Like Dark of the Moon, Bad Moon Rising has been revised.  
Consider all the caveats and comments from the first part of 
Dark of the Moon as in effect, except that my editor is guiltless 
this time, having been otherwise occupied....

Typos are mine.

Disclaimer:  Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and 
Agent Colton all belong to Chris Carter and Ten Thirteen 
Productions. No infringement upon their copyrights is 
intended.  All others are copyrighted by me, for whatever 
that's worth.  

Relationshipper warning:  Mulder and Scully are getting a life and it's not
with each other.  No romance, however, that ain't the point.
With apologies to the state of Massachusetts and the State Police therein
for any wild inaccuracies, fictional towns, and nasty fictional inhabitants.   

RATED NC-17 for violence, nasty people, bad language, sexual situations 
and general subversiveness

Stop here if you are under 18

No flames, although constructive criticism is not rejected, and all 
intelligent humane response will be answered....eventually. 

Bad Moon Rising 1/23
by WickdZoot
wickdzoot@aol.com

"...a monster of vaguely anthropoid outline, but with an  
octopuslike head whose face was a mass of feelers, a scaly,  
rubbery-looking body, prodigious claws on hind and forefeet, and  
long, narrow wings behind. This thing, which seemed instinct with  
a fearsome and unnatural malignancy, was of a somewhat  
bloated corpulence...." 
                                        H.P. Lovecraft 

**********************************************

Waking with a start, Morgan Grayson found her nightshirt and  
sheets drenched with sweat.  The dreams had been coming for  
nearly a month now, dreams of victims and murderer, of blood  
and tears so vividly real that she half expected the dampness on  
her shirt to be blood. 

It wasn't, of course, it was sweat from undergoing the struggle  
for life with the victim, a boy of about fourteen, tortured and  
eviscerated for the murderer's satisfaction.  Only she had shared  
the boy's struggle, shared the agony as he'd been slashed  
open.... 

She had shoved the edge of her palm in her mouth to keep from  
screaming, even in sleep, to keep from frightening Aarin. 

The eyes that had looked down on the victim had been chillingly  
inhuman.  She shivered and got out of bed, going to the dresser  
for clean clothes, the night was shot anyway--her bedside clock  
read 4:45. 

A shower would help a little, she knew; afterward, she dressed  
and moved quietly downstairs, thinking of the phone call she'd  
received late last night from Gene Kelsey.  At least she knew  
where, now, and no longer had to wait and wonder, dreading  
each night, feeling guilty because somewhere out there a  
monster was stalking children and killing them. 

At least, she could hunt now, putting an end to the deaths, to her  
dreams. 

But, oh, she had hoped she would never have to hunt again, after  
Harcourt.  No matter--they called her the Hunter for a reason; if  
that was karma, so be it. 

Tomorrow, she would begin.

**********************************************

Mulder hated therapy, but had, after several weeks, developed a grudging 
liking for the therapist, a Dr. Ferrante.

Smarter than most of the therapists forced to deal with Fox William 
Mulder, Ferrante was a soft-spoken man, his appearance alarmingly 
Freudian.  The iron fist in the velvet glove--he refused to sign off Mulder's 
release until he felt that Mulder was in shape to go back, and none of the 
fancy tap-dancing, dazzling displays of wit and intelligence, or Mulder's 
most sincere expression of honesty changed his mind.  In all his life, he'd 
only met two shrinks he couldn't snow--and Ferrante was the second.

If it hadn't pissed him off so much, he would have appreciated it.

Now, Ferrante was looking at him sidelong--he was shorter than Mulder, 
not much more than 5' 7", a dapper little man with iron grey hair, the 
barest hint of an Italian accent and a Victorian beard and mustache.  
"Distancing oneself from a traumatic event during the event itself can be 
protective," he suggested, "Do you think it should a coping mechanism for 
life?"

"No, of course not."  Mulder raked his hair back, slumping back against 
the velvety surface of the armchair Ferrante allowed him to use.  

They'd already sparred for more than three quarters of his time, Ferrante 
digging carefully into his background, asking questions that made him 
sweat, made him shrug and give casual explanations.

"And yet you use your very fine mind to distance yourself from the 
emotional aftermath of traumatic events."  Ferrante's mouth quirked 
slightly.  "It's difficult to work with issues when you already know all the 
right things, isn't it?"

Mulder shrugged uncomfortably.  "Are you going to let me go back to 
work?"

Ferrante's gold pen tapped on the pad.  "Ah, work.  Where you solve 
these extraordinary cases."

The sweat chilled suddenly.  "Yes."  He felt poised for flight, remembering 
other times, then forced himself to sink back into the chair--in spite of his 
best intentions, his hands tightened on the arms.  "Or at least, where I 
try."

The brief look Ferrante gave him was sober, not the usual I'm doing this 
for your own good, Mr. Mulder, look.   "Dr. Montrose has released you to 
return, hasn't he?  Ah, yes."

Mulder stared at him, anger and anxiety making his heart thud again.  
Slow down, he told it, counting the beats, forcing himself to breathe in 
deeply.

Suddenly, as if making a decision, Ferrante rose and went around to the 
front of his desk, pulling a piece of paper close to sign it.  "In my opinion, 
you are fit to return to work," he said softly.  "As to whether that is the 
wisest option--I'm not God, Mr. Mulder.   But I strongly suggest that you 
consider the wisdom of entering a profession in which you are forced to 
relive trauma again and again, echoing the original event.  I would suggest 
that you ask yourself whether or not those experiences have become a 
kind of addiction, testing yourself again and again against what you fear."

Anger made his stomach hurt.  "That's not true."  But he'd wondered 
about it himself, he understood the fucking mechanisms.  

"Perhaps not."  Ferrante smiled faintly, kindly.  "It isn't my task to discover 
that, Mulder.  It's my task to help you find your way back after *this* 
trauma.  And certify you fit to return to the hunt.  I hope that I have done 
the former, and regret the necessity for the latter."  He pushed the paper 
across the desk.  "I hope you will make another appointment, Mulder, 
even though you are quite free to walk out of here without coming back."   

Sliding forward, Mulder picked up the release form, relieved to note that 
his hands weren't shaking.  "Thank you."  He stood up, awkward suddenly 
and turned for the door, pausing when he got there.  Something needed 
to be said.  He hated being forced into a therapist's office....but Ferrante 
hadn't done what others had done.  And could have.  "I'll think about it.  
Seriously."

Ferrante smiled.  "Good.  I'll hope to see you again, then.  If not--good 
luck.  And please feel that you can come and see me at any time, not just 
when your Assistant Director insists."

He felt his mouth quirk at that.  "Thanks."  And escaped into the outer 
office, moving fast, down the hall and out into the sun and heat of early 
June, putting on his sunglasses with a sense of freedom that made him 
want to just walk all the way home.  No way, not on his feet--but it was 
good to feel strong again, healthy, fit....he could hardly wait to get back 
into work.

Tomorrow.

Grinning like a boy, he moved to the street, sticking his hand up to hail a 
cab.

********************************************************
"I want you to observe her."  The man behind the desk took in a deep 
inhalation of smoke, the ember on the cigarette burning brightly.  Damned 
things were going to kill him one of these days, he thought distantly, his 
gaze resting on the agent who sat on the chair in front of his desk.  The 
man was very good, and completely conscienceless, which made him 
ideal for the required purposes.  "Nothing more."

"It's not going to be easy to get assigned to the team," said the agent, 
sounding untroubled.  "The AIC doesn't much like me."

"That's taken care of.  I've spoken to your partner, he's going to ask for it 
on the grounds that he was Mulder's classmate."

White teeth showed briefly.  "That might just work.  Just observe her, 
nothing else?"

"Just observe her."  The man leaned back in his chair.  "I think Dr. 
Grayson might prove very useful if my suspicions are correct."

"What am I looking for?"

The question made the man smile.  "Anything out of the ordinary," he said 
and sat up again, crushing the cigarette in the ashtray.  "And keep in 
touch the usual ways."

The younger man rose.  "I will."

*******************************************************

First stop for Mulder that morning was Personnel, turning in his release 
forms from ALL medical care.  

We shall overcome, he thought on his way down in the elevator.  Dress 
shoes were uncomfortable on his feet yet, he'd gotten used to running 
shoes, tennis shoes, but what the hell--he was back.   He made his way 
slowly through the basement corridor to his office door and paused for a 
moment, biting back a grin before opening the door.  He hadn't told Scully 
that Montrose had released him to come back to work, albeit with strong 
cautions about taking care of what was left of healing burns. 

Pulling the door open, he grinned broadly.  “Hey, Scully, just when you 
thought it was safe to go into the office again--I'm baa-a-a-ck."  And 
stopped dead still, astonished, to see his doctor sitting on the edge of 
Dana Scully's desk, evidently in conversation with her.

Immediately, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.  "Geoff.  This is a surprise.  
Was there something you forgot to tell me yesterday?"

"Nope."  Montrose was cheerful  "I stopped in to see Dana."

Dana?  Mulder arched one eyebrow at his partner, freshly surprised to see 
her color faintly.  "Oh.  Sorry if I interrupted anything."

"Nope, we'd just finished."  Montrose rose, winked at Scully and turned to 
regard him critically.  "You know, I almost didn't recognize you in a suit, 
Mulder."

"I almost didn't recognize myself."  He grinned, unable to keep from 
eyeing Scully curiously.  "I've got to tell you, it's kind of nice to see you 
without having to worry about getting poked."

Geoff grinned.  "Antibiotic shots hurt like hell--just be glad it wasn't that 
fascinating little flesh eating bacteria that got you.  Of course, if you'd 
followed your doctor's orders, you wouldn't have had to have all those 
shots."

He supposed there was no denying that.  

Geoff clapped him lightly on the shoulder and left, leaving him to eye his 
partner with increasing interest.  By this time, she had regained her 
composure and regarded him with a smile.  "You clean up pretty well, 
Mulder."

