Giving a deep bow of acknowledgment to Arkannan, who came up with the
idea of original stories about the AOL Sim Group of "X FILES Agents". 
While only peripherally an X FILES story, it might be enjoyable. 
Apologies to any character(s) who feel incorrectly portrayed or
represented.  Scully, Mulder, Skinner, and THE X FILES copyright Chris
Carter and Company.  This story has been written for entertainment
purposes only, and is not intended for profit in any way, shape, or
form.  Unless you want to write nice letters to the author....

Rated Hard "R" for subject matter and language.
(May 1, 1995 - WMSimon@aol.com)


REFLECTIONS ON THE ABYSS
by
William Simon

It was close to midnight when she found him.
Everyone in the office had heard about it.

     Jonathan had wanted to come after him; she'd managed to veto that
idea, but the fact that "The Kid" would voluntarily leave his
computers and keyboards to try and help impressed her.  Someone had to
stay by the phones, Mulder insisted, in case he called in.  Drami
Jonson was in, God save us, Manitoba, Canada, trying to verify the
existence of something called "The Wendigo", a northern cousin of
Sasquatch.  She'd phoned every number she had for him repeatedly, but
had not been able to reach him.  Drami being Drami, she dropped
everything and was due in at Washington National around four in the
morning.  It was the best that could be done.

     A quick consensus had been reached.  Mulder would work one end of
the city, Scully another, and she would search the final third.  One
of them had to find him.  "I've been there," is all Mulder would say. 

     "Have you heard anything about the baby?" she asked.
     Mulder's face was made of carbon stone.  "According to the
coroner's prelim, she was dead yesterday."
     "And the Mitchell's child?"
     "Died about an hour ago."
     Abbe Beck walked slowly down the street, stopping only to peer
into the windows of each bar she passed.  If you want to see a real
cross section of humanity, she thought, just check the cocktail
lounges.  Quite literally the haunts of the Rich Man, the Poor Man,
the Beggar Man, and the King.  It seemed when liquor flowed, Brooks
Brothers and the Homeless shared space with no sense of separatism. 
In one, the proposition had been smooth, too smooth, almost as if the
man giving it really believed his Italian suit and Rolex watch made
him irresistible.  Abbe had been polite but firm.  When she saw he was
not in the place, she left quickly.  

     Another proposition had not been so graceful, although in her
recollection, no man had ever taken one look at her, gathered his
crotch in his own hand and yelled "Yo, baby!  You and me!  Let's get
it on, Hot Stuff!"  The famous (or infamous, depending on one's
viewpoint) Beck Glare had frozen the man, leaving him muttering into
his beer about 'frigid bitches' and the derisive laughter of his
friends.

     When she walked into a biker bar on the outskirts of town,
surprisingly, no one had addressed her in any but the most formal of
tones, one huge man called Thor actually apologizing for the fact that
neither he nor his friends could help her.  They did offer to assist
her in her search, having heard about the incident on the news.  All
Thor said was "We owe him one."  She almost laughed out loud, but
stifled it when she recognized the sincerity.  The idea of a biker
gang scouring the city for a federal agent would make Walter Skinner
grow hair again.

     She finally found him at Planet Hollywood, just off the Square. 
When she came in the doorway and saw him, she mentally kicked herself.
 He'd mentioned it often enough, it should have been the first place
they looked.  Just goes to show, she thought, no one is thinking
straight.

     Abbe worked her way back to the booth where he sat, his back to
the door, her mind registering all the movie paraphernalia on the
walls and floor.  Standing in the dead center of the room was a seven
foot tall vinyl duplicate of the creature from the movie "Predator",
the menace of the thing tempered more than slightly by the jaunty
Santa Claus cap someone had put on the beast.  

     She ignored the appreciative glances men threw her way.  She was
remembering the evening the whole division had first come here at his
suggestion.  It had been a fun evening, with him stunning them all
with his almost encyclopedic knowledge of movies, more often than not
winning a round of drinks for their table in a trivia contest at the
bar.  

     Jonathan, bless his young heart, had made the grievous error of
mixing his liquor; first a shot of bourbon, then a little scotch, a
glass of wine, ending up with a Margarita.  He was the one who took
The Kid home, got him upstairs and onto the living room couch,
Jonathan having passed out cold and become dead weight.  He was the
first one the next morning to offer Alka Seltzer and aspirin when
Jonathan walked into the office looking, as John D. MacDonald might
say, 'a lovely shade of green'.

