairs two at a time, listening intently to what Frank told
her, heading right for Mulder's office door. "Mulder, it's Catherine
Black. What're you doing in there?"

"Nothing..." His voice was thin, raspy now, worn away by sobbing.

"Well, Frank and Dana are here with me, and they're a little concerned
about you. We'd all feel better if you'd open the door."

"...don't want to..."

"Why don't you want to?"

"Gotta finish it...gotta do it now...before I lose my nerve..."

Catherine's gaze flicked to Frank, then to her, then back to the door.
"What do you have to finish, Mulder? Can you tell me?"

"Gotta make her free...she can't stay with me...I'm destroying it all
for her...ruining everything..."

"Who're you talking about? Dana?"

"Yeah..."

"But I don't think Dana feels that way," Catherine said, shooting her a
pointed glance, waving her over. "She doesn't think you're destroying it
all for her. Do you, Dana?"

"Of course I don't," she replied, coming up to the door, standing right
next to Catherine, pressing her hands against the wood, as if willing
him to feel her presence through it. "Mulder, open the door. I want to
talk to you."

"...I hurt you...Jesus, all I ever do is hurt you...can't let myself do
it again...have to end the hurting, end it now..."

God, he was talking about Phoenix. About them together in the shower.
"You didn't hurt me, Mulder," she whispered softly, desperately, her
own voice almost gone. "You could never hurt me. I know that. I've
always known that. You love me too much. So show me how much. Open the
door."

No answer.

Then she heard a soft sob, and the sound of him getting up out of his
chair. Then the knob rattled, the door finally swinging inward.

He was standing there, just standing there staring into empty space,
mouth hanging slightly open, gun dangling from his right hand. She
reached over, took it from him with no problem, her fingers barely
brushing his.

Then he looked at her, right at her, and collapsed back into the chair,
his arm going around her waist, pulling her close, burying his face
against her belly. He started to shake, and she knew he was crying
again, though he made no sound. There was no sound left in him.

"It's okay," she whispered, stroking his hair, handing his gun to Frank.
"Everything's going to be okay..." It was a lie, but this time she
didn't care. It was a lie he needed to hear.

They finally got him calmed down enough to come downstairs, where he sat
in the living room alone with Catherine, talking softly.

She and Frank sat at the kitchen table over cold coffee, waiting.

Finally Catherine came in, concern lining her forehead. "He's taking a
nap on the couch," she said, sitting down next to Frank. "But he's still
very confused. He talked to me about Phoenix, but I'm not sure he really
understands what happened there. He keeps making references to the
murder victim, then to another little girl he calls Samantha, but I get
the feeling he thinks they're the same person."

"Maybe in his mind, they are," Frank said, glancing at Catherine, then
back at her. "Maybe he's finally remembering."

"Remembering what?" Catherine asked. "I don't understand."

Between she and Frank, they filled her in as quickly and concisely as
they could. Finally Catherine sat back with a deep sigh, rubbing her
eyes. "No wonder he lost it when that cop called him Bill. His father's
name. The abuse, the experiments. It's all coming back to him."

"He's been trying to remember for a long time. This trip to Phoenix was
just the catalyst," Frank added.

"He needs to remember the rest of it, Dana," Catherine said softly. "If
he doesn't, what happened today will most probably happen again. And
next time there might not be anyone here to talk him out of it."

She closed her eyes, sucking in a shaky breath. She knew exactly what
Catherine meant. Regression hypnotherapy. Taking him back to the time of
the abuse, the experiments, making him relive it all. Finally finding
out the truth of what had happened to him as a child.

"Can you do it?" she asked Catherine. "Can you take him through?"

"I'm not trained in regression techniques, but I know several reputable
therapists who are. I'd be glad to contact one for you."

"How soon?"

"I'll see if I can get someone to come here tonight. Will that be okay?"

She nodded numbly, sipping at her cup, feeling the liquid slither down
her throat, pooling in her stomach, cold and acid. "Yeah. That'll be
fine."

Catherine stayed the rest of the afternoon, while Frank went home to fix
dinner for their daughter Jordan, promising to get a babysitter and be
back in time for the session that evening.

She went up to the bedroom, lay down on the bed, the bed she and Mulder
shared as husband and wife, drawing her knees up to her chest. She
didn't want this evening to come. She was afraid. But not for Mulder.
For herself.

She wasn't sure she was ready to hear the truth.
 

 


Title: NEW: "The Bright White Place," 19/19
Author: Nancy Nivling <dnivling@redshift.com>
Date: Sun, 09 May 1999 17:23:05 +0000





"The Bright White Place," MSR, NC-17
Part 19/19
Disclaimers attached to Part 1
*   *   *

The hypnotherapist was a small woman in her mid-fifties, with iron-gray
hair and a gentle, reassuring voice. Scully felt herself starting to
relax after a few minutes in her presence. Maybe this wouldn't be such
an awful experience after all.

