PhaHks Series
by GenieVB





ime he thought he was going to pass out from the 
pressure of his hernia pushing out on his diaphragm. It 
was like someone was inflating a beachball inside his 
belly. Thrice he had to run for the commode because it 
felt like his guts were going to spill out. They remained 
as infuriatingly unpredictable as ever and denied him 
that relief. 

This was way worse than his flight to Seattle. But the 
stress of late had been telling on him to such a degree 
that even he noted it. He was actually worried about himself.
Not a self-pity worry, but one where, if things didn't improve 
a whole lot and soon, he might end up back in Shrink 
Petrillo's office, trying not to puke while staring into that 
fucking plastic garbage can for hours on end while his 
mind _ralphed_ it's own gory wrath. 

With blessed relief, the plane descended. Ian Moss was 
meeting him at the airport. 

He arrived on time in a small, blue Chevy Sierra. 

Mulder threw his bag in the open box and climbed in the 
front. 


"Which hotel?" he asked, fidgeting uncomfortably in a truck 
not designed with tall people and their long legs in mind. 

"You're staying with me." At Mulder's expression, "Don't 
worry, I'm sleeping on the couch." Ian said. 

Mulder's stomach settled down somewhat. "It's not that I 
don't appreciate it, it's just that I like my privacy." 

"So do I. That's why I'm giving you the bedroom and I'm 
sleeping in the living room. Look, you're only going to be 
here for thirty-six hours - maybe not even. I don't mean to 
sound ungrateful but how much can you get done if we 
spend the next hour or two setting you up in a hotel? I'd 
like to get home to some beers and tell you what's happened 
and then you'll be free to tell me if I've wasted your time." 

Mulder nodded once, "I can take the couch. I'm used to it." 
Looked out the window at passing traffic and old, ornate 
buildings. 

"Sorry, I've been kind of in a bad mood for a few weeks. 
I really want to thank you for coming. The couch is mine." 

Decided not to argue the point. "That's okay. I wasn't 
doing anyone any favors by hanging around the Bullpen." 

"You're back in DC for good, now aren't you? How's 
your lady friend, the Doctor?" 

Instead of an answer, Mulder asked: "Why don't you bring 
me up to date right now?" 

Ian heard the unmistakable tone that said mind your own 
business and made a mental note: 

Do not mention Lady Doctor. <-----BAD! 

"Okay. It went like this: After Ross's arraignment and trial 
- thanks for showing and supporting me by the way - he 
went to jail and my life went to hell. Gary's fellow's -in-Blue 
naturally found out he was gay and the harassment started. 
Phone calls from pay-phones calling him the usual brilliant 
originals: "fag", "homo", "queer", "Bum Cop", etceteras. Then 
it started at work. Pictures of naked guys hanging in his locker. 
Anal plugs with red bow ribbons. A fake pussy in his patrol 
car glove compartment, glow-in-the-dark condoms, you name 
it, he found it. Finally, he just couldn't take it anymore and 
transferred to another precinct, moving his stuff out of my 
apartment the same weekend." 

Mulder listened to the stark and painful narration. He'd heard 
this stuff before. Seen what can happen to a minority when 
falling under the mercy of self-righteous "Our Way" Groups. 
Hell, he'd been there himself, with a half-jewish heritage and 
the obvious features that went with it. Society had become only 
mildly more tolerant while he was away. 

"I'm sorry." Was all he could say. 

"S'okay. Not _your_ fault. You saved my life. I just wish things 
had turned out different." 

"What happened then?" Mulder asked. 

"A couple days went by and I didn't hear from him at all. 
I wanted to talk to him, though, so one day a few days ago, I 
called him. Someone answered the phone and asked me if I 
was a relative or "close family member". I lied, said yes, and 
they broke the news." 

"How-" 

"-Shot him, point blank. Killed him instantly." 

"Murder, obviously, but why do you think these other cops 
killed him?" 

"Because he was a fag. And because nothing was taken. And 
because the B.P.D. won't fucking answer my questions. They 
wouldn't even let me view the body!" 

"On whose orders?" 

"The County Coroner, they say, but I don't think an autopsy or 
examination or whatever was done. He had no parents. He did 
have a wife at one time but she wanted nothing to do with it, I 
guess. They separated and divorced because, well, you know, 
because of me. He was buried in less than twenty-four hours." 

Mulder had to admit that was a bit odd. 

"We're here." 

Mulder remembered the condo-type apartments. Nice. Pretty
roomy. Ian must be pulling a good salary to afford to stay here 
while reduced to one income. But then, plenty o' loon's to go 
around, so plenty of work, too. 

They elevated to the fourth floor. Mulder held his stomach 
during the short trip. 

Ian took Mulder's bag, dumped it on the bed, went to the kitchen 
where Mulder sat, somewhat stiffly, on one of the two wooden 
chairs set around the small table. The place was tastefully but 
simply decorated. It was hard to tell how much of it had been 
due to Gary's influence or Ian's. Ian Moss didn't seem to be the 
homey type at all, though he'd had Ross's blood removed from the 
living room rug. 

"You want anything?" Ian asked his reluctant houseguest. 

Mulder shook his head. "No thanks. Listen, I don't know how 
much I'm going to be able to find out for you with just a day's 
stay but I'll do my best. Can you give me the names of some 
of the people you suspect had harassed Gary? That's where 
I'll start. Background checks, work history, and as much information
as I can whittle out of the Local PD. I should tell you now, it won't 
be much. They have no obligation to help me just because I'm FBI. 
In fact, they're within their rights to refuse any sort of cooperation in 
a local murder case, I have no jurisdiction. It'd have to be a Federal 
crime or a suspected one for me to get that." 

"Fair enough." Ian pulled a pad of lined note-paper from a drawer 
and handed it to Mulder. Several pages were filled with pen 
scribbles. "I already wrote down everything I know, names, dates, 
what happened, phone calls and what was said, as much as I can 
remember from what Gary said." 

"Did you talk to anyone about this? Or receive any calls yourself? 
Threats" 

"Calls, yeah." 

"And?" 

"The usual stuff. "Couldn't make it with a dame?" shit. One guy
said he'd cut my nuts off." 

Mulder nodded, rubbed his eyes. 

Under the harsh light of the overhead 160 Watt bulb, Ian took a 
good, long look at Mulder. "You look like shit, Fox."


Sarcastically, "Thanks." Mulder regretted his shortness. "It's been 
a bad decade, sorry." 

"I'm gonna order out, if you want to, you can use the bedroom 
phone for some of that unless you need me to drive you some-
where?" 

"No. Uh, the bedroom's fine. I'll have to see what kind of 
appointment I can get with Gary's old boss - his name and 
number here?" 

"First one on the list. Chinese okay?" 

Mulder nodded and retreated to make his dozen phone calls. 

While Ian waited for the food to show, he listened in to as much
as he could hear of Mulder's conversations. He heard the phone 
slam down a couple of times during. 

Forty minutes later the food arrived, and he dished out two 
heaping plates full of all the sundries that made up typical 
occidental Take-out. 

Mulder choose that moment to make an appearance looking, 
rightly enough, like he'd just had an argument. 

"What'd they say?" 

""They", as in Gary's Lieutenant, said that if I wanted any 
information regarding the murder of Gary Bilhaltz, I'd have to 
get a Court Order to re-open the file which has been closed." 

"Fuckers. They want the embarrassment buried is what they want.
Pretend a gay police officer never worked for them, you know: 
"Gary who??" They're probably hang a medal on the shooter for 
taking care of their nasty little PR problem." 

"I'm going down there tomorrow." 

"Why? If what you said-" 

"Because people are a lot braver over the phone than they are 
in person." 

Ian handed him a plate, a fork and paper towel. He carried the
extra soy sauce and fortune cookies into the living room in a 
paper bag. Mulder followed. 

"So, you wave your badge and what?" Ian asked through a 
mouthful of rice. He noticed Mulder playing with his food but not 
eating any of it. 

"So I wave my badge and name-drop the Director of the FBI who 
just happens to be _my_ boss and we'll see who cringes." 

"You don't like Chinese?" 

"Just not hungry." 

Ian contemplated Mulder's gaunt face. He'd been very clearly "just
not hungry" a lot before arriving in Boston. 

"You know, I'm not a doctor. I'm not trained in anything but nursing,
long term care mostly, but I know how to shut up and listen." 

He saw Mulder freeze in place, hand hovering over the food. 

What he did not see was the things Mulder himself was seeing in
those suspended seconds in time and space. 

Scully. 

But not pure Scully, clean and beautiful, bright and smiling. 

He saw her blood. It was coating his food which was her
dead body. It was dark, old blood the color of Soya or
oyster sauce. It sat in little pools between congealed fat
and skin, like the chicken balls he'd been stabbing with his 
fork. 

Stabbing but not eating. 

Ian jumped a foot off the couch when Mulder bolted up and
made a lightening dash to his toilet. Stir-fried meat and vegetables 
sprayed the coffee table and rug where Mulder's foot caught
the leg of it, sending both plates cartwheeling. 

Ian heard horrid retching. Over and over. 

"Fuck." He followed him, forgetting the new stains seeping into 
his just-shampooed carpet. 

