She raised the cup to her lips again, her eyes downcast.  "I don't know 
what happened to him, he just didn't show up one day.  And he was not a 
priority, a seventeen year old prostitute working the Castro.  I pushed the 
police as far as I dared, and we looked ourselves, but he never turned up.  
Thrown into the Bay, dumped in a landfill, abducted permanently by little 
grey men, who knows?"

He winced at the bleakness in her voice; he knew that bleak feeling 
firsthand, it haunted his days and nights everytime he came up against a 
case like this one.  Although, personally, given the risks to the boy, he 
would have guessed thrown into the Bay before EBEs.  "Well, the next 
time I'm an asshole, just tell me I'm an asshole, or something equally 
cutting."  He lifted an eyebrow at her.  "Okay?"

A wry look came his way.  "Don't tempt me." 

Scully came out then, still wearing scrubs, eyeing them both with the 
faintest flicker of relief and curiosity.  Maybe because there hadn't been 
bloodshed in the waiting room, Mulder told himself, mordantly amused.  "I 
think she's right, Mulder.  I don't think this is our guy."

"No ritual."  Morgan leaned back into the plastic molded back of the chair, 
ran her thumb over the edge of the cup.  "No ritual, no lunar significance."

"Well, the wounds show no signs of the deliberation of the others.  They're 
ragged, torn.  As if he were in a hurry.  And not only that, but she was 
sexually assaulted.  The others haven't had any sign of that."  Scully 
grimaced.  "It looks like he used a condom, but it broke.  I found a tiny 
piece of latex.  And I got a semen sample."

Morgan nodded and rose, her eyes haunted.  "Check out that cop, Chad 
Wilson," she told them hollowly and walked out, still holding the coffee 
cup.

They looked at each other in silence for a moment before looking back at 
the doorway.  "I've sent the sample off for typing," Scully told him, her eyes 
still on the door.  "And we can easily check his schedule."

"Cautiously," he agreed, thinking hard.  "This is plausible, he *discovers* 
the body, it's a copy of the other kid they found in New Devon.  And 
unfortunately, bad cops do exist.  So he mimics the style of the other 
killings,"

"Except it's not quite close enough."  Scully's chin lifted.  "Let me get 
cleaned up, I need some coffee and some rest.  And after a while, I need 
some dinner."

He nodded, his mind already putting together the possibilities.

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

Morgan dreamt badly that night, again, but woke herself before crying out 
or screaming.  Stoddard, she thought weakly, her shirt soaked with fear 
sweat, not the killer--no, killers they were hunting, but Stoddard.    

Sudden sickness overwhelmed her and she scrambled from bed, into the 
bathroom, turning the water on in hopes that it would hide any sounds she 
made.  When she was finally reduced to empty heaves, she sank back 
down on the cold tile and rested her forehead on her knees.  

Stoddard, she thought again finally, tasting bile in the back of her throat, 
reaching for the nightmare, but the images were garbled and none too easy 
to make out.  

Stoddard had been smiling at her, and she had been powerless; terrified 
and unable to move, she had watched him shoot the people in her life one 
by one, Geoff, Sharon, Aarin--"No."  It was quiet, little more than a 
whisper, but it shut the viewer off that insisted on playing in her mind.  

Behind Stoddard had been a shadowy figure smoking a cigarette; behind 
that, a host of shadowy figures she couldn't make out.

She wondered what it meant.  

Stoddard was menacing, somehow, and what she read off him was chill 
and fell.  His eyes had no more emotion or life than buttons--or stones; the 
thought of him in the FBI was enough to make her shiver again, feeling 
chilled in the damp shirt.

After a time, the shaking subsided enough that she felt able to get up and 
brush her teeth before stripping off the T shirt and starting the shower.

If it woke Mulder, the hell with it.  There wasn't much comment to make if 
your next door neighbor felt like taking a shower at--she checked her 
watch--two in the morning.

Feeling cleaner afterward, she sat down in the center of the bed and began 
to center, to meditate.  She'd been sloppy here; even if the wards didn't 
seem to help, there might be enough strength in them to give her the rest 
of the night to sleep.

At least she hoped there was.

The morning was grey; as if infected by this, both Mulder and Morgan were 
moody, taciturn and temperamental by turns.  

Of course, Scully thought wearily, at dinner that evening, they had never 
managed to both have the same mood at the same time, so it was 
distinctly unnerving to find them both picking at their plates while Donovan 
and Stoddard had a desultory conversation about baseball.

"So, what's up next, Dr. Grayson."  Donovan veered off his conversational 
pathway suddenly and turned his attention to Morgan, one corner of his 
mouth turning up in a parody of a smile.

Fork poised over the salad she'd been picking at, Morgan glanced up at 
him, startled and annoyed.  "What's up?  We go back in and do it all 
again, we check names, we check dates.  That's what.  And you, dammit, 
get over to Kensington and get me that log like I asked three days ago."

Donovan's face went still, then flushed, an ugly red.  "I'm not your 
goddamned fetch and carry boy, lady!"  His hand formed a fist, still resting 
on the table, knuckles white as the table linen.

Appalled, Scully sought desperately for something to say, something that 
would defuse the explosion she saw coming.   And not just in Donovan--
Morgan's expression was almost stony, but there was something in her 
eyes that was dangerously bright, anger flaring to levels she'd never seen 
in Morgan.

Curiously distant, Mulder's eyes moved between Donovan and Stoddard as 
Stoddard reached out and lightly touched his partner's arm.  "Easy, Mike, 
we're all a little on edge right now."  Stoddard offered Morgan a chilly 
smile.  "The weather, probably."

Morgan stood up, knocking her silverware against her plate.  "No, it's not 
the weather, and it's not PMS."  Her tone was acid, very soft and very 
deadly.  "What it is is that you and your partner have trouble completing 
simple tasks.  I realize that doing the followup work may be beneath you, 
but that's what we're going to have to do to get a line on this guy.  Maybe 
you don't mind seeing kids eviscerated, but I do."