     "That's not a hangover," Michael had said after seeing the Kid's
face.  "That's the Civil War all over again."  Jonathan had survived,
and had been very cautious in his dealings with alcohol since.  Even
Mulder had loosened up a little that night, not even mentioning
O'Leary's habit of calling him 'Fox' instead of 'Mulder'.  In
retrospect, yes, this should have been the first place she looked. 
She cleared her throat as she approached.  When there was no response,
she slid into the booth opposite him.  "Hello, Michael."  Michael
O'Leary didn't even look up, his eyes staring into the bottom of a
half full glass.  "Abbe."

     She looked at the table, blinking her eyes in disbelief.  There
were seven empty glasses on the table.  The waitress came over, an
absolutely stunningly beautiful young woman of about twenty-five. 
"Hi!' she said brightly to Abbe.  "I'm Julie.  Care for something from
the bar?"
     "I'll have whatever he's having," Abbe said, her eyes never
coming off Michael.
     "Double vodka martini, straight up, twist of lemon?" the waitress
asked.
     Abbe nodded, thinking to herself 'Dear God...seven double
martinis, and he's still breathing, much less awake?'  The only
noticeable difference was Michael's face was slightly, very slightly,
flushed.  It made the scar running through his eyebrow and down his
cheek stand out a bit more than normal, but that was the only evidence
of his alcohol intake.

     They sat in silence.  Michael fumbled on the table for a moment,
then found his cigarettes.  As he lit one, Abbe said softly, "That's
not good for you."  O'Leary still stared into his glass, seeking some
sort of answer.  "As far as I'm concerned, Abbe, the Surgeon General
can kiss my ass."
     Abbe started.  Of all the agents she had known and worked with,
O'Leary was the only one who never, ever cursed in front of a woman. 
No matter what had happened, no matter what the action had been,
Michael kept his language decent in front of women.  According to
Mulder, when stressed O'Leary really could conjugate the word 'fuck'
approximately one hundred thirty seven different ways, but she'd never
heard him swear.  She had mentioned this to Dana and Drami over lunch
one day, with Dana suddenly getting a bit reflective.  "No," she had
eventually said.  "In all the years I've known him, he never spoke
that way in front of me, either."
     "Me, either," Drami piped in.  "And we've been in some tight
spots.  The only one I've ever seen with a cooler head close to his
when something goes down is Mulder."
      Michael drained his glass just as the waitress approached with
Abbe's drink.  With the unerring instincts of a good waitress, she'd
brought another for Michael.  "Hitting 'em hard tonight, huh, Mike?"
she asked as she set the glasses down.
     O'Leary nodded, but said nothing.  The waitress moved to clear
off the table, but O'Leary stopped her with a shake of his head. 
"Leave them."  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a money clip.
 He handed Julie three fifty dollar bills.  "This square us?"
     "More than enough, Mike," Julie said as she started to make
change, thinking they were twenties.  O'Leary waved that off with his
hand.  Julie took a second look at the bills.  "Uh, Mike..." she
began.
     "Merry Christmas, Julie," he said, and turned back to his drink.
     Julie bent down, giving O'Leary a quick kiss on the cheek. 
"You're a love," Abbe heard her say.  "Want to wait for me?  We close
in another hour."
     Abbe felt just the slightest flash of resentment over the
familiarity this woman was showing with O'Leary.  Not that Abbe was a
snob; she'd waitressed herself through school.  She shook her head,
telling herself it was silly.  But the feeling was there none the
less.
     "Not tonight, Julie," O'Leary said looking at her for the first
time.  "I wouldn't do you any good."
     "Well, as they say, anytime," Julie said as she walked away. 
"It's been a while."  Abbe felt another flash as the girl deliberately
added an extra little twitch to her walk for O'Leary's benefit.

