Please see part one for disclaimer/warnings.

Anamorphosis
by Megan Reilly
eponine@prodigy.net

-15-

	There was a note taped to her door when they walked into her
apartment building.  Scully pulled it off to read it, handing her keys to
Mulder so he could open the door.  She hesitated a moment before
splitting the tape and unfolding the sheet of paper. 
	"Dana, please don't do this to the family.  We love you."  It was
signed by her mother and Bill.  Her mother had written it.
	She balled it up violently in her hand.  Mulder gave her a mild
curious look but didn't ask.  He nodded at the answering machine's
flashing red light.  Scully walked over to the phone and dialed her
mother's house without listening to the messages.
	"Hi, Mom."
	"Where are you?" Maggie demanded.
	"Home."
	"Where were you?"
	Scully was stubbornly silent.  If she told her mother that they had
gone to visit Mrs. Mulder on the holiday, it would hurt her terribly.  Scully
didn't want it to be this way in her family.  Her family had always seemed
so nice and normal, and safe.  This hurt.  "I'm sorry," she said.
	"Your brother is leaving for California in two hours.  He has to get
on a ship to go to the Middle East as soon as he arrives.  He came here to
face this, Dana, and so should you.  Please come here and make your
peace with him."  Her mother was straining to remain patient, but her
voice was filled with tension and anger.
	"I can't."  She was scared again, feeling the acid pour into her
stomach as she tangled her fingers into the loops of the phone cord, as
though they would hold her where she stood.
	"Dana, please."
	"I'll think about it.  Bye, Mom."  She put the phone down and met
Mulder's eyes, taking a deep breath.  "Bill's leaving."
	Mulder was cool.  "How do you feel about that?"
	"Mom wants me to make peace."
	"What are you going to do?"
	"I should do as she says."
	"You don't have to," Mulder reminded her.
	"I  know."  She looked down.  The floor needed to be swept.  She
was wearing jeans and a sweater.  She didn't know why it was important. 
"I'll be back in an hour or two."  She picked up the car keys and took a
step forward, and then rocked back on her foor.  Hesitating.
	"Want me to go with you?" Mulder offered.
	Mulder had punched Bill.
	"I'll be okay."  She slipped through the door, feeling insubstantial,
driving quickly to her mother's house.  She hadn't been behind the wheel
since all this began.  It felt strange, but the act of driving made her feel
more powerful.
	When she faced them in her mother's living room where she had
often sought solace, she felt weak.  She was a soldier for justice and the
truth, but it was different with her family.  They didn't see her as strong,
and she knew they never would.  To them she would always be a little girl. 
Hurt, stubborn, unwilling to cooperate.  "You're here," her mother said
without a trace of triumph.
	Scully nodded.
	"We were just about to leave."
	"Actually, Ma, we should go," Bill said, switching his suitcase to
his left hand and edging toward the door.  Scully was very aware that he
hadn't looked at her since she'd walked in the door.  He looked thinner. 
But maybe he'd been thinner at Thanksgiving and she hadn't noticed.
	"Dana, don't you have something to say to your brother?" Mrs.
Scully prompted, effectively making her feel six years old.
	"Like?" she asked without a pause, wondering just what she had
walked in to.
	"No, Mom, it's okay.  She doesn't have to apologize.  She's sick;
she can't help it," Bill said.
	Fury flooded her.  She was so angry.  She blocked his exit with her
body, ready to take him on.  This time she knew she would win.  "I think
it's you who's sick, Bill.  It's you who should apologize to me."  His name
in her mouth made her want to vomit.  She was trembling with rage.
	He just looked at her like she was a pathetic, attention hungry little
girl.
	"You raped me," she said in a low, animal tone.
	"You have no evidence," Bill informed her.  Taunting her.
	"Dana, stop this," her mother pleaded.  Crying.  Couldn't she see?
	They didn't believe her.  What evidence did she have to show
them?  What tangible, physical evidence did she have that they could hold
in their hands and know that this had happened to her?  The sort of
evidence she used to demand from Mulder on a regular basis.  The sort of
evidence she was now learning to live without.
	She knew. That was her evidence.
	It was going to have to be enough.  She stepped aside, pushing out
of the house, striding briskly back to her car, not certain she would ever
see or speak to either of them again.
	"I missed Christmas with my family to be here for you, Dana," Bill
called after her in his oh-so-weary tone.
	Your choice, she thought and burst into tears as soon as she
slammed the car door.  She knew she couldn't drive until she stopped
crying and she couldn't make the tears stop.  The sound of her little gasps
sickened her.
	A tap at her window made her jump and she looked up to see a
patrolman standing in the street next to her car.  She cranked down the
window and he asked kindly, "Everything all right, ma'am?"
	She nodded, unable to find her voice.
	"Well, you take care then," he said and walked away, looking back
at her over his shoulder twice.  She took a deep breath and turned the key,
starting the car to return to Mulder. It might take years for her family to
heal, but Mulder was always there for her.
	She would have to take comfort in that.

XXX

	She went to therapy on the morning after the New Year, knowing
she had to be in a meeting with Skinner in less than an hour.  Mulder had
already gone to the office, ready to make an early start on his first day
back.
	"I feel like he doesn't want me back," she confided to the doctor,
sitting back in the now-familiar chair.  They had made some progress in
the days since her family had gone home, but most days she felt like she
was climbing a mountain and sliding back every night, never getting any
closer to the top.  "He's scared they're going to come back."  They, her
other selves.  She'd managed to hold them at bay since Christmas.  Her
one and only triumph.
	"They could," Dr. Callaway suggested gently.
	Scully shook her head, stubborn.  She could control them.  She
hadn't had an incident in a week.  She wasn't going to let them come back. 
She couldn't.  She had to work.  She had to be strong and put all of this
madness behind her.
	"You need to accept that some things are simply beyond your
control," the doctor told her.
	"No!" barked Scully, angry.  "Things are not out of my control.  I
was helpless and vulnerable then, when this happened to me, but  I was a
child.  I am not a victim now.  I have control over my life and what
happens in it."
	"That's a very empowered point of view," Dr. Callaway nodded. 
"But perhaps if we can just coax them out...here...where it's safe, we can
work to integrate them..."
	Scully shook her head.  She wasn't letting them out for a second. 
She wasn't going to lose control or another minute of her life.  She'd
already lost enough.
	"You need to deal with this.  And the abuse."
	"I have," she said softly.  She'd gone over the incidents in her
conscious memory.  She understood that she hadn't caused what had
happened, that there was nothing she could have done.  So many things
she had learned to accept in her life, and this was another.  "I don't want to
talk about it any more."  She just wanted to get past it.
	"Denial will not help you."
	"There is a difference between denial and wanting to move on,
isn't there?" Scully asked.  The other woman didn't answer.  "I believe
these aspects came out to deal with the returning memories of the abuse,
not the abuse itself.  So now that I have remembered  -"  She didn't need
them any more. she didn't want them any more.
	"What about when you are reminded?  What happens when a new
memory surfaces?" the doctor prodded.
	"I have to go to work," Scully said, shaking her head, her eyes on
the clock.  She got up from the chair and walked out of the doctor's office. 
Damn doctor, Scully thought as she hurried to the car.  She doesn't
understand anything.
	She was shaking, but she drove to work.
	
	Mulder saw the tension on Scully's face when she walked in for
their meeting with Skinner.  The lines around her mouth were deep and
she was drawing shallow, angry breaths because her chest was tight.  He
wished he could put his hands on her shoulders and tell her to relax. 
Instead, he looked at Skinner.  Their boss didn't seem to notice anything
wrong with Scully.
	"Nice holiday?" Skinner asked pleasantly.
	Neither of them answered.  It had largely been hell.  Mulder had to
speak up if they were to keep her affliction a secret, as was Scully's wish. 
"Fine," he said.
	"Good.  You're going to North Dakota,"  Skinner said, handing
them a pair of plane tickets for a noon flight accompanied by a thick case
file.
	"It'll be a nice honeymoon," Mulder quipped, feeling anything but
jovial.  He hadn't expected it all to start up again so soon.
	"Congratulations again, agents," Skinner said as he dismissed them
from his office.
	"I'm fine," Scully said to Mulder in a tight tone the instant they
walked out into the hallway, cutting him off before he had a chance to say
anything, to ask about her session or her feelings.  Mulder paused for a
moment.  This confirmed his feeling that she was anything *but* fine.
	"What happened?" he asked her, caressing her face with his eyes,
wishing he could follow with his touch.
	"Nothing." Even giving him a neutral face, she couldn't mask the
anger that burned in her eyes.  "I'll be fine on the assignment.  Don't
worry."
	"I don't give a fuck about the assignment," he told her and instantly
realized he'd been too loud.  He could feel the looks he received from the
other agents milling in the hallway.  Typical Spooky Mulder behavior,
though, he thought.  "I care about _you_."  He dropped his voice to a
whisper, leaning closer to her so she could hear him.  One hand on her
arm brought her to face him.  "What about your sessions?  How will you
handle this while on the road?"
	"I'm not going any more," she told him, addressing his tie.
	"Why not?"  His tone demanded the answer that he knew she did
not want to give.
	"Not helping," she replied vaguely.  They'd reached the parking
garage.  He didn't want to leave her, but they'd come in separate cars.  He
opened his mouth to ask her more questions, but she staved them off.  "I
can get through this, Mulder," she said and managed to sound almost
convincing.  Then she turned and walked away, to her car.
	His tough Scully was back.  More insular than ever, not letting him
close.  He didn't know how to help her and he hated the feeling of utter
uselessness.  He didn't follow her to her apartment where his belongings
were beginning to accumulate, but returned to his own.
	It smelled musty from abandonment.  Like his apartment missed
him.  Mulder went about, slamming things into his overnight bag, trying to
breathe through his frustration.  He took his things to her apartment like
an unwelcome lover. He wanted to make himself permanent so she
couldn't push him away.
	He hadn't realized it would be such a strain on them going back to
work.  It probably would have been difficult even without her illness.
	He felt like he was blaming her again and he knew that was
inappropriate.  It made him feel dirty.
	He was scared for her sake that she didn't want to go to the doctor
any more.  He wanted to believe she knew what was best for herself, but it
was hard.  He pulled the strap of his carryon over his shoulder, knowing
he would have to help her through this.  Hold her up when she wouldn't
admit she was about to fall.
	He also knew he was on dangerous ground because she did not
want to be helped.

	The flight was turbulent.  Scully almost missed it and Mulder
stood at the gate, refusing to board without her, his mind unfurling all
sorts of terrible situations, each more dire than the one before.  His heart
turned over when he saw her walking toward him, determined.
	"Sorry.  I, uh, hit all the reds," she explained as she hurried past
him without stopping, striding up the ramp.  He followed and the
attendant closed the door behind them.
	The flight was less than full and Scully left the middle seat in their
row open between them, laying her coat across it.  Mulder looked at the
coat on the narrow chair.  She had done it before, on countless other
flights through the years.  But it didn't feel right now.  "Why did you do
that?" he demanded.
	"Because I thought elbow room might be nice," she retorted in the
same tone he'd used.
	"How much elbow room do you need, Scully?" he demanded, and
they both knew they weren't talking about the plane any more.
	"You're the one with the sharp bony elbows," she accused.  "How
many times do  I have to show up before you stop wondering if I'm lost?"
	It was two points for her - she'd caught him. He couldn't help
worrying about her and he didn't know how to tell her so without
infuriating her.  She was already angry.  He just cared about her.  He didn't
understand why that made her angry.
	"I am in control," she told him firmly.  The plane dropped as it
punctured a bubble of air and she grabbed at the armrests.  He wished she
were grabbing at him.  He tried not to let it bother him and opened the
paper he'd purchased, flipping through to the real estate section.
	"Where do you want to live?" he asked her.
	She was silent and he lowered the paper to look at her. "What's
wrong with where we live now?"
	"It's not home to me," he answered.
	"It is to me."
	Impasse.  "I want to make a fresh start," he told her. When she
didn't say anything,  Mulder continued.  "I want us to come together as
two people and join to become more than that.  To be stronger together
than we are apart."
	"You want to give birth to a house."  Her voice was flat.
	He shook his head.  Wasn't she listening?  He loved her.  Was that
automatically terrible because she had been molested as a child?  She
accused him of not trusting her, but she didn't trust him either.
	"In a relationship, both parties' wishes are important," he said.
	"Why do you talk as though I don't know anything about life or
love?" she demanded, eyes flashing.  "I can handle this. I don't need your
advice."
	"Sounds like you don't need my love, either," he snapped and
looked out the window, into a thunderstorm.  Its fury was beautiful.  He
clenched his teeth as he heard her begin to cry softly.  That was the only
thing that had noticeably changed - now Scully cried.  Often, and usually
for no reason.  He knew it was stress and she could not help it.  Yesterday
she'd cried over a magazine article.
	He looked at her.  She thought this was another thing she had to
make up for.  He shouldn't have said what he'd said.  He yearned to hold
her but knew she would find it condescending even if it was because he
hated to see her cry.  She was so beautiful and so strong.
	"Don't withdraw your love because you're angry," she sniffled.
	"I'm only angry because you push me away."  He softened his
attitude.  "I know this is excruciatingly painful for you -"
	She closed back up.  "I'm fine," she said.  When he was a boy, he'd
poked at pillbugs with a stick to watch their immediate protective
response.  Scully's was equally as automatic.  If he touched her, she was
turn to stone in his arms to prove she was strong enough to survive this.
	He flipped open the file Skinner had given them. "Oh goody," he
cracked, "Poltergeist."
	She didn't even say, "They're here."