"Thanks, Scully."  He tilted a half-smile at her.  "So, is there something 
going on you haven't mentioned to me?"

"Probably several things."  Her tone was dry.  "I'm absolutely delighted 
you're back, Skinner's been asking me everyday.  You're supposed to go 
and see him when you come in."

Sighing, he turned back toward the door.  "Just another ordinary day."

As he waited for the elevator, he was conscious of a mild sense of hurt, 
but quelled it.  If she wasn't ready to talk about something, there was no 
sense in pushing it.  She was his best friend, the person he trusted most 
in the world, and he was never entirely certain that the same was true for 
her.  

Feeling glum again, and certain his reaction was related to all the crap 
stirred up in his mind by Harcourt, he entered Skinner's office feeling wary.

To his absolute astonishment, Skinner rose from the desk to regard him 
critically, then actually came forward to shake his hand.  "You look good," 
he approved.  "What did Montrose say?  Are you released to full duty?"

Bewildered, Mulder nodded, feeling off balance.  "I've got a list of 
instructions about yea long, but yeah, I'm on active duty, as long as I stay 
out of haunted houses and don't go wading in swamps."

Skinner grimaced, remembering the condition of Mulder's burned feet.  
"Good.  I have to admit, I didn't expect you today, but I was going to call 
you, see if you felt up to coming in.  A situation has come up--I know you 
left VCS for a reason, Mulder, and I'm not going to push you on this or just 
flatly assign you.  But Jim Barlow was supposed to fly up to Boston today 
and late last night he was admitted to the hospital with chest pains.  
They're doing a bypass today--and they called me to see if you would 
consider going on this one."

His stomach knotted.  No way, he thought, thinking of his own near 
escape.  But--the words came out of his mouth anyway.  "What is it?"

Skinner sighed.  "It's not pretty.  They think they've got a serial--hell, they 
know they've got a serial, and they've known it for a while.  But it just 
crossed state lines from New Hampshire into Massachusetts.  Dead 
teenagers, I'm afraid.  It's pretty brutal.  But you wouldn't be carrying it 
alone--Gene Kelsey's gotten Morgan Grayson to come up, she's already 
there."

Mulder winced.  Morgan Grayson.  

He had successfully avoided thinking seriously about Morgan Grayson for 
the better part of the last several weeks.  He'd had enough to think about, 
just winning free of the monitor, the hospital, and his apartment, in that 
order.  Even when seeing Ferrante, he'd managed to avoid dealing with 
her, though he'd doggedly worked through a good deal of what had happened 
with Harcourt.

Now, though.... 

Paradoxically, he had found that he trusted Morgan Grayson and 
mistrusted that trust.  Scully had won his trust by earning it, by her very 
steadfast nature, her honesty, and the core of warmth within her soul that 
she allowed only a few to see.  

Morgan Grayson, on the other hand, had only saved his life.  

And he knew that kind of reasoning was lunacy, but couldn't seem to 
overcome it.  Perhaps he would, now.  Perhaps seeing her as a normal 
human being would do the trick and end the fascination he still felt for her.

He devoutly hoped so.

"Scully comes with me," he said flatly.  "I want the best pathologist I know 
on this."

"Done." Skinner leaned forward, his expression indecipherable.  "Mulder, 
don't feel you have to do this.  You don't need to dive back in head first.  
VCS wants your skills, but if it's going to be a problem for you--"

"No, it'll be fine."  Mulder sighed.  "After Harcourt, sir--if the worst thing I

have to face is human, I think I can deal with it."

They were both silent, neither one quite wanting to speak aloud about 
what had happened, just a bit over eight weeks ago.  

After his release from the hospital, Scully had gone to spend a week with 
her mother, which had seemingly enabled her to shelve whatever 
unanswered questions might still trouble her.  Skinner had apparently 
decided that once over, it was behind him, and he wasn't going to 
question or comment on the inexplicable events any more than he had to.  
As for himself, he had a whole new repertoire of nightmares--and not all of 
them had Harcourt in them.  

"Sir," he said diffidently, more awkward than he had felt in years.  "I never 
thanked you, for ah, helping Scully find me.  And everything else."

Skinner looked pleased, he thought, and felt better for having said it.  "You 
and I may have our differences, Mulder,"  his mouth quirked,  "But if I'd 
ever wanted you dead, I'd throttle you myself."

That struck him as funny.  With a grin, he rose.  "That's reassuring, sir.  
Have you got a case file for me?"

"I'll have it sent down."  Skinner almost smiled.

He nodded.  "Who's in charge up there?"

"You are."  Skinner did smile then at his surprise.  "Ross Bergman's AIC 
in Boston, but you're running the team.  I don't know if you've ever met 
him or not.  You'll be working primarily with the State Police, as I said--
Bergman's assigned two of his agents out there already and has put his 
resources at your disposal.  "  Abruptly, Skinner leaned back in his chair, 
his eyes faintly troubled.  "You're sure you're up to handling this.  It's a 
request, Mulder, not an order."

"I'm fine."  Which wasn't strictly true, but close enough not to set off a 
polygraph.  "I'll go break the news to Scully."

Trust Mulder, Scully thought, bemused, listening to his footsteps recede 
down the hall.  

Well, she had meant to mention Geoff to him, but he'd been in such a foul 
temper lately, pent in his apartment, doggedly trying to heal enough to get 
back to work, trying to work through what he'd endured with the therapist 
he'd finally, after much convincing, agreed to see.  After a few visits,  he 
had flatly told her he needed to be alone, by which she'd understood he 
was angry at her for extracting the promise to see Ferrante, that he was 
working through what had happened and needed to focus on it, and that he 
wasn't sure he was fit for human company.   She'd had things of her own 
to work out after all was said and done, not the least of which was 
watching Harcourt's body slowly turn to dust.   

She'd left him alone too long.  

She should have known better, he was a dreadful patient and always was.  
Less than a week after his release from the hospital, she had gone to his 
apartment to find him feverish, and find the burns on his hands and feet 
starting a nasty infection.  

Of course, despite having been told, he had been taking showers, 
reasoning that changing the dressings would be fine.  Hence the 
aforementioned antibiotic treatment; he had been embarrassed about that, 
and dutifully following instructions since then, which was the only reason 
Geoff had released him a week earlier than his original estimate.

Not that there was much to tell, mind.  A few lunch dates had led to a few 
dinner dates, a little necking in the car and that to the logical conclusion--
she was wary of getting involved, men didn't much like being at the mercy 
of her schedule.  But Geoff Montrose, she was beginning to think, was a 
different breed.  

She could be wrong, and yet hoped she wasn't, and none of this pondering 
was getting her paperwork done.

Making a face at herself, she went around her desk and took her chair.  In 
Mulder's absence, Skinner had lent her to Quantico for some classes, to 
VCS for some autopsies, and generally kept her busy enough that no one 
noticed the unusual lack of activity in the basement office.  

In a way, she had been angry that no one had.  A few of his friends at the 
bureau had come to visit once or twice, but it infuriated her that they 
seemed to think Mulder had screwed up, going up to Baltimore alone.  Of 
course, no one else had wanted to bother looking too deeply into Jesse 
Carter's disappearance, deeming it a runaway, but they thought *he'd* 
screwed up.  

Fortunately, it was only a vocal minority who courted death at her hands 
this way, and she had learned to consider the source before letting her 
temper get a grip.  Maybe it was because she'd seen him as the eccentric, 
"Spooky" Mulder before she'd worked with him, come to know him, begun 
to care about what happened to him.

And none of this was getting the paperwork done, she reminded herself.  
Forcing herself to it, she bent over the forms, her pen moving in quick 
strokes, filling in squares and checking boxes......

The door startled her.  Mulder came in, his expression curiously distant.  
"Pack your bags, Scully, we're leaving for Boston."

She stared at him in disbelief.  "Not the New Devon case?"

He gave her a quizzical look, one eyebrow lifted.  "I guess, I haven't have 
the case file yet.  But we're going. You know about it?"

She came out from behind her desk, feeling the beginnings of dangerous 
temper, mostly centered on Skinner.  "I do.  I thought Skinner wasn't going 
to assign it to you."

"He didn't, he asked.  I told him I'd do it."  Mulder turned back toward his 
desk and sighed.  "I didn't even get a chance to say hi to my desk," he 
mourned, "Or tilt back in my chair."

"I'll tilt you back in your chair if you don't tell me what you're thinking of, 
Fox Mulder."  She saw his eyes slant sharply her way and almost smiled.  
Such as easy chain to yank, Mulder, she thought and put her hands on 
her hips.  "You went through hell with Harcourt, and you're going to put 
yourself back into this kind of atmosphere?  Do you *want* to have a 
breakdown, is that it?"

He looked annoyed.  "I'm not *that* fragile, Scully," he said irritably.  "Geoff

released me, remember?  Full duty."

She felt her mouth flatten out in a thin line. "Geoff is not a psychologist."

"No, but Ferrante is, and he released me, too."  Spreading his hands out 
helplessly, the dressings still on his palms looking odd, as if his shirt 
sleeves were too long, he looked awkward, too vulnerable.  His work was 
the only thing that saved him, sometimes, from sinking under all that he'd 
endured, from simply giving way and turning into someone who talked to 
himself on the street.  

She knew that, but *he* also knew that she was afraid for him sometimes.  
Watching him, she also knew that he was caught between losing his 
temper and shouting, and giving her a hug.  After a long, taut silence,  he 
finally found the middle road.  

"Scully," he finally said, his tone conciliatory, "Scully, why are we arguing?  
I wanted you to go.  I just don't want to fight about it.  If you don't want to,

don't.  I know you've gone through too much with me.  If you don't want to 
go, I won't push it, I'll--I'll talk to Skinner.  I got you into this, I can get
you 
out."