     "Friend of yours?" she asked in a neutral voice.
     "More or less."  He lit another cigarette.  
     Abbe reached into her purse and pulled out her cellular phone. 
Rapidly punching a number, she waited while it rang.  Finally,
"Mulder?  Abbe.  I found him. ....  Doesn't matter.  ....  Yes, he's
fine.  Just wanted to let you know.  Call Jonathan and tell him.  He
can tell Drami when she gets in.  We can call off the dogs.  ....  I
don't really care what the AIS team has to say right now.  He's not
talking to anyone until tomorrow.  ....  What responsibility?  If we
can't find him, we can't find him.  ....  Mulder, since when did you
become a proponent of Bureau Protocol?  ....  Yes.  Tomorrow."
     She clicked off to see Michael smiling his tight smile at her. 
"Thank you."
     "According to Mulder, the Agent Involved Shooting team is looking
for you."
     "Standard procedure.  I'll see them tomorrow."
     "You're going to get nailed for avoiding them."
     "Who's avoiding them?  I'm sitting here, in plain view.  If they
really wanted me, they could find me."
     Abbe finally picked up her glass, taking a small sip.  To her
surprise, it tasted cool and clean.  Refreshing.  Her eyes felt
grainy, the direct result of too much movement and too little sleep. 
For everything he'd been through, Michael looked as though he had just
stepped off the cover of Gentleman's Quarterly.  Every hair was in
place, his suit looked fresh from the cleaners, his tie precisely
knotted, the French cuffs on his shirt sharply creased, discreet
cufflinks, contrasting yet subtle show hanky in his breast pocket just
so.  She had to admire the way he dressed, but somehow on O'Leary, it
did not come off foppish or vain.  On him, it looked the way it
should, and trying to imagine him in jeans and a sweatshirt was
impossible.
     "Do you want to talk, Michael?" she asked softly.
     In response, he lit yet another cigarette.  "About what?"
     "Don't be stupid.  You know about what."  God, he could be
exasperating with his fancy footwork and never admit anything
attitude.
     "What good will talking do?"
     "Sometimes it helps."
     "Save us from the Psych majors."
     Abbe bit her tongue.  He could also be obnoxious and abrasive,
riding rough shod over other people's feelings without a backward
glance.  She also knew him as a loyal friend, a good listener, a
brilliant agent, and possessed of a sense of personal honor she found
refreshing and slightly disconcerting in this day and age of 'What's
mine is yours if I can take it'.   He was a very complex man, no doubt
about it.
     And to her, who knew him about as well as anyone could, hurting
so badly at the moment it was shrieking from his nerve endings.
     "You heard about it?" he asked abruptly.
     "What do you mean?  I mean, which part?"
     "The Mitchell's baby.  She died."
     "Yes.  Mulder told me."
     O'Leary nodded to himself, and took another long pull from the
glass.  "So, it was all for nothing.  The whole thing."
     "You didn't know that."
     O'Leary made a bitter sound in the back of his throat.  "Does it
really matter?  It was over and done with before it started."

     Abbe could clearly remember how it started.  Drami had left for
Canada.  Mulder, Scully, Jonathan, O'Leary and herself had been in
their minimal offices ostensibly working.  The reality was, Mulder had
had asked Jonathan to rig the computer game 'Doom III' onto the
network system, and the two of them were engaged in an all out war,
with Dana and Michael cheering them on, support wavering from one
player to the other.  Abbe stayed off to the side, as she always did,
but she couldn't help smiling at an occasional outburst from Mulder,
usually along the lines of "I got you, you Reticulan bastard!".  Being
in the X Files did have its advantages; since all offices were in the
basement, people rarely ventured into the area to monitor what the
agents were doing.  

     For lack of anything better to do, and because it was minimally
related to her job, Abbe flicked on the small television sitting on a
file cabinet, intending to watch the News at Noon.  As the set warmed
up and the picture formed, so did the horror.  A sobbing woman was
framed in the camera, microphones pointing at her face.  A reporters'
voice over explained the situation.  The sobbing woman's name was
Helena Jeffers, mother of two month old Sandra Jeffers.  Helena had
taken the baby shopping, then strolled into the downtown Mariott to
meet a friend for lunch.  The lobby was jammed with conventioneers,
and Helena had to work and edge her way through the shoulder to
shoulder crowd.  When she arrived at the restaurant, little Sandra had
vanished from the stroller, right under her mothers' eyes.  Frantic
hotel personnel had assisted in the search.  At this point, Helena
Jeffers was simply pleading for the return of her baby.  It was
minimally an X Files case, a baby disappearing in full view of her
mother in a crowded hotel lobby.  Two phone calls Upstairs from
Mulder, and he and Scully were on it were on it.