Stoddard rose as Donovan did, putting one hand on the shorter man's 
shoulder.  "Easy," he repeated and the look he gave Donovan belied the 
casual tone.  "I think we'll say good night now."  He nodded at Mulder and 
Scully, began to guide Donovan away from the table.

Donovan looked as though that wasn't what he had in mind, but he went, 
muttering "Bitch," under his breath so softly that Scully was sure she was 
the only one who heard him.

Mulder began to applaud, clapping one hand slowly against the other, his 
expression sardonically amused.  "Bravo, Dr. Grayson."  His voice was 
sarcastic, cutting--Scully looked at him, narrowing her eyes, found him 
regarding Morgan with a contemptuous smile.   "That was a performance 
worth waiting for.  Encore, encore."

Abruptly furious, Scully kicked him under the table.  "Mulder," she hissed, 
but it was too late, Morgan's mouth twisted and she whirled on him.

"You bastard!"  Her voice trembled despite her rage, Scully saw her hands 
were shaking.  "They've got no business being here!"

"They're part of a team."  Mockery was too evident in his expression, 
biting, even cruel--"Now, I can understand the resistance to work with a 
team, I'm not much of a team player myself, but surely you *do* 
understand the concept."

"They're on their own team," Morgan snapped back, startling Scully.  "And 
I'd watch my back if I were you, Mulder.  Donovan's a snake and 
Stoddard's a spook, and I'd watch my fucking back if I were you.  I know *I* 
am."

Mulder's mouth curved in a smile that wasn't a smile.  "Actually, I'm the 
spook."  He leaned forward, evidently enjoying himself, though there were 
lines around his mouth.  "Spooky Mulder, in fact."

Scully hated this side of him, the cruelty, the enjoyment of the kill that he 
had learned from the bastard who had been his father.  She kicked him 
again, hard, and was gratified when he winced and looked at her, his 
expression betrayed.  

"Shut up," she told him harshly.  "Morgan, sit down, we need to talk about 
this.  I really need to know why you feel that way, because I don't like 
them either."

Morgan looked at her doubtfully for a long moment.   Then, finally, more 
calmly: "Because Donovan is a snake.  I don't know what Stoddard is, but 
if he's FBI, I'll stew my best heels and eat them with bearnaise.  And 
they're both lying about something."

"And people call me paranoid," Mulder told the ceiling, lowering his gaze to 
look at Scully innocently.  "I was at the academy with Mike Donovan.  
Now, we sure weren't close buddies, but he's okay.  Stoddard, I don't 
know, I admit it.  But the last time I looked, lack of personality wasn't an 
indictable offense."

"Mulder," Scully began, her coffee cup near her lips.  "I think it may go 
beyond that."

He glanced at her, clearly irritated.  "Listen, I went to Quantico with 
Donovan.  We weren't buddies, but he was oh-kay."

"Why, because he didn't call you Spooky?"  Scully's tone was tart.  "That 
may make him okay in your book, but it doesn't convince me."

His brows angled downward.  "Scully, what the hell is this about, anyway?  
Okay, Mike Donovan's not your favorite person, I can't say I'd write him into 
my will, but what the hell does any of that mean?"

"It means I don't trust him!"  Morgan matched him in sharpness of tone.  "It 
means I think he's a snake, and I think you'd better watch your back.  And 
Stoddard--I've seen eyes like that before, on guys I've helped send to 
prison.  I don't just mistrust him, he scares me, and I don't generally scare 
that easily."

"So I've heard."  His voice had gone deadly soft.  "But I haven't seen a lot 
of evidence of that up here.  You may do great against the walking undead, 
lady, but you're jumping at shadows up here.  You look like hell, your 
coming apart at the seams--"

"Mulder!"  Scully's brows drew together and she put her coffee cup down 
with a bang.  "You're way out of line here, so just stop!"

"She's having nightmares every night now," he told her, looking just as 
angry.  "She's falling apart, Scully, and we're fucking holding her together--
"

"Is that your professional opinion, Agent Mulder?" Morgan asked coldly.  "If 
so, I suggest you file a formal complaint with Gene Kelsey.  Until then, just 
stay the fuck out of my way."

Without looking back, she walked out of the diningroom, her hands 
clenched in her jacket pockets.

"What in the hell is the matter with you?" Scully hissed, wanting to kick 
him again, wishing she could smack him.  But you didn't smack your 
partner, didn't smack a grown man for being an asshole.  

Although shooting him again was an attractive notion at the present 
moment.

Mulder's head swiveled back to her, his gaze focusing down again, as if 
snapping out of a dream.  His expression went vaguely regretful and he 
suddenly looked away again, as if he were ashamed.  "I don't know."  
Quiet voice again, that softness that told her he regretted it.  "She just--
she gets to me sometimes, Scully."

"And that's how you get her back?"  She rose.  "Mulder, I don't like either 
of them, I'm sorry if that bothers you, but I don't trust either of them as far 
as I could throw both.  And Stoddard gives me the creeps."

"Scully," he began, but she turned her back and stalked out, leaving him 
with the check.

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

He *was* ashamed, in fact, the more so because he had recognized the 
voice that came from his mouth: William Mulder's voice, rich with contempt 
and mockery.  He'd used that when he wasn't using the fist or the foot or 
whatever else was handy.  

It was that painful recognition that drove him to the barracks, once he'd 
discovered Morgan wasn't in her room, that her car was gone, from the 
hotel parking lot, hoping to find her there.  

Not that he credited what she had said about either Donovan or Stoddard 
much past exhaustion, stress, and the fact that they could both be 
annoying.  Okay, extremely annoying at times.

And his behavior had been inexcusable; he was used to being watched, he 
thought, pulling into the barracks parking lot, and that doubtless was what 
Scully was picking up from them, the fact that they were watchers.