	It was really, really cold in North Dakota.  So often they forgot that
winter in DC was tempered compared to the rest of the country.  The car
rental agent assigned them a battered Ford with a cracked window.  Scully
could not contain the chattering of her teeth.
	"It'll warm up in a second," Mulder said to her, hoping.  But the air
from the vents did not warm at all during their hour long drive to the
Tintner residence.
	"Are poltergeists really covered under FBI jurisdiction?" Scully
asked.  Mulder looked over at her.  Her lips looked blue.  He could barely
feel his fingers and he'd been asking himself the same question.  How did
they get some of these cases?  Who in their right mind associated the FBI
with ghosts and weird things?  Maybe it was local law enforcement.  She
flipped through the folder and found the referral.  Befuddled cops.  She
sighed.  As usual.
	The Tintners were startled to find the FBI at their door so it was
good that she had looked.  She made the introductions, holding her badge
up by her face for comparison as Mr. Tintner stared at her. "It's
dinnertime," he said.
	"We were referred by Sheriff Hern regarding the recent violence in
your home," Scully stated.
	"But it's dinner time," the man repeated, although he let them into
the house. As they walked through the worn living room to the dining
room, the overhead light flickered.
	Scully's eyes locked with those of a pale young girl seated at the
table.  The mother at the head of the table, began to duck, cowering away
from whatever she thought the lights precipitated, but the lights returned
to normal.
	When she glanced at Mulder, his eyes were shining. He really
loved this stuff.  Scully wasn't quite as impressed. "Does that happen
often?" she asked.
	"Oh goodness yes," replied Mrs. Tintner in a nervous voice, her
fingers creeping up along her throat.  Scully watched the girl, who was
very still, her eyes large.
	"Have you looked into the house's history?" Mulder asked.  Scully
rolled her eyes at him. He couldn't possibly believe this was a _ghost_. 
The family looked at him blankly as though 'research' was not a word they
knew.
	"Have you checked the connections to the lamps?" Scully asked
and got the same blank look. "How old are you?" she asked the daughter
more gently.  The file had said her name was Veronica.
	"Eleven," she replied in a soft voice.
	Scully nodded.  "When did all this begin?"
	"Last year. When we moved here."
	Scully could feel all eyes on her.  "Has the disturbance ever
harmed anyone?"
	Veronica's eyes darted away and Scully leaned back, away from
her slightly.  "It throws things," Mrs. Tintner answered Scully's question. 
"But it's only hit Wayne."  She nodded to her husband, who was holding
back his hair to display a fresh wound to Mulder, who nodded
appreciatively.
	"Does the ghost have a name?" Scully asked.  Three heads shook
no.  "How do you know it is a ghost?" she asked.
	"What else could it be?" demanded Mr. Tintner.  Scully looked
noncommittal and backed off.
	"Maybe we should go," Mulder said quickly. "Come back in the
morning."  His arm went out, his hand seeking Scully's back.  But he
stopped himself before he touched her.  It reminded her that Mulder was
always aware now.  She walked with him through the door.
	"What was that?" he asked her out in the freezing car.
	She fastened her seatbelt and tried to think warm thoughts. 
"What?" she asked.
	"It's not a ghost?" he reminded her.
	"I saw no evidence -"
	" - the lights? -" he suggested.
	" - and besides, poltergeist activity rarely has to do with
disembodied spirits," she explained.  "More often, it is a disturbance of
energy associated with the budding sexuality of adolescents."
	He mouthed the words "budding sexuality" in an amused way,
sending her anger soaring even though he was secretly impressed by her
knowledge.  She felt he was mocking her.
	"Or their need for attention," she finished, looking at him.  He'd
stopped the car.
	"Motel," he said.
	"I noticed," she replied, waiting.
	He hesitated a moment longer before he sighed and asked, "How
many rooms?"
	She could only stare at him.
	He sighed again and got out.  She could feel the spots of high color
burn her cheeks as she watched him walk to the motel office.  They were
married, she thought, shocked, why would he ask her that?
	He doesn't want you, the voice in her head was quick to tell her. 
You disgust him.
	She knew the voice was right.
	When he returned, she fully expected him to hand her a key.  But
he put the car in gear and pulled around to the back of the motel and got
out of the car.
	Weird, she thought, picking up her bag to follow him. Never had
they stayed in the same room while on a case.  Is this how it's going to be?
she asked herself. Would their marriage take place in dozens of uniform
motel rooms across the country for the next twenty years, until it was time
for Mulder to retire?
	"Weird," Mulder said, sitting self consciously on the queen sized
bed in the center of the room.
	"I was thinking the same thing," she confided, striving for normal 
behavior.  Should she sit down?  If she did, would it be an invitation? 
Shouldn't they discuss the case?  She sat down carefully, on the edge of
the bed, half expecting him to grab her.
	"Dinner?" he suggested.
	She shook her head - not hungry - but then looked at him.  Was he
saying he wanted dinner?
	Oh god, was she going to have to spend 24 hours a day with him? 
It shouldn't have been such a horrifying prospect.  But she'd grown used to
all the time she spent alone.
	He turned on the TV, flipping past laugh tracks until he found the
soft tones of a documentary narrator.  He pulled off his dress shirt and his
shoes and stretched out on the bed in his T shirt and socks.
	She looked at the screen.  Young girls in Africa being sold as
goods.  The hard knot of her stomach turned to queasiness.
	"Mulder," she said and he turned his head, but his eyes remained
on the television.  He was watching the show.  She couldn't ask him to
turn it off.  "Shouldn't we discuss the case?"
	"You don't think there is one," he said with a shrug.
	Was that hurt or anger in his tone?  She didn't know, couldn't
decide.  And she didn't know what to say because he was right.  "It's a
bullshit assignment and you know it," she said.
	"So?" he asked mildly, his eyes meeting hers.
	Words failed her for a second. "So?"  That was all he had to say? 
"It's a waste of our time."
	"Maybe Skinner wanted us to ease back into things," Mulder
suggested.
	"Why?" she demanded.
	"Why not?  We've been on leave. If we can figure out how the kid's
doing it, it's an easy solve."
	He didn't think it was ghosts either.  "It's a waste of our time when
we could be working on -"
	"You sound like me," he said, tilting his head and studying her.
	"I do?"  That had to be a first.
	He nodded.  "When I'm hiding from something in my work and it
isn't consuming me like I want it to.  Don't lose yourself in the work,
Scully."
	"I'm not!" her anger spoke the opposite of her words.  He was right
and she knew it.  But there was no harm in escaping back into her career. 
What she did was worthwhile and important.
	"I've felt the pain, Scully," he said in a velvety voice. "I know. But
you have to face it or it will never go away."
	"You don't know," she snapped.  She thought his sad look was pity. 
"You don't know anything!"  The rage was building and it felt good to feel
something.  "No one's ever locked you in the dark or poked you with
things to taken away your will and your dignity and your power over your
body!"
	"No," he said slowly and calmly.  "But I've had pieces of my life
stolen. I've lost my hope and my will to survive.  When they took Sam,
when they took you, my world did shatter and to see this, now...I was
angry and hurt for a long time before, but I -"
	He was being too reasonable, too rational. She didn't want to listen
to it. "You don't understand," she cried, jumping up from the bed.
	"Tell me," he pleaded.  "Then tell me, make me understand."
	Words were too weak.  She didn't want him to know.  If he knew
how scared...how little control over herself she felt she had...how madness
seemed to threaten and she felt a gash had been torn through her heart, he
would walk out that door and never come back.
	He had left her before.
	She could not lose him when he was the only thing in her life.  But
she knew it was inevitable he would see the ugliness in her soul. Better if
she pushed him away first.
	When did she start to care what he thought?
	She was going to scream or cry or both.
	"Scully."  His voice saying her name pulled her out of it.  She
looked at him.  "Sit down."
	She wanted to, but couldn't. She felt her knees shake with the
indecision and hoped he couldn't see that.  When she didn't move, he went
to her.
	She steeled herself for his touch.  She wasn't going to like it. She
jumped but his fingers sent warmth through her, pooling in her melting
stomach.
	She was so weak.
	He was going to see her for what she really was - weak and filthy.
	She wanted him to put his arms around her and suck the pain out
through her flesh, make her forget that way.
	She'd wanted it when she was younger.  She'd enjoyed it. She'd
asked for it.
	What would he say about that?
	She would gouge out her eyes if she thought she could reach the
voices in her head through the holes they left.  Her body ached.  His
fingers were trailing down her arm from her throat where they'd begun and
he was absorbed in her.  She could feel his heat and his need for her.  She
could feel his concentration.	
	"Don't," she said to see if he would listen.
	His fingers fell away from her skin.
	Power.
	She could hear him breathing. If she told him to start again, would
he?
	What is this, you bitch, a twisted game of red light green light? 
Mother may I?
	She hated herself.
	Tease.  Bitch. Slut.  Whore.
	She was worthless.  She didn't deserve him.  She'd never keep him.
	You could touch him, you know.
	Shut up, all of you!  Scully thought angrily.  She couldn't stand this
any more.
	"Hey."  She looked at him when she heard his voice.  His eyes
touched hers.  "You spaced out again.  What's going on in there?"
	A war.
	"Just tired," she mumbled.
	He nodded, still watching her carefully.  "We need to be up bright
and early," he said. "Poltergeists like the morning."	
	She couldn't tell if he was joking or not. He moved away from her,
returning to the bed.  "Take a bath and relax," he told her.
	She was going to have to take her clothes off.  Would every action
inspire this insane fear in her heart?  She didn't want a bath but he would
notice if she went to sleep in her suit.  He would ask.  Be strong, she told
herself.  She managed to pick up her bag and take it into the bathroom,
closing and locking the door behind her.
	Mulder wouldn't look at her when she came out.  He was watching
a new documentary - this one about baseball - and she lay down on the
bed next to him gingerly.
	It shouldn't be this way.
	Indulge him.  The voices hadn't gone.  Even if you don't want to,
indulge him.  She couldn't ask him if he was disappointed because he
wanted sex.
	It was a husband's right. If you don't give it to him, he'll take it.
Maybe not today, but someday.  When he's tired of waiting for you.
	She knew that voice was lying.  Mulder wouldn't do that.  He
would just go elsewhere.  Someone pretty without problems. He hadn't
waited for her all this time.  There had been others.
	It was so stupid to be scared when she loved him so much and he
knew he wouldn't hurt her.
	She moved closer to him but he didn't seem to notice.
	She wanted a cigarette.   The box was in her bag.  A test of how
strong she was.  She wasn't going to change.  She was going to remain
calm and in control.
	Even though things were just as screwed up then. She wanted to
cry but knew she'd spent too much time on tears already so she held them
inside, trying to sleep.
	Some time much later, she woke.  The lights and the TV were still
on, but Mulder was asleep.  She couldn't believe he slept with the lights
on.  She closed her eyes but it annoyed her now that she knew it was on. 
Would he noticed if she slipped out to turn it off?
	Maybe if she went quickly.  The carpet was cold on her bare feet
as she shut off the TV and flicked the lightswitch. Mulder made a noise in
the darkness.  A decidedly male noise, back in his throat, a struggle not to
awaken.
	It was so dark.  There were no streetlights to waft in gently through
the picture window.  Just a complete absence of light.
	How many horrors had waited for her in the darkness?
	Get over it, she told herself firmly, returning to the bed.  When she
closed her eyes, she was able to drift off again.

-16-

	The phone was ringing.  It jolted her out of a nightmare which she
forgot, thankfully, when she grabbed it.  "Yeah," she was breathless from
being startled.
	"Wake up call for room 131.  It is now 7 am.  Have a pleasant
day."
	She rolled her eyes and let the phone slide back into its cradle,
looking at Mulder.  The phone right next to his head hadn't roused him. 
Rough night for him, she thought, stroking his hair.  He was a sound
sleeper.  She wasn't afraid of him.  He was her darling.  She smiled as she
played with his hair, waiting for him to wake up.  She was afraid of things
more dark and vague that lived within herself.
	She whispered his name, nudging his hip with her knee.
	He was aroused and the bottom dropped out of her stomach for no
good reason.  Healthy males got aroused several times a night.  So did
women.  So did she.  It happened.
	Of course, that was when he opened his eyes, confused at first to
be looking into her eyes.  She saw the embarrassment taint his gaze at
being observed.  He shifted his legs away from hers.  "I'm sorry," he said,
sliding away.
	"Mulder," she said.
	His face was bright red now and she was certain hers was too. 
Normal people would have laughed over this.  Under other circumstances,
they would have ignored it - as they had always managed to ignore all but
the barest physical attraction between them.
	"I'll take care of it," he said gruffly and went into the bathroom.
The water in the shower began to flow.
	Go in there, the voice in her head ordered, but she didn't move. 
She could feel her blood rushing downward, gathering with every hard
beat of her heart.  Closing her eyes only made the image of him in her
mind more vivid.
	Go in there.
	She would die of embarrassment if he walked in on her touching
herself.
	He shouldn't have to, she thought, getting up and moving toward
the bathroom, her mind fixed on the picture of him in her mind, stroking
his penis with his hand, his eyes closed and brows drawn together.
	The water stopped and she jumped back.  A few moments later, he
emerged, toweling his damp hair.  "Cold water.  Felt good," he told her
with a lopsided grin.
	She wanted him to advance upon her.  For intimacy, for closeness,
to extinguish the heat in her body that she detested.
	Instead, they returned to the Tintner's.

	Mulder was amazed by Scully.  She was always cool and calm and
collected.  He'd marveled at it before.  She always knew what she wanted. 
Even when what she didn't want, was him.  It made him upset, scared
even, but he had to understand.
	It was such a small price to pay for having her back with him. He'd
been so afraid she would fall to pieces and never come back.
	He knew she thought the case was silly and maybe it was, but it
was the same old routine.  He wasn't sure he believed in any of it himself,
but he was happy to be with her.
	Even if he had to take cold showers every morning for the rest of
his life, he wouldn't care. He'd join the Polar Bear Club. He loved her.
	"What're you grinning about?" Scully demanded and he instantly
pulled his lips back in line.
	"Nothing.  How much I love you," he replied, switching off the
car's engine since they'd reached the "haunted" house.  Her eyes narrowed
and went dull.  Annoyed.
	He annoyed her.
	She got out of the car and he followed, stumbling over a pile up of
snow.  She didn't notice and he hurried after her feeling big and clumsy
and like loving her was a weird thing, something he shouldn't do because
she didn't want him to.
	Mrs.  Tintner seemed more nervous than the previous night, letting
them inside after three "Oh goodness!" -es.  She was blond and her thin
body seemed ill-designed to handle the freezing temperatures.
	"Is your daughter here?" Mulder asked her, glancing around,
hoping he would not become the unsuspecting victim of a suddenly
animated anything.
	"She's at school," the woman replied and looked slightly relieved.
	"Things don't happen when she's not here."  It wasn't a question
because Mulder already knew the answer.
	"Only when Veronica and Wayne are here together," she admitted.
	Mulder glanced at Scully, who returned the look.  Thinking the
same thing.  It excited him to be on the same wavelength with her - sent
his heart into a rapid patter of beats.  Testosterone meets young estrogen
in this house, he thought.  A hormone cocktail.  He was thinking
psychokinesis.  If only they could prove it...
	"We'd like to set up cameras.  Catch the action as it happens,"
Mulder said energetically.
	"Cameras?"  Mrs. Tintner had fixated on the idea, staring at him
with wide, owlish eyes.
	"The cameras will help us determine if your daughter has rigged
things," Scully said.
	"Oh no, there's no way she could," Mrs. Tintner cried.
	"Likewise, if it's a ghost, we'd love to get it on film," Mulder
replied, full of energy. He didn't wait for her to agree, just said, "I'll go and
get them," and headed back for the car.  
	He heard Mrs. Tintner begin to tell Scully her story as he closed
the door behind him. "It started last fall in the basement..."
	The wind had begun to blow and Mulder discovered he'd left his
gloves someplace.  As usual.  Very quickly his fingers turned from
bitingly cold to numb and he dropped the keys as he reached the trunk of
the car.  He fumbled for them in the show and finally pulled the small
equipment case from the trunk.
	He bounced to attempt to be warm while he waited to be let back
into the house. He hadn't realized he'd locked the door behind him. It was
cold and his good mood was quickly disintegrating.  Why would anyone
live in such a place?  What the hell was taking so long for her to answer
the door?
	Mrs. Tintner was pale and shaking when he opened the door,
backing away without a word.  Mulder's eyes fastened on Scully instantly. 
She was dwarfed by the huge green leather chair she sat in, holding her
head in her hands.  "What happened?" Mulder demanded with a wild
glance at Mrs. Tintner, barreling for Scully's side.
	"I'm all right," she murmured, although her shoulders were
heaving.
	"I think the ghost did something to her," Mrs. Tintner said, her
voice shrill with fear.
	Scully shook her head, pressing her forehead before straightening
her spine.  She looked drained.  "I'm okay," she whispered, but the edges
of her lips were white with strain.
	"I'll just set up the cameras," Mulder said, having trouble taking his
eyes off his wife.  "Where does most of the activity occur?"
	"Like I was telling her, it started in the basement.  Wayne had
some ice skates fly at his face.  Cut his hand real bad fending them off. 
Since then, though, it's mostly been in the kitchen."  
	Mulder nodded, opening the bag. It was mostly used cameras and
listening devices, too out of date to serve the white collar and organized
crime guys anymore.  They'd be no match for a kid, though.  He started to
find places for them around the kitchen to cover the entire room.
	"Sometimes he gets scratches, too," Mrs. Tintner confided softly. 
"They just appear without his noticing.  Sometimes bruises."
	Mulder looked to Scully, but she was staring.  "Will it be all right
if we drop by later - after dinner - to speak with Wayne and Veronica?"
	The woman shrugged. "I guess. Wayne's not happy, but what else
can we do?  We couldn't go on like that."
	"Your husband didn't want you to contact the police?" Scully
asked.
	"No.  Thought I was silly.  I said what, did he like to get hurt?" 
Mrs. Tintner elaborated.  "Eight o'clock will be fine."
	Mulder was finished, so he picked up the equipment bag and
looked at Scully.  Her coat was buttoned and her gloves were on.  She
wanted out of there.  "What did the ghost do to you?" Mulder asked once
they got outside.
	Scully shook her head, suddenly interested in something on the
ground.  "Nothing," she told him.
	He didn't believe her and didn't know how to say so.  "When you're
ready to tell me, I'm here to listen," he suggested and bore the full force of
her angry look.  She slammed the car door and he wondered what he'd said
that was so wrong this time.
	"Where are we going?" she asked, breaking the silence on their
drive.
	"Town library and historical society is on Adams Road," Mulder
said, making a right turn.  "If there is a ghost -"
	"There isn't," Scully replied as though she'd never seen a ghost
before.
	"There might be information at the library," Mulder continued. 
She gave him a sour look as though he was ignoring her.  He stopped in
front of a small brick building that looked like a former schoolhouse.  The
only other car parked was a homely station wagon.
	It belonged to the beak-nosed Walter Crowell, curator and
librarian.  "It's not haunted," he said as stubbornly certain as Scully,
crossing his arms and standing back to appraise them.
	"So you've heard about the house," Mulder said, leaning against the
desk.
	"Not the house, just the goings-on," Crowell told him. "It's a tract
home, built less than 5 years ago.  Nothing wrong with one house that's
not wrong with all of them.  City people bring their evil with them. Even
out here."
	Scully looked like she agreed.   They were going to have to talk
about what she wasn't telling him, he thought.  "What about the land?" he
asked.
	"You want me to tell you it's some ancient sacred land or burial
ground like in that movie," Crowell said dismissively.  It wouldn't have
bothered Mulder so much if he hadn't felt like Scully was sneering at him
too.
	"Warm welcome," Mulder remarked as they returned, unwelcome,
to the car.  Scully graciously didn't say a word.  Sometimes he was glad
she didn't say, "I told you so."
	He pulled into the parking lot of a diner that looked straight out of
a movie, complete with red booths and chrome.  His stomach growled as
he smelled the meat.  The sizzle of frying grease was like homecoming to
him.  Scully didn't look happy.  They both usually ate healthy, but he
figured they could both use some warm comfort food in such a cold
climate.
	Maybe he should have asked what she wanted, he realized later. 
He ordered a bacon burger, cheese fries and a vanilla shake.  Freezing
your ass off burned a lot of calories.
	Scully shook her head when the waitress looked at her.
	"Eat something," Mulder prompted.
	Her look was dark but she requested,  "Hot cocoa.  Please."
	The waitress sauntered away.
	"What's going on?" Mulder asked her, laying his hands on the
table.  "What happened in the house while I was outside?  Talk to me." 
He felt so helpless when she closed up this way.
	She shook her head.
	"Please tell me," he pleaded, wishing she would just take his hand.
	The waitress slid their drinks in front of them. Scully sipped the
cocoa, avoiding the creamy melting whipped cream that sat on top.
	"Scully," Mulder said.
	"I remembered something," she said as though it was unimportant. 
As he waited to hear what it was, it became clear she had no intention of
telling him.  She pushed the cup away and gazed out the window into the
barren winter.  He could see her slipping back into her own world.
	Was that where healing would take place? he wondered.  Or did he
need to pull her back?  The waitress delivered his meal, but worry over his
partner made the much-coveted food taste like sawdust.  It was hot and
impossibly dry on his tongue.
	"Talk to me."
	She shook her head sadly.  "You don't want to know."
	"I do." He caught her eyes for a second.
	"You don't," she repeated.  He decided to let her know best for a
little while and kept eating, allowing her silence.  She slipped out and
returned a few minutes later, the clinical washroom soap smell clinging to
her.
	"Don't let this eat you inside," he cautioned her.
	"I won't," she answered.  He just watched her.  Holding everything
so deep inside even she couldn't reach it.  He worried she wasn't going to
make it.
	They headed back to the motel to take care of administrative crap,
since they weren't returning to the Tintners' until eight.  Mulder booted up
Scully's laptop to contact Skinner and she lay down on the bed.  First she
put her arms over her eyes to block out the light, but then she clasped
them across her abdomen.
	He couldn't help thinking it was unconsciously protective.  Like
men who used their knotted hands as a fig leaf when their photos were
being taken.
	She got up twice to use the bathroom and wash her hands
thoroughly.  The third time, he asked, "Are you okay?"
	She stopped in her tracks and looked at him. "Of course," she said,
reversing her direction and shaking some change from her handbag.  "I'm
hungry," she said before she slipped out of the small room.
	He was worried.  He tapped out a message apprising Skinner of
their lack of progress, guessing they would need one more day. Apparently
no more pressing matters had come up.
	How would Scully handle something more pressing?  Was it this
case, or would any case set her on the edge?  Or was it him?
	She smelled like chocolate when she walked in, even though the
Twix in her hand was sealed.  If he kissed her, would she taste of candy on
the sly?
	Was it too much for him to hope for that this was all just PMS? he
wondered.  He'd rarely known Scully to be so intensely moody.  But she
was under a lot of pressure.
	The Twix disappeared in thirty seconds flat and she looked like
she wanted more.  "Come here," he invited, setting aside the computer. 
She realized he'd been watching when she looked at him and wiped the
corners of her mouth.  She sat down next to him on the bed.
	He felt like a teenager, seeing how far he would get. His hand
rested on her shoulder and crept up the side of her face.  Her jaw felt
fragile in his hand.  "Can I  kiss you?" he breathed, close to her lips.
	Her sigh and her mouth opening was his answer.  She did taste
deliciously of candy, he found, exploring. Sweet.  Her hair was soft
against his fingers and she seemed to like it when he pulled on it gently.
	He could lose himself in her.
	Her skin was cold underneath her shirt and he could her nipples
already tight.  Her breath caught with a reedy sound as he worked to make
them warm.
	They lay down together and he kissed her again.  She unbuttoned
her shirt and trousers as he did the same.  An invitation.  Her skin was
impossibly smooth as he ran his worshipful hands down the length of her
torso.  He was ready, deepening their kiss as he prepare to enter her.
	A quickie.  He was more excited than he'd realized and came
quickly, before he could give a thought to pacing or her pleasure.  She
didn't come at all.  Not even close.
	He sighed.
	She rolled on her side, turning her back to him.
	Back means trust, he thought, then cursed his head for being full of
pop psychology crap. Had he just forced her?
	She'd kissed him.  She would have said no.  Wouldn't she?
	Feeling like a heel, he said her name.  He was scared to put his
arms around her.  She wasn't crying.  "Scully, talk to me."
	"It's okay," she mumbled.  He sat up and leaned over her, looking
into her eyes.  "It's okay," she said again, more strongly.  Like she meant it.
	He put his hand between her thighs.
	"Don't," she said.  Saying no.
	"I want to," he said, but didn't move his fingers.
	"I don't," she waited for him to take his hand away and he did.  She
lay there looking up at his face.
	"I didn't hurt you?" he asked.
	"No."
	"I didn't...make you?"  His words were ginger.  Fearful.
	"No," she said again.
	"Can we talk about what you're feeling?" he asked.
	"I didn't want to come," she said frankly and jumped up from the
bed, going into the bathroom to wash herself.
	Wash him away.
	He felt terrible and he wasn't sure it was all his fault.
	Come on, Mulder, of course it was your fault.  He picked up the
computer and felt callous.  What was he supposed to do?  He looked up as
she emerged from the bathroom. She pushed her hair out of her face with
wet fingers.  "I'm going to take a nap," she told him, climbing again onto
the bed.
	Was he supposed to move?  Was it a warning to leave her alone? 
He didn't know what do to.  He wanted to help her but everything he did
seemed to be wrong.  Finally he closed the laptop and settled into the
chair, letting her sleep.