Mulder seemed more dazed than nervous, a distant look in his eyes as he
sat down on the couch in the light-dimmed living room, hands folded
loosely in his lap. His head fell forward slightly, eyelids  drooping as
the therapist spoke to him in a quiet, steady tone, easing him into a
deep trance.

"I want you to go back, Fox," she murmured, leaning forward so he could
hear her more clearly, "I want you to go back a long time, to a time
from your childhood, the summer of 1973. July. The summer your father
took you away on vacation. Can you remember?"

Scully gasped when his head suddenly jerked up, like a puppet whose
strings were being yanked too hard, though his eyes remained
half-closed. She would've jumped up to go to him if not for the gentle
feel of Catherine's hand closing over hers, calming her without words.

"...I...want to remember...want to so bad..." he whispered.

"There will be barriers, Fox," the therapist said. "I'll help you past
them. But you have to help me. You have to try."

"...it hurts...hurts to remember..."

"Your father took you away. Where did he take you?"

"...we, um...got in the car...it was Sunday morning...he told me, told
Mom we were going to Rhode Island...but he wasn't going the right
way...I said something about it and he...he hit me..." His voice
cracked, broke for a moment. But only a moment. "...he told me to shut
up, so I did...we drove a long time...until we got to this house, this
big house with a gate out in front...we drove in and got out..."

He sounded different now, smaller, lighter. Like he was changing.
Changing back into that frightened twelve-year-old boy. It was working,
she realized, relief and anxiety mingling, warring for dominance inside
her. The hypnosis was working. He was remembering.

"Then what happened?"

"...he took me into the house, all the way to the back...to this huge
white room...this bright white place...and there were other men there,
one man I recognized, one of Dad's friends, used to come to the house
all the time...always had a cigarette in his mouth..."

"Did you see anyone else you recognized? Anyone who looked familiar to
you?"

"...there was another man, wearing a white coat, a doctor's coat, and he
was over in a corner standing next to this table, this flat
table...and...and he stepped back and I saw her...I saw my
sister...Samantha...but I...don't know how she got here...she was at
home with Mom when we left..." He shook his head, one hand coming up to
rub back his hair. "...I don't want to do this anymore...it hurts..."

"We're almost there, Fox. Come on, come the rest of the way with me. I
know you can do it. Tell me what happened next."

"...they had her strapped down to the table...she was crying, so
scared... and when she saw me she started crying even more, calling to
me, saying 'Fox, Fox, help me, they're hurting me, they're hurting me so
bad'...I tried to go to her, help her...but I couldn't...my father was
holding me back...I twisted around, bit him on the hand...and his blood,
I tasted his blood...like a mouthful of new pennies..." His voice
caught, almost turning into a sob. "...I hurt him, and I was glad I hurt
him...I wanted to do it again..."

Scully hung her head, staring at her hand, still clasped in Catherine's.
She couldn't watch, couldn't listen to this anymore. She wanted it over,
forgotten. She couldn't bear seeing him in such pain, hated herself for
bringing this on him. All he'd ever had in his life was pain. No more.
Not because of her.

"Tell me the rest, Fox," the therapist said. "We're almost at the end
now."

"...the doctor...he had this long needle and he stuck it in her arm...in
Samantha's arm...and...and she started screaming...screaming like it was
burning her...and then she stopped screaming but her eyes...her eyes
were still open, but she...she wasn't there anymore...I thought she was
dead and I started crying...and my father slapped me and dragged me over
to this other table and they...they strapped me down and the doctor came
over and he stuck the needle in my arm...and it...God, it hurt so
bad...like acid in my veins, eating away my brain...and I couldn't
remember anything...nothing but what the doctor told me, what they
wanted me to remember..." He moaned, letting his head loll back against
the couch cushions. "...that's all...I can't talk anymore...so tired..."

"It's all right, Fox. We're done," the therapist said. "I'm going to
bring you out now, and when you wake up, you'll remember everything you
told us. But it'll be just another memory. It can't and won't hurt you."

She wasn't sure what she would see when he opened his eyes again,
looking straight across the room. Right at her. "Scully," he murmured,
holding out his hand. She was at his side two seconds later, her wet
face buried in the hollow of his throat, kissing him, feeling his arms
go around her, looking up into his eyes.

Those stormy, intense hazel eyes, now calm and gentle. Released from
agony, from turmoil. Finally at peace.

"It happened," he said. "It all really happened...to her and to me..."

"Yes," she replied, not knowing what else to say. Maybe there was
nothing else.

"I wasn't sure until now. I wasn't sure of anything until now..."