Morgan's car was in the parking lot, thankfully.  He went in, nodding 
absently at familiar faces until Gene Kelsey stepped out of his office and 
stopped him.

"I wouldn't go in there right now, she looked a tad upset."  Kelsey's tone 
was mild, but his eyes were cool.  "Said you were an asshole, Agent 
Mulder."

And he had promised Kelsey to play nice, he thought, embarrassed, 
shifting from one foot to the other.  "I told her to tell me that if I got 
obnoxious, not you." 

After a long moment, Kelsey's mouth twitched.  "Yeah, you two do go at it, 
don't you?"

"Hammer and tongs," Mulder agreed, even more embarrassed.  "You ever 
meet a woman who just makes the wrong things fly out of your mouth?"

Kelsey's belly laugh was rich and deep and his eyes lit with merriment.  
"Sure did, Mr. FBI.  Ended up marrying her, twenty-five years back.  Only 
thing more fun than picking a fight was making up." 

Appalled at this conversational detour, Mulder shook his head.  "No," he 
began, then stopped suddenly, horrified at himself.  

It wasn't like that, was it?  Was this all about sexual antagonism?  He was 
thirty fucking five years old, a little too grown up to be sticking frogs down 
Morgan's back.  "Oh, shit." 

Kelsey chuckled.  "Just hit you like a two by four, did it?  Maybe you'd 
better get on in there after all and start the making up."  He went back in 
his office, still laughing softly to himself, leaving Mulder standing in the 
hall.

There was worse to recognize, while he was in the honesty mode, he 
thought bitterly.  The roots of this might lie in his sexual awareness of her, 
but what really tripped his trigger was seeing her lose the serenity and 
composure that he'd first seen in Harcourt House, facing Julian Harcourt.  
While he'd been terrified Harcourt would kill her.  When he'd been terrified 
that Harcourt was going to succeed in killing him.

"God," he said softly, aloud, "I really am an asshole," and shook his head 
to clear it before facing her again.

Morgan was sitting at the conference table, doggedly making notes.  Her 
eyes were slightly reddened and puffy, as if she'd been crying, but her 
manner was cool and professional when she greeted him.  "Agent Mulder.  
What brings you here?"

It was hideously awkward, walking in there to face her, having her go 
formal on him and knowing he deserved it.  "I'm sorry," he told her.   
Paused to gather strength--he hated apologizing, most people used the 
opportunity to twist the knife.  Scully didn't.  

He didn't know if Morgan would.  Not that he didn't deserve it, but God--

Do it, he told himself and took a breath.  "Morgan, I've just realized 
something really ugly about myself--I've been getting a certain twisted 
pleasure out of getting you upset."

Her face was very still for a moment, professional mask down, vulnerable 
and hurt; the eyes which met his were bewildered and sad and human.  
"Why?"  It was a whisper.  Tremulous enough that it made his chest hurt.

He sat down beside her, not wanting to meet her eyes again, not wanting 
to see the damage he'd wrought.  "Turning the tables, I guess."  The wood 
surface was cool against his fingertips when he rested his hands there.

Morgan put her pen down and folded her arms around herself tightly, 
protecting herself.  And that made his chest hurt worse.  "Oh."  
Understanding.  Comprehension.  And more hurt.

Struggling still for honesty, he laced his fingers together, staring at them.  
"After reading your file, after seeing you in action, I guess I felt it was like

St. Morgan of fucking Arc."  He smiled bitterly at his hands.  "I'm just a 
fucked up FBI profiler with a head full of ghosts, and you're like the 
Avenger.  I guess it got to me.  Got to me badly, and I guess it gives me a 
certain amount of nasty pleasure in seeing you rattled."  He risked looking 
at her then, saw her eyes go over-bright.  "It isn't that I haven't genuinely 
been worried about you, I have.  But at another level, I've been glad I wasn't 
the only one fucked up."

Her head turned away from him.  She was silent a long time; he finally 
glanced back at her to see her staring at the papers on the table, to see 
her hand go out and retrieve the pen, rolling it between her fingers.  "St. 
Morgan, huh."  She sounded a little bitter herself.  "If you only knew, 
Mulder.  I live with Sharon and Geoff because I can't live alone.  My 
abilities make my life a hell, sometimes.  For the last five weeks I've been 
dreaming this guy, dreaming through his eyes, dreaming through the 
victim's eyes, and waking up screaming worse than Aarin ever does.  
Coming on this case was a relief, at least I know where it's coming from 
now.  I can't go out in crowds, because I get too much input, it rattles my 
cage plenty--just surface emotions, I don't read thoughts, thank God or 
somebody, I guess.  I have a fairly select group of people I can interact 
with, who know who I am and aren't freaked out by it, who are strong 
enough to shield themselves so I don't read every transient emotion when I 
touch them.  I grew up in an upper middle class nightmare, where Daddy 
was God, and the usual followed."  

Bitter laughter, soft, almost inaudible, harsh enough to scour his soul.  "St. 
Morgan, that's a laugh.  I wish.  I wish I was even normal enough that I 
didn't see or feel things, that I didn't *know* things I don't want to know."

He felt better about having it in the open, and worse at what he heard in her 
voice.  "You seemed so calm with Harcourt."  He looked back at his 
hands.  "And I was so fucking unglued."

After another moment of silence, she shook her head, leaned forward with 
her elbows on the table, staring at the wall across from her.  "The 
discipline of the circle."  She sounded weary.  Weary unto death.  "You 
have to detach, more or less, from the emotions that could be used as a 
weapon against you.  Or weaken the circle.  Whatever.  I hate the 
terminology, it's so vogue these days, but we don't have the syntax in our 
language to deal with things not on the two dimensional map."  She looked 
at him finally, just as he dared to look at her again.  "I put my panties on 
one leg at a time, Mulder, just like everyone else."

He managed a faint smile, reached for humor.  "I don't wear panties, 
Morgan.  Though I do have a nice pair of black pumps that once belonged 
to Hoover."