-17-

	She was already feeling nervous on the way to the Tintners' home
about eight o'clock that evening.  Her stomach was jumpy, but mostly she
was on edge.  She felt like something bad was about to happen.  She
couldn't say why or what was bad, it was just a feeling of something bad.
	She felt like the bad thing had already happened. Not just in the
half remembered pieces of her childhood that continued to haunt her, but
that afternoon in the motel room.  Between her and her husband.  She was
ashamed of the way she'd behaved.  He was her husband.  She loved him.  
Why was there nothing that she did that could make him know that?  She
glanced over at Mulder.  He'd been introverted since she got up from her
attempt at sleep.  She'd been terrible to him when he'd only been trying to
help.  He'd only been acting like he loved her.
	It was all so difficult.   She wanted to apologize, but how was she
supposed to do that?  What were the words?  She continued to look at him,
and she could feel him blaming himself.  He always did, but this time it
was not his fault.  It was her fault.  It was no one's fault.  It was her fault
for letting her damaged life affect her.
	She wished she could just get over the whole damn thing.
	She would just have to try harder.

	"What can we do for you?" asked Wayne Tintner when they
reached his home.  He wasn't pleased to see them at his door and he kept
them standing on the step, outside in the cold, windy night.  She wondered
at the negative attitude present in his tone and his eyes and his posture.  It
was he who was the target of the mysterious attacks.  She thought he
would be the happy one if they could stop a crazy poltergeist from trying
to kill him.
	"We have some questions for your daughter," Scully said.
	"She doesn't have to answer to the police when she hasn't done
anything," Tintner told her.  Angrily.
	"We're just trying to get to the bottom of this, sir," she stated. 
Backing off and being polite to try to maintain the situation.  She wanted
to know  why Mulder was being so silent.  Why wasn't he backing her up? 
She wanted to look at him, but she couldn't take her eyes off Mr. Tintner,
she couldn't lose her staring-down advantage in that way.  They didn't
teach that in the FBI academy - she'd had to learn it on her own. In the
field.  It wasn't even something  Mulder had to do.  But she did, because
she was small and a woman and hard for men to take seriously.  Tintner
was big and ruddy faced like the men in her family.
	"We haven't done anything," he snarled so fiercely she took a
surprised step back.  He moved to one side and returned, his face red with
barely controlled anger as he began to hurl their camera equipment at
them.  "The federal government has no right to put cameras in my home!" 
He'd disassembled their work and kept it there by the door.  Waiting for
them to show up. Waiting to toss it back at them.
	"You're the target of these attacks," Scully continued, feeling rage
boil up inside her, much more than was called for.  The degree of her fury
startled her.  She wanted to hurt him.  She wanted to *hurt* *him.* 
Badly.  Her calm began to shatter.  "Why is that?  Does your daughter hate
you so much?"
	"She's done nothing!" he screamed, his face a deeper shade of red,
betraying the truth of his words.
	"Scully -" Mulder's tone was warning, but she ignored him,
standing her ground.  She had to do this.
	"What did you do to her?  Did you touch her?  Did you hurt her?" 
Scully asked, wanting the man to react. Mulder grabbed her as Mr. Tintner
lunged for her.  She didn't struggle, just gave Mulder a hard push and he
let her go.  Shaking it off, she walked back to the car and got in without
looking back.  She was breathing hard from the confrontation, her blood
rushing.  She wasn't sure if it was anger or fear.  She should feel fear, she
knew.  It was odd that she didn't.  She felt excited.  Anger wasn't supposed
to be exciting.  The thrill she got from telling him off wasn't supposed to
be so exciting.
	"What the hell were you doing?" Mulder yelled at her when he got
into the car.  He hadn't bothered to pick up the equipment that lay strewn
across the snowy lawn.  He'd just followed her.
	She didn't say anything.  Sense was returning and waves of anger
receded, leaving her head throbbing.  She made herself sick.  Mr. Tintner
made her sick.  She knew what was going on in that house.  And because
she'd become angry, they wouldn't have any proof.  She hadn't been able to
do anything about it.
	"Don't ever do that again!" Mulder shouted at her. "Don't ever -
what were you thinking!"  His anger pissed her off.  Who was he to tell her
what to do?  Her irrationality returned.  Scully never acted like this.  He
glared at her as she pulled away from the curb.  There wasn't any traffic on
the narrow street and her foot lay heavy on the gas.
	"Just because it happened to you doesn't mean it happened to
everyone!  You have no proof, no evidence!  What is going on in your
head?  You know better than this.  You never just believe things!"  Mulder
continued to yell at her.
	She didn't say anything.  Just pressed her lips together, ignoring
him as best she could, and sped on through a stop sign without slowing. 
There was no car for miles, why would she bother to stop?  The air was
clear and she could see.  She didn't care.
	"Stop the car," Mulder ordered.  She didn't.    She didn't care.  She
was driving this car, not him.  She was in charge.  "STOP!"  She'd never
heard him sound like that.  So loud and so forceful and so...scared?  She
braked hard, giving him what he wanted, and he jolted forward in his seat. 
It didn't make her feel satisfied.  She didn't know what she was supposed
to feel, or do.  She was just trying to feel better.  This didn't seem to be the
way.  He untangled his locked seatbelt and jumped out of the car.
	Leaving her.
	She deserved it.
	Why did she feel so pleased?  Was that what she wanted?  For him
to leave her?  Save himself from being dragged down by her crazy
behavior?  What was she going to with him?  What was she going to do
without him?
	But he was at the driver's door a moment later, his face drawn in
anger.  The angry face through dark clouded glass...she sprang back,
seeing Duane Barry for a second.  When he opened the door, she slipped
past him, running fast with light feet, thinking only of Duane  Barry and
knowing that he was going to hurt her in unspeakable ways.  They were
not going to take her again.  Mulder bellowed her name and she didn't
stop.  She heard his feet slap against the pavement behind her and as she
turned her head to look back, her feet skidded on a patch of black ice.
	She went down on her face and it knocked the wind out of her. 
Falling was so sudden.  She could feel him standing over her, menacing in
the darkness.  She couldn't lift her head.  Too afraid.
	Afraid of Mulder?  She knew it didn't make sense. Mulder would
never...could never...
	None of it made sense.
	"Scully -"  he said gently.  He reached for her hand and she jerked
to her senses, leaping to her feet.  "Don't do this."  His eyes were wild,
begging, and he addressed her like she was a wild bird that might fly away
at any second, with no warning.
	"Stop yelling at me!" The tears burned her cold skin as they fell. 
The fight went out of her.  She hated crying.   She hated feeling so
humiliated and dirty.  She hated the look in his eyes most of all.  He didn't
know what she was going to do.  She was unpredictable and crazy. How
could he trust her when she was acting like this?
	She wanted him to trust her.
	"Come on," he said, reaching for her.  She sidestepped his arm and
returned to the car, docilely sliding into the passenger seat.  She was going
to behave.  She looked out the window, away from Mulder, as he moved
the driver's seat back and sighed.  She couldn't face him.
	"Scully," he said heavily.  "I'm sorry I yelled at you.  I was scared. I
still am."
	The words weren't easy for him.  She knew this.  She didn't say
anything.  She couldn't.  There was no way to apologize.
	"You're being self destructive."  He was trying so hard to be
patient.  Too hard.
	"There's no need to address me like a child," she snapped.  "I'll do
better.  I'll keep control better.  It won't happen again."  Why did she feel
like she was begging now?  Begging for forgiveness.  She shouldn't be
doing any of this.  If only she could feel like herself again...
	"Why did you run?"
	She was determined to be honest.  Her only chance was if she
could make him understand the turmoil within her.  "I saw you in the
window and I thought..."  She had to stop.  Swallow back the pain.  She
had to tell DK and the others to stay away from her, if they could even
hear her, if they would even pay any attention.  "I thought you were him."
	"Bill?" Mulder asked, not understanding.
	She choked.  She couldn't say the name.  She shook her head. God,
she didn't want to think about this any more.  Duane Barry. Was what he
had done to her worse than Bill?  Bill had betrayed her trust, but Barry had
stolen a part of her life.  Months she would never remember, months she
could have better spent with someone else. With Mulder.  He'd robbed her
of time and security and her future.  She did not want to talk about it.
	"Someone else?"
	Was this charades?  She nodded, praying he would leave it there.
She didn't want to talk about it.
	"God, Scully, how many people have hurt you?"  He wasn't asking
her.  He was marveling.  She was a marvel.  Twice appeared in the X
Files.  It embarrassed her.  She sniffled pathetically and he started the car. 
Finally.
	The tension was unbearable.  She didn't want to cry. She'd
promised herself that she wouldn't cry ever again.  She would be in control
and things would start to get better.  She would start to be herself again
and then she would feel like herself again.  But Mulder was mad at her. 
She was mad at herself.  He was right, she was acting crazy.  Believing in
things without any proof or evidence.  She never would have done this
before.  She never would have guessed things would end up like this,
either.
	There wasn't any proof of what had happened to her, except what
she felt and what she remembered.  In fact, there were adamant denials. 
Her eyes sneaked over to Mulder.  Since there was no proof, did he
believe her?
	She wanted him to believe her.  No, she needed him to believe her. 
But without proof, why should he? She shouldn't believe it herself.  There
were no answers, and she thought maybe that was what would drive her
mad in the end.  The need to know and the impossibility of knowing for
certain.
	The drive was long enough to freeze her muscles around the way
she'd twisted her knee when she'd fallen on the ice.  She could feel
Mulder's eyes heavy on the limp she couldn't help when they reached the
motel.  She clenched her teeth against the pain.  Her knee was definitely
twisted.  Maybe torn.  She couldn't deal with this right now, except
unfortunately she couldn't stop her life and wait until she was ready.  The
others could, but she refused to let them take the time and pain away from
her.  They weren't going to come back.  Ever.  She would not let them.
	Mulder dialed Skinner and she glanced in the mirror.  She looked
like one of the Furies, with too-bright eyes, abrasions on her face and
hands, and bruises on her arms from being grabbed.
	She remembered suddenly all the bruises she'd never been able to
explain while she was growing up.  Were they proof?  Or was she just a
fragile-skinned person, clumsy as she'd thought at the time, as everyone
had said about her?
	"Yeah, we had some problems," Mulder admitted to their boss over
the phone.  Scully could hear Skinner yelling at him from across the room. 
"Apparently local law thought -"  Cut off again.  More shouting.  This was
her fault.  She was very cold and very small.  She'd always been afraid
when her dad yelled, and Skinner should be yelling at her, not at Mulder. 
Mulder was protecting her again.  She shouldn't need protecting.
	Oh, she was very low.  She should stand up for herself.  Face
Skinner. Admit to what she'd said and done and suspected.
	"Intuition," Mulder was saying to Skinner.  "A woman knows -"
	Such a lame excuse.  He knew it.  But it was all she had.  He
stopped.
	"Scully isn't feeling very well." He glanced at her.  Skinner wanted
to talk to her, but Mulder didn't want her to talk to  Skinner.  That was
okay. She didn't want to talk to him.  She couldn't tell him anything except
her dirty little secrets.
	The pain in her knee was making her sick.  She focused on it,
feeling the throb in the joint, somehow churning her stomach.  There was
only Midol in her bag and she didn't think it would have any effect on a
twisted knee, but she took it anyway, covering her eyes with her hands to
try to ward the tears off.  She wasn't going to cry again, because if she let
herself begin, she was not going to be able to stop.

	Mulder was drained after his conversation with Skinner.  It was so
much work to be honest but not tell his boss too much.  There was no
reason for Skinner to know about Scully.  She didn't want him to know. 
He stopped and looked at her wife and sighed.  He and Skinner had
managed to agree that the case here was ultimately unimportant.  There
was a difficulty with the child murder matter and Skinner wanted them
back on an early flight.  He wouldn't elaborate, and that told Mulder it was
bad.
	Scully was sitting up in the chair when he turned toward her.  Her
head was propped up on her hands, eyes closed.  He could hear her soft,
even breathing.  She must have been completely exhausted because she'd
fallen asleep in the chair.
	Mulder had slept sitting up in more than one chair in his life and
he remembered the poor rest and sore neck he'd woken with in the
morning.  He couldn't let her wake up sore and cranky.  He nudged her and
she mumbled but didn't open her eyes.  After a second, deciding whether
he should touch her while she was sleeping, knowing she was sensitive to
being touched right now, Mulder made a decision and pulled her up onto
her feet. It was only a few steps across the room and he lay her on the bed.
	She yelped, eyes still closed, and his heart clenched.  He'd done
something wrong. He shouldn't have touched her. Not breathing, he
watched.  Her frown eased as she shifted her legs. He remembered her
limp and the way she'd fallen and decided that he hadn't hurt her.  He
turned off the light and lay down next to her, marveling at what a day it
had been.
	Things with Scully never got boring.
	He hoped, however, that they would get easier.  Her running away
from him had been heartbreaking and terrifying. He didn't want that to
ever happen again.  He turned to lie on his side, facing her in the bed.  Her
body was heavy and limp.  She was completely out.  He watched her and
worried about the meeting with Skinner.  He didn't think he'd slept at all
until she woke him several hours later.
	Hard fists beat at his chest, rousing him.  His eyes opened and he
was disoriented for a moment.  Then he saw he'd sought Scully's body in
his sleep, tangled his legs with hers, pulled her close.  Still asleep, she'd
taken offense.  She struggled against him, to push him away, as her eyes
darted in dreams.  Her chest rose and fell impossibly fast, laboring.
	He moved away from her quickly, but it didn't do any good.  She
began to scream - animal cries of pain that eviscerated him.  He froze,
feeling his heart stop.  He didn't know what to do.  He just knew he had to
help her.  He said her name but she was too deeply asleep to hear him. Not
able to bear the sound any longer, he put his hand over her mouth.
	Her eyes opened and after a start, her body went completely limp. 
"You were screaming," he said.  He was drenched in cold sweat, he
realized, removing his hand.  She'd scared him.  Scared them both.
	"Maybe I needed to scream."  Her voice was weak.  She didn't
remember the dream exactly,  but remembered the terror she had felt.  She
could feel the dream - memory? - in her body.  Mulder stared at her, with
her skin so pale.  "Excuse me," she said calmly, rolling out of bed.  He
saw her knees wobble before deciding to hold her weight.  He heard her
violently wretching a moment later when she reached the bathroom.
Whatever she'd been remembering, or dreaming, that made her scream
with such terror, made her sick.  All because he'd touched her?  Was this
his fault?  He leaned against the wall, feeling responsible.  He wasn't
doing anything right.  His instincts were terrible.
	How the hell was he supposed to know what to do?
	"He used to put his hand over my mouth so I wouldn't make any
noise.  Because he hurt me," she said, trying to explain when she returned. 
Mulder looked at her but she wouldn't meet his eyes.  She didn't say
anything more, putting her teeth into her lip. Stopping her words.  He
didn't think he'd ever seen her do that before.
	Mulder nodded.  Trying to understand. It was the most
communication they'd had all day, which didn't say much.  God, it had
been a terrible day.  He wanted to sleep.  He wanted to know she was all
right and safe.  His body felt so cold.  Did she get this cold?
	"So if you could not -" she trailed off, seeing him nod, knowing he
understood.  Not to put his hand over her mouth again.  Even if she was
screaming.  She sighed, not wanting to say anything more than 
"Nightmares."
	He didn't have any words.  Words couldn't make this better.  He
wished he could heal her, but he couldn't.  He didn't know at that moment
if anything could.  The green glow of the clock indicated it was four am. 
"Our flight's at six," he said, looking at her.  After a second, he headed for
a hot shower.  She looked like she could use one too, but he didn't know
how to suggest she join him.  He wanted to know her body was warm.  He
wanted to make her soul warm with his love, but he didn't know how to do
that.
	"I'm going to be fired," she said when he emerged from the
bathroom.  She was fully dressed in a charcoal suit with her packed bag
sitting at her feet.
	He toweled off and began to dress, not knowing what to say to her. 
"You might need more time."  He knew that she wasn't going to lose her
job - she might need a longer leave of absence, to be easier on herself - but
she wasn't going to be fired.  She did a good job of covering, so good that
even he probably would not have known what she was going through if he
wasn't so closely involved with her.  She held things inside and he wanted
her to share them with him.
	"I can't believe this," she said.
	"There is something going with that family on that local law didn't
want to deal with, that's why they gave the case to us.  But it's not an FBI
matter," he stated.  "I think Skinner knows you don't act without a reason."
	"I never knew you could be so diplomatic."  She choked out a
laugh.  Trying to defend her crazy behavior.  She wanted to scream it at
him: I'm crazy, Mulder, can't you see it?  But she couldn't say it because
she was ashamed.
	"I'm trying," he told her.  He had no choice but to be diplomatic
and strong like her and keep them going even when it seemed like they
were going to fall.  Wanting to be close to her, he picked up her hand and
caressed the skin on her finger around the gold wedding band. It felt
especially soft and smooth.  She shivered.
	"I'm a pain in the ass," she said quietly, looking away from him. 
Pulling away,  not wanting to deal with him or the facts of his love and
their marriage.  "I'll understand...this isn't what you signed on for."
	When he realized she was telling him to leave her, it shocked him
and wounded him.   He heard the words and didn't want to believe them. 
Why would she do this?  "I love you, Scully," was all he had to say to that,
bewildered.  He had never thought he would have to be the strong one,
and now he was learning that it was hard.  How had she borne his burdens
for so long?  
	"Nights are hardest," she said, neatly avoiding the subject as she
made a final sweep of the motel room, not turning up any forgotten
belongings.
	He had to agree, but he wished she'd said she loved him.  Maybe
she couldn't do that right now, but that didn't make it hurt any less.  He
could only hold onto the hope that if they made it through the days all
right, things would become more normal and the nights would stop being
so hard.