By the time he got there and looked in, Mulder had stopped
puking and was simply sitting on his butt, staring into the toilet,
daring it to ask more of him. 

"Are you all right?" 

Mulder nodded mutely but stayed where he was breathing
quick and fast. Like something wanted out and he couldn't get it 
passed a blockage, like a woman in labor. Ian listened as the 
respiration's grew faster and shallower. Uh oh. 

Mulder looked up at him beseechingly. "Hernia. Pah-" *Gasp!* "
-paper bag?" 

Ian ran and fumbled through draw after drawer to find one that 
wasn't plastic or stained with old Chinese food grease. He grabbed
a small one that had held, he thought, donuts once, ran back and 
seeing Mulder's eyes flickering, placed it over the man's nose and 
mouth himself. 

"No, no. Come on, Fox, breath, breath...." Mulder'd been naked 
seconds away from passing out. 

Ian stayed that way for several minutes holding it while the bag 
crinkled and expanded. Mulder's eyes were watering and he was 
as white as a sheet. 

"That's good. A few more. Slow and deep. Shit, does this happen 
a lot?" 

Mulder didn't answer except to close his eyes. Ian wiped Mulder's 
lids with a bit of toilet tissue. 

By then Mulder had regained some color and was holding the bag 
on his own. He tried to stand and staggered.


"Whoa - here, just sit on the toilet seat for a minute." 

Mulder complied and sat with his head down. 

Ian sat on the edge of the tub. "Feel better?" 

Mulder didn't answer. What he did do, with a bag still over his 
nose, is start crying right there on Ian's American Standard. 

"Scully's gone." He whispered into the pulp product. It muffled 
the words but Ian still caught them. 

Ian had wondered if Scully had been the "it" bothering the 
man. Mulder's reaction he thought had just confirmed that "it". 

Ian slipped easily into his concerned nurse voice. It was the same 
voice, just pamper-soft. "Gone? You mean...you mean she's dead?" 

Sobs, strangled inside an very old wound, and a nod. "Maybe." 

"You're not sure?" 

"W-we don't know." 

"I'm so sorry." 

Quickly, Mulder seemed to get it under control. The tears stopped
and the chokes. Now he just sniffed and wiped at his eyes. Removed
the bag but still held it just in case. 

"My fault." 

"I find that hard to believe." 

Mulder nodded again. "I had a clean shot and I didn't take it. The
UnSub-" 

"The what-?" 

"-The Unknown Subject. The suspect, the one who got her is
the psycho she'd been tracking. He's killed dozens of kids, we
think. Now he's got her." 

"Maybe he'll demand a ransom." 

"There's been no demands, he doesn't make them. No word at all. 
You don't understand, his people, him and his "group", aren't in it 
for money. He does it 'cause he likes to kill. It's a high. He isn't 
touchable. He's beyond the Feds and doesn't care if parents and 
kids die. We just don't know how he does the deed yet or why. 
The only hope is that as far as we...I have an idea who he might 
be,.." 

"How long has she been missing?" 

"Almost three days. The more time that goes by, the less likely 
she'll be found alive. We might never find her at all." 

*********

"I'm very sorry. And here I call you out to Boston to help me." 

"I owed you. I owed you and I wasn't doing much good sitting
on my ass in DC." 

"Let's get out of the bathroom. I could use a beer." 

Mulder followed. "Shit. Did I do that?" Seeing the food mess. 

"Don't worry about it. I'll clean it up a bit. You sit down. You
want a beer?" 

"Yeah, but I can't have one." 

"Why not? - oh, the..." 

"Yeah, the old heaves might happen again." 

"That's a bitch." 

Ian settled into the couch with a beer in one hand and another 
ready to open on the coffee table. 

He'd brought a glass mug of icewater in for Mulder.


"So, what is this case you and the Doc' were working on?" 

"You must have seen it on the news. And not me, just Scully and 
her new partner who's dead now. I can't really discuss the details 
because I don't have all the details but it makes no sense. The 
UnSub isn't leaving his signature at the crime scene. I mean, he 
does, sort of. He kills with a single blast, parents and kids. But then 
kills others a different way. No one can figure out how the hell he's 
doing that. There's nothing to indicate how these other kids died. 
Now he's taken an adult hostage but the scenario is all wrong. 
That just doesn't fit the MO, the signature is missing, the order to 
his thinking, his pattern I've... come to know is all...wrong." 

"The Spree Killers? "Children of God" killings? That was what 
she was working on?" 

"Yeah. Whole families in their houses. But always one child dead 
at the scene with no apparent cause. He or she is working the DC 
and surrounding areas. There were some similar deaths last year 
in several other states but that could just mean he was moving west 
to east. You gotta move around a lot in that type of work. And there 
was a case of mine out west, that's related to this I think-" 

"-Is this what you do for a living? Hunt sick assholes who like to kill
people and their kids?" 

"Mostly. I used to. Now I'm doing grunt work. See, they think I might 
be a sick asshole, in some ways. Well, an asshole definitely." 

Ian smiled, showing capped uppers. 

"I'm really sorry about Gary." Mulder said to him suddenly and Ian's 
smile disappeared. 

Ian leaned back into the brown cushions. He sighed, the false feeling 
of being in a good mood burst like a bubble. "Yeah. Me too." He hadn't 
allowed himself the luxury of thinking about Gary. The hurt was too 
painful. It was raw. 

"We met in a gay bar. Except he wasn't there for the social life. He 
and his partner showed up to arrest some dick who'd been pissing 
off the other customers, there was a fight and Gary hauled that Mary 
out of there. I saw the whole thing and had to give a statement. You 
be amazed how little people see in a bar when they're drunk. Anyway, 
there I am warming the back seat of the patrol car, giving my 
statement and Gary's sitting there, writing it all down." 

He smiled at the memory. "I don't know, I just liked the look of the 
guy. And I loved how he man-handled that prick. I don't know where 
his partner went but I just started flirting. At first he thought I was 
being a "flamin' fag", just to get under his skin. But then he started 
smiling and then laughing and before I knew it, I was handing him 
my phone number and he was taking it. At first I thought he did it 
just to be polite or screw with my head. But three weeks later, he calls." 

"Three weeks?" 

"Well, the first time is always the toughest. The admitting." 

Ian slugged back his beer. "We had an affair. Fuck, he felt bad about 
that for weeks. I mean, he was married and it was killing him. Finally 
he told his wife and the shit hit the fan. She started divorce proceedings 
and he moved in with me." 

Ian opened his other beer. "It was no "Sleepless in Seattle" but fuck, 
I fell in love with him in a day! I couldn't help it." 

Ian had been staring at the ceiling, pictures of Gary frozen there. 
"Then the fuckers shoot him in the back." 

He heard Mulder's mug fall and hit the carpet, the water seeped 
into the greasy stain of the spilled dinner. 

Ian looked over. "What?" 

"In the back. They shot him in the back?" 

"Yeah." 

"Between the shoulder blades." 

"Uh, yeah, I thought I told you that." 

"No. Did Gary have kids?" 

"Um, yeah." 

"Were they with him that day, the day he was murdered?" 

"I don't know, but he used to take them out every second Saturday. I 
never went along, the ex-wife didn't like the idea, so I never met them. 
You think this was-" 

"-Fuck!" 

Ian saw Mulder get up and pace. "We have to find out. Probably 
just coincidence but we have to find out if those kids are still alive." 

"What?!" 

"Our UnSub, he most times, not always but most times, murdered 
parents with a single gunshot wound to the upper spine. That was the
one piece of sequestered information. What the public didn't know 
about, _how_ they died." 

"Shit. But this can't be the same, you said your guy was working 
DC." 

"But Gary died weeks ago and our guy was moving around. He 
might still be. He can get anywhere. And he doesn't work alone. 
Who can I call to see if those kids are okay?" 

"Uh, the ex-wife's parents I guess. They'd know but they're not 
gonna fuckin' want to hear from me." 

"I'll make the call. Can you get the number?" 

"I have Gary's old organizer. It should be in there." He rummaged
around in a bedroom dresser drawer and emerged with the book
in hand. Here. Shit, I don't know his wife's maiden name." 

"What's her first name?" 

"Terri." 

Mulder went directly to the "T's". "Here it is: "Terri's parents"."
Mulder looked at Ian's surprise. "It was a hunch." 

A moment later, after speaking in his best sympathetic but official 
tone and mentioning FBI officiality, Mulder ended his cell call. 

He turned to Ian. "Gary had two daughters. They were there the 
night he was killed. One was shot. The other dead on scene but no 
wounds." 

"Holy mother and baby." Ian felt sick. He had a fleeting thought 
that maybe it would have been better not to have met Fox Mulder. 

"Why would this guy pick Gary? Is it coincidence?" 

"No. He picked Gary because of me, I think. Because I was here, 
six months ago talking to both of you. Because whoever knows what's 
going on doesn't want me to know what's going on. But they must think 
I already know and that I'm out digging around." 

That just made Ian's head hurt. "I don't follow you." 

"I'm speculating why, on three separate occasions, people with whom 
I've had contact have ended up murdered. I have no idea. Something's 
missing. It doesn't make sense. I wish I hadn't come here, then or now." 

Ian's blood drained from his face. "You think he might try and get me?" 