She didn't know how long they stayed there on the couch, but when she
looked up next Frank and Catherine and the therapist were gone, and the
clock on the far wall read twenty minutes to midnight. Rising, she led
him upstairs without a word, up to their bedroom.

They lay together, holding each other in sweet silence for a long time
before he spoke again.

"My mother lied to you," he whispered. "I can't believe it...that she'd
be a willing part of this..."

"Maybe she wasn't willing. Maybe they took Samantha's memory from her,
just like they took my memories of my abduction from me. We can't be
sure."

"Samantha's out there somewhere, Scully. She's alive, she has to be,
maybe even locked up in some mental hospital. And she's probably got no
more idea what's happened to her than I did."

"You want to find her?"

"I have to try. I owe her that much."

She wasn't the least bit surprised. He'd been searching for her so long,
he couldn't stop now. And she wasn't about to try to dissuade him. She
knew better than that. "I'm with you, Mulder. Wherever you want to go,
for as long as it takes to get there."

She heard his throaty chuckle, felt his fingers touching, stroking her
hair. "How'd I get lucky enough to find you?"

"Not luck. A miracle. Just like me finding you."

"Yeah," he whispered, kissing her softly, deeply, "a miracle."

Rolling onto his back, he pulled her along with him, letting her
straddle him, lie flat on top of him, tugging her up a little so that
her breasts hovered above his mouth, flicking at her nipples with the
tip of his tongue. She moaned, throwing her head back, seeing him grin
up at her, happy for her pleasure. She could feel his erection rising,
trapped between them, and she rotated her hips slowly, sinuously,
rubbing her belly against him, giving him a taste of his own torture.

"I give up," he groaned, letting his hands drop, falling back against
the pillow. "Do your worst. I'm too tired to stop you tonight anyway."

"Hmmm...feels like at least one part of you's not too tired."

"Scully..."

She laughed in delight, gazing down at him, right into his eyes. She
knew what he meant; she always did, but tonight was something special.
Something she'd wanted for months. A gift, cherished, secret, intimate.
A gift he was no longer afraid to give her.

He lay perfectly still as she rained soft kisses on his face, his mouth,
his throat, tracing a languid, wet line all the way down to his chest.
Her hips lifted up slightly as she did so, and he gasped as the cool air
wafted over his erection, as she took him in her hand, touching,
caressing, stroking.

She'd wanted to prolong this as much as she could, but the pained look
on his face, his rapid, jerky breathing told her he wasn't going to
last. It aroused her even more, knowing he wanted her so much he could
barely control himself, yet at the same time trusted her enough to give
that control over into her hands.

She reached over into the bedside table for a shiny silver packet and
gently rolled the condom on him, her heart skipping at his slow hiss of
breath. Then she shifted backward, lifting herself up, guiding him into
her, both of them moaning as she sank down on him, taking him as far
within her as he would go. God, he felt so good, filling her, stretching
her, making her whole again...

She felt his hands at her breasts, her back, steadying her, showing her
how he wanted her, how much he wanted her...

They moved together, slow like honey, liquid and golden, the tiny
ripples of pleasure inside her growing gradually stronger, deeper,
pulling, pulsating all the way to her core--

And he grabbed hold of her waist with both hands, plunging upward one
last time, finishing it for both of them at once.

She rolled off him, onto her side, his arm enveloping her, pulling her
close against his own moist skin.

It felt like the first time. Their first time with no secrets between
them, known or unknown.

Everything was new again, fresh, untouched. Days, years stretched out in
front of them. Time for work.

Time for love. Time to be together.

For the first time in nearly a year, she had no doubts. No fears.
Everything was going to be okay.

And this time she actually believed it.
                              
*   *   *

He could see her through the screen door. She was out on the porch
again, sipping coffee, watching the rain.

She looked relaxed. Happy. Of course, the two weeks they'd taken off had
probably helped. Anything to put that beautiful smile back on her face
and keep it there. He hoped he was up to the job.

He went out to her, wrapping both arms around her from behind. It had
become second nature to him, holding her like this, burying his face in
her hair's cinnamon satin, reveling in her light, sweet scent, the silky
feel of her skin.

"Sometimes I wonder..."

"What?" she prompted.

"If this isn't all part of it. The experiment."

"Mulder, you can't let yourself think like that."

"I know. But some days I wake up and wonder if this is the day it all
ends. If any of this is really real."

"I'm real, Mulder. And I'm here," she said, taking his hand, entwining
their fingers. "And I'm not going anywhere."

"Guess that's your way of saying my imagination's working overtime
again, huh?"

"Something like that."

He could hear the smile in her voice; it warmed him better than a
thousand candles. "Sometimes I feel different, though. Like now."

"How do you feel now?"

"Like I'm home," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear, her throat.
"Like I'm finally home."

--END--

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