	Skinner was very, very grim when they met with him late that
afternoon, still grimy and exhausted from their travels.  The plane had
been delayed and got in late so they met with Skinner straight from the
airport, still lugging their gear.
	"What the hell happened out there?" Skinner demanded the instant
they walked into his office, even before the door was closed.  Mulder
pushed it shut and Skinner continued.  "Wayne Tintner says he's going to
sue for invasion of privacy and slander."
	Neither of them said a word.
	"Well?"
	Scully knew she had to take responsibility.  She was letting her
personal situation cloud her judgment and there was absolutely no excuse
for that.  "I said some things I shouldn't have, sir," she admitted.
	"Such as?"
	"I suggested these phantom attacks were directed at him because
he had been abusing his daughter."
	Skinner sucked in his breath sharply.  "I assume there was some
sort of evidence to support your allegation?" he asked.  Scully was a fine
agent; he didn't think she would be as careless as Tintner had described
her.
	"It was intuition," Mulder answered for her.  He was amazed,
watching her.  His old rational Scully had returned.  His heart surged with
pride and excitement; for the first time in a long time, he felt good.
	"And as such, I shouldn't have said anything," she continued. 
Hating herself and the ground she stood on and the way everything she
touched seemed to crumble into dust.   As strong as her belief was, as
certain as she was that she was correct, that was not what they had been
sent to investigate.  She'd blown their chances of investigating the
poltergeist hoax whether she was right or not.
	Skinner nodded.  She could feel his dark brown eyes studying her
as he decided to accept her statement.  He knew she was right.  "We're
having problems with the Wilder prosecution.  Problems that involve both
of you and question your conduct on this matter."  Skinner said. "A lot of
issues have been raised."
	Scully couldn't find her voice to ask for an elaboration.  She wasn't
certain she wanted to know what kind of issues.
	"The OPC wishes to sit in on your depositions, which have been
scheduled to begin tomorrow," Skinner continued. The older man
removed his glasses and looked at his agents point-blank.  Scully focused
on the red marks on either side of his nose from his glasses.  "Is there
anything you'd like to tell me?"  The question wasn't asked by their boss,
Skinner, but by Skinner who was concerned for them personally and
professionally.  Did everyone wear so many guises? Scully thought
suddenly.  Maybe it wasn't only her.
	After a long pause, Mulder said seriously, "I have no doubt that the
OPC will find our conduct appropriate."
	"I sure as hell hope so," Skinner said, his words a dire warning. He
put his glasses back on and shuffled some papers on his desk, dismissing
them.
	Scully was perfectly calm as they walked out of the building, until
they reached the basement parking level where their car waited for them. 
Then everything seemed to change and she clutched at Mulder's arm.  "He
knows, Mulder," she said.  
	He looked at her and found her eyes cold and hollow.  "You don't -
" he began.
	"He knows," she said again, removing her hand. Mulder could feel
her withdrawing from him and knew he hadn't responded properly. 
Sometimes he wished she would give him a clue. "That's what the
problem is.  My career is over." She sounded convinced.
	"You haven't done anything wrong," he told her.  He wished he
could say he'd seen weaker agents overcome more, but he had vowed
never to lie to her. They both knew this was a battle, and war was never
easy.  He wanted to tell her that her career was not as important as her
health, but he thought she would think he was making light of the
situation.
	He got in on the driver's side to steer them to her apartment.  Her
message light was blinking when they walked in, but she ignored it,
wandering from room to room as though looking for something she had
lost.
	Her soul, was his chilling thought as he dialed his home number
and keyed in the digits to retrieve his messages, all the while looked at the
red light blinking on her answering machine. It was mesmerizing.
	"Mulder. Got a lead on a place for you guys.  Brief us." Frohike's
was the only waiting message.  He dialed the number, wondering what
Scully was doing.
	"Frohike," the phone was answered cheerfully.
	"I can't believe you answered the phone like that," Mulder said. 
Maybe the world was ending, if the even Gunmen weren't paranoid any
more.
	"We finally convinced Langly that Caller ID is not the spawn of
Big Brother era telecommunications monopoly," Frohike replied
cheerfully.  He enjoyed his conspiracies, and Mulder suspected he enjoyed
springing them upon him.  "Knew it was you.  How's Scully?"
	"She's fine."  His friends hadn't even seemed this concerned about
her cancer.  By marrying him, she had become one of the inner circle.  He
was happy to think that they had finally accepted her.  It surprised him that
she had become his measure of how important people were to him - and
his wanting them to like Scully told him how much he valued the Gunmen
in his life.
	"Good.  We got a line on the perfect house for you two.  It doesn't
hit the ads till tomorrow, so if you go tonight, you can steal it."
	"I don't know..." Mulder hedged.  With the noose of the OPC over
them, they had more pressing concerns than their living arrangements.
	"Let me give you the address," Frohike insisted and Mulder waited
patiently as his friend recited it for him. "Are you going to go?"
	"I don't know," Mulder said honestly.  "I need to talk to Scully."
	"How are things between you?" Frohike asked, turning serious.
	"I don't know," Mulder answered.  He wished he did.
	"Marriage is hard," his friend confided.  Before Mulder could ask
him what he knew about that, a dial tone sounded in his ear.  
	Mulder replaced the phone, wondering why Frohike had ended the
conversation so abruptly, staring again at the red light on the answering
machine.  He sighed and stood.  "Scully."  He walked through the
apartment, looking for her.
	He found her in the bathroom, dewy eyed, with a bottle of pills in
her hand.  "Scully?" he asked, frowning as he walked closer.
	"I was thinking of sleeping," she said and set the bottle down. 
Sleeping pills.  "I'm so scared." With the simple statement, she put herself
into his arms, pressing her face against his chest.
	"Scully -"  She didn't feel strong now.  She felt soft, so easily
injured or punctured or broken. Her hair smelled sweet when he inhaled
and he felt its scent travel through his body.
	"Dana," she whispered a correction and it made his heart glow.  He
called her Dana in the past when he wanted to reach past her
professionalism to her emotions.  She'd never asked him to call her by her
first name before.
	"Dana," he confirmed and the name felt odd in his mouth.  "The
boys have lead on a house they swear we'll love.  Do you want to go and
look at it?"
	She nodded, slipping from his embrace.  How could she look so
vulnerable and radiant at the same time? he wondered.  Love, he decided,
it must be love.  He held her coat for her as she slipped it on and they
headed out to the car.
	Dana's eyes were watchful on the darkness and the trees and the
night.  She was afraid of what they might be hiding.  Fear pervaded
through her and she hated it.  Always cowering, even away from love. 
Had Mulder really loved her all this time and she had never noticed? 
What had she been paying attention to, then, if not to him?
	She had to be very good to him, she reasoned, for fear of losing
him.
	But fear of loving him and fear of losing him were both so big and
scary. She had to watch, to make sure to please him.  She wanted to be
happy.  Dana often did what other people wanted so they would be happy.
It was a drive that had begun in her childhood.  If she could just be
perfect, people might like her.  And not hurt her.
	Mulder almost missed the turnoff.  The house was old and stood
beyond some tall trees that separated it from a nearby subdivision. 
"Isolated, but close to town," Mulder remarked.
	"In ten years this will all be built up," Scully said with sharp
practicality.
	Dana watched to see how he would react.
	Mulder grinned.  "We'll have to buy the land too," he said as
though it was already decided.  The house was charming - small enough
for two people but with airy, clean lines that hinted it would suit children
and a dog.
	Inside, its combination of country charm and modernity continued. 
It was like nothing Mulder had ever seen before.  He could picture her
furniture here.  He could picture his furniture as well.  When he closed his
eyes, he could see it all laid out as though he was already there.  Her
couch against the wall with his typewriter poster over it. His bookcase
next to her entertainment armoire.  One of the three bedrooms could
become a den with his couch in it.
	"I love it," he stated, feeling full of contentment.
	She was nodding.
	"Say you want to buy it." He hoped that she would.
	"It's perfect," Scully conceded and began to smile.  She reached for
his hand and squeezed it as they looked out the window at the hill and the
trees and their bureau car parked in the driveway.
	They were home.

-17B-

	"We'll have to call..." Mulder began, reaching for his cell phone as
they stepped out onto the back porch together.  He trailed off when he saw
the playhouse in the yard and looked at Scully, worried about her reaction. 
Honestly, he expected her to burst into tears since they were planning their
life together and her view of that life did not include children.
	She dropped his hand and started for the tiny house.  He followed,
afraid her determined look was not her own.  It had only been a short time
since she declared the others wouldn't be back, no matter how much he
wanted to believe they were gone.  "Scully?"
	"Dana."  Her grin was happy in the dark playhouse and her body
against his invited more than an embrace.
	"What're we doing in here?" he asked.
	"Make love to me," she requested with all the spunk of a romance
novel heroine.
	"Here?" he cried.  "There could be spiders or -"
	She kissed him hard to silence him.  "Now," she whispered,
pressing her hand against him.  He was ready.  She tipped her head and
looked at him, her hair swinging from where she'd tucked it behind her
ear.  So beautiful. She pulled open her coat and nudged his head to her
breast.
	He thought she murmured, "I will have your children," as she was
consumed by their passion and it stilled him.
	She continued their leisurely kissing and toyed with his hair as he
moved away from her, taking his hands away, but her words weighed
heavily on his mind as he led her from the playhouse, back to the car. 
"Did you say you can have children?" he asked, worried.  If she wasn't
Scully...if she'd gone delusional...again...
	"My ovaries weren't removed," she told him once they were in the
car.  Her pitch and modulation assured him that she was Scully.  Flushed
and disheveled from making out, but Scully.  "A woman is born with
millions of ova because so many are defective.  Reproduction has never
been a science of exaction.  The statistics go as high as 70% of
pregnancies spontaneously ending before they're ever realized."
	Numbed by her recitation of fact, he wondered what her point was. 
"Scully?" he asked, as he often did when she was losing him to minutiae. 
"What are you trying to say?"
	"I don't think all my chances are gone," she stated.
	He'd never realized his partner was an optimist.
	"I didn't experience any of the symptoms woman experience when
they lose their ovaries. My doctor never noticed anything wrong with me. I
bleed, Mulder." Her tone was too high. Too desperate.  "Maybe the ova
that are left are immature or damaged beyond viability, but I know my
body, Mulder, and I know you have only the word of men who worked on
the project.   Men we can not trust."
	"I know how seductive the need to believe is -" he began.
	She just shook her head, closing up and crossing her arms low over
her belly. It was a gesture that made his throat itch.  She was staving off
pain.  The pain of his disbelief?
	Or was she trying to tell him something more normal?  Like she
was emotional because it was a certain phase of the moon?
	"There's always IVF.  And surrogates.  And cloning."  He added the
last because he was overwhelmed and sarcasm had always been his
defense against pain.
	"Why did you say that?" she demanded, hurt.
	He shook his head, unable to explain.  He pulled up in front of her
apartment and she got out.  He trailed after her, following in silence
through the doorway.  He saw her head for her answering machine and he
went into the bathroom to wash up and give her privacy, but his timing
was off - she'd hesitated, and the message was just beginning to play.
	The quiet, controlled voice of a woman.  He stopped to allow
Scully her space.  "Dana, it's your sister in law."  A long pause.  "I don't
know what to say to you.  We have tried...we've been good to you.  These
accusations...you can only be a very disturbed person.  Very disturbed. 
My husband, your brother, has been nothing but gentle with me and with
our son.  If you've been hurt by someone else, I am sorry, but please don't
sicken me with these falsehoods designed only to get my sympathy and
our pity.  You need help.  Professional help."
	The tape clicked off and whirred to rewind.  She didn't move.
	Mulder moved away, to pretend he hadn't heard, and she saw him. 
"No one believes me," she said, her voice thick.  "Do you believe me?"
	"Scully -"
	"Oh, God, even you don't believe me!"  She looked like he'd
injured her physically.
	"I do believe you Scully," he assured her.
	"But there's no proof and I - sometimes I can't even believe it
myself. And I don't know how to live with that."
	"You'll live through it.  You'll fight and you'll win."  He hugged
her.  "Get some rest.  It's been a long day and tomorrow will be longer."
	"Where are you going to be?" she asked.
	"I have to call about the house," he said.  She sat down and waited
for him.  They went to bed together and just held each other close for the
longest time.  Mulder was determined to see her safely asleep and finally
he felt her relax against him and allowed his eyes to close as well.  Trying
not to think about the hearings they faced in the morning.

-18-

	Scully's OPC hearing was at nine and his wasn't scheduled until
noon, so in the morning he went to the Lone Gunmen's office after she'd
gone to the Hoover building, wearing the demure black suit she reserved
for occasions when she felt like she needed to impress people with
everything she had, including her clothes.
	"Mulder!"  Langly greeted him at the door, alerted by video
surveillance.  "We've got to get this issue to the printer's by two." 
Together, they walked into the cramped, dim office.  Byers had a yellow
pencil behind each ear and was typing rapidly into one of the many
computers.  "Wanna proofread?"  Langly shoved several pages into
Mulder's empty hands.
	"Where's Frohike?" Mulder asked.
	"Darkroom."  Byers' tone conveyed that he was too busy to waste
words or even turn his head to greet his friend.
	Mulder stood, setting the pasted-up pages on the counter.  He
didn't want to bother the guys when they were working.  He knew he
should probably head to his own office to go over his case notes before his
questioning by the OPC and whatever lawyers were going to be present. 
He'd killed a man, and even though he was right, he was not proud of that
fact.  "I just wanted to thank you guys for the tip on the house," he said.
	His mind wandered to  Scully, wondering how she was getting
along with the OPC.  He reminded himself, again, that she didn't need his
protection and that if he ever implied that she did, she would be furious. 
She might even leave him.
	"You liked it?" Byers looked at him, a pleased grin lighting up his
face.
	"Yeah," said Mulder.  "I don't know where you get your info, but it
was great."
	"A friend of mine is the marketer," Byers said.  Mulder noticed his
friend wasn't wearing a jacket or a tie.  He wasn't sure he had ever seen
Byers out of uniform.  Or relaxed.  Mulder couldn't keep the corners of his
mouth from turning up. Byers had a girlfriend.  "And my sister's the estate
agent," he added, looking more annoyed and returning to the article he
was working on.
	"Wow, Mulder," said Langly.  "A wife, home...you're settling
down."
	Mulder nodded.  "I don't want to keep you. Tell Frohike I said
hello.  We'll have to get together."
	"Wait, I know he wanted to talk to you."  Byers dropped a third
pencil onto the table and Mulder wondered what the hell he needed
pencils for when he was typing.  Byers walked to the black door of the
darkroom and knocked.  "Frohike?"
	"Not now!" came the reply.
	Byers shrugged.
	"I'll call you. Thanks again," Mulder said, heading for the office to
face what he'd been delaying.