     As they left the office, the news segued into the on-going story
of Laura Mitchell, the four month old daughter of Senator James
Mitchell.  Little Laura had been born with a defective heart.  Efforts
to locate a donor heart had been impossible, and the little girl was
dying despite the best efforts of her doctors to save her.  "That's a
shame," Michael had muttered as he walked back into his office.  "I
know Jim.  For a Senator, he's pretty decent."  Hours later, O'Leary's
phone rang, disturbing Abbe, who was deep in her research, and
Jonathan, who had briefly cat-napped at his console.  Abbe stuck her
head in the door just in time to see Michael's face go totally pale. 
"You're kidding. .... When? ....  Are you sure about this, Jim?  I
mean are you... .... Of course.  I'll be right there."
     He had left the office in a rip, saying nothing to no one.
     It wasn't until much, much later that the whole story had come
out.
     Someone had telephoned the Mitchell residence, demanding to speak
only to the Senator.  The anonymous voice explained that a transplant
heart suitable for little Laura had been found.  Fresh.  The price was
set at fifty thousand dollars.  After the initial rejoicing had worn
off, reality hit Senator Mitchell, who called an old friend.  FBI
Special Agent Michael O'Leary.

     When O'Leary got to the Mitchell home, and ascertained beyond all
doubt what was going on, he made a few phone calls of his own.  In
case the Mitchell phone had been bugged, O'Leary used his scrambled
cellular phone the Bureau issued.  In the space of forty-five minutes,
the Mitchell home had been transformed into a Command Center as only
the Bureau can do.  The Mitchells were horrified at what had happened,
with the Senator promising his assistance in any possible way. 
O'Leary's and other agents respect for the man escalated when Senator
Mitchell bodily forced a reporter who had slipped onto the estate out
the front gate.  Senator Mitchell did this with powerful and repeated
applications of his right foot to the reporters' backside.  The call
came.  Michael volunteered to work the trade himself.  The Bureau's
Hostage Rescue Team insisted on spraying his suit jacket with a clear
substance that would reflect in their nightscopes.  A body transmitter
was pinned inside O'Leary's suit jacket.

     It was over very quickly.

     Michael O'Leary walked down the alley and into the abandoned
tenement.  There was a long, long pause where everyone outside held
their breaths, with the electronics expert swearing furiously over the
fact the transmitter was failing.  The sound of a single gunshot
triggered the Team into action, taking the building like the Marines
took Iwo Jima.  Abbe had gone through the Academy with one of the team
members, and he told her what they had found.  A small cooler was on
the floor, open.  The tiny muscle, wetly glistening with its' own
fluids and the ice surrounding it, seemed to accuse every man in the
room.

     O'Leary stood over the body of another man, his pistol in his
hand, tears running down his face unashamedly.  Another agent gently
took the gun away from O'Leary, while another turned the body over. 
The dead man was nothing special, unremarkable in every way except for
the perfect hole between his eyes, eyes that now stared sightlessly at
the ceiling.

     "He went for something in his pocket," O'Leary said in a dead
voice.  
     The agent kneeling by the body opened the dead mans' jacket.  He
reached into the pocket indicated, and removed a silver liquor flask. 
Glancing at O'Leary, the agent continued the search.
     No weapon was found.  Not even a knife.
     "You didn't know, Mike," someone said.  "He could have been
reaching for a gun."
     "Yeah, man," another voice said.  "He coulda had anything in
there."
     "What happened?" the captain demanded.
     "Asshole here died of heart failure," replied the agent kneeling
by the body.
     "Heart failure?" the captain yelled.  "Heart failure?!?!?!"
     "Yeah," the agent said as he stood.  "Mike stopped it for him." 
The agent glared at the corpse.  "Punk bastard son of a bitch, I hope
it hurt."
     O'Leary looked at them all.  He walked out without saying a word
to anyone.

     Predictably, it had 'Hit the Fan' in a major way at the Bureau. 
When it seemed O'Leary had vanished into thin air, the Fan kicked into
Overdrive with Skinner in his upstairs office issuing orders heard in
the basement without benefit of telephone or intercom.