"Like hell."  She lifted her chin stubbornly. "I have no intention of letting 
you go up there unaccompanied by anyone with enough sense to look out 
for your welfare, since you won't.  And if you try to get Skinner to reassign 
me to something else, I'll know that your promise to me means nothing."

His expression told her that he thought her logic, suddenly, had gone 
circular.  Eyeing her warily, he cleared his throat.  "How?"

"Because your intention in doing so is to take off alone," she informed him 
sternly, repressing a wicked grin.  

He knew she was serious, he knew she'd see it that way, and doubtless 
feared she'd make him pay for the rest of their time together as partners.  It 
was a sin, she had once gravely told him, to break a promise.  

Not that she was entirely sure what Mulder thought about the concept of 
sin; given his utter disregard for most religious thought, she rather thought 
he'd discarded it.

His brows knitted together and he gave her a pained look. "Is this like that 
lust-in-your-heart thing of Jimmy Carter's?" he asked, "Because if it is, 
Scully---I'm Jewish, not Baptist."

"Don't push it, Mulder." She narrowed her eyes at him. "The Jews taught 
the Catholics everything they know about guilt, and the Catholics learned 
the lesson well.  If you don't think I can lay it on you, you're mistaken."  

Having learned after three years to concede defeat when he was defeated, 
Mulder held his hands up.  "Okay, okay.  I think you enjoy nagging me."

"God knows, someone has to," she told him tartly and went to her desk to 
get her purse.  "All right, let's go.  If we're leaving here at two in the 
afternoon, we've got packing to do.  Mulder, you do have clean laundry, 
don't you?"

"Scully."  He shot her a patient, long-suffering look, making her want to 
laugh. "What else have I had to do lately?"

She shot him a look.  "Grouch at me, that's what you've had to do lately."

His expression went slightly sheepish and he followed her out.

********************************************************
Feeling vaguely guilty, Mulder wondered if that was why she hadn't 
mentioned anything about seeing Geoff Montrose to him.  

She'd probably expected him to say something incredibly boorish--feeling 
guiltier, he realized exactly what it would have been--"Gee, Scully, I almost 
get whacked and you get a new boyfriend out of it.  Terrific."  In his most 
cutting tone, of course.

Holding onto her purse, she stopped to look up at him.  "Don't look like 
that, Mulder, I refuse to feel guilty when you're the one with the bad 
temper."

He offered her what he hoped was his best smile.   "Sorry, Scully.  I know 
I'm not the easiest person to be around when I'm sick or hurt."

Scully's mouth quirked.  "That's an understatement.  Have you got the 
file?"  He shook his head and she sighed.  "I warn you, I'm sticking to you 
like a burr, Mulder.  No dark treks into the landscape of this monster's 
mind--I'll stick you full of sleepy juice and cart you back to Washington 
myself."

Mulder's mouth curved.  "Sleepy juice?" he asked, his tone ironic.  "Is this 
some new sedative of which I'm unaware?"

"Never mind, it was supposed to be a joke.  Did you get the travel 
vouchers?"

"And tickets, Scully--"  He gave her a triumphant grin and reached into his 
jacket.  "Here you go, Scully.  Your very own."

"You didn't make hotel reservations, did you?"  She eyed him 
suspiciously.  She was always accusing him of choosing spectacularly 
seedy or weird hotels deliberately. It wasn't his fault that they routinely 
ended up in parts of the world with lousy hotels.

"No, I didn't know if we'd be staying in Boston or driving out to New Devon.  
We'll see.  By the way, speaking of Morgan Grayson, guess who's already 
up there?"

That made her look away.  "I know."

"You know?"  His brows drew together; not telling him about her social life 
was one thing.  This was--"Oh, of course.  Well, thanks for sharing."  

"Mulder, the last thing I'd imagined was that you'd be going up there.  I 
thought you liked Morgan, anyway."

"I do."  He grimaced.  "Just--stuff, Scully.  You were there, you know."  
Stuff he couldn't even explain to himself.

"Yeah," she admitted.  "But I went to see her afterward.  She's just a 
normal person, Mulder, with a very weird and scary, um, ability.  And if you 
knew how much I hated having those words come out of my mouth...."

That made him laugh genuinely, smoothing over the prickly edges of being 
tired and sore and having to dive into a serial murder case.  "Hey, I took a 
cab in today, my rear tires were flat--can I get a ride home to pack?"

"Only because I have to make sure we make it to the airport on time," she 
told him drily.  "Mulder, we only have three hours and midday traffic is 
going to be hell."

He smiled at her, as solemnly as a boy.  "Now I know I'm really back."   
He leaned down and gave her a sudden, surprising hug.  "You're giving me 
flak again.  God, Scully, you were so nice to me for a while, I thought I 
really was going to die."

Her expression suggested that he didn't realize how close he came, but he 
did, and that was part of his problem with Morgan Grayson.  

Skinner had let him read the file he'd put together, the St. Morgan, Avenger 
of the Victim file.  Rationally, he knew that was bullshit, she was a nice, 
normal person, just as Scully had said.  But he remembered too well the 
serenity of her face at a time when he had been so terrified that only rage 
had kept him going.

"Oof, Mulder, you're breaking my ribs--"  Squeezing back, Scully snickered 
when he yelped in mock pain.  "I have to admit, it's good to have you back.  
Do you think you can stay in one piece for a while?"

"Aye, Aye, Captain."  He winked at her and she shook her head at him in 
mock reproof.  He really was incorrigible, he admitted, feeling almost 
cheerful again.  But then, so was she.

********************************************************

The case file, thankfully, arrived before they boarded the jet.  Already 
buried in it, Mulder wolfed his way through his airline lunch and hers, since 
she declined the somewhat soggy turkey sandwich.  He then managed to 
consume four bags of peanuts and, with a wary glance at Scully, two cups 
of coffee.

She arched her eyebrow on the second, after which he switched to ginger 
ale.  "I am *sick* of lemon lime," he muttered and settled back again, 
reading the tale of murdered children.  She could see him moving into his 
analytical mode already, that quick mind clicking away and finding 
connections where others failed to see.  

By the time they'd landed, he'd already covered a legal pad page with 
notes.

They were met at the airport by two of the Boston agents.

"Hey, Mulder," said one, holding out his hand.  "Glad to see you're on your 
feet again."

Mulder blinked at him.  "Thanks."  His eyes widened suddenly in 
recognition.  "Donovan, I must have suffered brain damage or something, I 
didn't recognize you.  Scully, this maniac and I were in the same class at 
Quantico."

Donovan laughed.  "Still wearing cotton gauze on his hands and he calls 
me a maniac," he gibed gently.

"Hey, cut me some slack, I didn't expect trouble from a haunted house."  
Mulder's eyes, surprisingly, were merry.  "Later, Scully, I'll tell you what 
his nickname was."

"No, don't," Donovan said hastily.  "Agent Scully, this quiet guy next to me 
is my partner, Pete Stoddard."

There was more nodding and shaking of hands.  Scully found herself 
amused.  With the amenities accomplished, she tilted her head.  "Our bag 
should be coming off in a little while."

"Probably, but the ASAC asked Pete here to take charge of them.  He 
wants you two at the State Police Barracks as soon as possible.  Another 
kid's disappeared, and they think it might be this bastard."

Mulder's mouth flattened out into a thin line.  "Why?"

Donovan shrugged.  "The state police haven't said.  They just said they 
think it is."

Mulder looked at her, both of them thinking the same thing:  Morgan 
Grayson.

**************************************************************

"Agent Mulder, I'm an asshole, but I'm a reasonable asshole," Captain 
Gene Kelsey of the Massachusetts State Police had his arms folded.  
"VCS already sent up one analyst, and he couldn't seem to play nice with 
ours.  Jim Barlow's one I trust, and he's in the hospital.  Now, I've got one 
dead kid here already, with possibly another one soon--not to mention six 
in New Hampshire.  You wanna play ego games, you head right on back to 
Washington DC right now."

Mulder gazed at him, bemused.  "I don't think it's a problem."  His voice 
was mild.  "Is she in there?  I'd like to talk to her."

"We know Morgan Grayson." Scully eyed her partner nervously.  Therapist 
or not, she wasn't entirely certain he had come to terms with Morgan 
Grayson and her peculiar talents.  Or maybe what he had seen and 
experienced.  Which was odd, considering she was the rationalist and he 
the believer, but it was one thing to believe in the paranormal, and another 
thing entirely to have it nearly kill you.  She stepped forward between 
Kelsey and Mulder.  "If you like," and it was hard not to smile demurely at 
Mulder when her eyes met his, "Tell her Fox and Dana are here."

Kelsey regarded them for a moment, his brows drawn together, then 
moved away from the door.  "Hmm.  You must be the one Walt called 
about in March.  All right, go on in.  You want some coffee?"

"Please."  Mulder flicked her an irritated look and put his hand on the door 
knob.

"Only if it's decaf." Scully swiftly intervened. "For both of us."

Mulder sighed, hard done by, and gave Kelsey a look as if to say, what 
can I do?

Kelsey grinned and moved off, a big man, a broad man, who made Mulder 
look like a kid.  A skinny kid at that, Scully thought and bit back her smile 
back.

He looked at her again, clearly still irritated.  "Does everyone know about 
what happened?"

"Skinner called Kelsey, you know that."  She tried for a soothing tone.  
"That's how we got in touch with Morgan."

His brows drew together.  His hand loosened on the door knob as if he 
were rethinking going in.  "I don't like this," he growled and sighed, let go of

the knob.  "Let's get the coffee first."

Scully's eyes flicked to the door and back to him.  "All right," she 
murmured, but she was talking to empty air, Mulder had already taken two 
quick strides after Kelsey.

And Kelsey, surprisingly, proved to be amenable to being interrogated in 
the inimitable style.