	"Tell us again how you determined it was Joe Wilder who
brutalized and murdered these innocent little girls."
	Scully stared at her interrogators as she gathered her thoughts.  She
disliked the way they were attempting to introduce emotion into their
questions.  A trio of lawyers as shiny and identical as though they'd been
freshly poured from a mold only that morning looked back at her, waiting
for her answer.  Her stomach was queasy with worry they would learn her
dark, dirty little secret.  "He was associated with Scott Strader," she said
finally.
	"Who never had the benefit of a trial," said one the one in the
pinstripes.
	"What do you know about Strader?" asked the one in the glasses.
	"Virtually nothing beyond what's in the report."  She'd taken a
mini-seminar on testifying in court while she attended medical school. 
Presenting evidence was an important role of the pathologist.  She
followed all of those rules now - remaining calm and neutral; meeting the
lawyer's eyes; saying only what she needed to say.
	"And yet your partner is the one who shot him."  Why did the gray
haired one sound so accusing?
	"Yes, sir."  There was nothing for her to add.
	"Where were you when your partner shot Scott Strader?"
	"Visiting my family. It was Thanksgiving."  She could feel the
tension that accompanied defensiveness leaking through her and taking
hold.  She knew she couldn't let them win and that if they got her on the
defensive, she would no longer be in control.
	"Is that usual?"
	"I had requested the time off in advance -"
	"In fact, you had a problem with this case, didn't you, Miss
Scully?"
	The questions were becoming more rapid and adversarial.  And
she hated being referred to as "Miss" and wondered suddenly if her agent
status was at stake here.
	"Weren't you on a leave of absence at the time of Joseph Wilder's
arrest?"  The gray haired one leaned in too close to her and she could
smell his breath, the faintly putrid odor of a breath mint masking sour
coffee.  She wanted to run.
	"I was."  She knew it was impossible for them to hear her
heartbeat, but it sounded deafening to her own ears.  Why wouldn't he
back off?  She knew he was doing it to intimidate her and it made her
angry to know that it was working.
	"How do you explain your apprehension of him, then?"  The gray
haired man finally leaned back, smugly crossing his arms.  Like he'd just
been handed his shiny gold victory trophy.
	"I came upon him -"
	"Luck?"  She could see the laughter in his eyes.
	"A girl was murdered!" she cried. "He was at the scene and
physical evidence -"  Her hand stabbed the air, making her point.
	"None was collected."
	"What?"  It took a second for her shock to fully register.
	All three of them shook their heads, as though they were controlled
by the same string.
	"It should have been collected," she said.
	"You don't know?" The blond one's question was a condemnation.
	"I was assaulted.  By Joe Wilder.  I had a concussion and as you
say, was not assigned to the case.  I left the matter of evidence in the
hands of the other law enforcement personnel on the scene."
	"Your partner," the one with glasses supplied.  Scully was getting
tired of turning her head to look at all of the men asking her questions. 
They were circling, doing it on purpose to unnerve her. Had she ever
treated suspects this way?  She knew that she had.  But she was not a
suspect.
	"My partner and other officers," she confirmed.
	"Your partner was on suspension -"
	"Mulder was on mandatory leave," she corrected stridently.  She
would always come to Mulder's defense.  "Any time an officer fires his
weapon, some period of mandatory leave and counseling is required."
	"Why did you ask for leave from this case?"
	"I -"  She shook her head, searching for the words.  "Children -
girls - murdered in this way..."  She searched the man's onyx eyes, looking
for understanding.  She found none and it astounded her.   How could they
not be emotionally affected, or understand why she had been?  "It was
very difficult for me," she finished quietly, feeling scorn and shame for
becoming emotional.
	"And Joe Wilder was not apprehended at the scene of the murder
and this assault."
	"No."
	"You were the only one who saw him, is this correct?"
	"Yes."
	"And you were able to identify him under hypnosis?"
	She said nothing, knowing her silence was damning.  "I had
trauma-induced memory loss from the concussion."
	"It's possible that facts revealed under hypnosis could be
incorrect?"
	She raised an eyebrow at him.
	He used his finger to underline words as he read them from one of
the many sheets of paper in front of him.  "'It is a rare individual who
cannot be induced to say or do anything under the care of a skilled
hypnotist.'"  He tossed the paper at her.  "Your words, Miss Scully. 
Published in a forensic journal in 1996 -"
	Her face flushed and she hated her body's betrayal of her
humiliation and anger.  "Corroborating evidence was found in Joe
Wilder's home linking him to all of the crimes."
	"Found by an agent suspended for murder, operating without the
benefit of a search warrant."
	She hadn't known.
	"You're married to your partner, Agent Scully?"
	"That has no bearing on this matter."  She said and felt even
angrier as he looked at her with disbelief.
	"It does if you married him so that you wouldn't have to testify
against him," the one with the glasses informed her savagely.  Her mouth
dropped open in shock because they couldn't think...  She scanned their
faces.  "That will be all," he said, dismissing her.
	She got to her feet quickly.  That they hadn't asked about her
mental health was a relief, but one quickly overshadowed by her other
worries. Mulder was waiting his turn in the hall, but she walked past
without looking at him, unwilling to give the lawyers any more
ammunition. In her mind, they had enough already.

	Mulder turned and watched Scully walk away.  She hadn't
acknowledged him at all.  His chest tightened and he turned to the three
lawyers waiting to question him.  One of them he recognized as working
for the bureau.  "Did you upset her?" he asked them.
	"Your concern is admirable," the gray haired man said, not
answering his question.  They went into the conference room and sat
down.
	"Why did you shoot Scott Strader?"
	Hey, don't start with the easy questions, Mulder thought.  "He was
pointing a 45 caliber semi automatic at my head."
	"What became of that weapon?"
	"It was turned in as evidence," Mulder replied with total
confidence.
	"Where is that weapon now?"
	Mulder's eyes widened. Damn it!  They'd lost the gun.  And since
Strader had never registered it, there was no record of him ever having
owned a gun.  They'd lost it or someone had stolen it, to make him look
bad.
	The lawyers accepted it as a point conceded by him.  1-0.  He was
losing.
	"Why did you pursue the case while on administrative leave?"
	2-0.  Shit.  He couldn't answer that question.
	"Agent Mulder?"
	"Scully - my partner - Agent Scully required my assistance."
	"Even after she walked away from the case?"
	Mulder slapped the table with his hand.  "You can't just turn it off
and on!  An investigator digests the facts of the case slowly, working on
them as he pursues other matters."
	"You were obsessed?"
	"I didn't say that!  I don't like your tone or your attitude," Mulder
snapped.
	"A man is dead and another is incarcerated, Agent Mulder. This is
a very serious matter."
	He only stared.  Angry.  Already aware of its seriousness.
	"Do you have anything to say for yourself?"  The gray haired man
asked, self assured, as though he were scolding a child.  It was that bad.
	"The evidence in this case will prove true."  He was getting hoarse.
	"The improperly acquired evidence?"
	3-0.  They sank his battleship.  "If you let him out, he will kill
again and that will be on your head!"  He pointed at them, rising from the
table.
	"You may go."
	"Good!"  He stormed out and the door slammed behind him.  His
anger collapsed the instant he hit the cooler air in the hallway. 
	He'd fucked up.
	"Damn it!" he cried again, knowing he could have handled that
better.  He shook his head and went downstairs to his office, seeking
Scully.
	She wasn't there.
	He couldn't continue to worry every time she wasn't where he
expected her to be. She was holding herself together and he had to give
her credit for that.  She hadn't switched and daily he saw less moments of
pain and uncertainty plaguing her.
	Scully was getting better.
	As he sat in his desk chair in his empty office, he felt himself
growing irritated with her for not being there for him when he needed her
support. Wasn't he there for her? Hadn't he given her everything she'd
needed?
	But he couldn't let himself feel that way.  He knew that, and guilt
followed with his next breath.
	He needed her.  Why was that so terrible?
	He shook his head again.  So many things had changed since their
marriage, in their expectations from each other. On the job and not.  He let
out a breath and opened the file, ready to go over his mistakes for the
thousandth time.
	Why hadn't Scully even looked at him in the hall?  It must have
gone badly for her too. Maybe she was angry with him.  She probably
needed some time alone. So did he.  He settled back in the chair, putting
one foot against the desk, to try to find one thing he had actually done
right.

	The blue-gray light from the TV was the only light in the room,
flickering and highlighting Scully's bone structure when Mulder walked in
late that evening.  Her eyes were wide and fixed, staring at the muted set. 
She didn't look at him when he walked in and closed the door.
	"They let him out," she said in an odd voice.  She closed her eyes
and he saw her nose and lips move as though fighting tears.  She forced
her eyes open and turned her head, focusing on Mulder's face.
	"No," he said.
	She nodded, eyes shiny.  "Back on the street."  She punched the
couch with her fist. "Because we did a bad job."
	He felt the same way she did, and couldn't say anything.
	She sat in sullen silence.  This had happened because she had put
her own problem before her job and other people's lives.  She had been
weak and she had been wrong.  Now, because of her, other girls would be
hurt and tortured and killed.
	She had never hated herself as strongly as she did at that moment. 
Mulder sat down next to her, his face upset.  When he touched her, she
knew it was because he needed her reassurance.  She couldn't bear it
because it was her fault.  How could he turn to her when she was so
worthless?
	"If you're going to touch me, don't be gentle and don't be kind," she
said quietly.  "I don't deserve it."  If she could save one girl...if she could
absorb the pain so another girl wouldn't have to...She wanted the
punishment.  She knew she deserved to suffer.
	A soft sound came from Mulder's throat.  Horrified.  What was she
asking him to do?  He didn't know.  All he could do was stare.
	He couldn't deal with this.
	He couldn't cope with Scully's guilt and blame when he couldn't
handle his own.  He didn't know what he'd expected to find waiting for
him when he opened the door, but it wasn't this.  Commiseration,
planning, love...but not this.
	He walked out of her apartment.
	Scully returned her eyes to the screen.  Waiting for the news of a
girl injured because of her utter incompetency.  She couldn't let herself
think about Mulder walking away and leaving her alone without a word.
	Joe Wilder knew where she lived.

	Mulder drove for what seemed to be endless hours, around in the
dark, losing his way only to find it again, almost playing a game with
himself to see if he could actually become lost.  Driving wasn't calming.
He'd thought he needed the time to think and now he knew that thinking
was the last thing he wanted to do.
	He wanted to go home to his wife, to Scully, to the only person
who he knew understood the way he felt.  He wanted to lie with her, he
wanted to talk to her, he wanted to lock himself inside and never have to
leave.
	She was hurting and she was scared.  That much had been written
all over her face and he'd left her there. His foot pressed harder on the gas
pedal.  He should not have left her alone like that.  But damn it, what
about him?
	He felt selfish for having those thoughts.  But running was not the
answer.  In the past, running had always been his immediate reaction - he
walked away when she didn't understand him, rather than trying to
explain, because it was easier.
	He couldn't do that now that they were married.   They needed to
talk about this.  He made a right turn, heading back to her apartment.

	She stared at the door when she heard someone trying to get inside,
torn between opening it for Mulder and pointing her gun at the murderer
who was bound to come after her.  She waited to see which it would be.
	"What?" Mulder asked, seeing her startled expression as he walked
through the door.  He closed it and locked it, feeling uncomfortable and
not certain why.
	She shook her head.  He sat down near her on the couch and turned
on the light. Scully recoiled from its brightness, having sat in the dark too
long.  Mulder turned off the television.  "We should talk," he said.
	She nodded, waiting.  He didn't  know what to say - "I know you're
in pain but what about me?" just wouldn't do.  He sighed.
	"How do you feel about this?" she asked him.
	"Angry at myself.  To blame. I should have done a better job."
	"That's funny," she said.  Mulder looked at her like she'd gone
completely insane since it was anything but funny.  "I feel the same way,"
she finished.
	"We have to believe Violent Crimes will get him."
	"How many girls will have to die before that happens?" Scully
demanded.
	There were no answers.  He wished he had some for her, but he
didn't.  She leaned against his shoulder and he put his arm around her.  "I
shouldn't have gone back to work," she said and he could feel the tiny
shivers running through her body. He tightened his arm.  "How many other
investigations will I ruin?"
	"You're getting better."
	"Am I?"  She picked up her head to try to get the truth from his
eyes.  He hoped that she saw it there.  "This must be hard on you," she
realized.  "Not what you expected from marriage.  Not what you wanted."
	"You're what I wanted."
	"Not like this."
	"Scully, if this had happened to me - if I were suffering would you
walk away from me?"
	She shook her head.  He was glad to know.
	"I love you, and you infuriate me as much as you always have and I
might feel helpless or need some time away -"  He stopped when he saw
her face.  "We're going to get through this.  We've come through so much
already.  But we have love and trust and that's more than some people will
ever have.  Now we're buying a house and building a life together.  Maybe
we've spent enough time on the past. Maybe it's time for us to focus on our
future."
	"But the past is all we have."
	"The future is ours, Scully."  Mulder pressed his forehead against
hers, touching her nose with his.  "It's ours."
	"I guess you're right."  She pulled back, sounding so low.  Her eyes
were dull and he wondered if she'd even heard him.
	"Cheer up."  The words were so pathetically weak as to be
inappropriate and he wished he could do something else to make her feel
better.  He touched her gently.  He wanted to make love to her.  He wanted
it to be safe for him to make love to her, emotionally safe, for both of
them.
	He stared at her with dark eyes until she noticed.  Her breast rose
and fell in a slight sigh.  Like an old wife already tired of her husband's
needs.  That hurt.  While their partnership had in many ways been
marriage-like, they hadn't actually been married.  The matter of love had
never been involved.
	He withdrew, walking away from her and grabbing his jacket from
the chair where he'd dropped it when he came in.  "Where are you going?"
Scully asked as he tried to zip it up.  
	"Home. I don't know."  You can't keep running, he reminded
himself, and he knew he should listen to his instincts.
	"What just happened here?" she demanded.  "Why do you tell me
you love me and run for the door?"
	"Why do you sigh when I tell you I love you?" he replied and her
expression changed, softening into embarrassed understanding.
	"I have a lot to deal with, Mulder."
	"So do I, Scully," he threw back, being selfish maybe but he didn't
care.
	"Is it a crime that sex doesn't excite me right now?  The idea of the
act terrifies me. I can't erase that. I wish I could. But I love making love
with you, I love the way you make me feel.  If I were in the moment I
think I'd be okay but thinking about it is so hard."  She raised her arms and
took a step toward him.  "You can take what you want."
	He could only stare.  What kind of sick invitation was that?  She
wanted him to _take_ her?  _Force_ her?  No one wanted that and the
notion that she thought she did turned his stomach.
	She lowered her eyes and then met his. "I give you my
permission."
	"Your body is yours, Scully."  Couldn't she see how much she was
scaring him?  Was this his insight into how truly her abuser had fucked her
mind?  
	"But love..."  she said, trailing off, walking over to him.  She took
his hand and kissed his fingertips and looked up into his eyes.  "I want
this."  She pressed his hand lightly to her lips - "and these -" running his
hand awkwardly down to her breast.  Her eyes were burning.  She moved
his hand lower.
	Mulder could only stand there his hand palm against her crotch
and wonder what the hell was going on.  "I will always ask permission,"
he promised her.
	She raised an eyebrow at him.  "Even when I'm telling you what to
do?"
	He was the one who had wanted to turn things to the sexual, so he
didn't know why he hesitated now.  "Mulder," she urged.  He looked at her
face.  "It's not intercourse.  But it's something."
	He nodded and his stomach turned over.  Finally hearing what she
was saying.  "Sit down," he said.
	"I don't want to talk any more," she told him and he backed her
into the easy chair, pulling her down low in it and kneeling in front of her. 
His submission to her.  She put her hands on the armrests just as she did
on airplanes, preparing for a difficult ride.
	But this is going to be an easy ride, Mulder smiled to himself as he
stripped her from the waist down and pushed her knees apart.  Scully's
eyes closed at the first touch of his fingers and he saw her hands clench on
the chair.
	He lowered his head to kiss her intimately.  She put her feet
against his shoulders and he could feel the tiny flexings of muscle that
affected her entire body.  If he'd raised his head, he would have seen her
flexing thighs and tight belly and the way her neck arched as her head
went back.  But he didn't raise his head.
	Until she shouted "Stop!"  The command was harsh and her voice
was too controlled for a woman in the throes of passion.  It froze him. 
Maybe he'd misunderstood.  She pushed him with her feet and he fell
back, ashamed.
	She crossed her trembling legs and they stared at each other.  The
look in her eyes was unfamiliar and he knew something had gone wrong. 
Her hand snaked up, seeking the gold symbol at her throat, seeking
protection.  Then she crossed herself, something Mulder had never seen
her do.
	"Scully?"  His voice shook.
	Her eyes were flat and snappish. "Who's Scully?"
	"Oh, God," he moaned and she flinched.  It was another one. One
that, unlike DK or Starbuck, didn't know about Scully.  She'd been getting
better!  He felt betrayed and he felt like it was his fault.  But he couldn't
give in; he had to roll with the wave and fight this. "My wife."
	"I am sorry if you have mistaken me for  your wife, sir," she said
coldly, "But I am no man's wife.  What I mean is, I am wedded to our lord
and savior Jesus Christ."
	Mulder only stared.  He would have understood her better if she'd
spoken Greek.
	"You have violated a sister of the Holy Order."
	He was going to laugh or throw up.  He couldn't decide which. He
wished she was playing a joke, but Scully was not this cruel. "You're a
nun."
	"Sister Bernadette."