"I don't know. But I wish I did. I wish I hadn't used your land line to 
make those calls to Gary's work. I wish I'd used my cell', then nothing 
could be traced to you, they might think I was calling from my hotel. 
Now they know I wasn't." 

"You're fucking scaring me, Mulder. He, they, whoever, you think 
they're listening in too? Am I a dead man? Am I gonna find a hole 
in my back tomorrow?" 

Mulder stared back as if considering the possibilities. "I sorry. I'm 
sorry I even came here. I should go, the sooner, the better. And you 
should find some other place to be for a few weeks." 

"I don't have any other place." Ian talked fast and high, he was 
scared now. "And you're fucking strung out like a clothes line, Fox, 
you can't travel. Besides, if I'm gonna die, I'd sure as hell like to know 
more than you've told me. Jesus Christ! _I'm_ gonna fuckin' die?" 

He plopped down on the couch. "Holy shit." stared up at Mulder, 
helpless. Mulder stared down. 

Helpless. 

"What the fuck have I gotten into here, Mulder? What the fuck kind 
of people are they?" 

"Fuck me." Ian whispered. "You're a babe, Fox, but 
I wish to hell I'd never laid eyes on you." 

Mulder sat in the chair opposite. Couch, there. Coffee 
table, center. Chair, other side. 

Conversational arrangement. 

"The more I tell you, the worse it is for you. I don't know 
if what I know is even accurate. There's no way to 
substantiate anything especially when it comes to 
Gary's murder. Or the death's of his daughter's." 

"They never even told me the girls had been killed too." 

Mulder closed and rubbed his eyes. They burned like acid. 
It was approaching eleven P.M.. He hadn't slept for nearly 
three days but was too wired now to do so. He felt grubby, 
sick and was so tired that walking was effort. 

"I'll stay the night. If you want, you can fly back to DC with 
me. But it would mean leaving your job here, finding a new 
one there, a place to live. Establishing a new life somehow..." 

"Would it mean not being murdered?" 

"Maybe. Maybe not. We don't know for sure whether you're 
a target." 

"Why the hell aren't you one? If they don't want you digging 
around, why not kill you?" 

"I don't know. It doesn't make sense." 

"So take my chances here or DC? Sounds about even to me." 

"I don't know what else to suggest. I could get you into the 
Witness Protection Program, if I had something more than 
speculation about a murder that might happen by subjects 
unknown." 

"Terrific. This is just _sweet_." Ian sighed heavily. "I hope you 
brought your gun." 

Mulder nodded. 

"Lots of ammo?" 

Again a nod. 

"That's better than nothing." 

Mulder leaned back in the chair, fatigue settling down like a 
quilt. "I'm sorry." 

"Will they call you?" 

At his dull eyed puzzlement, "I mean if they hear anything 
about Lady-Doc'?" 

"I already called them." 

"Nothing?" 

"Less hope than this morning, I can tell by how they talk to 
me, by how he does." 

""He"?" 

"The Director." 

"Oh." 

Ian's own grief over Gary was fresh each morning, but by 
afternoon, work and friends and the local nightclub would 
dull it. By the time sleep rolled around, he could do it: close his 
eyes and not see Gary and nothing but Gary. 

He forced it to keep his sanity intact. Doubted if Fox had 
reached that stage. "You love her a lot, don't you?" 

"Don't talk about her anymore." 

Ian contemplated backing off. But he might not be alive tomorrow. 

"How did you end up at Walburg?" 

Mulder turned white. Whiter than the white he was when he'd 
arrived that afternoon from DC. Bleached-out bones white. "Why 
do you want to know that. Think I'm still crazy? Think I'm making 
all this shit up?" 

"No. Gary's and his kids are dead, remember?" 

Mulder turned his head away, the disbelief he thought he would 
see having never arrived. "Bad shit happened to me. I was missing 
for eight years. I was...hurt a lot. Don't remember much about it. 
Don't want to. Not anymore." 

Ian listened to the bare facts that told him nothing. Okay. 

"Just wondered if maybe this had something to do with that, 
with you, and who I should blame if someone comes in here and 
blows my heart out the front of my chest." 

Mulder stared. Dark and wounded. Clipped, "Would it be all 
right if I took a shower?" Guilt-frosted anger. 

"Sure. Clean towels on the shelf." 

Ian knew Mulder was escaping from the questions. Fine. 

No, not fine. He had a right to know what the hell had happened 
to Fox and specifically, _who_ had happened to him to end up 
bringing all of it here and to Gary, so he, Ian, could figure out how 
to keep the murdering pricks away from _him_. 

Fat chance. He knew how stubborn Fox could be. You don't daily 
nurse a guy for six months without experiencing their dark side. 

The shower started. He listened to it and remembered suddenly 
the scars he'd seen on Fox's chest. "Fuck." He felt like a shit. He'd 
asked the man to come here and help him. Barely out of the hospital, 
his woman gone and he'd demanded Fox come here to help _him_. 
But it was hard not to be selfish when bad shit happened to _you_! 

Maybe he should apologize? 

Ian went to the bathroom and pushed the door open. Mulder was 
behind the thick plastic curtain, clear once but now coated in hard 
water deposits. 

Long, lean, nicely formed tanned flesh merged into darker, mind 
teasing skin below the navel. But no detail. 

Ian felt himself flush and sat on the toilet, watching. Just for a second 
or two, he told himself, feeling like a pervert for peeping where he 
wasn't suppose to. 

The shower curtain was pushed aside without warning. 

Shit! Most people turned the water off first. It was too late, and 
Ian got full view of healthy Fox Mulder, who hadn't even noticed 
his bathroom guest, as his long legs stepped out of the tub. 

Ian grabbed a towel from the rack behind him. "Here." 

Mulder jumped, looked, grabbed the towel, and blushing to his 
roots, quickly wrapped it around himself. "You usually spy on 
your house guests?" The blush was embarrassment more than
anger. 

"Only the good looking ones." 

Peeved, "Christ, haven't you ever seen a guy before?" 

"I _thought_ I had." 

"Do you mind??" 

Ian retreated, spoke through the door. "Sorry, I didn't mean anything. 
I didn't plan on ogling you, okay?" //Very, _very_ nice.// "I came
to ask you something." 

"What?" 

"You,...will you be able to make these assholes pay? Will you 
be able to stick it to them?" 

"I don't know." The anger was gone. "I'm going to try. No one is 
even fully aware of what's going on I don' think, or believes me, even,
except maybe Scully." 

"_I_ believe you, and I want those fuckers to die like they made 
Gary die." 

Mulder came out, now dry and still wrapped in the same towel. 
Ian followed him into the bedroom, where Mulder sat and dialed 
a number on his cellular. 

"Who are you calling?" 

"DC." 

Ian sat on the bed, waiting while Mulder gave his Badge number, 
asked for a name and then waited again. "This is Fox Mulder, I 
was wondering-" The other end must have interrupted. "Have you 
spoken to-" Again an interruption. "Oh. No word at all, no notes or 
calls? What about the coroner's office? No-no unidentified-" Interruption
and a pause at Mulder's end. Mulder's eyes closed and stayed that way, 
head cradled by the phone. Breathing shallowly, the phone appeared 
to the only thing holding him upright. "I see, thank you." 

"Nothing?" Ian asked when the connection was closed. 

Mulder shook his head. Weakly, "no". 

"You gonna go tomorrow?" 

Mulder nodded, looked at him. "I'm sorry about Gary. About all of 
this but I can't pursue it, not right now. If I do, it could endanger your 
life. We just don't know who or what we're dealing with yet." 

"Ask questions and maybe die, gotcha." He stared at Mulder. The 
bags under his eyes were like ink stains. "You look like hell, Fox. I 
don't know when your flight's going to be but you better get in a 
few hours, man." 

Headshake, "I usually don't sleep when I'm on a case like this." 

"Don't sleep? "Usually"? If the Doc' disappeared Wednesday night, 
then you must be hallucinating by now." 

"Things are a bit fuzzy, but-" 

"You're going down. I'm getting you a couple sleeping pills." 

"I don't want any pills, I'm on enough of that shit already." 

"These won't last beyond morning and they're not going to fuck 
your head, they're just muscle relaxants. Don't argue with the 
guy who's paying for your return flight." 

"Holy shit, headstrong or what! It's a good thing Gary had 
handcuffs." 

Ian smiled at a private joke. "It was often a _very_ good thing." 

Mulder stammered, "That's n-not what I meant." 

"Wait right here." 

Ian returned in a moment with two pills and a glass of water. 
"You didn't even eat anything." Ian commented as Mulder 
swallowed and drank. 

"Don't mention food." 

Mulder swung his legs under the sheets, still wearing the towel, 
Ian noticed. "Geeze, Fox, I'm not going to molest you, if that's 
what you're thinking. Not that I haven't thought about it." 

"You don't seem to have trouble speaking your mind, do you?" 

"Why should I? Don't you hate watered-down bullshit talk? In 
this world, when you come out of the closet, you get used to 
having to speak your mind. If you don't you don't make it. I'd 
rather live and be hated by others than fucking hide and hate
myself." 

Mulder looked at him, surprised, "You've got guts. It takes guts 
to live out your ideals. It leaves you open to be slowly eaten alive. 
I speak from experience." He pulled the towel off himself and 
tossed it out from under the blankets. 