Morgan's mouth curved.  "Ah, but do you have the black cocktail frock that 
he wore with them?"

It eased the ache he felt.  "Sorry, I think Skinner has that."  He grinned 
briefly, then sobered.  "Really, Morgan, I am sorry.  It won't happen again."

Her eyes held his for a moment.  "Forget it."  She made a vague gesture.  
"We're both tired and under stress.  But lose the St. Morgan image, 
please."

He nodded silently, relieved.   She wasn't going to twist the knife.  And he 
liked her for that.  A lot.  But a part of him was also grateful that she didn't

push him any further, which meant that there was still a truth unspoken.

With that dealt with between them, there was only his sexual awareness 
to be faced; short of throwing her down on the table, there was nothing to 
be done about that.  Completely aside from the fact that he had no idea 
whether she would be willing, he had no idea of whether he'd be able.  

Harcourt had done a lot more than just fuck with his mind, he thought 
wearily, facing that fact fully for the first time.  "Come on, you're tired, I'm

tired, there's not much we can accomplish tonight.  We're making 
progress, Morgan."

"But Todd Greene's time is getting shorter," she sighed, but rose when he 
took her arm.  "Okay, you're right, maybe a night's sleep will make things 
easier to see."

"It usually does."  Putting his hand at the small of her back, he guided her 
back out.

Gene Kelsey gave him an amused look as they passed his office.

Finally in bed, Morgan slid into sleep like slipping into dark, warm water.  It 
filled her up, pulled her under; except for one moment when she jerked 
awake, thinking of the cave, it was a smooth transition--up until the point 
she began to dream...

.....she's in darkness again, no there's a faint light from the top of the rough

wooden stairs.

She's cold and shivering and hunched over--the shape of bars distorting the 
light.  "I'll be good," a boy's voice says piteously--hers, she realizes and 
realizes further that she is in the mind of her prey.  

The monster. 

Only this is no monster, but a frightened and trembling boy.  "Please, 
Daddy, I'll be good."

The darkness seethes with images, things that crawl and slink and bite, 
shapes out of nightmare, out of the ancient stories that haunt the 
undermind of the human race.  The boy huddles away from them, suddenly 
glad of the bars.  They can't get him in here, he's safe from that.  But--
"Please, Daddy, please, I'll be good."

A shadow falls across the stairs.  Hope and terror make her feel dizzy, 
almost nauseous.  "Please, I'll be good, I'll be good."

But as the steps fall heavy on the wood, she draws further back into the 
shadows, recognizing something in the weight of that step.  This isn't 
reprieve, this is punishment, and she grips the bars, tears streaming down 
her face......

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

Shuddering awake from a dream of flayed corpses, Mulder sat upright, his 
T shirt soaked with fear sweat and clinging to his skin, his pulse throbbing 
in his ears, completely disoriented and struggling to figure out where he 
was.

Oh, God, yeah, the hotel.  He was in the hotel in Massachusetts.  Scully 
was down the hall, Morgan was next door.   It let his heart slow a little, but 
not much.  He was going to have to work on that, it seemed.

Breathing slowly and deeply--thankfully, no monitor to betray him--he 
slowed it further, forcing taut muscles to relax one by one, forcing himself 
to ease the white-knuckled grip he had on the sheets.  

When his heart rate seemed close to normal again, he slid out of the bed 
and snatched a towel from the bathroom.  Stripping off the damp shirt and 
shorts, he toweled himself off and padded over naked to rummage in his 
suitcase for dry replacements.   The light made him squint when he flicked 
the switch; it took him a moment to retrieve what he wanted.

But--surveying himself in the mirror, he pulled up his shorts and snapped 
the waistband, feeling pretty good about what he saw despite the 
nightmare.  He was looking better, a helluva lot better.  The healing burns 
were losing their livid color and fading to the pink of healthy new skin, and 
the swelling had further receded from the wound on his side.  Almost back 
to normal.  

Or what passed for normal in Casa Mulder, anyway.  

With that reassurance he smiled, shook his head as his image smiled 
back at him.  Yawning, he reached for his Knicks shirt and pulled it over 
his head, freezing as he heard a soft, muffled cry from the far side of his 
room.  Where the door connected his room to Morgan's.

Morgan, he thought and sighed inwardly.  In retrospect, he was no longer 
sure why he'd been irritated about her problems with Donovan and 
Stoddard, he wasn't all that close to Donovan, it was no skin off his nose if 
Morgan disliked and distrusted another agent.   Oh, sure, what he had said 
was certainly true, he liked seeing her rattled, but it didn't explain the 
cruelty of what he'd said or done after.

Maybe he owed her something for that.

When the cry came again; resigned, he moved toward the connecting 
doors.  His was unlocked; hers was too, he discovered, which suggested 
that their discussion had cleared the air for her, too.   That made him feel a 
little less like a shit, and more like a friend again, made it easier to open 
that  door.

Opening it, he peered into the darkness of the room; if he had nightmares 
like Morgan's, he'd learn to leave the light on, he thought wryly, and 
padded over to the side of the bed.  Or sleep with the television on, which 
he had been doing for years.

The light from his room slanted through the open doors, letting him see 
that she was evidently engaged in a titanic struggle with the bedclothes, 
sheet and blanket twisted around her legs as she fought whatever troubled 
her sleep.

As usual, when he touched her, she came awake, upright, her eyes wide 
and blind.  

"It's dark," which sounded reasonable enough, but, "The bars are cold, 
they hurt, I'm scared, I'll be good, please, I'll be good."  Her voice was high 
and breathy, lost in whatever was happening in her dream; her hands came 
up in entreaty, curling as if they curled around the bars of a cell.  "I can't 
get out, it hurts, oh, please, don't let them eat me, please."

His skin made a very serious attempt to creep up his spine.  What the hell 
was she dreaming?  She'd told him she could only find monsters, but what 
she said didn't sound like a monster to him.