-19-

	"This is not happening," Mulder said.
	She raised a familiar eyebrow at him.  This could not be
happening.  Scully had faith, sure, but not like this.  He had to remind
himself that this was not Scully, not really.  Or was it?  He had no idea
how to cope.
	"Will you excuse me?"  She nodded coolly at her clothing, puddled
on the floor at her feet.  Mulder turned his head and shaded his eyes with
his hand, filled with horrible shame as he listened to the whisper of her
clothes against her skin.  "Now, what is going on here?" she demanded.
	"You're a nun?"  He couldn't keep the stupid words from coming
out of his mouth.  He felt sick.
	She glared at him for his thickheadedness and fixation on that fact. 
"Yes, Sister Bernadette.  Bernadette had visions, you know.  That was why
she became a saint.  I am named after her because I am like her."
	He stared.  "You have visions?" he asked, careful but curious.  He
knew how strongly Scully took her Catholicism when she allowed herself
to believe, which was not very often.  Had she splintered further to have a
place to send those beliefs that so often did not correspond to anything
else in her life?
	"I hear the voice of God.  And there are miracles that I have
witnessed."
	"Miracles," Mulder said, trying not to anger her with his cynicism. 
He didn't believe in miracles.  As he'd once said to Scully, he waited for a
miracle every day.  That was just as true now, but it would not take a
miracle to cure his wife.  She had to heal herself.
	She was nodding.  "A boy, a stigmatic sent to me for protection.  A
boy with special powers, sent down from heaven with a special purpose. 
God allowed me to see what others could not to keep the boy safe."
	Mulder knew Scully had had a certain feeling for that boy, Kevin
Kryder, but miraculous?  
	"A four faced demon.  An apparition of a child born to a virgin
mother."  She looked at him and her eyes were scary.  "I can sense your
doubt.  You don't believe.  There have been other, smaller signs along the
way.  A cure for the incurable, wrought by prayer and simple faith.  But
you do not believe."
	"Joan of Arc heard voices."
	She nodded.  "Voices from God."
	"Schizophrenia,"  Mulder disagreed.  "What do the voices in your
head tell you?"  He could barely breathe for the fear of what she would tell
him.  He didn't want this to be real, he didn't want her to be mentally ill,
but he thought he would be even less able to handle it if she began to
prophesize, to tell him that God really was speaking to her.
	"Different things," she answered.  "They say that I'm wrong, that
science can explain what faith purports.  The voices are here to test my
faith and my strength."
	"Listen to the voices, Scully," Mulder said, hoping he could bring
her out of this.
	"Why don't you believe me?"
	"Why should I?"
	"Otherwise, your soul will be consigned to Hell."
	"I don't believe in hell," he told her. He'd never had this discussion
with Scully.  Why hadn't he? he asked himself.  He was afraid of the faith
he could not understand in someone who was otherwise so rigidly
scientific.  He did not want to hear her reject him.
	"Why not?" she asked.
	He shook his head.  He didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to
talk to her.  He wanted Scully so badly he ached.  Just to look in her eyes
and know the woman that he saw there.
	They stared at each other for many minutes.  "We should go to the
church," she said, looking about the room for her shoes.
	"No," he said, finding his voice.  He did not want to go.  But he
couldn't let her go alone - he didn't know what could happen to her out
there alone. He didn't want her to leave and never return.
	"You have sins to confess and so do I," she informed him.  He
didn't budge.  "The faithless voices in my head say you should go."
	The voices in her head didn't come from god, they came from the
essence of Scully, he thought.  He'd taken a course in religious delusions
back in college, but it didn't really help now.  All he wanted was Scully
back.
	How many more personalities hid within her?  He looked at her,
wishing this would all just stop.  He didn't want to know about more.  She
wasn't the only one who practiced denial.
	They went out to the car together and Mulder moved toward it, but
she took his hand.  He'd never noticed there was a church down the block
from her apartment building.  It was small, with a lovely stained glass
window.
	As he stared at it, he realized he had been there before.  Years ago,
distraught and seeking hope over Samantha's disappearance.  He hung
back, feeling wrong and out of place.  He did not belong.
	They knelt in the back of the empty church.  Mulder didn't know
how to do this, what he was supposed to do, and he could feel her
watching him with eyes as sharp as a hawk's.  He folded his hands and
closed his eyes.
	She began to murmur a prayer, fast, under her breath, repeating the
words when she reached the end.
	I just want her back.  I want her cured.  What were the promises he
used to make to an angry, silent god as he lay in bed at twelve or fourteen? 
I'll be good. I won't swear, I'll never sin, I'll never have another thought
about...if you just heal her of this.  I can't find a cure for her.  I need help
here.  I need help...
	He couldn't believe he was begging a deity he'd ceased to believe
in, who had never done anything for him.  He opened his eyes to check on
Scully, hoping against hope she would be blinking with confusion, once
again the woman he was married to.
	Her lips were moving and her eyes unseeing in prayer.  Her hand
moved as though over an invisible rosary.
	Please, God, if there was ever such a power...
	A bright light accompanied by stark silence began to flood through
the stained glass window, too blinding to cast the colors across the floor. 
"No," Mulder said, trying to get to his feet, but he was frozen, unable to
move.  The silence was profound and he did not hear his own voice.  The
woman beside him did not raise her head but looked eerily radiant in the
unnatural light.
	He opened his eyes, not remembering having closed them, and
looked immediately at his watch.  The glass was cracked and the hands
had stopped.  Scully lay on the floor next to him and he was relieved to
see her.  Relief turned to panic because she was unconscious and he put
his hands on her.  The pulse in her wrist was strong.
	An older man rushed in.  The caretaker?  Mulder barely glanced at
him.  "Are you okay?" the man cried.  "I think it was lightning."
	Lightning, the hand of God, a UFO...did he really care who Scully
thought she was as long as she was safe?  Her eyes opened and she looked
around, dazed.
	"Scully?" he cried, helping her up from the floor, cradling her with
his arms until she was able to hold her balance.
	She opened her mouth, moving her lips without sound.  Then she
blinked and took a breath.  "Mulder?" she said.
	He hugged her so tight she couldn't breathe.  He almost couldn't
breathe himself.  He thought he felt her ribs crack under his arms but he
was never going to let her go.  "I love you," he said, kissing her face.
	"It happened again," she said, pulling back, worrying.  He had to
nod, to confirm her statement.  "Why are we here?"  Her eyes flicked over
to the stained glass window and back to his face.
	He didn't want to tell her.  Were there words for what had brought
them to the church?  He gripped her hand and led her out of the building. 
Rain was not falling and the night was clear, though there was a sick smell
of ozone lingering in the air.  "Mulder, tell me," she ordered.
	"A new one," he said with a broken note in his voice.  "I prayed." 
It has hard to admit that to her.  He looked at her face.  "I prayed, and you
came back."  He wanted to fall against her, to allow himself to cry from
fear and frustration, relief and grief.
	She sniffed the air and turned her eyes up to the sky.  "We'd better
go in," she said.  "There'll be lightning."
	Maybe it had only been lightning.
	She made coffee in her kitchen as he stood in her living room,
falling apart.  She put the ceramic mug into his hand and forced his fingers
to close around it.  "This happened while you were making love to me,"
she said.
	He let out his breath, sagging toward the floor.  The cup slipped
through his hand.  Coffee burned down his leg and he barely felt it.  The
mug shattered, small white pieces sliding across the floor.  He joined
them, hugging his knees, unable to deal with any of it any more.
	"Come on, Mulder, you'll cut yourself," she said, her hands
working to pull him up.  Now she had to be the responsible one.
	"I can't... I can't..."  he hiccuped.  Tears were running down his face
and it hurt too much to even think about stopping them.
	"I know, Mulder. I feel that way too, but don't fall apart on me
now."  She patted his back.  "We're going to get through this. I'm sorry. I'm
sorry."  If she started to cry too, they would both drown. He was tired and
that was affecting his judgment.  She knew she'd hurt him but there was
little she could do to make up for that.  By focusing on him, she didn't
have to think about herself, the fact that she thought she'd been under
control and another personality had popped out.
	She guided him up from the floor and he leaned against her.  She
accepted his weight and put him into her bed.  His hand clung to hers,
keeping her near.  "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely.  "I shouldn't have..."  Guilt
tainted his eyes.
	"No, Mulder, I know," she said.  "Just sleep now.  It'll be better in
the morning."
	"Where are you going?" he asked, sitting halfway up in the bed.
	"To clean up.  I'll be right back."  Scully removed his hand from
his and retreated into the living room.  Shattered glass lay on the floor like
the pieces of her life.  No longer nurturing Mulder, it hit her hard that
she'd lost more time and hurt Mulder badly.  She was going to lose him. 
She knew this as certainly as she knew her name or her birthdate or that
the sky was blue. After losing herself, she was going to lose him.
	Every time she thought it was better, that she was going to make it,
it only got worse.	This was never going to end.
	She went into the bedroom and crawled in next to Mulder without
touching him.  He didn't move, but she could hear his uneven breath, still
crying, and she tried to sleep.  They had work to do in the morning.

	Mulder woke and Scully was still asleep.  The sun was not up yet
and it was damnably cold.  His mouth was dry and his eyes were swollen
from the previous night's tears.  He hated to cry.  He got up and went
running, pounding the pain and thoughts away until his thoughts dissolved
into his heart, his breath, his muscle, bone, cartilage...
	The sun was breaking over the horizon when he returned to
Scully's apartment, frozen, drenched with sweat, but better.  A sealed
brown envelope lay in front of Scully's door. He picked it up and saw his
name written on it in thick block letters of marker.
	Frowning, he opened the door and went inside, gulping two glasses
of water from the pitcher in the refrigerator.  He wiped back his sweaty
hair and slid his finger under the envelope's flap and stopped, suddenly
needing to walk into the bedroom to check on Scully.
	She was still sleep, with her hair over her face and her mouth open. 
He loved her so much.
	Creeping back to the living room, Mulder sank down in the
armchair and opened the envelope.  Several enlarged photographs greeted
him.  He turned them over and then sideways, not certain what he was
seeing.
	Scully.
	*Scully?*
	And the Cancerman.
	In a lab full of tanks.
	Scully.  That was Scully.
	He jumped and inspected the pictures more carefully, holding
them close to the light coming through the window.  There were no signs,
no clues.  They didn't seem to be doctored and some of them were horribly
recent.  They could have been taken yesterday.
	The one in the lab was older.  Her hair was longer, lighter.  Her
body was heavier.  Years ago.
	What was going on? He couldn't make his brain work. Think! he
ordered himself.
	The only explanation was that she was a spy and always had been.
	He refused to believe that.
	Had her illness...?  But _back then_?
	He had to find out.  He turned the envelope over again and picked
up his keys, driving to the FBI building and striding through the labs in his
dirty, sweaty running clothes.  It was early but most of the techies were
already there.
	"I need to know everything about this envelope and these
photographs," he demanded.  Lucy, the lab tech, just stared at him.  "Now,
I need to know as soon as possible."
	She accepted the envelope from him and slid the photos out.  Lucy
frowned and looked at him. "Isn't this Agent Scully?" she asked, picking
up a sheet of paper from her desk.  "What case does this pertain to?"
	He stared at her, feeling for certain that the entire world had gone
mad.
	"We need to keep track.  You know that there have been some
misuses -" Lucy told him.
	He grasped her arm, desperate.  "Dinner, anything, Lucy, I need the
information.  Quietly.  Quickly."
	"It is Agent Scully," she said softly, looking at the gold ring he
wore on his finger.  She was a bright girl and she understood.  She closed
her mouth firmly and met his eyes.  He waited for her response. "I'll do it
as soon as I can," she promised.
	"Thank you."
	"Agent Mulder," she called, stopping him as he careened out of the
room with the same haste with which he'd entered it.  "Go home and
change."
	He looked at himself as though waking.  He could smell his body
odor and feel the layers of grime laying on his skin. "Thank you," he said
again, this time like a human man.  He almost managed to smile before he
turned.
	He walked into the hall, hoping he could sneak out of the building
and back to Scully.  But luck was not on his side. "Agent Mulder."  The
gruff voice called after him and he had to stop and wait for Skinner to
catch up with him.  "What happened to you?"
	"What can I help you with, sir?" Mulder asked, ignoring the
question because he didn't have a very good answer and he wanted to go
home.
	"OPC is not happy.  Not happy at all.  They have some ugly
assignments in mind for you and Agent Scully," Skinner warned.  "Where
is she?"
	"It's barely seven a.m.  She's still in bed."
	"Are the two of you having problems?" Skinner asked, his eyes
searching, as always.
	"No sir," Mulder answered.
	"Keep a close eye on your partner," Skinner advised and started to
walk away.
	"What are you talking about? What does that mean?" Mulder
demanded, following.
	"I'm hearing stories.  Reports," Skinner said.  "Through unofficial
channels."
	"What sort of stories?"  Mulder asked, feeling his pulse race.  Not
stories about Scully, he hoped.  Anything, as long as it's not about Scully.
	"Faceless men. Burned bodies. It's happening again, Mulder.  I
don't want to see it happen to your partner."  Skinner softened the hard-ass
routine for just one second to add, "Your wife."
	Mulder was stunned.  "This happened last night?"  He remembered
their weird experience, the bright light he had been trying to convince
himself had been lightning.  Skinner nodded gravely.  "I will get right on
it, sir," Mulder told him woodenly, worried and upset.  This could not
happen again.  Was there anything he could do?
	Skinner shook his head.  "You've been assigned to another case.  A
woman who claims she was raped by the devil.  Possibly a case of satanic
ritual."
	Mulder frowned.  There were no real satanic cults, the Bureau had
determined that in a study some years ago.  And Scully couldn't...he didn't
want to expose her to a rape case.  "There is little evidence of the veracity
of satanic ritual -" Mulder began, hoping he could talk his way out of the
assignment.
	"I know," Skinner said.
	"I don't think Scully -"
	"Scully's been assigned elsewhere," Skinner informed him.
	What?  "Where?"
	"Babysitting.  A plea bargaining scumbag."  Skinner looked like he
was displeased about it.
	"No," Mulder said.  Without someone to watch over her, what
would happen to Scully?  But this thoughts spiraled back to the previous
night. Maybe if he was away from her, she would actually do better.
	"I'm sorry."  Skinner patted Mulder's shoulder and walked away.
 	His brain once again numbed, Mulder took the elevator down to
the garage and headed for home.  His cell phone rang before he even
reached the expressway.  "Mulder," he answered, tucking it between his
shoulder and his ear as he continued to drive.
	"Mulder, where are you?" Scully sounded foggy, scared and more
than a little vulnerable.
	"I had an errand," he said.  "It took me by the office, but I'm on my
way home  now.  What happened?"
	"Nothing," she said.  He waited, certain there was a reason she had
phoned, a greater reason than his not being there when she woke up.  "I
had a bad dream," she confessed.  "And when you weren't here...after last
night..."
	"I'll be home soon.  I love you."  Mulder said and hung up so he
could drive.  He pressed on the accelerator, wondering if he should worry
about her safety.  She was all right, wasn't she?
	Was she? He wouldn't know until he got home.
	The apartment was still when he opened the door, but his eyes
found Scully sitting on the couch in her bathrobe with a cup of coffee in
her hands.  She smiled at him for a brief moment and he sat down next to
her.   He should ask her about the pictures he'd received.  He should tell
her about his conversation with Skinner.  He couldn't.
	"What's up?" he asked finally.
	She gave a tight smile and shrugged.  "What's up at work?"
	He felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, not wanting to say the
words and confirm that what Skinner said was going forward.  "Skinner's
assigned us to different cases," he said.  She didn't respond. "Scully?"
	"It's his right," she said gently.  "We fucked up on the Wilder case. 
We don't have to work together on every case.  We've consulted on other
matters before."
	He continued to watch her carefully.  Her voice had gone flat as
though she didn't really believe what she was saying, but had to say it, had
to convince herself that it was true.  "I - I'm worried -"  How could he say
it without offending her?
	"I'll be fine, Mulder."
	He nodded and she got up from the couch.  "Where are you
going?" he asked mildly.
	"To get dressed," she said like it should have been obvious to him. 
She plunked her cup down in the sink and ran some water into it,
wondering what went on inside Mulder's head sometimes.
	He hadn't been there when she woke up.  Maybe it explained the
dream she'd had about something dear and important being torn away
from her.  She'd tried to hold on, but she just hadn't been strong enough.
	He hadn't even asked about the dream, and now he was being
clingy.  She hadn't expected to spend every hour of every day with him. 
She loved him, but he annoyed the hell out of her sometimes and she
needed her time spent alone.
	Maybe the professional separation would be a good thing. Just for
a little while.  Except it meant she would have to worry about him,
whether he was getting into trouble without her there to watch his back
and tell him to be practical and not take stupid risks.
	After all, look what happened when she left him alone for a few
days at Thanksgiving.
	Thanksgiving seemed like a very long time ago and part of her
longed for the innocence of those days. Before she knew all of these new
and terrible things about herself.
	She really wasn't much of a wife to him, she thought, looking
closely into the mirror.  Fine lines and dry pasty skin greeted her.  She felt
ancient.  If only she could get one good night's sleep, she thought, then
everything would be better.  She would look good and he would love her
and she would be able to relax and control her life and do the things she
was supposed to be doing.  
	She sighed.  It wasn't worth thinking about. It wasn't going to
happen any time soon.
	Mulder knocked on the door.  "Are you okay in there?"
	How long had she been standing there to make him ask that?  Was
he being overprotective again or had she blanked out?  She didn't think
she'd done anything more than space out.  No one else had come to take
over.
	Checking her expression in the mirror to insure that it was
perfectly calm, she opened the door.  "Fine, Mulder," she assured him,
playing that old broken recording again.  She never wanted to hear or say
the word "fine" as long as she lived.
	He must have felt the same way, because his eyes turned flat like
dark stones when she said it.  He looked like she'd hurt him.  How could
she hurt him by being okay unless he only wanted her when she was
broken and damaged.
	"Ready to go?" he asked her.
	"Yeah," she responded and they went out to the car.  Mulder
performed a hesitant little dance around the car - his way of offering her
driving privileges.  She smiled and let him take his usual place at the
wheel.  For once she didn't care; didn't want to drive.
	Had he somehow sensed that something was wrong?  Was that
what had motivated his marriage proposal in the first place?  She knew her
confidence and competence scared a lot of people off.  Especially men. 
To some degree, that was part of her plan.
	She didn't think it scared Mulder off.
	"Are you going to be okay working on your own?" he asked as he
slid into the line of brake lights on the expressway.
	"Of course. I'll miss you but I can handle myself," she assured him,
trying to sound like she was okay. Did he need her to say no, to validate
him?  She looked at him, trying to figure it out. Did he?
	Mulder was not a control freak like her brother Bill or her father or
herself.
	"What'll you do if you...y'know...start to change?"  He was scared
and trying to pretend he wasn't.
	"I won't," she declared and he glanced at her. "I mean it,
everything's fine."  Fine, fine, fine, she was going to be sick in a minute.
	He looked at her then, finally, a long look to remind her she'd lost
that control as recently as the previous evening.  It wasn't a look she could
meet and she turned away. "Traffic's moving," she said.
	He stepped on the gas and the car lurched forward.  It wasn't really
progress, but it was something.