     Back at the office, Dana Scully looked a little white around the
edges of her mouth, having run to the Ladies Room when details began
to come back.  Jonathan's hands were trembling as he worked his magic
at the keyboard, hopefully searching for a purchase of anything on
O'Leary's credit cards, anywhere.  Mulder kept his face impassive,
saying nothing.  Abbe stayed quiet, not really knowing what to do
about anything, but willing to stay and do anything needed.  Even for
the X Files Department, this one was bad.

     "We've got to find him," Mulder finally said aloud.  "He's one of
us.  We keep our own house, and we protect our own."  Which is how,
over his protests, Jonathan was elected to man the phones, and Mulder,
Dana, and Abbe split Washington D.C. into thirds.

     Abbe blinked her eyes against the cigarette smoke drifting her
way, snapping back to the present.  O'Leary still stared at the bottom
of his glass, searching for answers that weren't there.  The lights in
the whole restaurant flicked twice, traditional signal for 'Last
Call'.  Abbe glanced at her watch.  One in the morning.  Michael
drained his glass, then stood.
     "Where are you going?" Abbe asked as she herself rose.
     "Does it matter?"
     "Want some company?"
     Michael turned and looked at her, really looked at her for the
first time that night.  "Sure.  Why not?"
     They walked along the street, still crawling with the dregs of
Saturday night nightlife.  Michael carefully but unobtrusively steered
Abbe to the inside of the sidewalk, he on the outside, nearest the
street.  Just like him, she thought, and the term 'old-fashioned
gentleman' came to her mind unbidden.