"She thinks he's younger, between twenty-five and thirty at most," Kelsey 
told them aimably in his office, over his own mug of coffee.  "Ritualistic.  
Organized.  He's got a place of his own, he must hold down a job if that's 
true.  Lunar cycle, from the look of it."

Mulder's expression was skeptical.  "I saw the case files.  You don't have 
a lot to go on, the guy's fucking canny, not much trace evidence at all."

"Nope.  No hairs, no semen or saliva, but we haven't found the bodies fresh 
either.  Except for the New Devon kid, and it rained heavily the last two 
nights"  Kelsey rubbed at his chin, sighed heavily.  "He's way ahead of us, 
dammit.  We don't have a goddamn clue what kind of vehicle he's got.  
Just dead kids, left out in the dark."  He took another sip, regarding Mulder 
over the edge of his coffee cup.  "She thinks they're posed deliberately.

Mulder's gaze had gone distant.  "I agree.  And that he's ritualistic, based 
on the autopsies.  No signs of sexual assault?"

"Not that the ME can find.  But, like I said, we're finding them after the 
animals have been at them a while, after the weather's done some damage 
to the site and the remains.  But we're not getting much from either the 
bodies or the site.  And the New Devon report--no signs of sexual assault 
on that one.  No anal distention, no semen, like I said.  Either the perp is 
pretty goddamn careful, or he's completely clean.  Read about a guy like 
that, used to shave his body, kept his hair cut short, used latex gloves and 
condoms."  The big shoulders moved up in a shrug.  "Don't think they ever 
got the bastard."

Mulder's eyes snapped back to Kelsey.  "We'll get this one," he told 
Kelsey softly.  "Count on it."

Scully sipped at her coffee, studying Kelsey.  He seemed to believe 
Mulder.

"We'll get him."  Mulder's voice was soft.  Holding his cup between two 
hands, he gazed into it as if reading an oracle.  "We'll get him, it just takes 
getting into his head, figuring him out.  Studying what he does, following 
that trail to his hiding places."

She shivered suddenly.  She'd worried about him when they'd first begun 
looking into the disappearances at Harcourt House.  And now, with that 
demon destroyed, she found she was worried about this one.  But he'd 
reassured her then; she hoped that reassurance wasn't hollow.

Mulder sighed and rose suddenly, drained the rest of his coffee in a few 
gulps, tossed the cup in Kelsey's wastebasket, and straightened his 
shoulders slightly.  "Well, let me see what Dr. Grayson has to say."  He 
flicked a sudden grin at Kelsey.  "Don't worry, I'll play nice, Kelsey."

And won a faint smile from the older man.  "I'll hold you to that, Agent 
Mulder."

Going back down the hallway was surprisingly difficult for Mulder.  
Once he'd opened the door, he stood there, hesitant, but Scully 
was behind him, and clearly perplexed.

"Go on, Mulder." She nudged him forward.  Sighing, he moved into the 
room, saw a woman sitting at the briefing table, tapping on the keys of her 
laptop.  

She'd cut her hair, he realized and the unfamiliar features coalesced into 
the woman he remembered.  Morgan Grayson.  

When she glanced up at him, he saw no recognition in her eyes at first, 
but as it dawned, she stood up suddenly, her expression startled, almost 
diffident.  "Fox, you're looking very well."

"Thanks."  He wished he could say the same.  She looked weary, too thin, 
and with bruised crescents of weariness beneath her eyes.  And the 
haircut made her look different; he remembered her as one of those Earth 
Mother types, refugee from the sixties; this was a woman of the nineties, 
her facial structure almost exotic and foreign with her cheekbones and 
brows revealed, silk shell and power suit completing the transformation.

"Dana." She turned toward Scully, her smile welcoming.  "This is a 
surprise."

"Very much," Scully told her and slanted him a look.  "I wasn't expecting 
us to be sent on this case."

"Why do you think this missing kid is related to the New Devon killing,"  
Mulder asked, breaking into the conversation.

"The timing."  Morgan's expression was vague again; sitting back down, 
she shuffled through some sheets of paper and handed one to him.  "The 
New Devon body was the first one discovered soon after he dumped it.  
Given the condition of the body, the coroner estimates death to have 
occurred no more than 48 hours previous to the discovery, full moon--I 
think this guy's working on a lunar cycle."  Her expression was distant, as 
though she were somewhere else--or wishing she were.

"On the basis of one discovery?  That's a little premature, isn't it?"  He 
kept his tone deliberately mild, although he'd already written that as a 
speculation on his notes after reading the files, even before Kelsey had 
mentioned it.  There was a ritualistic aspect to the mutilations that made it 
seem likely.

Not looking at him, Morgan laughed shortly.  "The timing works out with 
the New Hampshire cases as well, Fox."  Turning to look at him directly, 
she arched one eyebrow.  "And I think you know why I believe this is the 
same suspect.  I *know* it's the same suspect.  I'm going to Kensington 
today to interview the parents, that will either confirm it or not."

Mulder was almost relieved to see that much spirit from her; her gaze was 
vague, her manner almost absentminded.  This was not the woman he 
remembered from Harcourt House or the hospital, but then he'd been a 
physical and emotional wreck himself.  How far could his memory be 
trusted of those days?  

Troubled, he looked at Scully, seeing his reaction mirrored in her eyes.

Scully gave Morgan a long, assessing look.  "You look terrible.  How long 
have you been up here?"

Morgan laughed.  "Only two days, Dana.  Lack of sleep--I don't sleep well 
in hotel rooms."  Something shadowy stirred behind her eyes and Mulder 
quelled the instinctive sympathy that woke in his gut.  "And this kid has 
been missing a week, his parents only just felt it necessary to tell us."

"Too busy or too drunk?" He was aware his tone was too bitter and tried to 
modulate it when her eyes moved to him, really seeing him.  "I'd like to see 
what you've got."

Morgan made a vague gesture at the briefing table.  "Help yourself."

Scully gave him a look he couldn't translate.  "Why don't we ride out with 
you to Kensington?  If you don't mind, of course."

"No, of course not.  The sooner we stop this guy, the happier I'll be."  
Morgan tilted her head back to look up at him.  "I don't think I realized that 
you were so tall, Fox."

Abruptly, he realized he didn't want to discuss personal matters with this 
stranger.  A stranger who wasn't a stranger, yet was.  "Actually," he told 
her flatly, remembering Scully telling her before, in the hospital, "I prefer 
not to be called Fox.  I prefer Mulder."

Scully gave him another look, this one clearly annoyed.  "He even made 
his parents call him Mulder," she told Morgan lightly, trying to pass over 
the moment.

Morgan's expression went blank.  "Of course."  As if it made sense.  And 
nodded vaguely again.  "I'm sorry."  Briefly, he regretted the impulse that 
had made him raise the issue.  "All right then, Mulder.  Well, my car's 
outside, the red Saturn."  Her gaze rested on the papers on the table for a 
long moment and she reached out as if to straighten them or pick them up, 
hand hovering in the air above the table for a moment before she let it fall 
again, reached for her pure.  "Let's go, then."

Following her out, he offered Scully an apologetic shrug, rotated his 
shoulders to loosen the tension that had gathered there, all the way up on 
the plane, waiting to meet Morgan Grayson again.  And wasn't sure what 
the hell he'd been worried about.

She wasn't quite what he remembered.

**************************************************************

The Greenes were what Morgan had suspected, concerned as much for 
their own self-images as for their son.  They were genuinely distraught, in 
their own way, frightened now that it was too late and Todd was irrevocably 
gone.  Mrs. Greene kept knotting and unknotting her fingers, almost 
wringing her hands, and her husband's eyes kept darting around the room, 
as if seeking his son.

The house was sterile, clean and attractively furnished without one sign 
there had been a child living there.   They might be distraught, but she 
found herself wondering just how involved they'd been with Todd.

Except in Todd's room; as Mulder asked his questions in a soft, 
professional voice, she excused herself to go back there, opening the door 
on the usual adolescent maelstrom of clothes, books, papers, posters, 
shoes and staring at it, seeking some clue, some trace of Todd.  
Something that would tell her why he'd been taken.  Lost in that effort, she 
drew inward, tasting the air--she started when Scully came up behind her 
and touched her arm, going all over gooseflesh and chilled before she 
realized who it was.

"I'm not at all sure that either of you should be on this case." Scully's voice 
was soft and Scully's eyes searched her face. 

Morgan shrugged it off and began moving through the room, extending her 
senses, reading Todd's presence in every item, but with no other taint. 
"Needs must," she said obscurely and ran her fingertips very lightly over 
the edge of Todd's desk, stopping abruptly as something touched her, 
some element of enthusiasm, something which mixed Todd's essence with 
that of other people.  

There was a long thin box, of the kind sold in card and comic shops, made 
for the collection of cards--riffling through them, she saw Magic cards, felt 
that they had not been used in weeks.   Magic was innocuous enough, 
she thought, and sighed.

But there was another deck, still in the case; holding her hand over it, she 
felt it radiating a mixture in which something malign pulsed darkly, 
overwhelming more innocent influences.  "Ah," she murmured and picked 
up the deck, grimacing at the bloody illustration on the front of the box.

"You've got something?"  Scully straightened and came to stand beside 
her.  "Nyarlothotep?" she read, her voice amused.

"From Lovecraft's Cthulu mythos," Morgan murmured, preoccupied, and 
opened the box.  The cards were, to her taste, abhorrent, some 
representing the Elder Gods, some representing worshippers, and some 
representing those who would prevent the Elder Gods from being 
worshipped.  The action cards were easier to stomach, but the Sacrifice 
cards--her stomach knotted as she came upon the first.

"Oh, my God," Scully whispered, "That's how the New Devon body 
looked."

Her blood seemed to congeal as she looked on the card; the artist had 
managed to suggest the mutilations suffered by the boy found in New 
Devon without being clinically graphic.  Flipping through the cards, she 
isolated the sacrifice cards and all of them bore the same trace of sullen, 
louring malice.  