Ian draped it over a chair. 

"Nice sentiment, you must be a riot at Christmas parties. 
Speaking of ideals, I guess there's no chance your willingly sharing 
that bed with me?" 

"I _offered_ to sleep on the couch." 

"I'm not talking about sex, Fox, I'm talking about sleeping. 
Don't be so damn homophobic. You've shared a bed with a guy 
before, haven't you? At camp or something?" 

"When I was a _kid_." 

"Well, then..? Come on this is a king-sized bed, I won't even 
bump into you. I just don't feel like sleeping in the living room 
where I'm a hell of a lot closer to the front door and easier gotten 
to." 

"Jesus, get in, then. Those bloody pills are making the bed 
float." 

Ian swiftly undressed. Mulder looked away from the young, 
muscled body. For the first time, he realized that Ian was 
hardly more than a kid. "How old are you?" 

""How old am I"? Twenty-six. Why, how old are you?" 

"Forty-seven. I was just checking. If we die tonight, I didn't 
want to be found sleeping in the same bed as a minor." 

"Christ, relax. I'm old enough to hold my own dick when I 
piss and everything. You don't look forty-seven, by the way, 
and I have to say it at least once, you are fucking _gorgeous_." 

"Than's, go-t'-shhleb." 

"The pills are doing the right stuff, sounds like." 

"Hmmh..." Mulder was asleep before Ian finished tucking 
the comforter around his own shoulders.

*******

"Mulder." 

Mulder awoke and she was sitting on the edge of the bed, near 
the foot. 

"Scully?" 

"Hi. Sorry I woke you." 

Mulder sat up, couldn't believe his eyes. "Scully! Jesus." He
reached her but his fingers wouldn't quite reach. "Oh, Scully, 
I thought you were dead. When did you get back? Why didn't 
they tell me? Are, you all right? How did you know I was
here?" 

"It's okay, Mulder. I'm not suffering. Everything's fine." 

"What are you talking about? What about the UnSub? When, 
why did he let you go?" 

"Shhhh, I'm at peace. I'm happy. Nothing can ever hurt me again." 

Mulder stared as the meaning behind her words deadened him. 
Pain like a sledge hammer to his solar plexus. "Wha-what do you 
mean? What are you talking about?" He was going mad. 

Scully was not dead. She was sitting there before him alive and 
beautiful. 

So she could not be dead. 

"I have to go now, Mulder. I just wanted to tell you not to worry 
anymore. And that everything's fine." 

"Scully, no, noooo, don't - don't go. No-no-no,..Please, _please_ 
don't go. You can't be dead, it hasn't been long enough, we'll find 
you, I'll find you. Just, hang on, please, Scully. I'm sorry, I'm sorry,
Scully? okay? I just wanted to give you everything,..._please_, please 
don't leave me....." 

"It's okay, Mulder. I have to go now." 

"Noooo." He watched night take her from him. She faded like the 
last moment of twilight. The grays over to black. His world. 

All that he owned; the only thing he had left; the very reason he 
had wanted to come home; the only truth left, maybe; his only hope
during those so many times he'd been forced away: 

Was her. 

He'd always tried to come back for her. Because of her. 

Back from the clutches of the northern ice and alien death. 

Home from the rain-forest. 

Home from the drying desert sun and the fire-storm. 

Safe with her from the tortured memories of the past. 

Saved by her from the torments of eight years in someone's Hades. 

Scully. 

Was why. 

So she must be alive! Had to be. 

So he could come home again. 

Shewasaliveshewasalive-alive-alive!.... 

A soundless scream in his head and then erupted an acoustic 
one: "No. No! NononoNONONONONOOOOO!!!" His heart burst 
from it's impact. 

"Holy shit!!" Ian was awakened by terrorized yelling next to 
him. He sat up and blindly reached for the lamp switch. Mulder 
was as still as a corpse but for his trembling and the word he 
kept screaming over and over. 

"Fuck!" Ian shook him. "Mulder! Fox! Come on, man 
someone's gonna think I'm murdering you in here." 

Mulder's eyes snapped awake. He looked around sightlessly 
and then lucidness returned and he was seeing Ian's sheet 
wrinkled face. 

Ian stared back. "You must have been having the mother of 
all nightmares." 

"S-sorry. Yeah, I think I was." 

"What about?" 

Mulder didn't answer for a few seconds. He looked at the 
shadows on the ceiling overhead trying to blend with and 
overpower the beam of street light that hung in its center. 
He closed his eyes again. 

Ian thought he'd gone back to sleep and turned to settle in 
again. 

"Scully's dead." 

Sitting up quickly, Ian thought he'd heard a ghost speaking. 
But it had been Fox. "What? What are yo?-how do you know 
that?" 

"I just do." 

"Look, man, don't fucking put too much stock in dreams or 
what they mean. I went to a fortune teller once and she told me 
I'd meet my fantasy girl and we'd live in South America. It's 
bullshit. Dreams are just dreams, they don't tell you shit." 

"When Scully was taken before,.." 

Ian thought: Before??" 

"..I never dreamed about her. Three weeks and not one dream. 
We didn't get any word that time either. God I loved her, even 
then. You'd think I would have,.. but no dreams." 

"So you think - what? - this time you have a drug induced 
nightmare and that means she's dead?" 

"She was dying when they returned her." 

Ian shuddered. He couldn't help it. "Christ. These are _some_ 

people you hang with. It's only been three days and you're 
giving up?" 

"If she's dead, s-so am I." 

Oh brother. Ian sat up and went around to Mulder's side, 
crouching down. "Mulder, don't lose it, man. Don't fucking lose 
it." Mulder was shaking, his face scrunched up as though he 
was about to scream but he didn't. He wasn't making a sound. 

"I don't want to see you have a nervous breakdown in my 
apartment. Why the hell are you giving up so fast?" 

Mulder just shook his head back and forth. 

Ian took his rigid right hand in his own and placed his other 
behind Mulder's, head, making him sit up, then sat beside and 
slightly behind him so he couldn't lay back down again. The 
sheet covering Mulder slipped to his hips. Ian could see defined 
beneath it the man's sex, his own grief over Gary taking refuge in
the sight of this gorgeous and tortured man, so vulnerable, before 
him. 

Enigma. Intelligent in mind, passionate in soul, fierce in justice, 
but tender in spirit. Yet hating himself. 

"Look, Fox. When I found out Gary was dead, I thought I was 
going to lose my fucking mind, okay? I tore this place apart. I 
was kicked out of three bars that night. I wanted to fucking kill 
someone. Or myself." 

"It's barely been a week since I found out and still hurts like 
a cunt. But at least I had my shot. The best four years of my life 
with him and I'm not going to throw them out like the trash. You 
have _got_ to give it more time. Jesus, give her a chance to 
come back at least. You're giving up pretty fucking fast." 

"It should have been me." 

"Well, it wasn't you! I seem to remember her eating her heart out 
when you were in the hospial. She waited for you." 

"If Scully's dead, I w-won't survive it, not this time, I can't stand that
she's being hurt, I can't stand to think about it. She's all I have in this
world, m-my whole life. Everything, absolutely everything. What am 
I going to do without h-h-her?..." He bent at the waist, tight fists 
pushing hard into his abdomen. 

Now sobs, those scary choking, vomit kind. Fox was losing it, right 
there in his bedroom. Oh, fuck, oh fuck... 

Ian pushed Fox's head forward and down. "No, man, don't _think_ 
that. She's okay, just keep believing that. Jesus, Fox, don't think I 
don't know how this feels. She's your fucking shadow and your 
conscience, your voice and soul and fucking life! I know, man, I 
know. That's why you have to keep going. You just can't give up like 
this. Be strong for her. If she's got you this tightly screwed up, she 
must be incredible! So you must be too, right? You are too." 

Mulder tried to believe the well-meaning voice. But, as it stood, 
Scully was gone. Most likely dead. If she didn't come back, he 
would disappear too. He would leave this world. 

"B-but what if she is, I have nothing without her. I don't want 
to live in this cock-sucking world if she isn't here with me." 

"Grief's got you in chains, Fox - it's too soon for that. It's too 
soon." 

"I'm so tired." 

Ian knew he meant something very different than being sleepy. 

"Don't give up on her, Fox. I know it fucking hurts, I know. I 
know it feels like someone's cut your insides to shit, like you're 
bleeding out. I know you feel like you're dying inside, like 
everything is gone. It's okay to _feel_ it, you just can't _believe_ 
it." 

"I don't know how. I'm so stupid. So fucking blind, I can't see 
anything anymore." 

Nothing good, he meant, Ian thought. 

"Fox. I want you to breath. Just breath for me. Easy, man. And 
listen. I want you to tell yourself to go one more day, okay? Just 
one more day, Fox, and then one more day after that. Don't you 
fucking give in yet. Those pricks don't deserve that. They'll pay. 
Whoever this son-of-a-bitch is, stay around to make him pay!
You or someone has to make that happen. And stay around for 
the Doc', she's going to need you." 

Ian's voice called to his deep parts, where his conscience and 
guilt lived. Maybe now wasn't the time to curl up and die. "I 
can't afford to fall apart." He offered Ian as a flare, a peace-
marker that he wasn't six down quite yet. 