Only another victim.

Which was possible even if it was the monster.  Someone had taken an 
infant and turned it into something that hunted kids in the night, that 
carefully cut their flesh in order to evoke gods that had never existed, save 
in the mind of a neurotic writer who had lived reclusively and written nearly 
seventy years ago.

Gathering Morgan up against him, he patted her back, gently, rubbed 
small circles against the soft, worn cotton she wore.  "C'mon, Morgan, 
you're asleep, it's just a dream."  She stiffened against his chest for a 
moment, adrenalin strength and terror making her twist in his grasp,  then 
relaxed, slumping bonelessly with her back against his chest, murmuring 
something unintelligible.  

"Just a dream," he repeated and switched to using his fingers to brush the 
tumble of hair back from her face; it always suprised him how small she 
felt when he woke her in the night.  During the day, she seemed taller, 
sturdier, and his hands and arms were always surprised at the difference 
when he woke her up at night.

Like he'd been surprised in the cave, her body shivering against his.  Like 
he'd been surprised in the hospital when he'd driven her to tears and 
temper out of his own fears and anger.  She was far more vulnerable than 
Skinner's file suggested, far more human and flawed and entirely likable.  
When she wasn't pushing his buttons.

But gradually, under these ministrations, her breathing slowed, steadied, 
became the normal sound of sleep.  He kept murmuring soothing idiocies, 
the kind of thing you always tell people in nightmare, kept stroking her 
hair.  This was the worst one he'd seen from her.  And he couldn't help 
wondering if she was getting closer.  

 "Whassit?" she finally muttered, her voice rising interrogatively.  "Izzatima 
geddup?"

He grinned, unseen in the dark.  Garbled by sleep, her words and voice 
were tentative, like a kid's.  "You were dreaming, Morgan."

"Um."  She turned her head to rest her cheek against his shoulder, breath 
warm through the soft cotton, and sighed, almost relaxed, almost limp 
against his chest.  "Uh huh."

They sat like that for a long while, with him leaning against the pillows 
piled against the headboard, growing sleepy again in the dark silence.   
With her cheek pillowed on his shoulder, hands on his thighs, outside her 
own.

"You, too," she sighed finally, sounding a little more coherent.  "Bad 
dream."

It startled him badly.  It shouldn't have.  "Yeah," he finally admitted and 
eased them both into a more comfortable position as his leg started to 
cramp from being folded on itself.  Stretched out long, her body and legs 
still between his thighs.

"Me, too," she told him, as solemnly as a child, still leaning trustfully 
against him.   "Scary."

He smiled and closed his eyes, suddenly mortally weary; the adrenaline 
surge from the nightmare was slipping away from him, leaving him sleepy 
again.  "Tell you mine if you tell me yours," he said drowsily and stroked 
her hair again, liking the silky feel of it against his palm.

"Mmm."  Morgan sighed again, her muscles loosening further as she 
leaned against him.  "Couldn't go back to sleep then."  

She shivered and he reached down to tug the bedspread up again, 
reckoning it as three parts dream, one part post-nightmare chill.  "You 
okay?"  Her forehead and the edges of her hair were damp, but not very.  
And her shirt just felt skin warmed, not sweaty.

"Inna minute."  She shivered again, still caught in the toils of the 
nightmare, shivered and nestled into his warmth.  "Jus' keep talkin', 
Mulder."

He briefly regretted that he'd corrected her about his name and sighed.  

Scully's use of his surname was an intimacy between friends; he had 
insisted with Morgan to put a safer distance between them, but even that 
had failed.  And now, he was almost glad it had failed.

"How's your little guy holding up these days?" he asked, casting around for 
a safe subject.  "Scully's told me a lot about him lately, she's crazy about 
him."  And then cursed himself inventively for requiring an answer; she said 
talk, not conversation, he told himself.

" 'S fine," she sighed, her voice barely audible.

Okay, he thought, amused, conversation is out.  She's already that far 
back into sleep, what the hell can I talk about?  Well, the Discovery 
Channel might be good for something.....

"I read somewhere that penguins have this interesting courtship ritual."  
His  voice was drowsier, and he found that listening to himself was lulling 
him closer to sleep again.  "When the penguin wants to impress the 
penguinette of his dreams, he goes hunting for the one, perfect, 
extraordinary pebble.  Nothing common, no ordinary pebble, but the 
penultimate pebble.  The pebble that speaks to his soul and tells him that 
it's the perfect one."  

He thought about that a moment, wondering what a penguin would find 
extraordinary about a perfect pebble.  

Maybe, he thought, unaware that he was drifting, maybe it was like the 
penguin version of language.  Maybe the pebble was a message about 
what the male wanted in a relationship.  Or who he was.  

It sounded simpler than human relationships, more clear cut.   And he 
briefly envied the penguin.

Sighing, he let the last bit of tension ebb from his body, went as boneless 
as Morgan on the warmth she'd left on the sheets.  "An' then he goes 
looking for the lady penguin of his dreams."  In his mind's eye, a lonely 
penguin searched the flock, heedless of his fellows.  "An' he takes the 
pebble to her."  The penguin bravely carried the pebble in his mouth over a 
rocky, wave torn shore, searching, searching.....  "An' he puts it on the 
ground at her feet."  

For some reason, as the penguin put the pebble down, it turned into a 
Yin/Yang symbol, a pendant meant to be hung on a chain.  Drifting further, 
he tried to consider what that might mean, even as the female penguin 
looked down on it, her head tilted to one side as if she considered the 
gift....

"Wha' happens next?"  Morgan's voice was very faint, but it drew him back 
to wakefulness.

"Um."  He came back a little, not enough to open his eyes.  "If she likes it, 
off they go together and make lots and lots of penguin babies.  For the 
season, at least."

In the silence that followed, he floated out further, scarcely noticing when 
the last faint tension left Morgan's frame, when her breathing went deep 
and regular.  As he balanced on that thin line between sleep and 
consciousness, an insight came blundering up and smacked him between 
the eyes.  