"These games," she said aloud, her voice little more than a whisper.  
"They have tournaments, that's how he's targeting.them."  She raised her 
eyes to meet Scully's.  "God, we've finally got a handle on this bastard, 
he's finding them through the tournaments."  

Brushing past Scully, she hurried back down the stairs, falling back into 
automatic mode, asking the parents for permission to take the pack, 
asking the parents where the boy might have gotten them, asking them if 
they remembered him going to any tournaments.  

Mulder listened to this with one eyebrow lifted, but made no comment.  He 
apparently had finished with the parents; once she had gotten permission 
from the mother to take whatever they needed, he rose, putting his 
notepad back into his inside coat pocket.

"What's with the cards?" he asked outside, then, "You mind if I drive?"

Scully rolled her eyes at him.

Morgan handed him the keys without comment,  waiting silently while he 
unlocked the passenger side.   Geoff was dating Scully, she'd come to 
terms with Scully after Harcourt, had even achieved a certain comfortable 
beginning at friendship.  Mulder was another story.  Mulder, not Fox, she 
told herself, amused in spite of her depression.  Well, that must have 
rankled all along or he wouldn't have been so short.  And what she could 
taste of his emotions wouldn't carry so much anger with her.  At least, she 
supposed it was with her. 

"The cards?" he repeated, jarring her from her thoughts as he pulled open 
the door, arching his eyebrows at her.

Taken off guard, she opened her mouth and shut it, unable to find the 
words to explain.

Thankfully, Scully spoke for her.  "She thinks this guy is targeting kids 
through the roleplaying card tournaments.  The pictures--I'm going to go 
back through the New Hampshire autopsy reports and check against the 
rest of them, but there's a card in there that matches what was done to the 
last boy."

"Yes," Morgan nodded, conscious of relief that he was looking at Scully.  
"I think he's targeting the card tournaments," she said softly and quickly 
stepped aside to allow Scully to get in the front passenger seat.  

Scully flicked her an odd look and reached back to unlock the door, at 
which she slipped in back.

The Saturn's back seat felt comfortable enough, particularly after Scully 
had adjusted the seat.  Sliding behind the wheel, Mulder held out a hand.  
"Mind if I look at them?"

Handing them forward, Morgan sighed inwardly before sinking back and 
looking out the side window.  After a moment, the car started and Mulder 
backed out of the driveway.  "It's a good start," he said thoughtfully.  
"Lovecraft, hmmm?"

"Okay, who's Lovecraft?" Scully asked, her tone light.  "I've managed to 
miss this somehow."

"He wrote creepy stories in the twenties and thirties."  Morgan's voice was 
absent, she was opening up, trying to track what she had felt on the cards.  
"Developed the mythos of the alien Elder Gods and built on it, writing with 
August Derleth and others."

"Creepy," Scully repeated, sounding amused; her head turned to regard 
Morgan with curiosity.  "Creepy stories?"

"Yeah, about these sort of pandimensional creatures who were once 
worshipped as gods," Mulder told her, relieving Morgan of the need to 
answer.

"Pandimensional."  Scully's mouth curved.

She could feel nothing that matched what the cards held.  Dammit.  And 
sighed, still far away from the two in the front seat, her mind already 
moving into practical mode, making lists on how to approach matters.  
"Really creepy," she dragged her attention back to the car, tried to smile 
at Scully.  "He wrote one that I've sworn for years was the inspiration for 
the story Who Goes There, about Arctic explorers.  Or Antarctic, I forget 
which.  It's been years since I read any of his pieces."

"Nyarlothotep," Mulder read, glancing sidelong at the box.  "Where did 
Todd get them?"

"In town," Morgan pointed toward the front of the car, "Turn left here, we're 
going to stop at the police station, remember?"

"Oh, sorry."  Making the turn, he flicked a fractional smile at her.  "Does 
this Wilson know we're coming?"

"He should."  She looked back out the window as they passed a small 
shop, felt it yank at her hard.  "Mulder, pull over."

He gave her a quick look and obeyed.  "I wasn't driving that badly, was I?"  
Light tone, curiosity evident.

But she was already out of the car, heading for the door of the small shop 
and through it.  A little breathless, she approached the back of the shop 
and found a young man, surely not more than nineteen or twenty, hunched 
over a small table behind the counter, the wispy blond hair hanging loose 
around his shoulders.  

Looking up in owlish startlement, he pushed his glasses up onto his nose 
and gave her a tentative smile.  "Hi, can I help you?"

"I hope so."  She offered him what she hoped was a winning smile.  "Have 
you got a manual for Nyarlothotep?"

He blinked at her, startled again.  "Um, I'm not sure, we might.  The owner 
doesn't much like it, so we don't carry much of it."

"Good for him."  Sighing, Morgan identified herself, even as the tap of 
Scully's heels sounded in the door.  Turning, she gave the younger woman 
an ironic smile.  "Have you been designated my keeper?" she asked.

"Something like," Scully agreed, smiling in spite of her obvious annoyance.

"This is Special Agent Scully," Morgan told the boy, laughing inwardly at 
the way he reacted, his expression going at once excited and awed.

"You investigating that kid disappearing?" he asked.

"Yes." Morgan gave Scully a quelling look.  "Listen, you said that the 
owner doesn't care for Nyarlothotep.  Does that mean no local 
tournaments?"

He nodded, pushed up his glasses again.  "Yeah, basically.  But New 
Devon has them."

Morgan's stomach knotted again, excitement, tension, too much bad 
coffee, and not enough to eat.  "Can you get me a copy of the tournament 
signup sheet?" she asked softly.  "By any chance?"

He looked from her to Scully and his chin came up.  "I can sure try."  
Pushing his glasses back up, he went to the phone on the desk behind the 
counter.

Scully's eyes were merry.  "You're pretty good at this stuff." 

"You mean, not just the weird events, huh?"  But Morgan said it without an 
edge.  She and Scully had already had their share of debates, both during 
and after the Harcourt affair; they might stand on opposite sides of the 
fence, but they were both comfortable with it.

"That's what I mean."

"Elementary, my dear Scully," she intoned and they both laughed as the 
boy hung up the phone and turned back toward them.  "Simple deduction."

"Hey, I called the shop who sponsors the tournaments in New Devon and 
he's gonna fax me the list here."  The boy beamed at them and held up a 
dusty paperback book.  "And I found this on the back of the desk, getting 
ready to be returned to the vendor."

"Terrific," Morgan fumbled in her pockets and pulled out a twenty.  "You've 
been a great help, I appreciate it."

He flushed slightly and pushed his glasses up again, his long curly hair 
giving him the air of a refugee from Woodstock.  "Hey, he's just a kid, ya 
know.  I didn't really know him, but I've seen him around."

After giving her the change, the boy went back to the office and returned 
with a fax.  "Here ya go--and it looks like he faxed a copy of the 
newsletter.  It has a list of all the upcoming tournaments for the various 
games in this part of the state."

"Presto," Morgan arched a wicked eyebrow at Scully.  "We're already at 
least a half-day ahead.  I'll have to stop in New Devon and thank the 
owner."

The boy's eyes glinted and his mouth twitched.  "Better watch out, he's got 
an eye for ladies."

Scully laughed softly and Morgan blushed, not sure why she did.  On that 
note, they went back out to the car, where Mulder was scowling through 
the windshield.

"Are we finished?" he asked sarcastically.  "I didn't know you were a fan of 
comic books Scully."

"They sell the cards, Mulder," she told him equably, "And we've got a list 
of the Nyarlothotep tournaments taking place in the next--"  She slanted a 
look at Morgan, who was reading the page.

"Three months," Morgan supplied absently, already tracing the dates.  
"We'll want to check in New Hampshire, see if the tournament lists match 
the dead kids.  But I'd bet the rent they will."  And then they could start 
checking the other names on the lists.  Start cross matching.  Start the 
hunt for real, now that they'd figured out how he was targeting the kids.

Mulder was silent for a moment, finally nodded.  "The police station is 
where?"

She waved her hand vaguely, still focused on the newsletter.  "Downtown."

"Downtown," he repeated, sounding irritable.  "That ought to be easy 
enough to find in a town this size."

"Should be," Scully agreed, sounding amused.

After a moment, he started the engine again and pulled out.  Morgan 
scarcely noticed.

Officer Chad Wilson proved to be a slender, wiry man, surely not much 
past 5' 8" and surely not much older than twenty-five.  He was distressed 
by the parents' failure to report their son missing, talked earnestly about 
what measures had been taken to find the boy, and quite thoroughly and 
unaccountably gave Morgan the creeps.

"And we haven't given up," he told them firmly.  "His parents--maybe he 
just took off for a few days, kids that age do crazy things, you know.  But 
we aren't counting on that, we're checking everything we can.  Have you 
got any other suggestions?"

Mulder had listened gravely to the recitation of actions, now shook his 
head.  "Not that I can think of.  Sounds like you're doing a helluva lot right, 
Officer."

Wilson smiled and Morgan shivered, feeling something ghost across her 
consciousness, too evanescent for her to define.  After three nearly 
sleepless nights, she could not focus closely enough to determine what it 
was about him that affected her so, but it was undeniable.  

"Well, if you think of anything, let me know.  They might not have paid 
much attention until now, but those folks are upset.  I'd sure like to be able 
to bring them the news he's okay, that we've found him."

Mulder nodded again, shook the hand that Wilson held out.

Morgan moved toward the door, trying to avoid touching the man, feeling 
the talons of a first class headache sink into her brain.   Strain.  The strain 
of trying to "see" what it was about him and shield herself from Mulder's 
distrust, from Scully's disbelief, and the echoes of unhappiness that 
permeated the station.

She made it before Wilson caught her, took in a lungful of fresh air and felt 
the headache spike through her right eye.  Oh, great, a fucking classic, 
that's what she had. And wondered if she had any migraine medication on 
hand in her purse.