     It was chilly outside.  A faint dusting of snow on the ground
added a glimmer to the night.  The city's Christmas decorations had
been up for a while.  Abbe tried more than once to start a
conversation, but O'Leary just jammed his hands into his jacket
pockets and grunted in reply.
     "I cannot believe," Abbe finally said, "that you drank eight
double martinis and can still walk."
     "I always could hold my liquor," he replied.  "Which is one of
the reasons I don't usually drink.  People like me should stay as far
away from alcohol as possible."
     "I can see the sense in that."
     O'Leary stopped near a park bench, pulling up the collar of his
suit jacket against the chill.  "Want to sit down?"
     Abbe sat.  "It's been a long day."
     "Sure has."  Michael stood where he was, hunching against the
cold, staring off into the night.  Abbe realized they had walked to
the Wall, the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.  "Ever been here?" O'Leary
asked.
     "Once or twice," she replied.  "It's a place you can think."
     "Personally, I've decided that thinking is overrated."
     "I would have thought the opposite."
     The silence grew between them, Abbe sitting on the bench, trying
to watch him without him knowing it.  Michael still stood, his hands
jammed into his pockets, staring at nothing.
     "I shot a man to death today," he said abruptly.
     Abbe took a deep breath.  "I know."
     "No, Abbe, you don't.  I didn't kill him.  I executed him."
     Abbe's eyes grew huge.  "Michael," she said carefully, "what do
you mean?"
     O'Leary's eyes began watering, whether from the wind or tears she
couldn't tell.  "When I walked in there, he was standing there in
front of the ice chest with his hands in the air.  He told me he was
unarmed.  He insisted I search him.  I did.  He was clean.  He was
unarmed, and I knew it."
     "Dear God," Abbe breathed.
     Michael turned his head away from her until he was staring into
the darkness again.  He fumbled yet again for a cigarette.  His hands
were trembling so badly he couldn't work the lighter.  Abbe took it
away from him, gently, and lit it for him.  "He told me all about it. 
How easily he had kidnapped that little girl.  He just reached down
and took her.  How this was a slick, sweet score.  I had myself in
control.  It was important.  Control is important."
     He fell silent.  Abbe took a deep breath, and asked "What
happened?"
     "He stood there, smirking at me.  Telling me all about it.  He
grinned, he actually grinned at me, and said 'Wealthy Senator's baby
needs a new heart, you think anybody gives a shit where it comes
from?'"
     Tears formed in Abbe's eyes, and she knew better than to tell
herself it was the cold wind.
     "You know that quote in my office?  The one from Nietzsche?"
     Abbe nodded.  "'Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in
the process he does not become a monster.  And when you look into an
abyss, the abyss also looks into you.'  I think Mulder's got his eye
on it."
     "That was given to me when I transferred into the Bureau by John
Douglas himself.  You know who he is?"
     Abbe nodded.  John Douglas, along with Robert Ressler, had been
one of the founders of the Behavioral Science Unit, the now world
famous division of the Bureau that deals with serial killings and
sexual homicides.
     "Mulder was in the BSU, wasn't he?"
     "Oh yes.  Mulder was one of the best and the brightest, from what
I've heard."
     "How do you know John Douglas?"  
     "He's an old friend of my fathers.  Did you know my father was
with the Bureau?"
     "No, I didn't."
     "Yep.  My father was with the Organized Crime Bureau, first in
Chicago back in the Sixties when the Mob ruled the city, then we moved
to Las Vegas.  Stayed there until he retired.  Caused a bit of family
friction when I initially chose the Secret Service over the Bureau."
     Abbe said nothing.
     "Anyway, today.  Today, I stared into the Abyss.  It's a nasty
goddamned place, Abbe.  Believe me when I tell you.  When I looked
into that mans' eyes, I saw nothing.  I lived in Miami for a while,
did a little fishing.  You know how they say sharks' eyes have no
soul, no emotion?  Sharks are emotional bleeders compared to what I
saw today."
     Abbe still said nothing, but she reached out and gently took
Michael's free hand in both her own.
     "It was almost an out of body experience.  I saw the whole thing
laid out before me.  The trial.  The Psychiatric Evaluation.  The
circus the media would make of it.  And I saw this animal sentenced to
death.  Which, in this country, means a minimum of thirteen years at
our expense, decent food, cable television, medical care, more appeals
from his attorneys, not a care in the world.  All for a man who
literally cut the heart out of a two month old baby, to sell it to a
very desperate father for fifty thousand dollars."
     Abbe's hands held Michael's tighter while he spoke, her own tears
running down her face.
     "This is what we do, I thought.  This is why we all went after
the Shield.  We all hit Quantico full of ideas, and idealism.  The
first rule of any society should be that the strong defend and protect
those who cannot defend and protect themselves.  It's not a criticism;
some people are Warriors, and others aren't.  There's an old poem with
the line 'The Soldiers Must Fight so the Poets May Write.'  All I
could think of was who would speak for Sandra?  Who spoke for her? 
Who worried about her rights?  Who concerned themselves over her right
to not live in fear, to grow up healthy and happy, to go to school,
meet a guy, get married, make fat babies of her own?  Who spoke for
her?
     "I did.  I did, Abbe.  I drew my gun and deliberately put a
bullet right between that sick son of a bitch's eyes.  In that moment,
I saw he was not human.  At least, not as we know it.  What kind of
human could do something like this?  So, there's no excuse, no
quarter, and damn sure no apology.  I did it."
     Abbe was sobbing openly now.  She managed to speak between the
wrenching hitching in her chest.  "Mulder said you would probably be
cleared.  He did reach into his pocket.  They're assuming he wanted to
toast his success.  Face it, no one is going to try and crucify you
over this man.  He deserved to die."
     "He reached for nothing," O'Leary said harshly.  "He didn't make
a move.  It was blind chance he had anything at all in his pockets. 
When I pulled my gun, he froze and lifted his hands above his head
again.  He offered no resistance, made no move to escape or run.  He
just stood there, grinning that horrible grin at me.  He was proud of
himself.  He saw an easy way to make some money, so he tried it.
     "And today, I violated everything I ever believed in.  I looked
into the Abyss .... and I blew it.  I became the monster."
     Abbe pulled O'Leary down on the bench next to her.  She leaned
against him, still fighting her own tears.  "No, you didn't," she
whispered.  "No, you didn't."  She lifted her head and made him meet
her eyes.  "I can't say I condone what you did.  But I also can't say
I might not have done the same thing if I'd gone in there.  I don't
think any of us can answer that one.  I'd be willing to bet even
Jonathan might have pulled the trigger.  And I know for certain Drami
would have.  She probably would have jammed her gun up the guys', um
... rectal area first.  You can't save the world, you know."
     "The World doesn't care," O'Leary said tightly.  "I tried to save
one little girl.  A two month old baby.  And I failed.  I failed
miserably.  It was all I had left to give her."
     "You tried, Michael.  You did your best.  That's more than most
can say."
     O'Leary looked at Abbe, searching her eyes to see if she was
coddling him, trying to make him feel better.  What he saw was the
Truth.