"Well, we agree on that, don't we?" 

Total sincerety, "If they've hurt her, I'll kill all of them." 

"Whew. You've got it bad, dontcha?" 

Mulder stopped the painful-looking shaking but the stress 
released itself in a few more tears and some deep coughing. 

"Feeling sick?" Ian asked. 

"A little. Stomach. It'll pass." More tears, silent. Without the 
jerky sobs of new grief, just the exausted defeat of old. 

Ian took a chance that Mulder wouldn't jump away like a 
frightened cat and stroked a couple fingers through his short hair. 

Mulder wore it short and brushed straight back from his head. 
Almost a brush-cut. Not quite. It was a style for a person in a 
hurry. Run a comb through and go. It suited him. 

"Fox, this pain you're feeling. This hollow fucking hurt that 
you think is gonna swallow you up or drive you insane, it is going 
to go away. I know it sounds impossible now, but it will end. 
Whether or not the Doc' comes back, it _will_ end. You'll feel 
real again, I promise you." 

Mulder's chin was on his chest, shook his head, "No, you're 
wrong...it could never,...could never be like that..." 

"Yes it can. It will. I know, Fox. I _know_." 

Ian could see nothing was going to fix him up, at least not 
so quickly and not that night. "Come on, scoot over. Don't 
worry, I'm just lying down beside you." 

Mulder didn't protest and lay back limply. Ian leaned 
across Mulder and switched off the lamp, then draped an 
arm across his chest. Mulder didn't flinch or try to move 
away. Didn't really care, probably. 

"I'm not making a move on you, I'm just giving you what 
I think you need, some affection. There's nothing wrong with 
that, is there?" 

Mulder's shoulder's twitched. A shrug. 

"That's better than no answer I guess. You are one complicated 
piece of work, FBI man." He continued to stroke his hair. "Do 
you mind this?" 

Another shrug. 

"I want you to just lie there and listen to me. I know there's
no guarantee you'll listen but what the hell." 

Ian moved closer but was careful not to touch too much of 
Mulder with his own body. He didn't want to spook him. "You 
seem to have this belief that there's nothing good about you, 
nothing worthwhile. The doctors maybe, or your lady built 
some self-confidence back into you, but self-esteem, that's from 
your own engine. That has to come from you and I sure as hell 
don't see it happening." 

Mulder smelled good. He felt good. Ian wanted to do so much 
more than just touch his hair. "You think you're weak for feeling 
this stuff so deeply, love I mean, for her; like you can't breath 
unless you know day by day how she is, am I right?" 

Ian expected no answer and he wasn't disappointed. 

"Anyway, that's not weakness. So you couldn't save her. 
Something tells me you tried like crazy to. You probably damn 
near died doing it and you're still here. Look at the bruises on 
your face. You didn't knock them out in the first round, huh? So? 
The shit you've only hinted at, the shit you've been through that 
I know about - fuck it makes my balls shrink. But here it is - what? - 
ten, fifteen rounds and you're still standing." 

He had always been attracted to strong men. Height, muscles, body 
hair, a guy who looked like a guy. Goodlooks were always a tidy 
addition if available. And strong on the inside. Heart-and living-soul
strong. 

Like Fox who had all the above. He was gorgeous. Not just the 
physical. The man was staggering from the blows delivered but 
he was upright and still giving the finger to those who had made up 
the game rules. 

"I could fall in love with you so easily, Fox. But I know you're 
straight and I respect that. I respect you. You don't respect yourself, 
I've noticed. Fucking staying awake for days on end, not eating - 
Jesus, it's a wonder you're still alive." 

Had he fallen asleep? Ian raised his head off the pillow to see. 
No, Fox was awake, the light from the street creating tiny pin-point 
lanterns on the wet curve of his eyeballs. He was listening, too. 
Maybe. 

"I think you need to be reminded once in a while that you're 
worthwhile. I get the impression that hasn't happened very often." 

He spoke and ran the tips of his five fingers through the short 
hair and across the skin underneath. Felt one or two bumps. 
Suddenly Fox flinched and snapped his head away. 

Ian's touch turned feather-light. "Sorry- shit!" Felt a three 
inch scar. The light from the window was just enough to see 
the stitches closing an obviously spanking new gash. He didn't 
comment on it. Another for the collection. The man's body
was a museum to it's own living history.


Ian bent his head down and kissed the scar. "I think you need 
to feel substantial and understand that you have a lot to offer 
someone." 

Mulder turned his head a bit in the opposite direction. 

"I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to make love to you right now. 
But I wouldn't, _couldn't_ do anything to hurt you. Listen to me, 
you just finished telling me I may be a dead man. You'd think 
I'd be kicking your ass down the stairs but no, I want to fuck 
you instead. I'd say that says something about you. I don't even 
know what, exactly, except you are so full of this..._passion_, it 
just lights a fire under my ass. You are so fucking beautiful, you 
know that?" 

"Don't call me that." 

"Hey, you're actually listening. Why not - if it's true? You are 
and not just on the outside, though I'd say it's a good thing you 
didn't turn out dog-assed ugly, "Fox"." 

Ian leaned in to gave Mulder a small kiss on the cheek. Backed 
off again. "Was that gross?" 

"No. But it doesn't really do anything for me either." 

It did something for Ian who felt a rush of desire that damn near 
left him shaking. "I want to ask you for a favor. It's a pretty big one, 
and I don't have any right to and you're probably going to tell me 
to go fuck myself." 

A weary to the marrow of life sigh. "Ask." 

"You'll be going tomorrow and I'll most likely never see you again. 
Or I'll die and you'll never see me-" 

"-What's the favor?" 

"I want to kiss you on the lips, and not just a peck. I was going to 
try that before but I didn't want to get a broken nose." 

"What for?" 

"Because I'm incredible attracted to you and if I know how you 
feel, how it feels to kiss you, I might survive it if I never get 
anything more." 

Mulder sighed again. 

"Well?" 

"Whatever." 

********

Ian rolled over until he was half on top of Mulder. He wanted to 
lay front to front on him but figured Mulder wouldn't put up with 
that. Ian could feel his own erection though, straining in his briefs. 

He moistened his lips the tiniest bit and made connection with 
that mouth and those lips he'd been, in his mind, kissing since 
he'd first seen the man. Masturbating in the shower lately had 
been over him too. He'd tried to get off with visions of Gary in 
his head but the pain of losing him had always welled up 
and turned the images of joy into death, killing the attempt and 
leaving him sobbing instead. 

Mulder's lips were a ride - as soft as they looked. Ian took a 
chance and opened his eyes to see if Fox had closed his. He 
hadn't but Ian took the opportunity while look into those fucking 
perfect things to open his mouth. Fox didn't reject his tongue 
and Ian dove deeply into him until he was kissing him as hungrily 
as he ever had Gary. Mulder just seemed to be going with it, 
neither frowning nor appearing to enjoy it. 

That was a bit disappointing. 

Ian kissed him longer than he thought Fox would have 
allowed and his body was looking forward to more. God, 
if only... 

He took Fox's head between his hands and deepened the kiss, 
tasting the sweet saliva, tonguing him for all he was worth, 
and positioning himself over Fox until he could feel his rock 
hardness brushing Fox's lovely, if flaccid, cock. His hands began 
an exploration Fox's body. Smooth, soft shoulder skin, feather 
chest hair, muscled sides and abdomen. Masculine hips. 

Caressed Fox where Ross, in his rage and twisted violations, might
have gouged. Where Ross's work-roughened, painful digits had poked 
and prodded, leaving bruises without a hint of compassion, Ian's stroked 
and petted to smooth them away. Redeem the wounded flesh. Purify
the shattered trust. 

Ian's mind filled with what lay further down, beneath him, 
growing and changing.



Fox. 

Creature of extremes. Ice and desert. 

Isolated. 

Stray. Loner. Hunter for scraps. Finds the bones and the 
leftovers from the bigger kills by the bigger killers. 

Rare, night creature. 

Curls up in his den when the blinding desert heat or the 
freezing snow would destroy him. 

Hunted for his skin. Hated for his wanderings and curious 
ways. 

Enduring the odds. 

Skittish. Sometimes bold, sometimes scared. Beautiful. 

* 

Ian gasped. His mind raced: 

I'm kissing him. So hard I'm kissing him. 

Oh, god. 

He - Fox - was looking up at me, curious, wondering. Puzzled. 

Perfect. 

He was looking up at me with an expression that made the 
breath leave my body. 

Surprise. Surprise that he was enjoying it? Maybe that's just 
my own wishful thinking. Surprise that I could want him this 
badly. That anyone could. 

This man did not feel pity for himself. He had stopped 
feeling anything a long time ago. That his body could still 
feel, maybe that was the thing that shocked him. His penis 
had hardened and teased me with it's potential for fleshly 
delight and mind-blowing pleasure. 

I could hardly breath for wanting him. And wanting to tell 
him, teach him, prove to him that he was beautiful and 
desirable and deserved all the affection another human 
being had to offer. 

As I caressed his body and imagined doing those things 
that maybe frightened him the most, he looked back with 
such sweet, goddamn fucking innocence, I almost wept. 
With my body and mind, I wanted to devour him physically 
and preserve alive his soul forever. 