Mulder emerged, gave her a bland look and strode toward the car.  She 
followed more slowly, as Scully came out, not wanting to engage in private 
conversation with him when she felt like this.

"He seems like a good guy." Mulder having coopted the driver's seat again, 
turned back to look as she slid into the back. 

She didn't mind his driving, not really, not with this headache, but found it 
irritating nonetheless.  "Sure." Fumbling in her purse, she extracted her 
prescription bottle with relief, shook out two capsules and dry swallowed 
them. 

Mulder watched this and arched a questioning eyebrow.  "You okay?"

Sure, she thought hilariously, my eyes are watering from contact with 
daylight, I can't breathe through the left side of my nose, there are vultures 
perched on my skull, tearing pieces out of it--"I'm fine," she told him mildly, 
"But I'd like to stop and get something to drink at the gas station at the 
edge of town."

He made an agreeable sound and started the car, but she saw his eyes 
meet Scully's as he pulled away from the curb.

Leaning back, she closed her eyes against the pain that lanced through 
her right eye, almost reaching a doze before the car stopped again.  A 
hand touched her wrist and she jerked back to wakefulness, blinking 
painfully.

Mulder's voice was soft, his eyes concerned.  "Hey, what do you want?"

It was more kindness than she had expected from him.  From the moment 
he'd walked in at the office, she'd been able to feel his discomfort with her, 
sensed the distance he wanted between them.  Under the circumstances, 
it was understandable, but it stung nonetheless.  She hadn't thought to be 
welcome, exactly, but she could have dealt with that, chalking off to 
jurisdictional issues.  

And kindness nearly brought tears to her eyes.  

"Something caffeine free and diet," she muttered, closing her eyes again.  
Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a wad of change and held it out to 
him.  

He pushed her hand back, shaking his head, his fingertips brushing her 
fingers with his fingertips.  "No sugar, no caffeine, where's the fun in that?"

It suddenly occured to her that the caffeine might help.  "Okay, no sugar, 
but caffeine."

He grinned and nodded.  "Gotcha.  Scully, you want anything?"

Scully glanced at her briefly before turning her gaze on her partner.  "I'll go 
in with you, Mulder."

Morgan winced when the car doors closed, but swiftly sank back down into 
a comfortable, painfree place, letting the velvet embrace of sleep enfold 
her......

**************************************************************

"Mulder, if you don't stop being such a pain," Scully hissed and thwacked 
him in the stomach with a bag of sunflower seeds, "I'm going to handcuff 
you to the passenger seat."

Widening his eyes, he gave her his best innocent look, hoping it would 
work.  "What did I do?"

"Don't start," she warned and took a few steps away from him.  She was 
sincerely irritated now, which made his stomach tighten slightly.

In truth, he didn't know why he was reacting to Morgan so--brusquely was 
probably a polite enough term.  As a psychologist, he knew it was 
displaced and inappropriate, but his hackles kept coming up.  Pitching his 
tone for placation and keeping the innocent look on his face, he tried 
again.   "Scully, we're here on a case, she's doing her job and I'm doing 
mine."

She gave him a look that spoke volumes--making him wince inwardly and 
cranked up his vague sense of guilt up another notch--and went back 
toward the restrooms without replying.

Well, I am, he thought, a little resentfully.  Maybe he'd started off feeling 
uncomfortable with Morgan, but since then he'd merely been asking the 
questions he should, and taking in information.  Feeling put upon, he went 
to the drinks section and pulled out of bottle of iced tea for himself; after a 
moment, he grinned and grabbed the diet version for Morgan and Scully, 
then went to pay for it.

When Scully emerged, she stood by him peaceably to pay for the seeds 
for him and to buy some pretzels for herself.

Morgan was asleep when they returned to the car, her cheek pillowed on 
the back of the passenger seat, knees drawn up on the narrow shelf of the 
back seat.  He felt some remorse at that and took off his jacket to lay over 
her legs, earning himself a surprised glance from his partner, but thankfully 
no comment.

"We'll go back to the barracks, Donovan should have our bags there by the 
time we get there."  He started the car and put it in gear, checked the 
rearview mirror and backed up.  Morgan never stirred when the car began 
to move and he felt the faintest touch of worry at that.  "Maybe we can get 
something to eat and get a room nearby.  Let her sleep for now, she 
looked damned tired."

Scully turned in her seat to look at Morgan, a faint line appearing between 
her brows.  "Yeah," she agreed absently and turned around again, 
fastening her seat belt.

**************************************************************

In the back seat, Morgan, vaguely conscious of the car's motion, sank 
deeper into sleep.

...........He cruises again, driving aimlessly down the roads, the terrible 
hunger temporarily assuaged, temporarily silent.  He lets the car slow 
when he passes through Kensington, driving through the late afternoon 
sunshine and feeling an almost unbearable pride in what he has done.  He 
has breached the citadel, stolen away a perfect sacrifice, still young, 
untarnished, and touched by the hands of the gods. 

Just thinking of it makes the hunger throb again, deep in his blood.

"I am legion," he whispers, full of a terrible glee, for he has welcomed this 
in, worshipped eagerly, followed the commands of the elder gods.  Let 
other, punier men choose between Satan and Jehovah, they were paltry 
idols compared to the gods he discovered when he was fifteen.

"Weston," he murmurs, caressing the words.  Another tournament, 
another chance to find the next, perfect sacrifice, to lure it out, to test it.
It 
would come out on the web he wove, and he would tease it closer, as 
cunning and careful as a spider.  The gods have rewarded him, have they 
not?  Keeping him safe from all detection, keeping him in their hands.

The empty vessels are found when and where he wishes, and most have 
gone days, some not found at all.  Yes, it was the gods moving him, 
causing him to be here in this land, this land with their blood soaked 
altars.  He begins to laugh softly, feeling the power they have given him 
surge in his veins, stronger than drink or drugs, strong than love.  He can 
almost feel his flesh glowing with it, and wonders that people cannot 
recognize him.  

When all is finished, and the gods have come again, given life through his 
sacrifices, he will no longer have to exercise any caution at all, he will be a 
wolf among the sheep, the hot blood running all sweet and salty down his 
throat...............

**************************************************************

They were only a few miles from the barracks when Morgan woke, coming 
upright in a sudden motion, a stifled cry jerking Scully's attention to her.  
Twisting in the seat, she peered back.  "Hey, we're almost back."

Morgan stared at her, eyes wide and shocked, without recognition for too 
long.  "Um."  She licked her lips and blinked, suddenly saw Scully again.  
"Umm, I really went out, sorry."

Mulder glanced back, his expression mild.  "No reason to be.  You want 
your drink now?"

"I'd love it."  Shivering, she reached up, accepting the bottle from Scully.  
Scully couldn't help noticing that Morgan's hand was shaking fractionally.  
"Thanks.  Hey, good job, I love this stuff."

"How's your headache," Mulder asked, glancing in the rearview mirror; 
Scully glanced at him in surprise, but he avoided her gaze.

"Actually, it's gone," Morgan sighed and leaned forward, sliding toward the 
middle of the back seat.  "Lack of sleep, I guess."

"Probably."  Scully looked back again, feeling unaccountably worried.  
"Bad dream?"

Morgan smiled ruefully.  "Dana, you never hold back, do you?  Yeah, par 
for the course.  Part of the process."  But her hand came up to her throat 
briefly, as if it had been more than that.  "Where are you all staying?  I can 
vouch for the Littleport Inn, it's the best of a bad lot, and pretty reasonable.

The restaurant is decent, better than that if you eat normal meals."

"What kind of meals do you eat?" Mulder asked, amused.

"Mostly vegetarian." Scully laughed softly.   "Does that mean we're going 
to miss the varied cuisine available back home?"

"*I* do," Morgan chuckled.  "My choices are salad, salad, overcooked 
green beans or corn, more salad, or potatoes mashed, baked or fried.  Too 
late for good winter squash, and too early for summer, so I make do.  
However, there's a little Italian place down the road that does terrific pasta 
in almost any variety, so I've developed a strong garlic ambience."

"Hey, garlic's good for you," Mulder grinned at her in the rearview mirror, 
"Keeps the vampires away."

"Thank Fortune for that." Morgan laughed again.  "I don't think I could cope 
with a vampire just now.  Although I hear they're terrific in bed, you just 
can't take them anywhere."

Shaking her head, Scully snickered at Mulder's expression.  "They never 
want to meet you for lunch," she added wickedly.

"They won't go shopping with you," Morgan returned.

"And they never send you roses," they both said together and then burst 
out laughing.

Mulder slanted Scully a wry look.  "Did you two rehearse that?"

"Just serendipity," Morgan leaned forward again.  "Although rehearsal has 
it's attractions, Dana.  We could drive your partner *and* Geoff crazy in 
one fell swoop."

"I haven't decided about Geoff yet, but Mulder's already crazy."  Scully 
grinned again, wickedly eyeing her partner.

He slanted her a grin in return, but was silent, biding his time, no doubt.  
Well, payback was a bitch, but it was worth it, occasionally turning the 
tables on him.

"Here we are," Mulder finally sighed, turning into the parking lot.  "Scully, 
do my eyes deceive me, or are those two government leased vehicles I 
see?  They brought two up."

"I asked Brigham to make sure we had a car for ourselves," she told him 
smugly.  "Without a bench seat in the front."

He flashed her another quick grin.  "Now I now why I appreciate you so 
much."

"You'd better," she retorted and waved at Donovan, standing near the first 
car.  He raised a hand in reply as Mulder pulled in beside him.

"It's all yours." Donovan handed a set of keys to her as she got out of the 
Saturn.  "Use it in good health."

She shot her partner a mildly triumphant glance and looked in the back.  
Their bags were there.  "Are you and Stoddard staying?"

"Yeah.  We'll see what the boy wonder has up his sleeve besides 
bandages and go from there."