He scared Morgan as badly as she scared him.  She distrusted the ease 
of their connection and used the bickering they engaged in to keep him 
safely far away; at that recognition, he felt a strange and overwhelming 
tenderness for her.  

But she doesn't do it with Scully, he thought, losing the battle for that 
equilibrium, because Scully's a woman.  It meant something, but tumbling 
to sleep meant he couldn't follow the thought further.

Waking from an incredibly sensuous and illogical dream of the first girl he'd 
ever kissed, Mulder found that his arm was asleep, Morgan's hair was in 
his mouth, he was almost painfully erect, Morgan's backside was snuggled 
against his erection, and his hand was under her shirt, cupping a breast, 
the nipple soft against his palm.

Simultaneously aghast and aroused, he discovered himself to be 
completely incapable of deciding what to do next.  Get up and run like hell-
-and the notion was powerfully attractive--or letting himself finish what his 
body had started?  

He had nearly decided on the former--I am not thinking with my dick, he 
told himself irritably--when Morgan moved back against him, innocently 
shifting in sleep and intensifying the sensations that already taunted him.  

On the other hand, he heard himself think, why not?  A glance at the 
lighted display of the clock radio told him it was 5:15, there was time 
enough....and if she wanted to say no, she could.....

Drawing her hair out of his mouth, he leaned to kiss the side of her throat, 
tasting salt and perfume faintly as his tongue touched her skin, 
questioning his sanity even though his body was clearly enthusiastic about 
this choice.

Very enthusiastic.

Morgan made a sleepy, questioning sound in her throat and rolled to face 
him, her eyes heavy-lidded, her expression puzzled.  He kissed her mouth 
then, surrendering to his body's ill-timed demands, if only because he was 
so relieved to have them made.  

Her lips parted, which he took for tacit acceptance, at least to this point--
he was mortally afraid she was going to change her mind midway, but he 
could always take a cold shower.  Or a hot one, and take care of business 
himself.  His tongue grazed the edge of a tooth, found hers and he sank 
into the sensuous pleasure of the kiss, hands moving over her as he 
kissed her, as she kissed him back.

Her hands were cool, sliding up his arms, up under the sleeves of his T-
shirt.  His mouth moved to her throat, tasting perfume again, faintly, his 
tongue dipped into the hollow of her collarbone.  And he slid his hands 
under the shirt *she* wore, finding that she was lush and warm and satiny 
under the utilitarian and well-worn cotton.  

Shaping her breasts under the shirt, he bent his head and kissed her 
nipples through the cotton, letting his mouth wet it enough he could feel 
them respond, hear the faint murmur that wasn't quite protest, wasn't quite 
acceptance.

She wore some kind of practical panties.  Jockey or something, very plain, 
cotton.  He found that funny, in a way; out of the silk shells and tailored 
suits, she dressed to cover herself up, to keep all that lushness hidden, 
the curve of hip and waist and breast, making herself--not neuter, but 
protecting herself.  Hiding herself.

But here and now, clothing was only a barrier to be removed; she not only 
cooperated, she helped him take his shirt off, only to draw back suddenly 
as he tossed it away and bent to her again.  

Then, she put a hand against his chest, fingertips grazing his nipple and 
making him shiver.  "Mulder?  What are we doing?"  One hand rested on 
his chest, not fending him off, just touching him.  Drowsy voice, eyes open 
to watch him in the dimness.

He blinked at her.  "Under the circumstances, I think you should go back 
to calling me Fox."  Bending slightly, he kissed the base of her throat 
again, tasting her skin.  "Do you want me to stop?"  God, he hoped not.  
He really did.

"I didn't say that," she murmured and cool hands stroked his shoulders 
and the nape of his neck, tickling the edge of his hair, making him shiver a 
little with the coolness and with desire.  "But I'm not sure this is wise."

That nearly made him laugh outright.  Wise?  Oh, he knew it wasn't.  His 
father's sole concession to sex education had been to take him aside 
before he left for England and Oxford, and tell him that when the dick goes 
up, the brains go in the ground.   Everything else, he'd learned on his own, 
and some of it from Phoebe.  Which wasn't something he wanted to 
remember at the present moment.

Absolutely not wise, he thought fervently, and kissed the slope of one 
breast, her skin like warmed satin, absolutely beyond caring about wisdom 
or self-protection or whether or not she pushed his buttons.  The ones she 
was pushing now--or was he pushing his own? he dimly wondered--felt too 
good to be a matter of complaint.  "Do you want me to stop?" he asked 
again, his voice muffled by what he was doing with his lips.  Tasting her 
skin, tasting her.  A nipple came alive in his mouth, against his tongue, 
making him ache with desire.

One of her legs curved over his hip.  "I might be a fool--oh."  She gasped 
as his mouth moved to her other nipple.  "But I'm not crazy."  A gasp as 
he took it into his mouth.  God, she was driving him crazy, his arms full of 
warm, naked woman, a woman he'd already admired, to his own 
exasperation.  A very warm, alive, complicated woman who was, moreover, 
very attractive....

Leaning up, he kissed her mouth again, meanwhile sliding his hand down 
her belly, between her thighs, opening her gently with his fingers to find 
that she was already wet; maybe she had been dreaming, too, he thought 
hilariously, aching with need.   Her skin was smooth and warm against his 
erection and she made a sound in her throat when he touched her sex 
again, not quite complaint, more like acceptance.  Like need and desire 
and all those things that made a person ache to be held and touched and 
made to feel--like he was feeling now.

Oh, god, she was so wet, he couldn't keep things slow, more kisses and 
he lifted his hips to settle in the cradle of her thighs, penetrating her in one

swift, thought-obliterating motion that made him gasp, beginning to move in 
the age-old rhythm as her legs locked behind his.  He shifted to rest his 
weight on his elbows, looked down on her for a moment, seeing her 
features faintly in the light that still burned in his own room and spilled into

hers.