     Maybe she was right.  Maybe she was.  
     Maybe.

     Abbe stood, still holding his hand in both of hers.  "I'm
freezing out here.  You want some coffee?"
     Michael stood, closing his eyes for a moment as the drink drained
from his head.  He could feel a headache building.  "Are you sick?"
Abbe asked him, concerned.
     For a moment, the old Michael O'Leary Wiseass to the World grin
flashed.  "Worse.  I'm sober.  But yeah, coffee sounds good."
     "Let's go.  I know a place that's open."
     A short drive took them to her townhouse.  O'Leary stood with his
hands jammed into his pockets while Abbe found her keys and opened the
door.  "Coffee up in a minute."
     "Deal."
     "Sit down.  It's been a long day for you, too."

     O'Leary sat down on the floor in front of her couch, stretching
his legs, noting her taste in books ran similar to his own.  From
where he sat, he watched Abbe as she put the coffee pot on, admiring
the way her hair fell, and the slimness of her long legs.  For the
briefest flash, he wondered...
     Abbe carefully set the coffeepot and two cups on a tray.  She
walked back into the living room.  "Okay," she said, "it's after two,
and we've got to get you into the office by eight."  Her voice trailed
off when she saw O'Leary curled up on the floor, sound asleep to the
world.
     She gently removed his shoes, and went to get a blanket.  After
spreading it open, she covered him.  An impulse she couldn't define
made her go into her bedroom and change her clothes.  Slipping on her
most disreputable bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, she walked back into
the living room, turning off the lights.  She slipped a pillow under
his head, and placed another one on the floor.  She slid under the
blanket with him, putting her arms around him, holding him tightly.
     "Does this mean you'll respect me in the morning?" a muffled
voice asked.
     "It means what it means, Michael.  Now shut up and go back to
sleep.  And don't get stupid."
     "I won't.  Gentle, maybe, but not stupid."
     Sigh.  "Michael...."

     Two days later, it was over.  
     The AIS team had cleared Special Agent Michael O'Leary of any
wrong-doing.  Indeed, the Bureau wanted to make a hero out of him.  He
refused any public comments or interviews.  He also turned down,
Mulder later learned, one hell of a promotion based on the 'official'
version of events, saying he wanted to remain where he was in the X
Files Division.  
     He was cleared to return to work.
     When he walked into the offices, everyone rushed to him, offering
handshakes and welcomes.  Drami Jonson, freshly returned from Canada,
shoved everyone out of the way, grabbed her partner by the waist and
hugged him fiercely.  Jonathan grinned and offered a high and low five
to O'Leary. 
     Dana laughed.
     Mulder said nothing but his eyes crinkled at the corners in
amusement.

     Abbe stood apart, as she always did.  O'Leary met her eyes, and
they spoke volumes to one another without saying a word.  Some things
don't need to be discussed.  What had happened or didn't happen was
immaterial.
     "Got one for you," Mulder said when things quieted down.  He
handed O'Leary a thick manila folder.  Michael opened it, and began
reading.
     "Werewolves in New York?" O'Leary exclaimed.  "Come on, Fox. 
Give me a break."
     "It's Mulder, not Fox," Mulder said with the beginning of a
smile.
     Michael laughed out loud for the first time in days.  Sweeping
the Team with his eyes, he looked back at Mulder.  "I *got* yer
Mulder, right here, pal."
     Bedlam.
     "Crude, Michael," Dana sniffed from across the room, almost but
not quite offended, and very relieved that Michael was getting back to
his old self.  "Very crude."
     "Hey, come on, Dana.  I've got lots of class."
     "Yeah, but it's all low!"  Jonathan and Drami exclaimed
simultaneously, then turning to stare at one another in amazement.
     "Okay, that's it.  When I get insulted in stereo, it's a sign."
     Once again, Jonathan and Drami spoke in perfect unison.  "I *Got*
yer sign, pal, right here!"  The look they gave one another after this
display of Stereo Insult was amazing in and of itself.
     Even Mulder broke, and started laughing out loud.
     It was good to be home, O'Leary thought.

     Special Agent Abbe Beck turned from her laughing co-workers, and
headed back to her office.  There was a new textbook she's been
meaning to check out, supposedly written by a practicing occultist. 
On her lips was a mysterious smile that would come back at odd
moments, and would only mean something to her....