Mulder scowled at that.  "Cut it out, Donovan."

Donovan's eyebrows rose.  "Sorry, Spooky."  He was unrepentant, "But 
you've got the touch.  You even brought that poor son of a bitch Patterson 
in."

That memory wasn't a good one for either of them.  "Thanks for 
everything," Scully told him sweetly.  "We're going to get checked into the 
Littleport Inn, get some dinner with Dr. Grayson, and go over the files.  
Mulder's just back on duty and Skinner put me in charge of seeing he 
follows his doctor's orders."  

He gave her a look, almost disappointed, and she read him clearly.  He 
wanted to get close to Spooky's partner, either because of his own interest 
in her, or because of curiosity, she thought, and pushed the surge of 
irritation back down.  "We'll see you in the morning."

Mulder stared at her, bemused.  When Donovan looked at him, he 
shrugged.  "Would you argue with a woman who'd shoot you?  You see 
why Skinner trusts her."  With a comic expression, he followed Morgan 
Grayson up the walk.

Donovan gave her an assessing glance, still containing a measure of 
interest.  "Would you shoot him?"

"Hey, Donovan, I'd shoot you if you kept him from getting completely back 
on his feet again," she said, evenly.

"Bad time, huh?"  Donovan looked at Mulder, watching as he held the door 
for Morgan.

"You can't imagine." 

Mulder had insisted on carrying the laptop and the files for Morgan, which 
was ludicrous.  

She let him.  She was simply too tired to argue with him, despite the nap, 
despite the iced tea.  Her sleep never brought her rest anymore, hadn't for 
weeks, not since the dreams had begun.  The only consolation was that 
now she knew which murderer was bringing them to her.

So, without complaint or protest, she accepted his suggestion that she 
leave her car at the barracks and ride back to the Inn with them.  In the 
back seat again, she leaned back, letting her thoughts drift.  

They didn't drift far--she began to mentally add to the profile she had 
begun, based on what evidence she had.  New Devon, she thought 
suddenly and leaned forward.  "We need to call the shop in New Devon.  
Mulder, do you still have the cards?"

"In my pocket."  He fumbled with the jacket, lying between the two seats 
and handed her the pack.  Opening the box, she slid the cards out, 
touching each of them, feeling the complex taste of Todd Green's 
experiences wash through her mind again.  

This time, she sorted through the ones that were benign and set them 
aside.  

Robin had told her about these gaming tournaments; in most, a deck was 
purchased with the entrance fee, so all contestants began evenly.  But, 
throughout the day's playing, cards forfeited were kept by the victor; Todd 
Greene had clearly won these from the man who had taken him.  She put 
them in Todd's folder, sliding them under the clip that held his picture; 
taking the rest, she sorted through the Sacrifice cards, grimly matching 
one to each of the victims in New Hampshire, and to the boy in New 
Devon.  "They still haven't ID'd the boy in New Devon," she said aloud.

"I'd like to go up there tomorrow and have a look."   Scully turned to look at 
her.  "There may be something the ME missed."

Morgan nodded absently and marked the names of the victims on the 
cards.  There seemed to be no sequence to the Sacrifice cards 
themselves--unless.....

Turning to the book she had gotten, she opened it to the rules section and 
began to read.

**************************************************************

The Italian restaurant was really very charming, very traditional, serving a 
multi-course meal for an astonishingly reasonable price.

Morgan followed them in, still reading from the book, sat and managed to 
order spinach lasagne without much more than a glance and a smile at the 
waiter, who clearly knew her.  

The aromas in the small place made Mulder's mouth water.  Reckless, he 
ordered a veal dish, salad and pasta on the side, making the waiter regard 
him with evident approval.  He slanted Scully a grin and added a bottle of 
wine to their order, nothing fancy, just the house table wine.

She gave him an amused look, but made no protest or complaint, even 
sipped at a glass of it when the waiter brought three.

Morgan's glass sat untouched as he and Scully gradually unwound, talking 
idly of nothing of importance, such things as what he was going to do 
about his flat tires, whether or not there was a decent dry cleaning 
establishment nearby, whether or not red wine and olive oil were really 
good for the heart.  

Well, that was Scully's contribution, by this time, they were both watching 
Morgan read, made equally uneasy by the intensity of her focus.

The salads came; he and Scully ate theirs, commenting occasionally on 
how fresh the vegetables were, both of them obliquely aiming these 
comments at Morgan, who read on, completely oblivous.  By the time he'd 
finished his, he felt like standing up with flash cards and waving them in 
front of Morgan's face.  "T for Tomato", "C for Carrot", "R for Romaine"....

The waiter came and removed two salad plates, slanting Morgan a 
concerned look as he took them away, and returned with their entrees. 

As he tactfully moved Morgan's salad aside, she finally looked up at them, 
all that distance vanishing.  "The Sacrifice cards are linked with the 
calendar," she told them absently, as if continuing an earlier conversation, 
never mind that she hadn't said a word for thirty minutes.  "The old holy 
days.  It's real jumble of Lovecraft and folklore, though Lovecraft did link the

times of power with the old High Sabbats:  Yule, Candlemas, Midsummer, 
Lammas, Samhain, and so on.  But there are thirteen lunar months in a 
year, and some of them are linked to the esbats, while the rest are linked 
to the holy days."

"Holy days."  Scully sounded faintly revolted and shook her head.

"Well, they are--or were." Morgan regarded the plates as if wondering how 
it had gotten there.  Well, maybe she did wonder, given her level of 
absorption.  "The Christian church co-opted the festivals from the old 
religion.  Religions, whatever.  I read once that no self-respecting shepherd 
would have been in the hills of Galilee in December, it just so happened 
that the rebirth of the sun fitted nicely with Christian symbolism."  She 
shrugged and picked up her fork, prodding at the lasagne delicately.  "Old 
news, Dana."

"Yeah, I know," Scully's mouth quirked and she glanced at him.  "I work 
with one of the FBI experts on the occult and a die-hard agnostic."

Ignoring this, Mulder leaned forward, interested in spite of himself.  "Yeah, 
but is this really relevant?  We'd already reckoned on a lunar cycle."

Morgan arched a brow at him and he felt himself flush.  Well, he had 
questioned that premise back at the barracks earlier, he deserved that 
look.  

She passed on making anything of it, though, and sighed.  "This game is 
pretty loosely based on Lovecraft's mythos, but the underlying premise is 
the same.  The Elder Gods are pretty pissed off that they don't have us to 
kick around anymore, and they want to be restored to this dimensional 
plane.  The way to do that is to feed them with sacrifices until they regain 
their strength to return.  And those sacrifices are linked to the calendar.  I 
don't seriously believe that the Elder Gods exist or that they can come 
back, but then, I'm not the one killing kids.  It's relevant because it gives 
me more insight to this sick bastard."  She poked the fork into a slice of 
tomato, neatly ate it.  "To know the artist, you have to study his art."

Mulder froze in his chair, muscles going taut.  "What did you say?"  His 
voice was harsh, his heart thudded slowly in his chest at the words, too 
evocative of that poor crazy bastard Patterson for his comfort.

She gazed back at him, clearly bewildered by his savage tone.  "It's 
something one of your BSU honchos used to say.  Patterson, I think."  Her 
eyes were wide and startled.

He sank back in his chair, shaking a little bit.  God, it was too weird, too 
scary to hear those words coming from her mouth.  

After a tense silence, Scully cleared her throat.  "Patterson is currently 
confined as criminally insane, Morgan.  He studied the art a little too well.  
Mulder brought him in."

Morgan's hand went to her throat again, her eyes came back to Mulder, 
shocked.  "I didn't know."

She really *hadn't* known, he could tell from her eyes.   And felt the 
faintest edge of remorse over startling her.   The tension slowly seeped 
away from his muscles again.  "Sorry, I didn't mean to snap," he allowed 
grudgingly.  "It was a bad case."  Picking up his fork, he gestured.  "Eat 
your food, it's getting cold."

But the fork went back down and she picked up the cards again.  "There's 
a specific sacrifice for each esbat," she muttered and began to sort 
through the pile again, already lost in it again.

He and Scully exchanged a look.  Scully reached forward, put a hand over 
Morgan's.  "Eat your dinner."  Firm, no-nonsense Scully tone.

Mulder grinned.  He had to admit, it was funny to have that tone directed 
elsewhere.  Evidently, Scully and Morgan had really become friends. "She 
means it," he warned, almost laughing,  "And she's vicious when 
thwarted."

Morgan looked at him blankly for a moment and sighed as Scully lifted her 
hand, reaching out to retrieve her fork.  "There's a lot we've missed." She 
took a small bite, her expression dubious, whether over their omissions or 
the lasagne, Mulder couldn't tell.  "And I don't like that.  Either he's hidden 
the other bodies, or nobody's stumbled on his dump sites."

He nodded, the wheels turning in the back of his mind.  "The first New 
Hampshire case was almost thirteen months ago.  And if he's following the 
calendar...."  His voice trailed off, his tone reluctant.  Todd Greene would 
make eight that they knew of; which could mean five missing bodies for the 
esbats, and at least eight for the holy days.  God, what a nightmare.  
"There could be thirteen bodies we haven't found."

Scully looked at him, rocked by this speculation.

"Sometimes the full moon coincides with the holy days." Morgan gestured 
vaguely and took another bite.  "I'll have to check the ephemeris."

He nodded, feeling a little sick.  Twenty one kids slaughtered, maybe.  
Eight was too many, and they had the possibility of twenty one victims?  
"God, you're a cheerful person to be around, you know that?"  The words 
escaped him without volition; he regretted them the moment they left his 
mouth.

Scully kicked his ankle, which he regretted a little more; he was going to 
be bruised there.

"Oh, yeah." Morgan's eyes moved past him, devoid of emotion, as 
uninflected as her voice.  "That's me.  A laugh every minute."