Whatever I had to give I would have served it up.


Who was I trying to kid? 

I loved him already. Every cell in my body told me. 

If God froze the world over in some bloody damnation, 
this is how I wanted to be found. Loving this man who 
had seen and survived things no human being had any 
business to. 

Making love to him. 

* 

Ian began moving his hips in tiny circles over Fox's 
hardened shaft, feeling so burning hot he would melt 
any second. Was Fox feeling as he was feeling?... 

"Ian, stop." Mulder obviously decided it had gone far 
enough. "Stop. Now." 

Ian rolled off immediately. Tried to keep the anguish of his 
terrible desire from his voice. "Sorry, I got carried away a bit." 

Mulder was quiet in the dark. Then, "Look, even if I wanted it... 
straight or not, even if I _need_ it, I just can't. I _can't_. And 
not just because of Scully." 

Ian knew he meant Ross. "I know. And your loyalty is one of 
the sexy things about you. Anyway, I might have injured you. 
I can be a pretty aggressive lover and I like it rough and wild 
mostly. Especially with sexy, virgin territory." 

Ian felt his erection dwindle. The deep heart and groin ache 
to plunge Fox's body and mouth with it didn't leave though. 

He remembered vividly the sight of a nude Fox, glistening 
wet from his shower. Round, chock-full balls, and a rudded-
skinned, circumcised and inviting cock so fucking perfectly 
right _there_, so thick and long and exposed to him, so 
goddamn-insanely-tempting!, he'd wanted to fuck it, suck it 
and swallow it down right on the bathroom floor. 

He hadn't wanted anyone as badly for years. Since before 
he met Gary. 

In retrospect, he'd felt quite proud of his self control.


"C'we go t' ssleep now?" Fox said, his words slurred. 

"Yeah, sure, but I want you to listen first." 

"What." 

"Don't leave this world without having loved someone, Fox, or,
even better, letting them love you. Life just isn't worth a fuck 
otherwise." 

No answer. 


"Fox?" 

Sleepy, "Mmm?" 

"Do me another favor and don't hate what just happened. Don't 
eat yourself alive with guilt over it all right?" He sat up and leaned 
over Fox again, whose eyes were closed now. "Don't you give up 
on her." He touched the hair again, it was hard to keep his fingers 
away. "And,...if...the worst happens, I'll be here, okay. If you just 
need an ear. Don't isolate yourself. You deserve some happiness, 
everybody does. Are you listening?" 

"Yeah. Kinda' hard to sleep with someone _talking_." 

Ian smiled. Closed the distance and kissed his mouth one 
last time. "Don't forget." 

"I won't."




***



Mulder let Ian sleep on. Did not rouse him, even when he already
had his bag packed and it was sitting by the front door. 

His taxi would be there any minute. He wanted to say goodbye
somehow. 

Mulder carefully sat on the edge of the bed next to Ian and studied
the sleeping, youthful face whose chiseled bones had never suffered a 
fracture. 

Ian's shallow breaths did not change when Fox shifted so he could
see the lids flickering, the eyes underneath R.E.M.-ing. 

Mulder hoped it was a good dream. 

Ian. His healer for the second time. 

Ian had called for his help and he came. But now he knew he had
also come for himself. He had become near mindless with grief
over Scully. Was ready - waiting - to plunge headlong into death
over her and his failure. Ian had saved him from that mistake. 

He had been so terrified of losing Scully because he thought he could 
not survive it himself. 

He loved her. 

If she loved him, however undeservedly, he would be glad in it and love 
her back as much as he knew how. 

If she loved someone else, he would still rejoice in her life. 

Ian had given him that. 

It was a debt he could never repay. 

The door buzzed - his taxi. 

Mulder was glad the intercom was down the hall. 

He didn't want Ian to awake from his peace. 

***

Four hours was about his usual, well, when he was thirty-five, 
it was his usual hours of sleep any given night. But that wasn't 
following three days straight waking time and dangerous stress 
to boot. 

Back home to DC, he was headed and his time, the flight was 
inhuman torture. He spent most of it on his knees in the small 
Attendant's toilet. 

They'd gently escorted him there after discovering him heaving 
uncontrollably in the Passenger's Men's Room, there having been, 
in fact, a substantial line-up of male passenger's all grumbling 
about the "Occupied Light" which had gone on shortly after 
take-off and not gone out a good hour into the trip. 

The Steward had come with her key and opened it to find an 
unconscious passenger in a dark suit. "Oh, my god!" 

Two others were called and an announcement made via the 
Captain if a doctor or nurse was aboard. A medical student 
answered the call. Successful in rousing the ill man with a 
cold cloth and smelling salts from a first aid kit, he was 
thanked. 

"Will you be all right, sir?" The petite Steward asked. 

"Yeah. Can't handle flying anymore I guess." The pressure 
on his insides and the headache that followed that first assent 
was about the worst physical ten minutes he could recall in the 
last year. 

Mulder offered explanations and apologies all around as he 
was kindly given a pillow for his knees, ice-water for his upset 
stomach, a paper bag and generally made as comfortable as 
possible in the tiny Staff washroom for the remainder of the 
flight. 

He cabbed it back to his apartment, changed, and drove his 
own car to work. Enroute he called in to check for news. There 
was none. 

"Sir?" Mulder entered Director Skinner's office after seeing the 
secretary gone, (she knew what weekends were for), and Skinner's 
door ajar. 

Skinner looked up. "Mulder?" 

"Anything?" 

Skinner shook his head. He looked tired. "No." 

"Have you been here all weekend?' Mulder asked. 

"Haven't left. How was Boston?" Skinner was curious about what 
had been so urgent in Boston. 

"There was someone I had to see. What is being done about 
Scully?" 

Skinner sat back in his high-backed chair. "Everything that can 
be, Agent Mulder. And there's nothing for you to do here that 
will make any difference, so why don't you go home?" 

"Then why are you here? Don't tell me paperwork holds that 
much fascination." 

Skinner stood, walking to his wall-length window. "What do 
you want to know, Mulder? That I can't sleep? I've been sitting 
here hoping like hell the phone will ring. Anything else you need 
to know?" 

Mulder considered. What he'd just heard was about as personal 
as Skinner ever got. The Director had all but said: "Yes, I'm 
worried sick about Dana." 

"I don't think...it was the UnSub who took Scully, I think it was..." 

"Who?" 

"The Smoking Man." 

Skinner didn't get anxious or even annoyed . "Why do you 
think that?" 

"I think it has something to do with this case I was involved 
in, in Canada." 

"I'm listening." 

"Scully and Beyer were assigned to investigate the deaths of 
these children, and these murders. Before the case was even 
handed to Scully, I stumbled across a similar case on Vancouver 
Island. Almost the exact same signature. Family murdered by 
gunshot wounds to the upper spine except for one child dead by
an unknown factor." 

"I know that. Scully brought me up to date on what you said 
happened out there, as much as she knew." 

Scully'd been telling Skinner a whole lot it seemed. Mulder 
felt a terrible sinking and loss. Like someone had just discovered 
he had a broken foot and taken him out of the race. 

"I just discovered a second case in Boston. I knew the Boston 
victim. On Vancouver Island, the only surviving victim was my 
client." 

"You've concluded what from this?" 

"I haven't figured that out yet. But it appears that whoever 
handed her this case wants her on it but not me." 

"Mulder, you're not on the case because of your status. You 
are a limited field agent, you carry no weapon and right now 
your assignment is in Transcriptions. The fact that you're on 
probation is why you're not on the God's Children case." 

"Something's wrong, sir. Don't you question why an 
inexperienced agent like Beyer was assigned to something 
this big? Building experience through the ropes is one thing 
but no one at that level gets cases like these, _I_ never got 
cases like these, not to begin with." 

"Things change, Mulder. Beyer put in double-time doing leg 
work on these DC murders, and he's proved he has insight, he 
has potential. He was a valuable assistant to the S.A.I.C. when 
the case was first handed to he Bureau and a hard working 
partner to Scully." 

"The case was handed to the Bureau when?" 

"Eight months ago." 

"And they figure the murders began when?" 

"They've strung together more of them, from all over the U.S. 
It's estimated the murders actually began almost two years ago." 

"When I was returned. And the cases turned over the 
Bureau around the time I left GreenLawn." 

"Haven't you ever heard of coincidence, Mulder?" 

"I don't believe in that much coincidence." 

"Mulder-" 

Skinner heard a cell' phone. It was Mulder's. 

He pressed "Talk". "Fox Mulder." 

Skinner sat back down and listened to the one-sided 
conversation. 

"What. Who is this? Who the hell are you!? You better not 
have touched him! You just fucking better not have!" 

Skinner joined Mulder at his side, heart quickening. He'd 
never heard Mulder swear before, not gutter-swear. It was 
foreign to the man. Unnerving. Things _do_ change. 

"You fucker! If you work for him, that smoking son-of-a-
cock, I will kill you first. WHERE'S SCULL-?!" 

Disconnected from the other end, Mulder swallowed and 
with shaking finger, pressed another number. "Boston Police 
Department? This is Agent Fox Mulder, I'm with the F.B.I., I'm 
inquiring about an Ian M-Moss, I understand-" 

Mulder stopped and listened to what was said back to him. 