-20-

	"Are you okay?" Skinner asked when she walked into his office,
sat down in her usual chair across from his desk, and crossed her legs.
	"Yes, fine, sir, why do you ask?"  The words were too light in her
mouth, despite how sick she was of being asked that question.  Her
response had become a recording that she'd played once too often. 
Someone was going to go looking for the string in her back and catch her
one of these days.
	"You seem tense," he replied off the cuff, and then leaned across
the desk to address her personally - not as her boss, but as her friend. 
Rarely did she think of Skinner as a friend, but he was.  He'd always been
there for her when she needed support.  Through her cancer.  When she'd
believed Mulder to be dead.  "Marriage is hard work.  And neither you or
Agent Mulder are easy people."
	She nodded, not wanting to let it show that her stomach had
suddenly turned panicky.  Like he was prodding her with the truth. 
"Thank you," she said.
	"Are you comfortably not working with him?"  Leaning back,
returning to his position as her boss.  And sounding just like Mulder.
	"I am more than merely Mulder's partner," she pointed out. "I have
more to offer the Bureau than backup and babysitting."
	"I'm sorry to report that this assignment is going to be largely
babysitting," Skinner told her. "Dr. Donald Irving has decided to testify for
us rather than be prosecuted.  The trial is in two days and I need you to be
on his protection team."
	"To make sure no one kills him, or to make sure he doesn't run?"
she asked.
	Skinner's silence was answer enough.  Both.
	"So where's the file?" she asked.
	Skinner pushed a sheet of notepaper toward her. She looked at him
and then looked at it.  It was the address of the safehouse, neatly
handwritten.  The address was about 45 minutes away, out in the boonies
of Virginia.
	"Agent Whitaker will meet you there at ten for your first 12 hour
shift."
	She nodded and got to her feet, not pleased, but unwilling to
complain.  "Thank you sir," she said.
	He nodded sharply and she headed out of his office.  Mulder was
waiting on the couch in his outer office.  Their gaze met and touched,
remaining intense as they moved on opposite paths until Skinner's office
door closed behind Mulder.
	Scully noticed Kim watching her and felt her cheeks burn with
embarrassment at having been caught.  But Kim smiled.  She knew.  The
whole damn Bureau knew - Scully wondered if they'd announced it on the
PA system, or if she and Mulder had always been so pathetically obvious.
	"So, demonic rape," Mulder said to Skinner when he was handed
the file.  It was thick, and had pictures. Goody.  Mulder tweaked it with
his fingers and looked at his boss. "I'm not happy about being split from
Scully."
	"Just be glad it's temporary," Skinner retorted, responding to the
hostility he heard in Mulder's tone.
	Mulder blinked.  "What does that mean?" he demanded, his ire
rising along with the volume of his voice.
	"People are not pleased with you, Mulder.  Neither of you."
	Mulder glared back.
	"I suggest your check your attitude," Skinner suggested.  "You
have been on shaky ground since last spring.  I'd say you should be more
easygoing now that you have her at home."
	Skinner's tone had softened in the guise of friendly advice but even
that managed to annoy Mulder.  Did Skinner think about his _wife_? 
"Except you've sent me off to Kansas or someplace."
	"Close," Skinner said tightly.  "Kalamazoo."
	Mulder sighed.  Quietly, checking his attitude before he did so.
	"You knew this could happen," Skinner said, trying to make it
better but it was only more salt in Mulder's wound.  "Your flight leaves at
noon."
	Mulder got up, realizing he hadn't kissed her.  And he wanted to. 
Kiss her good morning, hello, I love you, I miss you, see you soon, and be
careful while I'm gone.  He needed to feel her lithe body in his arms
before he left.  He hurried down the steps to the basement, taking them
two at a time and skipping the last three altogether. He flung open the
door to the office.
	The empty office.
	"Damn!" he fell into his chair, even though he had a file to read
and a bag to pack and a flight to catch.  He used to leave his overnight bag
at the office, ever ready to leave on a hot tip at a moment's notice.  Now it
was at Scully's.
	He pulled the phone from his pocket and dialed Scully's cellphone. 
"Scully," she answered and he could hear road noise coming through the
phone."
	"Hey," he said softly, smiling at the very thought of her.  "You left
before I could get a kiss."
	She made a small sound, like she hadn't realized it until he said it
and now she was distressed.  "What are you up to?"
	"Little case in someplace called Kalamazoo."  He didn't know why
he was reluctant to tell her what the case involved.
	"Michigan," she said.  "What's the case."
	He was going to have to tell her.  "Demons.  The usual weirdness,"
he said, trying to skirt the issue.  He didn't want to have to say that word to
her.  He was glad Skinner wasn't making her go on this case, although he'd
have liked to have her with him.
	"Demons doing what?" she asked, acutely aware that there was
something he was shielding her from.
	"I haven't looked through the file..."
	"Mulder,"  her tone was a warning.
	"Like I said, I haven't looked through the file, but...Skinner said the
demons were raping people."
	"Women," she corrected.
	He shrugged.  They'd spoken so often on the phone that he had no
doubt she could sense it when he shrugged or made faces.
	"I'm off to Virginia to babysit a stool pigeon," she said. He could
hear a quirky smile in her voice as she added, "Two pairs of agents trading
off, two days before the trial.  It should be a piece of cake."
	"Good," he said. "I hope mine won't take long."
	"Check the basement for mushrooms," she advised, reminding him
of a demon case they'd solved some years ago.  "And don't forget to look
around for Elvis. I hear he lives up there now."
	He laughed out loud. "I miss you," he said and he would never
admit that there were tears in his eyes as he said it.
	"Miss you too," she said and silence hung between them.  "I'd
better go," she said finally. "I hate people who talk and drive."
	"Me too," he said and heard her chuckle softly.  He put his phone
away and headed for her apartment to pack for his flight.

	She tossed the phone onto the seat but didn't put her right hand
back onto the wheel.  She was stopped in traffic anyway. Talking to
Mulder wouldn't have caused any danger to anyone.  She didn't know
exactly why she'd gotten off the phone, except she didn't just know what to
say to him.
	"It's okay, Mulder, it's okay."  That's what she should have said. 
He'd only called her for reassurance.
	Or maybe he just called because he loves you, she told herself, and
sighed again, not knowing why that hurt.  Because she loved him so
much?  Because he loved her?  Or was it because she knew she didn't
deserve it?
	Oh yes, she had issues, didn't she.  A hole opened up and she
changed lanes quickly.  As soon as she sped past the stalled car with its
flashers on, traffic moved swiftly and she reached the secluded safe house
quickly.
	Another bucar was parked in front.  She took a second to
remember what Skinner had told her, trying to remember the pigeon's
name.  Irving. Doctor Irving?
	Doctor?  Well, doctors always had stories to tell, she thought, but
took the pack of cards out of the glove box anyway.  If she was lucky, the
pigeon could tell Whitaker about all the appendixes he'd removed or noses
he'd put his fingers into and she could play solitaire until it was time to go
home.
	And think?  Did she really want hours of uninterrupted thinking,
even if it might do her some good?
	She walked into the house without knocking. "Why isn't the door
locked?" she asked the blond man who sat inside, staring at her.  He was
wearing a very nice, expensive suit.
	"Heard you pull up," he told her.
	"What if I wasn't FBI?" she demanded, withdrawing her badge and
displaying it to him.
	His eyes flicked over to the window.  "Bucar," he responded.
	"Where's the guy?"
	"Oh, he's here," he told her, sitting back down at the table with a
defeated air and retrieving his book of TV Guide crossword puzzles. 
She'd have been worried at his choice of activity if he hadn't had such a
disdainful air for the book, sighing as he picked up his pen to go to work.
	The door to the bathroom opened and the sound of a toilet flushing
filled the tiny house, accompanied by the smell of Lysol and sickness.  She
looked at the tall handsome blond man who hung on the doorway. "Hey,
Scully," he said.
	She stared at him for second, then glanced quickly at the man
working the puzzles.  The man she had wrongly assumed was Agent
Whitaker.
	She felt stupid.  Worse than stupid, because stupid in this situation
could lead real fast to dead.  He raised his head from the book and met her
eyes.  "Gotcha."
	"I thought he was you," she said to Whitaker, feeling her cheeks
turning pink.
	"We look alike." Whitaker's posture was careful, like he didn't
want to accidentally move too much. "Think they did it on purpose."  He
sank into a chair.
	"What's wrong with you?" she asked, turning her body toward him.
	"I'll be okay," Whitaker said. Obviously, he didn't realize the pale
green cast to his skin would undermine this statement.
	"You didn't lock the door," Irving piped up in an annoying voice,
demanding their attention.
	Scully jumped up and threw the bolt.  When she sat down, she
scooted her chair a little closer to Whitaker's.  "Food poisoning?" she
asked, looking closely at him.
	He shook his head.
	"You've got a fever," she diagnosed.  He was sweating and his eyes
were unfocused.  "Have you taken any aspirin?"
	"I'll be okay," he repeated, stopping her from getting the small tin
of pills from her bag.
	She looked at him a moment longer, then nodded. Male pride. 
Agent's pride.  She opened the pack of worn cards and began to lay them
on the table.  They'd been her present from Jack when she graduated from
the FBI academy.  "You'll need them," he'd told her.
	And she had.  Not badly, but to kill the time between bodies
arriving when she worked at Quantico, and on flights sometimes when
Mulder was asleep.  But mostly, she'd needed them to the long, lonely
nights spent in motel rooms, trying not to think of death and destruction or
her partner.  
	"Maybe you should lie down," she suggested, not looking at
Whitaker. If she'd looked at him, he'd have thought she cared and he
wouldn't have taken her advice.  She listened to his steps scuffling to the
couch. He groaned as he stretched out.
	They were blessed with perfect silence.
	It was eerie.
	She shuffled the cards.  Noise.  Whitaker dashed across the open
living space to the bathroom.  Poor guy.
	Irving scraped his chair across the floor as he turned to her. "What
was the name of David Cassidy's sister on the Partridge Family?" he asked.
	She rolled her eyes but he didn't get the message and turn away.
Irving's gaze remained focused on her, waiting for an answer. "Um, Dew.  
Day. Susan Day," she supplied.
	"On the show. Six letters."
	Scully thought for a second.  "Laurie."
	"Thank you."  His tone was bitingly sarcastic as he inked the letters
into the page.  He had a nasty attitude, she thought.  She wondered what
he'd done to end up here, but continued to lay down cards, pick them up,
and rearrange them.
	"What's the name of the kid from the Hardy Boys?" Irving asked.
	"Frank or Joe?"  She'd found a lot more solace between the blue
covers of the Hardy Boys novels when she was eight, and they'd also been
easier to come by in her house than Nancy Drew.  She didn't think her
sister had ever read an entire book in her life.
	"In real life," Irving said in a short tone.  Like the puzzle was
important.  "Well?" he demanded.
	"I was thinking.  Parker Stevenson."
	"Shawn Cassidy," Irving said a second later and started to scribble
again.  "How old are you, Scully?"
	She didn't like the way he said her name.  "Why?"
	"You don't look like an FBI Agent."
	"You don't look like a stool pigeon."
	"So judgmental," he remarked, but left her alone.
	Whitaker emerged again and lay down on the floor near the
bathroom with a loud groan.  Scully looked at him.  He wasn't brave
enough to cross the room, uncertain he'd be able to make it back in time. 
That was a bad sign.
	She tried to ignore it and went back to her cards, already tired and
annoyed and bored.  And incredibly aware of Irving's eyes burning into her
skin.

	Mulder read the file on the plane. Scully would have hated this
case, he decided.  A young wife who volunteered at her local church
claimed she had been molested by demonic spirits.  Not the invisible kind
- the ugly kind.
	Mulder would put cash money on the odds of the real rapist being
the priest.  He sighed.  He didn't want this case.  Scully would be
impressed that he didn't believe it was a paranormal occurrence.
	Here it's not even abnormal, is it?  Happens every day - incest, date
rape, marital rape, prostitution, child molesters, everything.  Everywhere. 
Everywhere.
	He couldn't believe it had happened to his wife. To Scully.  He
didn't trust his feelings about that.  The hurt was sharp, but okay, but the
anger...his anger...he had always carried a lot of anger, so much that he
couldn't always control it.
	He wished, thinking back, he'd ripped Bill's head off.  But he knew
it wouldn't have done any good.  It wouldn't have made Scully any better.
	He was worried.
	Finally the plane landed. For once Mulder was grateful for the
holding pattern. With the additional time, he thought he could trust
himself not to kill the priest on sight.  Now he could give the man a fair
investigation before he hung him.
	He wished Scully was there to ask him,  "What about the truth?"

	"So," Scully said sharply when she grew tired of listening to
Whitaker's rapid, wheezy snores.  " What'd you do?"
	Irving turned around. " You don't know?"   He was surprised, and
he looked happy about it.
	She should have already known.  Why hadn't Skinner told her? 
"They didn't tell me."
	"Then it's not important," he said.  She raised her eyebrows and
went back to her cards.  She started to put the cards in order to test her
shuffling ability.  She ached to look at her watch but she wouldn't let
herself. Time passed so slowly when there was a clock to watch.  She
didn't want to subject herself to that.
	"You're sure you're FBI?" Irving asked her.
	She was determined not to let him bother her. "Unless I look like
someone sent to kill you?"
	"You want to. I'm annoying you."  He was proud of it. She could
tell.
	"You don't bother me," she informed him, still sorting the cards. 
She heard his book his the table with the soggy sound of a used up
notebook.  She felt her shoulders tense because she knew he was coming. 
Then he slid into the seat next to hers, much too close.
	"You look like a kid," he told her.
	She gave him a bland look and made the effort to turn the
conversation away from looks and lame pickup lines she'd heard before.
"What kind of doctor are you?"
	"Gyno," he replied with a vigor that made her skin crawl.  "Or I
was. Until I lost my license over this crap."
	"I'm a pathologist," she said.
	"That must be even more fun than sticking your hands into
women's parts," he said distastefully.
	She wondered what would happen if she started puking like
Whitaker had been.  She swallowed hard and looked up to find Irving's
eyes close on her, not missing a thing. "Fridge is fully stocked," he
mention. "Sodas, water...crackers in the cabinet."
	She pushed her chair back and  relished the opportunity to stretch
and put some distance between them.  What the hell, she thought, and
allowed herself to look at her watch. One pm.  Back up would be coming
in about nine hours.  She popped the tab on a 7-Up and took a long
swallow.  She hadn't realized she was overheated until she held the cool
can in her hands.  After a second, she closed the refrigerator door.
	Before she could turn, Irving's hands fell heavily against her hip
bones.  "You've got good hips," he told her.
	"Get your hands off me," she ordered, breaking away from his
disgusting touch.
	"You do.  I can't help but notice it in a woman. It's one of your best
qualities," he said.  He was the kind of man women usually found
charming. She could tell from his tone and the way he moved and
expected her to like him.  And then there was the bleached hair.
	"I'm married," she informed him, thrusting her ring bearing hand
up in his face like an insult.
	"Congratulations," he said.  "So was I. Things don't last."  He
sprawled back in his chair, blue jean clad legs spread wide.  He started
toying with the cards on the table like they were his.  She slid into her
chair, stiff.  She knew he'd see it or sense it and know he was succeeding
in making her uncomfortable and that would make him happy.
	"Can tell fortunes with these, you know," he said, tossing the cards
down. King of Spades, one of hearts, 10 of diamonds, Queen...
	"Is that why you're here?" she asked him, her voice more shrill than
she'd expected.
	"Want to know your future?" he asked, drawing her palm into his
hands.  He had delicate, gentle fingers. Surgeons' hands, soft and unworn
by work.  Not good hands for a man.
	"I thought you used cards."  She was fighting to remain cool.  That
was her role here: cool FBI woman.
	"Interesting life line," he said, tracing it, and then looking into her
eyes.  "Are those aqua contacts?"
	"No, they're real," she snapped.
	"Something's making you uptight," he said and began to massage
her hand.  "Amazing the tension you can carry here," he said.  "Are you
having marital problems?"
	"No!"  She pulled her hand away and began to gather the cards. In
another second, she was going to wake Whitaker or start working TV
crossword puzzles herself.
	"I could examine you," he offered.  At her horrified look, he added,
"Free of charge, of course.  See if anything's wrong..."
	She started to laugh.  This puzzled him and she only laughed
harder.  His confidence began to wither before her eyes.  Did he really
find that an effective come on line?  As though she was going to drop her
drawers and lay down so he could have a look!

	Traci Lynn Turned lay on an examining table in front of Mulder. 
Two nurses flanked his sides as her white-coated doctor poked a latex
covered finger between her raised knees.  "See that?" she asked.
	Mulder nodded and glanced away quickly.   This was wrong. To
bring this girl in here and further expose her injuries and make her
remember...
	"Force trauma," the doctor concluded.
	Mulder nodded again wordlessly.
	"I wanted you to see for yourself.  Thank you, Traci."  The doctor
said, bringing down a blue paper sheet.  Mulder looked at Traci's face for
a moment.  He had no comprehension of how she must feel.
	"Was there any fluid retrieved as evidence?" he asked once he was
out in the hall with the doctor.
	"Wasn't any."  The doctor was an elegant brown haired woman,
matter of fact and forty.  "No evidence of that sort at all.  I've never seen a
case like this."
	"Brutal," he said.
	The doctor nodded.  "She didn't speak for three days after it
happened. We kept her in hospital the whole time. Traumatized."
	"So traumatized she could have blocked the rapist from her mind
and crafted a ghost story instead?"  Mulder asked.
	"The mind does have many strong defense tactics," the doctor
offered, but didn't sound as though she believed his theory.  "But wouldn't
she have remembered - and fought - when it began to happen again?"
	"Do you believe a spirit caused these injuries?" he demanded.
	"My first instinct says no," she replied, suddenly sounding like
Scully.  "But if she says it happened -"
	"A spirit remains blameless.  Irresponsible.  Not like a person," he
mused.  "And also can't be stopped."
	"No woman wants this!" cried the outraged doctor.  "I don't know
what kind of chauvinistic garbage they indoctrinate you frat boys with
back at the FBI but -"
	"I know," Mulder said fiercely.  "But at the same time, if she didn't
want to face her attacker's identity - and she is a profoundly religious
person -"
	"She did not ask for this, Agent  Mulder," the doctor insisted.
	"I know," he said again. "I know."  He walked back into the exam
room, aware that he had completely alienated the doctor.  She thought he
was some prick brained little asshole.
	Traci was in the act of dressing.  He hadn't knocked and stopped,
shocked and shamed, in the doorway.  She only stared at him, seemingly
uncaring about her nudity.  She had impossibly small breasts and an
impressive set of large bruises.  She slipped her shirt over her head.
	All of the questions he'd been about to ask her zoomed right out of
his head.  She couldn't have been more than 19 years old.  "Are you okay?"
	She nodded.
	"Where's your husband?"
	"Traveling.  He, um, works in Chicago. Commutes on weekends.
It's hard."  Her hands raked through her hair and he saw for the first time
that it was ragged, like she'd hacked it all off  herself, just eager to be rid
of it.
	"What does he think of this?" Mulder asked.
	She shrugged unevenly.
	"Who did this to you, Traci?"
	"It wasn't a person."  Her lower lip began to tremble.  "It was a
demon.  Sent by the devil."
	"Couldn't a man have been sent by the devil?" he asked her.  "Why
would the devil single you out like this?"
	"I'm a good person."
	"No one thinks you aren't, Traci.  Just because this happened to
you, doesn't make you a bad person," Mulder assured her.
	"My husband said it's because I love the church more than him,"
she stammered.
	"Your husband is out of town?"
	She nodded.
	"Do you blame him for not protecting you?" he asked, afraid,
because he was asking the question about himself and his own wife.
	"No," she said in a strangled voice.  "I blame God."