**************************************************************

"That was well done." Scully's tone was scathing once Morgan had gone 
to wait outside while he paid for their meal.

"I didn't mean it."  Guilt kept his temper quelled.  "It just slipped out.  
Scully, I didn't say it to be a shit, it just happened.  I thought the inside of

my head was bad--I'm suddenly damn glad I'm not her."

"Try and remember that," she hissed and went out to wait beside Morgan.

Still feeling guilty, he tried hard to be pleasant with Morgan on the way 
back to the Inn.  But she was taciturn, lost in thought, and answered his 
conversational sallies with monosyllabic responses.

Giving it up as they pulled into the parking lot, he let Scully try, to no 
better effect.  Making a vague excuse, Morgan went up to her room while 
they checked in.  On impulse, he asked which room Morgan was in and 
requested rooms nearby, explaining that they were working together.  
During this bizarre exchange with the desk clerk, Scully regarded him as if 
he'd sprouted another head.

"What in hell is that about, Mulder?" she asked in the elevator.

"Well, we are working together."  He felt defensive, hell, he sounded 
defensive.  "I thought it might be easier if we were nearby."  But that wasn't 
the reason.  He wasn't sure what was, but it felt as they should be nearby.  
In case she needed them.  

Once on the second floor, he discovered that he'd gotten the room next to 
Morgan's and Scully was directly across from the hall.  She gave him a 
look he couldn't decipher.  "Good night, Mulder.  Don't forget to take your 
pills."

"Yes, Mom," he jibed gently.  "Scully, I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to be a 
jerk to her.  I'll try harder tomorrow, okay?"

She paused in the act of closing the door behind her.  "I hope so, Mulder, 
or I'm going to tell my mother you've forgotten your manners."  

Humor glinted in her eyes again, which made him feel better.  "Night, 
Scully," he told her, and went into his room.  

**************************************************************

Morgan had slipped out of pumps and hose when the knock on the door 
came.  Sighing, she went and checked, opening it to Scully, dressed in 
jeans and a sweatshirt.  "Hey, lady."  She rolled her eyes at Scully.  "Your 
partner doesn't much like me, does he."

"That's not true," Scully told her, but the line between her brows made 
Morgan doubt that.  "I think he's still very uncomfortable with you, and I 
think you worry him."

Morgan closed the door.  "I can't fault him for that.  *I'm* uncomfortable 
with me."

Scully's expression was grave.  "You worry me, too, Morgan."

Padding back to the loveseat against in the room, Morgan sat down., 
gesturing at a chair.  "I can see the Dana Scully desire to lecture."  She 
kept her voice light.  "Sit, lecture to your heart's content."

Sighing, Scully did, then leaned back.  "I am worried about you."  One red-
gold eyebrow arched.  "Not so very long ago, when Mulder was on the 
case that ended with Patterson being arrested, I was worried about *him*.  
It's hard for him to stay detached, he gets so far into the case.  And this 
was a weird one, Morgan."

Morgan curled into the corner of the loveseat.  Obviously, she was going to 
have to hear this, she thought, resigned and nodded for Scully to continue.

The tale was gruesome, of course, but what murder wasn't?  Patterson had 
arrested a serial killer he'd been tracking for nearly two years; but once he 
was behind bars, two more killings had taken place.

"At the time, I came very close to believing that Mulder had committed 
them." Scully's voice was very soft.  "I don't even like to think about what I 
thought.  But it was Patterson."

Her voice held the slightest hint of shame at that betrayal and Morgan 
closed her eyes.

Morgan turned to sit upright, putting her feet on the floor, her gaze sober.  
"When you try to enter the mind of a killer, it calls to something dark 
inside of you.  I suspect it's something we all carry, some atavistic 
response.  But if you're good at tracking the monster--I think it's a kind of 
twisted empathy, understanding what they see and feel, understanding 
what they want.  In the end, it's your own revulsion that saves you from 
becoming like them--and that revulsion comes from your empathy with 
their victims.  Absorbing both at the same time is--it's incredibly 
disorienting, Dana.  But it doesn't mean we'll lose ourselves in it."  Her 
mouth twisted slightly.  "Sometimes, we do need help getting back.  Are 
you afraid that will happen to him here?"

"Maybe.  But right now, I'm more afraid it's going to happen to you."  
Scully's eyes narrowed.  "Can you deny your behavior is a little--different 
from what it usually is?"

Morgan smiled faintly, offering it as reassurance.  "I always come back, 
Dana." 

Scully didn't look entirely reassured.  "Just--just be careful, Morgan, all 
right?"

"I will."

Sitting down on the bed, Mulder sighed and bent to take off his shoes.  
Dress shoes, he reflected, were far stiffer than his high tops; as he'd 
expected, the dressings on his feet were badly in need of changing and the 
skin beneath had gone beyond itching to sore.  

It was a good thing Scully was annoyed with him, or she'd have come in 
here and seen this and outright yelled.  He was tired of being yelled at.

He was peeling the first layer of gauze of when the knock came at the 
door.  Cursing under his breath, he hobbled over and opened, feeling 
embarrassment and surprise in equal amounts when Morgan Grayson 
stood there, looking rumpled in an oversized shirt and shorts.  She was 
barefoot, which left them more or less even.  

"Nice look." Morgan's mouth quirked slightly as she surveyed his feet.

"It goes better with jeans."  He gestured toward the room.  "Come on in, 
what can I do for you?"  Turning, he hobbled back to the bed and sat down.  
"Sorry, I've got to do this twice a day, I swore an oath to Geoff."

Morgan nodded absently.  "I think you and I have a problem and I'd like to 
settle it."

Freshly embarrassed, he concentrated on his task.  "I don't have a 
problem.  Do you have a problem?"

"I do now," she told him, her tone dry.  Her brows came together as she 
got a look at his foot.  "God,  what are you doing?  Mulder, that's a mess.  
I can't believe you were walking around on that all day."

He gave her a sheepish look.  "Only part of the day.  I was in the air for a 
couple of hours.  And riding in a car."

Bending over his leg, she frowned at the sole of his foot.  "You're lucky 
Geoff has a kind nature.  What have you been doing to yourself?  Running 
ten miles a day?"

"There was some infection, it got nasty."  He found he was amused, after 
all his irritation earlier.  "It's really a lot better now."

"I'm glad I didn't see it earlier, then."  She took the tube of antibiotic 
ointment from him, and the roll of gauze.  "Hold still."

It almost made him laugh.  "Are you licensed for this?"  he asked, arching 
an eyebrow at her.

That got a faint smile.  "I'm a mom, we don't have to be licensed."

That was interesting.  "Are you really?  I didn't know that."  Although he 
had seen the file folder full of information that Skinner had collected, he 
didn't remember anything about kids.  

Well, except for the daughter who had been killed, and he was abruptly 
aware--too late, he'd screwed up again--that she might have been referring 
to that.

"Aarin's about four, we think." Morgan sounded absent again.  Her fingers 
were very light, very deft.  In less time than it had taken him to remove the 
bandages, she had replaced them.

"You think?"  He couldn't help the barbed tone, god, where the hell was it 
coming from?  His mouth kept going without any aid from his brain.  "Don't 
you know?  Too busy chasing ghosts?"

She taped the gauze tight and gave him an irritated look.  "He's my foster 
son, we don't know exactly how old he is, and he isn't talking."

Oh, hell.  He was getting used to being in the wrong with her.  "It was a 
joke."  And he felt like a fool.  Or a jerk.  "Not a very good one, but a joke."

"Put your other foot up."  She ignored this attempt at apology, gesturing 
one handed.  "Aarin was mute when we found him.  Or rather, when he 
was brought in to the emergency room in Berkeley."  As she spoke, she 
peeled away the second bandage.  "This one looks better than the other," 
she commented, and glanced up at him briefly.

"Who brought him in?"   For no reason he could think of, he asked it 
quietly, ashamed of his jibes.

"One of the older boys in the house."  She didn't look up at him.  Her 
fingertips moved, applying the ointment with a delicate touch.  I

It was weird, having a relative stranger attend to him in a setting that wasn't 
clinical.  But that was part of his problem with her; she didn't feel like a 
stranger, and that was as frightening as anything.  "Do I have to guess?"  
He leaned down, catching her eyes.  "What house, what boys?"

Her mouth flattened out into a line, but her eyes didn't see him, they 
looked past his shoulder; he guessed it was about the boy, not him.  At 
least he hoped so.  "Long story.  His parents basically sold him to this 
guy, best guess is about a year earlier.  Maybe they wanted a puppy 
instead."

Oh, boy, he was in deep and sinking further.  Even when she was irritable, 
she kept earning his respect, and that kept making him feel like a shit for 
jabbing at her.  "Is there a physical reason for his being mute?"

"None that anyone has found."  She slanted him a look and began winding 
the gauze around his foot.  "He just doesn't speak.  He understands 
everything that's said to him, so far as I can tell, and he's apparently very 
bright."   Sighing, she tore off a piece of surgical tape and taped down the 
loose end of the bandage.  "There, that should do."

"Thanks."  He felt awkward suddenly and put that foot down, wiggled his 
toes to make sure it wasn't too tight.  "Morgan, I don't have a problem, at 
least not the way you think.  It's very hard for me to deal with you.  The 
circumstances here are....too normal, comparatively speaking.  
Considering the last time we saw each other."

Both her eyebrows rose.  "Normal?  Your life is more warped than mine, 
then.  I don't consider this normal.  And I expect to be treated with 
professional courtesy, regardless."  Her voice was edged a little and a 
small spot of pink appeared on each cheek.

He couldn't get over how different she looked now, he thought distantly, 
and studied her for a moment, choosing his words carefully.  Her eyes 
were the same changeable color as his, he noticed and flushed at that 
absurdity, feeling heat in his face.  "I'm not the easiest person to get along 
with, but I never intended anything else."