Skinner watched his red in the face underling pale to a sick 
shade of green. Saw Mulder replace the cell in the inner suit 
jacket pocket. His eyes were moist and unblinking. No tears. 

A mix of horror, grief and fury suffused him. He was on the 
verge of barely restrained murderous rage. "The UnSub who 
isn't an UnSub? "They"," he said pointedly, "just killed a friend 
of mine. Shot him in the back. Through the spine. "Insurance", 
they said." 

Skinner looked at the floor. Somewhere in Washington, D.C., 
the other shoe dropped. "I'm sorry." He shook his head once, 
hoping if he did, all things he suspected that were building to 
a curtain about to go up, would collectively throw up their hands 
and just go away. 

"_That's_ who I went to Boston to see. A _friend_. His friend was 
one of the murder victims. The daughter of that friend one of the 
kids who die without cause. One of "God's Children". I have a 
hunch, though, that this has very little to do with God." 

"Are you positive your friend who was killed - Ian? - is 
connected?" 

"You really believe in _that_ much coincidence, sir?" 

"Let's get out of here, go to my place, you can tell me-" 

Skinner's phone this time. Mulder waited by the door. He 
wanted to break it down. He wanted to kill someone for Ian. 
Wanted to hang their head on a stake and dance around it 
under the moon for Ian. And for Gary. And for the dead kids too. 

Suddenly Skinner was passed him, wrenching the double 
doors open. 

"What?" 

"Scully! She's been found." 

*** 



Scully's last clear memory was the feel of cold, rough concrete 
and pain. 

Her next was waking up in a moving vehicle with her eyes 
covered by some kind of cloth. She felt the sensation of sickness 
and fear. The fear swelled when the vehicle - she guessed a 
van because she was sitting more or less upright - came to a 
rough halt. Arms supported her on either side and hustled her 
out onto smooth ground, where she stumbled. Her hands, tied 
behind her, were unfastened. Then she heard the slamming
of doors, the sound of the vehicle's engine power up and tires 
on pavement as it sped away. 

In one motion, Scully ripped away the blindfold and turned to 
watch the - she'd guessed correctly - the van speed away, trying 
to see a plate or any distinguishing features. But there was no plate. 

The van itself was a polished black with darkened windows. It 
bore all the hallmarks of a vehicle owned and operated by the 
CIA, the F.B.I., the N.S.A., or any number of "Bad Boys" clubs
with guns and an agenda. 

She stood slowly and looked around, swaying a bit as her eyes 
adjusted to seeing in three dimension again. Before this present 
vision of an empty lot and dilapidated warehouses with broken 
windows and boarded up entrances, she recalled terrifying 
darkness and harsh voices speaking threats and violence
disguised in "this is for your own good" words. 

Kindness, mafia style. Words spoken to her about him and for
him and because of them both. 

She frowned and concentrated. But nothing else. Not where 
she'd been or with who. 

The assault came to mind. 

Mulder down, injured, maybe dead. Herself being dragged away. 

It had been no dream, the biting air told her that. 

Scully looked around her. It was night (she didn't know how late). 
A heavy drizzle was falling. Already her hair was sticking to 
her forehead and she pushed it out of the way with one cold 
hand. It was chilly here, wherever here was. 

Scully patted her clothes, they were the same clothes she'd 
been wearing when - the almost memory refused to take 
solid shape, no outline she could use to separate it from 
the frightening twilight that was her mind. 

Fear actually. 

But she recalled the subway.


Scully searched through her pockets and found them empty. 
She been left with no ID, no money and no weapon. 

And no idea where she was. It could be any city but she 
hoped it was D.C. 

And what day was it? 

Shaking she walked toward the only street visible between 
the lightless buildings. As she made her way out onto the 
road and then the sidewalk, passing more empty boarded up 
shops and condemned houses, she imagined that some of 
the street names sounded familiar. 

She touched her body, her face and arms. But especially 
her neck. The terror of her imagination teased her. 

A nightmare that might have been. 

Physically she felt okay but she knew that was unsound. 
The shock she knew she was in would keep her from sensing 
any real injuries. 

Scully walked and wrapped her coat about her. 

But fear kept her from wanting to explore the why's of it 
for the time being. 

A few blocks on, she came out of the industrial section 
she'd awakened in to a neighborhood where the houses, 
though windows dark, were newer and in relatively good 
repair. But Scully had no desire to knock on the door of 
any stranger to summon help. Though surprised at herself 
for the unrational feeling, she just didn't have the nerve to 
put herself into the hands of a stranger. 

She couldn't handle anymore unknowns. Not right now. 

Finally coming to an all night corner grocery store, she 
entered and asked the clerk behind the counter to dial 
911 for her. Then she took the receiver and spoke to the 
Emergency Operator herself, giving the woman on the 
other end her name, F.B.I. badge number and status. Her 
voice shook badly. 

Before long, she was sitting in the back seat of a patrol 
car, sipping on a large hot coffee the officer had got for 
her from the curious store clerk. 

The policeman had informed her of her location, she 
was in D.C., and told her that Director Skinner had been 
contacted and was on his way.


She thanked him. 

She didn't know how long she'd sat there slipping in and 
out of focus before a screeching of tires brought her back 
to the here and now. 

A door slammed. 

Running feet. 

Skinner's voice. "Where is she?" asking loudly of another. 
Couldn't hear the answer back. 

A second car had also arrived in the interval with screeching 
brakes that must have left a half block of rubber behind. 

And those running feet she recognized. Unmistakable 
long-legged stride. 

Skinner's voice: "No, wait! Let him through. Let him go." 

Her door opened and Mulder was there beside her, looking 
her up and down; at her face, her hair, her clothes. She 
drew her eyes away from the swirling patterns in her coffee 
cup and looked back. 

She wondered if he felt as bad as he looked, with his 
double eye-bags, hollow cheeks, swollen right jaw and 
bruised face. And his expression...pain swelling from
underneath, from his own mind and terror for that she
might be injured in some way he couldn't see. It
transcended the physical hurt visible in his own injuries. 

In that way, she wondered if he felt as badly as she did. 

And suddenly, with the knowledge of four days on the 
missing persons list and what they had instilled in her 
for those four days; what they had drilled into her brain, 
the terror over what might happen now numbed her. 

The coffee remnants cooled. She didn't care how he 
felt. No - she did but _couldn't_ care. Because of what 
had been said to her. Because of what they were
making her do. She wanted to be selfish and cry into 
his arms but if it were to somehow end up the last 
time....Scully just wanted to go home. 

They had already separated themselves before now.
A great love was no more. It hadn't even made it passed 
the first and biggest hurdle: His quest. 

And her fear of that quest. 

"Scully." She heard him say her name as if she were 
a gift from god finally delivered to him, but arriving 
too late to save his soul. 

In his voice she heard joy also, because she was 
whole and alive. And, too, shock and fear at her 
disheveled appearance. 

There were questions there, in his voice. Questions 
for which she had no answers. For him or anyone. 

She thought she should lift up her chin, show him 
she was all right, assure him that everything 
would be okay. But his eyes were an agony of 
emotions that she had neither the leave nor 
strength to deal with. Her energy was cold now 
and drained like her empty cup. 

Like they both were. 

She had difficulty looking at him. Had heard too 
many frightening words regarding him. 

Now Scully heard his anguish when he'd said her 
name, and she could feel his physical pain. And 
his aching for her now, when it was too late. 

"I guess you're not up to talking right away." Was all 
he said, accurately reading her state of mind. 

She sank her gaze back into the safety of her cup. 
The warm liquid had provided her with a degree 
of physical comfort and had asked nothing back. 

She said into her cup, "I need to speak to Walter." 
Knowing it would cut him to his center. Wound 
him deeper than any knife that had scarred him. 

He jerked as if bitten. His eyes were black misery. 

Scully saw. It would have been less cruel to have 
slashed him through the heart. 

Mulder had caught and understood the abruptness 
of the movement, her look away; the unspoken 
message that said to leave her be. By his stiffening, 
Scully knew how deeply she had hurt him and it 
grieved her. But her goal was paramount. If by 
denying him physical contact or verbal communication 
hurt him, she would mourn for it, for him, for them, 
but the vitalness of being silent was so much greater. 

Mulder broke through as far as briefly resting his 
hand on her shoulder. 

That contact, electrified with longing and sorrow, 
made it so much more difficult to say the six words 
she next said to him. 

"I need to speak to Walter now." 

He left the car. 

The pressure of his touch remained. She was grateful 
to him for that one touch despite her trauma. And his. 
Even though she'd been unable to acknowledge it, that 
lingering contact was a life line that she would hold 
onto: his life. 

Mulder continuing. His contact was one she would 
use as a bridge to comfort. She hoped that, if the time 
came and she was free to seek more of it, he might be 
there and still want it. 

There, alive. Willing to provide it. 

Then the fear, the terror, the horrible thing she was 
having to do, things she'd been trying to beat into 
submission found their freedom. 

She wept silently. 

"How is she?" Skinner asked Mulder who'd only been 
inside the police cruiser for seconds really. 