-21-

	"Gin," Scully said, laying down the cards.
	"You're cheating!" Irving cried. "I don't know how, but you must
be."
	She grinned at him.
	"So how does a pathologist become an FBI agent?" he asked,
staring again at her face in the same way Mulder did.  Scully didn't mind it
when Mulder did it because he was safe and he loved her.  Irving, on the
other hand...she had little patience for.
	"Filled out the application. How does a doctor become a stool
pigeon?" she retorted.
	"Tell me about your husband," he countered and she felt like she
was playing tennis.
	"Having met you, I assume it wasn't money laundering," she
continued her own conversation.
	"You really want to know?" he asked, like this was something he
was so proud of he didn't tell just anyone.  She nodded.  "You really want
to know?"  Or was he warning her?  "And you won't think less of me for
it?"
	Because they were such good friends already, she thought
sarcastically, waiting.  She knew he wanted to tell her, to impress her.  All
she had to do was wait, steeling herself for stories of experiments or
misuse or something terrible and common.
	"I videotaped my patients, their exams.  Sold the tapes.  Sometimes
I'd make them hot and they'd beg me to fuck 'em," he bragged.
	She jumped back so quickly she upset her chair.  She grinned at
her horrified look.  "And we offered you a deal!" she cried.
	"I wasn't the brains of the operation. I think you got him on video
piracy, and that's a big deal. I just did what I was told."
	"You'd better be more convincing than that for the jury," she
advised.
	"Oh, I will be," he said casually.  She stared at him, disgusted,
wondering what she was supposed to do.  She was about to move to sit on
the floor near Whitaker when her phone rang.
	She grabbed it.  "Scully," she answered.
	"I may be home tonight."
	"Mulder," she smiled, relieved to hear his voice.  She sneaked a
glare at Irving and turned away from him, not wanting to look at his ugly
face while talking to the man she loved.
	"How's it going?" he asked.
	"Okay. I miss you."  She hoped he couldn't hear the lie in her
voice.  "So things are going well?"
	"I think so.  I want to come home," he said, letting his longing
bleed through over the long distance line.
	"I have to work here again tomorrow," she said, feeling the strain
through her limbs.  Another day with Irving.  Maybe Whitaker'd be better.
Or he'd send a replacement.
	She listened to Mulder breathe, just feeling his presence and
knowing he was there.
	"I love you," he said.
	"I love you," she replied.  Wanting him.
	"I have to go," he said and paused a long moment before he hung
up.  She waited another second, desperately missing him, and then put her
phone into her pocket so it would be close.  If she needed to call for help,
she thought darkly.
	Irving's own aqua contacts looked like a snake's eyes, flat and
sneaky.  "Sweet," he said, mocking her.  Because she was a woman and
because she loved someone.  Irving didn't love anyone.  Maybe himself
but probably not, not if he victimized people for fun.
	"So why do men rape?" she asked him coldly and waited for an
answer.
	"Why not," was his answer.  Two words that made her want him
dead.

	It was cold.  He could see his breath vaporize in front of him as he
stood on Todd Foster's porch.  Who could take a priest named Todd
seriously? Mulder wondered.  He was glad he'd talked to Scully.  He had
to nail this asshole to the wall for her.  Because he hadn't protected her
before.
	If he could make a difference here, for one person, for Traci
Turner, it might be worth it.
	He pounded on the door.
	Todd Foster was young, younger than Mulder, perhaps 30 years old
and already losing his hair in the front.  His body was slender and almost
girlish.  "What can I do for you?" he asked in a voice so meek it put
Mulder's teeth on edge.
	"I'm here about Traci Turner," Mulder said, displaying his badge
and walking into the priest's modest home.  It looked as though it had been
recently inhabited by an old man and Foster hadn't redecorated.  He was a
new priest.
	"How long have you been in town?" Mulder asked, inspecting the
diplomas and credentials hanging on the wall.  He could investigate
schools for circumstantial evidence, see if there were any unresolved
matters Foster might have had a hand in.
	"Five months."
	"And you're the one who put this demon idea into Traci's mind,"
Mulder said, still using an annoyed tone. He hoped he could push Foster
into a confession, or a mistake.
	"No, I - what's happened to her is a tragedy," Foster responded. 
"Would you like some tea?"
	Mulder shook his head.  He already felt too wired.  And he never
accepted food from people he didn't trust.  He changed his tack and sat
down in one of the rough, uncomfortable chairs.  "How did you and Traci
meet?"
	"She and her husband Damien came to me for counseling and
asked me to perform their marriage."
	"Counseling?"  Mulder asked. He wanted it to be the priest.  The
priest was easy.  But he knew he'd be a fool if he discounted the husband.
	He felt like a cynical, lazy detective - jumping to conclusions
without any evidence.  But that was his specialty, using psychology and
human nature as his evidence in order to narrow the field.  That was why
they'd sent him on this case.
	"Premarriage counseling regarding the nature of the covenant and
the commitment. We've found that only a few hours spent in counseling
reduces the incidence of divorce," Todd said eagerly.  He had a high,
whiny voice.  What made a man become a priest, Mulder wondered,
especially in this faithless day and age.  Was it belief, or what?
	"Is that something all Catholics do?" he asked, curious as to why
Scully hadn't made him go.  She had not been strong in her faith in the
time he'd known her, but he also knew she'd renewed her relationship with
God and the church as a result of her illness.  But they hadn't married in
the Church, he thought.
	"Many people do. I see you are married yourself." Foster looked at
his ring. Mulder wondered if they taught priests that annoying sentence
construction in school.
	He didn't say anything.  He was not going to discuss his wife with
this creep.  "Did you think Traci and her husband made a good match?"
	"I married them," Foster answered.
	"What do you think about all this?" he asked him.
	"It's terrible."
	"Do you think it's the work of the devil?" Mulder asked, watching
him closely.  He didn't say anything, didn't react at all.  "Who do you think
did it?"
	"Does it matter?" Foster asked.
	"It's my job to find out," Mulder responded, "And punish the
person responsible."  He got to his feet.  "I may have more questions
tomorrow."
	Foster nodded. "Anything that would help."  He escorted Mulder
out, still looking smug and frigid.
	Mulder left angry.  He'd wanted this to be easy.  He should have
known better.  Now he had to keep working for it, and get the goods on
the husband.
	First he'd have to face Traci again, though.  He wasn't looking
forward to that in the least.

	Scully walked into her dark apartment that night, feeling drained. 
It had been such a long, hard day.  She rubbed her neck with one hand,
wishing Mulder was there waiting for her.
	She did miss him.  It was so nice to have someone to come home
to, someone to talk to.  She had the idea that had been their entire reason
for marrying, to continue their closeness after hours and stave off the
terrible loneliness.
	Or Mulder had just wanted to sleep with her.
	She felt dirty from breathing the same air as Irving all day and
there was a tension and a chill that wouldn't leave her, even now that she
had driven all the way home.
	Bath.  She started for the bathroom and the phone began to ring. 
"Mulder?" she said breathlessly.  She'd run to get it before the answering
machine and she wanted to hear Mulder's voice on the other end of the l
line.
	"Dana, it's your mother."
	She felt her heart sink.  She gave in to her weariness and pain and
said, "Did you decide to believe me, Mom?"
	"This didn't happen to you," her mother insisted.
	Hang up, urged the voice in her mind but she could not do it.  "It
did," she whispered.
	"If it happened, Dana, where was I?  I was always home with you
kids.  I would have known.  I would have kept anything bad from
happening to you.  It can't be real, Dana," her mother told her.
	"It is, though, Mom, I know because I feel it. I remember.  He used
to force me in the basement -"
	"I don't want to hear this," her mother snapped.
	"Maybe it's something you have to hear."
	"Why didn't you cry?  Or bleed?  Or tell me, Dana.  You would
have said something to me. It would not have been a secret. It could not
have been."
	"I know you don't want to believe it, Mom, but he told me he
would kill me and I thought he meant it. I was terrified.  I -"
	"Dana, it's not real!" her mother shouted.
	"Mom - I -"
	"Is he there with you?" Mrs. Scully asked.  Meaning Mulder.  "He's
the one who did this."
	"Don't blame Mulder," Scully insisted.  Her mother sounded
insane.  Was this driving her mother crazy?  "This has nothing to do with
him.  He's been wonderfully supportive -"
	"He has filled your head with lies since the beginning."
	"You used to like Mulder, Mom," she reminded her, her voice
growing smaller.  She could feel the upset in her stomach.  "What
happened?"
	"Look how much pain he's caused you," her mother said quietly.
"And you think you have to prove yourself to him.  Still.  What is it going
to take, Dana?  Your death?"
	She couldn't say anything.  She wanted to hang up the phone, but
couldn't make herself.
	"I want you to leave him, Dana. Just for a little while. Just until
you feel better."
	"I'm so scared, Mom," Dana said. She'd been trembling inside all
day.  Wanting someone to protect her.
	"I'm coming over," her mother declared.  "I can help you get over
this." Mrs. Scully hung up and Dana clung to the phone.  Her mom didn't
believe her and now she was scared she would hate her.
	But she needed Mulder, too.  She was really scared of what would
happen to her without Mulder.
	Dana was just plain scared.  Carefully she placed the receiver
down and the phone rang instantly.  She cried out, startled, and saw
through the window that it was dark.  For a moment she was mesmerized
by the blackness.
	Then she grabbed the phone.
	"Scully?"
	"Yes," Scully said.  How had Mulder gotten to be on the phone
when she'd just been...?
	Oh hell.
	"Are you okay?"
	"Yeah," she answered carefully, sitting down on the couch. It had
happened again, damn it.  "How's it going?" she didn't want Mulder to
know.
	"Theory, no evidence," he reported.
	She waited for more.  "Did you want to tell me about it?"
	"It's not that interesting.  How was babysitting?"
	"Aside from Agent Whitaker puking during the entire shift and the
witness being a complete fucking asshole -"
	"Scully?"  his usually playful tone was tinged with worry.
	"I'm sorry," she said.  She hardly ever cursed like that anymore,
and usually it was when she stubbed her toe rather than when she was
talking to Mulder. It had been something of a badge of honor in med
school, kind of like cracking jokes while performing autopsies.
	"I love it when you talk dirty," he teased.
	"Oh do you?" she asked.  "When are you coming home?"
	"I don't know.  Do you miss me?"
	"Mmm-hmm," she purred, pulling her feet up and closing her eyes.  
She loved his voice.  She wished he were close enough that she could feel
his breath against her ear.
	"How much?"
	Her eyes opened.  He didn't really want her to do this...did he?  She
heard him sigh and the groaning of mattress springs as he leaned back. 
"Mulder -"
	"We're practically still on our honeymoon," he said, "And it's safe
sex.  Just words.  Words can't hurt you."  When he meant sex, he didn't
mean disease free as much as he meant non-threatening.
	She'd been trying to remember that words held no power all day. 
"I've never done this before," she confessed.
	"It's okay, Scully. Just tell me what you like."
	"I like to see you." She closed her eyes again. "I like it when you're
close and I can hear you breathing.  Feel you.  And when you touch me -"
	"Where am I touching you?"
	"On my -"  She had to stop.  Remind herself. Mulder.  Fantasy. 
Not a memory, not abuse.  Not unwanted hands up under her dress.  "On
my ass.  Hard.  Rough. You're so deep in me it hurts but it's such a good
hurt."  She sucked in a deep breath, feeling his phantom in her body.  "So
hard I can't breathe, I can't think of anything but you."
	"What next?"  His voice was tight.
	"You kiss me.  I can feel your heartbeat.  Your lips are gentle, still,
even as your body is fierce..."  She hesitated, feeling ridiculous.
	"Don't stop," he urged.
	"But you're so far away -" she complained, aware that she was
sitting on her couch, alone, in her empty apartment.
	"No, I'm close. I'm in you."  His breathing was harsh.  He was
excited.  The power of words.  "Deep.  And you're wet and soft and every
time I move I can hear your breath catch.  I'm going to make you tremble.
I can see your muscles straining.  And I touch you and -"
	She heard a key in the lock.  She turned, hoping it was Mulder,
playing a game with her because he was on his way home to love her.
"Mulder, there's someone here."  The hand lying between her thighs was
heavy.  There was no time to go for her gun.
	The door opened and her mother walked in.  "Dana, hang up the
phone."
	"No," Scully said.
	"Scully?" Mulder asked, confused about what was going on.
	"You're coming home with me," her mother said.
	"Mom?"  She'd never seen her mother look so angry.
	"Scully, what is going on?"
	"Put the phone down, Dana."
	"I'll have to call you back, Mulder," Scully said.
	Alone in his motel room, Mulder listened to a dial tone in his ear. 
What the hell had just happened?
	Mrs. Scully walked in on her daughter talking dirty.  He felt guilty,
embarrassed for her.
	But they were married.
	He didn't think she'd changed - channel flipped - although the fear
was still in his mind.  Still, he'd thought sexual words would be less scary
than the actual physical act for Scully. Although he'd have touched her if
he was close enough to.
	Now he could only sit and wait for her to call him.

	"What are you doing here, Mom?" Scully asked.
	"You're coming home with me."
	"No," she said firmly.
	"We discussed this on the phone."
	"What?" Scully asked.
	Her mother's face turned very white. "I was talking to you."
	Scully's ears began to buzz.  Lack of blood and oxygen in her
brain.  "Maybe not."  She sank down in the chair.  Damn it!  This wasn't
supposed to happen any more. She'd told Mulder she could take care of
herself, stay in control, and she'd meant it.
	"I'm sorry, I can't deal with this now."  There were tears in her
mother's eyes and Scully lifted her head, searching for words to make it all
right as the other woman walked out, leaving her alone and scared.  And
abandoned.  Again.

	He couldn't sleep.  He could only lay awake and think about
demons.  His wife and her demons and the demon in this case.  He hated
this, hated being so far away from her, hated the snow and the gray sky
and the cold that seeped in around the window.
	Why wasn't she calling him back?
	What if she'd become someone who didn't remember him, didn't
even remember she had a husband?  What if she left the apartment, like
she had before. He hadn't been able to stand that and she'd only been gone
a day.  He'd wanted to die.
	He opened the case file and started to read, hoping to distract
himself by thinking of a profile.  A profile of a real life demon because
Scully had taught him well.  He didn't believe in ghosts or ghouls that
wanted to harm people, not any more.
	Was that why Scully had never believed? he wondered.  Because
she had seen this darkness in people since the time she was a child?  Had
she always known, somewhere, deep inside...
	Was that really any different than him, though?  He'd known since
he was twelve that the world was bad, that people went away and didn't
come back.  But he hadn't had anyone to blame for that except himself,
and he knew that believing in little green men was all that had given him
hope.
	Did Scully have no hope?  His stomach began to ache and his eyes
fixed on the phone.  Should he call her?  No hope at all...he had t be able
to do something to help her.
	But he'd never been able to help anyone, including himself.
	He picked up the phone to call again.

	She couldn't stay there.  She didn't feel safe.  Her brother had been
in this apartment and her mother came over without warning.  She
changed in this apartment, bad things had happened in this apartment and
she couldn't stay there.  She couldn't stay.
	Where the hell could she go?
	If only Mulder was with her.  If only her mother hadn't come, if
only she were in control and didn't have to spend another twelve hour day
with the biggest asshole the Bureau was letting off.  If only none of it had
happened to her in the first place.
	They owned a house.  She remembered it suddenly.  That was
going to be their haven.  Nothing bad would ever happen in that house.  It
would be good and filled with love and most importantly, she would be
safe there.
	They didn't own it yet, not entirely.  They'd signed some papers. 
Byers' sister had something to do with real estate and that was how the
guys had found the house for them in the first place.  They were helping
the process along as much as they could.
	No one could care or say anything if she went there.  They needed
to make plans to move.  She didn't know if she loved her apartment any
more when all she could see when she sat there alone was Duane Barry's
face.
	She had never had a problem being alone before.  This new
dependence she felt for Mulder scared her.
	She grabbed her things and ran to the car.

	The phone rang 100 times before Mulder put it down.  Where
could she have gone?  She wouldn't have gone with her mother, would
she?
	He was worried because she wasn't answering. Maybe Maggie
believed her now and they'd been able to resolve their differences.  He
seized the phone again and dialed Scully's mother's number.  She'd made
him memorize it once, "just in case."  Unfortunately, he had had occasion
to use it more than once.
	Why didn't "just in case" ever mean something good had
happened?
	"Hello?"  Mrs. Scully's voice was sleepy. Mulder looked but
couldn't see his clock.  It had gotten late without him noticing.
	"Mrs. Scully, this is Fox Mulder -"
	"I don't want to speak to you," she said, but her voice was mild. 
She didn't sound angry, just resigned.
	"Is my wife there?" he asked.
	She sighed.  "No, Fox.  She doesn't want to see me.  Why do you
have to do this?"
	"I'm not doing anything but offering your daughter the love and
support that she needs."
	"I love her," Maggie said and now she was beginning to sound
upset.  Maybe she should be, he thought.  "You're the one who's breaking
my heart."
	"She's not there with you?" he asked again, feeling guilty and not
wanting to listen to this any more.
	"I wish she was."
	"Thank you," he said, knowing it sounded cold, and hung up.  His
worry was manifesting as anger now.  He dialed Scully's apartment and
had the thought to call her on her cell phone. Even if she'd gone out as an
alter, she might have it with her.  He could only hope that she did.