God, she was beautiful, not plain, whatever she seemed to think.  Not 
movie star beautiful, but lovely nonetheless, her face taut with what he was 
doing.  So he kept doing it, dipped his head to kiss her, to taste her again.  
Pulled her close and went in deep enough to make him groan, to make 
him lose all control.

It wasn't fancy, and it wasn't slow, but it was intense to a degree he only 
remembered from the first few times in his life he'd had sex.  He might 
have been mortally embarrassed at lasting only about that long, but her 
orgasm was just as quick, just as intense; his more closely resembled a 
tactical nuke than the result of a morning quickie.  

When he could catch his breath again, he lifted up on his elbows again to 
look down on her and felt that odd, overwhelming tenderness she seemed 
to rouse in him.  He kissed her to answer it, and was relieved it bore no 
trace of any feeling he'd had for Phoebe.  

It bore instead, as he had thought before, a closer relationship to his 
feelings for Scully, saving the fact that he hadn't jumped Scully in the 
middle of the night at any time during their partnership.  Not that he hadn't 
occasionally entertained some curiosity about that, he admitted--and 
Morgan was short of breath herself, he observed, feeling just the slightest 
smugness.  

Her arms went around his neck, tightened slightly in a gentle hug.  "Do 
you do that every morning?" she asked finally, when she'd caught her 
breath, laughing just a little.

He almost grinned, bent and kissed her chin instead.  "Yeah, but usually 
I'm alone," he told her drily, and she laughed harder, with the predictable 
effect of disengaging their bodies.  Moving to one side, he put a 
companionable arm over her, felt that frightening tenderness again.

Her answer was more laughter.  "In this case, I'd say practice makes 
perfect."

A hint of his old shyness touched him, then.  "Yeah, that was pretty 
amazing."  And then before shyness could keep him from asking, "Any 
regrets?"

A sigh.  "Always, but it's about me, not you."

It stung a little, but not too much.  

For the first time, he allowed himself to consider what it might be like to be 
driven by the factors that drove her.  His own obsession was one thing--
dreams and visions were too external, too frightening.  "Okay."  He started 
to lean down to kiss her, suddenly shocked still by a realization.

No latex.  

"Oh, shit, Morgan, I'm sorry--"

"I'm fine," she told him, as if divining his thought.  "And so are you, 
Mulder."

It was true, God knew, though with the transfusions he'd had in the last 
eight years, he still got tested every six months to be sure.  Thankfully, 
Harcourt had been more interested in raping his mind than his body--and 
shivered as he finally allowed his gut to accept that he'd been raped just 
the same.  

Sinking down, he pulled her closer, her warmth comforting.  He'd been able 
to face it intellectually, been able to make statements, answer questions, 
even talk to Ferrante about it.  But maybe he couldn't let himself really 
know it until he knew he was still all right, he thought and kissed a spot 
near Morgan's eyebrow, grateful all over again.  "Fox."  He tried to keep his 
tone light.  "I'm still sorry.  I'm usually not that irresponsible."

She sat up, tugging the sheet around her.  "Maybe we've both been under 
too much stress. I didn't think of it, either, Mulder."

He smiled faintly.  Of its own accord, his hand reached out, tracing the line 
of her spine and making her shiver.  "Fox," he repeated.

"Make up your mind."  Her voice was tart; she shifted and escaped him; 
the light flared, blinding him.  Shielding his eyes, he saw she'd wrapped 
the sheet around her and was standing by the bed.  

"No fair," he complained, "I didn't get to see you naked."

She laughed softly, but he thought he saw her putting the distance 
between them again.  Well, he could understand that, so long as it only 
went so far.  She couldn't exactly pretend that what had just happened 
hadn't, could she?  Would she?

"You did quite a lot more," she told him lightly and turned toward the 
bathroom, closing the door partway behind her as she went in.

For no reason he could think of, he found himself frowning.  Men were 
always being blamed for this sort of thing, he thought crossly, fuck and 
then get up and leave.  Sentimentality would have rankled, but he would 
have like to have held her for just a while longer, just two humans sharing 
warmth against the chill of the night.

Rolling out of bed, he retrieved his shorts and shirt and started for his 
room; some perverse impulse turned him around and he pushed the 
bathroom door open with his fingers.

Morgan looked up from testing the water, her expression startled and a 
little wary.

"Fox," he told her irritably.  "It's only one syllable, I know you can do it."

Her mouth quirked.  "Fox," she repeated and one corner of her mouth 
lifted.  "Is that better?"

"Yeah."  He raked a hand through his hair, wishing he could explain what 
he couldn't put into words for himself.  "Morgan, do I need to apologize?  I 
have the feeling your regrets are about me."

She was silent for a moment, her eyes resting on him.  "I don't usually 
have sex with people who don't like me," she told him mildly.  "I'm just a 
little off balance with that, that's all.  It isn't really about you, it's about
me.

He stared at her.  "I don't usually have sex with people who think I don't 
like them," he snapped and moved toward her, dropping his clothes to put 
a hand on each of her shoulders.  "Listen, it's true they did write on my 
kindergarten report, 'Fox has trouble making new friends', but I certainly 
consider you a friend."

She stared at him for a long moment, then blushed.  "Um.  Well, there, 
you see, even a witch has bad days."

That admission seemed to call for something, so he gave her a brief, hard 
hug and kissed her forehead before picking his clothes up again.  "I'll see 
you at breakfast."  Smiling again, he went out, feeling immeasurably 
relieved.

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

Scully tapped on Mulder's door in the morning; he opened it and stepped 
out, his expression guarded as he closed it behind him.

"Morning, Scully."  His tone was cautious.

"Good morning," she told him, feeling equally guarded.  The impulse to 
apologize to him was strong, but she quelled it, recognizing it as 
originating in that part of her that still wanted to make nice, that good little

girl who had attended parochial school.  He had deserved what she had 
said to him, every word.