Mulder didn't answer but continued walking passed him. 
Skinner followed Mulder's hasty retreat back to his own 
vehicle. Mulder's long legs were eating up the yards and 
he did not slow at his superior's question. 

"Agent Mulder?" Skinner grabbed one shoulder and 
spun the agent around to face him. "I asked you a 
question. _How_ is Scully?" 


Skinner saw naked pain in Mulder's eyes. Naked soul. 

"You'll have to tell me, sir. She's asking for you." 

Shredded heart. Shrouded spirit. 

He was forfeiting. 

As there really was nothing else to pass between them, 
Mulder got into his car and drove away. 

Skinner watched after for a moment and then climbed
into the patrol car. 

*** 

Next Day. Dana Scully's Apartment:



//Fifteen years ago, veiled in the guise of scientific analysis, 
they'd assigned her to the X-Files and to Agent Mulder - as a spy.
To observe, assist where possible as a medical pathologist and 
scientist in order to validate the work. Or to expose it as a collection 
of falsehoods. 

The assignment was to bring to light the mythology of the X-Files,
things not based in facts or proved science, and the questionable 
use of Bureau funds in financing it. 

To debunk it. 

Mulder's world of the paranormal, unexplainable through any 
known scientific means.


Becoming a supporter of it and of Agent Mulder. His advocate. 

They had not counted on the moral convictions of their chosen 
pawn. Her desire to ferret out truth.
She would not be their tool. 

Now the X-Files were gone, Mulder's passion drained from his
sick soul like dirty water from a sink. Still they sought to hurt him. 

Still, they wanted a betrayer....// 

Dana Scully ceased her narrative. Recording it in third person
was a cheat. It was unfair to him and a weakling's way of hiding
from the truth. 

She placed her fingers on the keyboard and continued.



//Now, fifteen years later, that is precisely what I am, a liar.
Albeit unwillingly. 

It is a most terrible and heartbreaking path to walk but 
absolutely necessary. One that, had I not taken it, would have 
brought serious, even deadly, consequences.
I fear it will be a lonely road. 

I can speak of it to no one. Neither can I reconcile my conscience
to it. 

I allow them to use me. 

I live what I can only described as a daily moral rape of my very 
being. To have accepted this journey has meant that the very 
foundation of my relationship with Mulder is now based 
upon a lie. To refuse would have meant his certain death and
perhaps my own as well. 

They convinced me of the truth of this. They, who seek to destroy 
or control any they perceive to be either a detriment or asset to
their "Work"; their Agenda. Which agenda remains obscured in 
deceit and fear. 

And for which the sacrifices made seem to me to be incomprehensible. 
Unconscionable. 

What secret project is this that it would call for such heinous crimes 
as these men have committed? Acts of terrorism against their
underlings and the citizens of their own nation? What Agenda 
(which they have time and again excused as vital to the survival 
of our very way of life) is accomplished through manipulations and 
cold-blooded murder? 

It is one that continues insatiable despite the sacrifices made 
paying homage to it. 

How many deaths is too many? Who is anyone to judge that the
lives of the murdered were worth it? Who will answer for the 
families that have been destroyed? Who will speak for their lost
wives, husbands, sons and daughters? 

Sisters? What about Mulder's losses and his enduring, deeply-rooted
pain? 

And what of my own anguishes? 

How have I remained in one piece knowing what I know? Somehow
I have kept my body and soul together. And somehow I will continue to. 
But there are days when it feels so heavy on my shoulders that I just 
want to run away. Leave this burden behind. 

But I can't. I've - we've - come too far. Too much has been compromised 
and I want to see some of that paid back. 

The innocent deserve their compensation. 

And my need to protect him is greater than my need to escape. 

Yet how much more grief can I watch him endure and bear it? 

What more pain will be added before this journey has played out? 

To my mind only for the salvation of all souls on the earth could such
sacrifices be justified. And even then I harbor doubts. 

What benefit to be whole in body but empty in spirit? 

But I can't answer that. I don't know all the answers but I do know
that if it is in my ability to save just one soul, I will. I must. 

His. 

I find I talk to myself a lot. I've been keeping a journal too. Perhaps for 
my own sanity I suppose. But, too, so that if I should fail and the 
unthinkable occurs, that the facts should become known. Not for 
revenge but for human dignity. Mulder's wrongful death, if that is
what destiny has decided, must be made to count for something. 

Justice must be served. That he stood to expose truths when so 
many took refuge in lies must be made known and remembered. 

And I hope the same for myself. 

I am writing in past tense, speaking of destiny as if all things have 
been written and are unchangeable but I don't believe that.
I believe destiny can be changed. 

It must.// 

*** 

Preliminary Inquiry: 

Member of Board: "Agent Scully, upon listening to and reading Agent
Mulder's account of the events on the night in question, do you concur 
with his conclusions?" 

Scully: A plunge into fire. "No, sir. I don't. I saw no second suspect." 

Member of Board: "Are you certain of that, Agent Scully?" 

Scully: "Though I am not advocating any duplicity on Agent Mulder's part,.."
(Redeem him as far as possible) "..I feel I must emphasize that I was aware of 
only one suspect in that subway station." 

Member of Board: "So it shall be noted here." 

Scully: "However, neither am I supporting the contention that Agent Mulder
had anything to do with the death of Agent Morgan Beyer-" 

Member of Board: "-Do you have any speculations, then, on how Agent Beyer 
came to be murdered?" 

Scully: "Not as yet. But I assert that Agent Mulder could not have participated
in such an act. It is not in his nature." 

Member of Board: "In your opinion." 

Scully: "Yes, in my opinion." 

Member of Board: "We are left back where we began, then, with two 
conflicting accounts. How do we reconcile them? Agent Scully? 
Agent Mulder?" 

Scully: "I can't." (Keep Mulder occupied. Keep him safe. Keep him 
tangled up in anything other than-) 

Member of Board: "Agent Mulder, you've been very quiet. Do you 
have nothing to add to this discussion?" 

Mulder: "I don't...dispute what Agent Scully said she saw. But as 
to what _I_ saw and experienced, what I witnessed,...I have told 
the truth. I can't prove it. And...I don't know how to make sense of 
it. I don't know what else to say." 

Member of Board: "Then, barring any further additions or addendum's 
to either of your reports, the Full Board Inquiry will go ahead as 
scheduled. There will be a full investigation of Agent Mulder's actions 
on the night in question. All records regarding the "God's Children 
Case" and Agent Beyer and Agent Scully's assignments to that case 
will be reviewed. In addition, all records relating to Agent Mulder's 
psychiatric therapy over the last two years will be by court order, 
opened and examined by a practicing psychiatrist appointed by this 
Board for that purpose. This Preliminary Inquiry is adjourned."



Scully felt sick to her stomach. 

Mulder's treatment? 

His private sessions, exposed to all the world? Him stared at 
and clucked about? It would bury him for good as an Agent in the 
Bureau. No pride left, no hope for promotion. 

Destruction. 

May as well let "Them" kill him instead. It would be quicker. 

Less cruel. 




Four Days Later. Fox Mulder's Apartment: 

It could hardly be termed an apartment. COMpartment
Mulder had thought. 

But he'd given it's choice little thought and it didn't matter. 
It was a place to be. He slept, showered and went to the
toilet here. That was about all. 

It was the only place he could find inside a day after leaving
Scully's place. 

Packing had been a snap. He only owned two suites, a 
couple pairs of jeans, a few T-shirts, sweaters and the usual 
underwear, socks... 

Three or four decent ties. 

Some things did change and even improve. 

A bigger television. No couch but a single roll away
and a "TV" tray for a coffee table. 

His suites hung in the main closet and the rest sat in a box
underneath. Except for the dirty stuff which he'd taken to
lazily tossing behind the door. 

He didn't really give a shit since it was just him and he
wasn't out to make it into a real home. 

No place in his memory had ever felt like a home. Except for
Scully's place. Cozy and bright and full of nice smelling things. 

And maybe for mom and dad's old house way back when he and 
Samantha were little kids. Hardly more than babies. 

The last innocent time. 

A few years in the sun. 

His chest grew tight. He caught himself thinking about Scully.
It did that when he thought about her. It hurt. 

The way dying must hurt. Kinda like that. 

He hadn't seen or spoken to her in a week. 

When ever he picked up the phone to dial her number, there
was the fear Skinner might answer. 

That would be a last stroke of the lash. He could imagine it,
in his worst nightmare, dialing the number, hearing it ring
and her answer out of breath: 

"Scully?" 

"Uh, yeah, hey can I call you back, Walter and I, we were just..." 

He would never call back, the, after that. Ever. 

For as long as he so-called "lived". 

Better not phone her. 

* 

Dana Scully's Apartment. Same Time:




//I am drowning in it.
What is happening.
My destiny has been removed 
from my hands and placed 
elsewhere.
But my choices have been made without 
my consent.
And now his as well. 
How can I do this? How will I look at myself, 
live with myself? 
I feel like I have been disembodied. My will, 
eviscerated. 
My purpose, a strangers. 
One week can change your life so that you 
become unbalanced, afraid.
Ten years can alter it so it is unrecognizable.
I'm wondering if I'll be able to navigate through 
another day away from him. 
As long as we remain estranged, he is safe. I 
hope. 
He doesn't call...//