He grinned at her ruefully as if sensing this.  "Before you bark at me again, 
Scully, I've already talked to Morgan and apologized."

"Until next time."  She shook her head and sighed.  "One of these times, 
she's going to punch out your lights, Mulder, and *I'm* going to applaud."

A shadow of guilt moved like a ghost behind his eyes.  "No, it won't 
happen again, Scully, we've worked things out.  But if it does, just shoot 
me.  Kicking me obviously has no effect beyond leaving my shins black 
and blue."

"Don't tempt me."  But she let it rest there.  "Gene Kelsey called me last 
night, he wants to meet with us this morning."

Mulder looked at her, that mind of his moving faster than light.  "Another 
serial," he guessed, looking glum.  "That girl."

She sighed.  "He wouldn't say, but I'd guess something like that.  He 
sounded disturbed."

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

Breakfast was uneventful from Scully's point of view.  No, that wasn't quite 
true--it was unexpectedly pleasant, with Morgan and Mulder having an 
animated and astoundingly cheerful discussion about UFO abductees and 
mythology.

"Of all the cases," Morgan gestured with her toast, "I'd guess that maybe 
up to 3 or 4 percent are genuine contacts with--with something.  Although 
that's a generous estimate."  

Mulder's eyes widened, startled; he glanced at Scully, amused.  "Then you 
don't deny the existence of extra-terrestrials."

"That would be astoundingly arrogant of me," Morgan told him gravely.  
"And I believe that perhaps another forty percent of alleged abductees have 
had some genuinely inexplicable experience.  Maybe something that 
would be termed paranormal that they interpret in terms of the current 
mythology.  Although I suppose it could simply be that some government 
shop is experimenting with some kind of advanced technology based on 
what they discovered at Roswell."

Scully felt her jaw drop; embarrassed, she picked up her coffee cup and 
took a sip, hoping to cover her astonishment.

Mulder leaned forward, his eyes alight.  "So, you believe there was 
something at Roswell."

"Well, of course, the existence of the MJ files should prove that something 
was discovered somewhere.  I personally doubt Roswell, but..."  Morgan 
shrugged.  "Not that many people have seen the MJ files, of course."

Scully stared at her partner for a moment before looking back at Morgan.  
"Have you?"

"No, of course not.  But I used to know someone who had."  Her eyes 
were sad for a moment.  "He got shot in the head, gangland style."

The Thinker.  Scully swallowed hard and turned back to her coffee.

"Someone trustworthy?" Mulder asked, his tension too evident in his face.

"Well," Morgan gave him a narrow look.  "I wouldn't have co-signed a loan 
for him, but I believed him, yeah.  Anyway, whatever they've been through, 
that forty percent has experienced something traumatic, and they've 
generated screen memories about it."

Mulder was pale, Scully noted, and wondered if she was.  "Why is it that 
they remember the same thing, then?"

"Mythology again.  Since radio and television have been a part of our lives, 
information is transmitted incredibly quickly.  In the pre-industrial era, it 
would have been some memory of having been kidnapped by the Sidhe.  
Which would at least have the virtue of being interesting and less traumatic 
than memories of having aliens put transmitters in your nasal cavities, or 
do proctological or gynecological exams.  I, for one, would much rather 
have the Sidhe."

Mulder smiled faintly at Scully over the top of his coffee cup.  "And you 
thought I was strange."

"Talking about little green men, Spooky?"  Donovan's voice was too hearty; 
he pulled out the chair beside Scully and sat down.

Mulder's gaze went hooded.  "Grey, actually." His tone was mild and 
Scully almost smiled reflexively, remembering the way he'd baited Colton 
straightfaced.

But Morgan's mouth tightened, unamused.  "Actually, there are a number 
of distinct types of alleged alien contacts."  Her tone was absolutely 
uninflected, she might have been giving a lecture in Aliens 101.  Scully had 
to fight not to smile again.  "The greys are only one of those types 
identified."

Donovan's expression was amused.  "Yeah, I read your book, Dr. Grayson.  
So you really think there's a government conspiracy going on with regard 
to little grey men?"

"I think it's a possibility."  Morgan took a sip of coffee, avoiding looking at 
him, turned her head to gaze blandly at Scully.  This time Scully did smile, 
bit it back to keep from exacerbating the situation.

Donovan snorted.  "You don't think we'd know about it if there was?"  He 
gestured to the table at large.  "We're all government agents."

"No, I don't."  Morgan was suddenly, poisonously sweet.  "There is that old 
need-to-know policy.  And I doubt that whoever might be running such a 
conspiracy would deem that you needed to know."

For some reason, Donovan found this obscurely funny; the hackles on the 
back of Scully's neck rose slightly at his expression.  

Mulder gave Donovan one of his own hair-raisingly serene looks, the one 
which meant he was ready to go for the jugular and tear it out.  Which was 
fascinating, in a way, since he'd gone for Morgan's the night before.

Setting her cup down with a bang, Scully distracted him from that and 
caught his eye.  "Sorry we can't stay, Donovan, we need to meet with 
Kelsey."

"Yeah, we need to get going."  Mulder rose from the table, holding the bill.  
"I'd like you to get those logs this morning, Donovan.  While you're there, 
see if you can pick up anything useful on Wilson's background."

Donovan's eyes flicked from Mulder to Morgan and back again before he 
nodded grudgingly.  "You think he's good for the girl?"

"Maybe.  And the situation may have heated up.  It looks like this is one of 
a series."

"Jesus Christ," Donovan shook his head, "Is this the season or what?"

"What, I'd guess."  Morgan's voice was faint; she'd gone a little pale.

Scully nodded, wanting only to get away from Donovan and consider what 
she had seen before the apparent peace exploded again.

In the car, Mulder turned to look at Morgan before pulling out into traffic.  "I

was wrong, he's not okay, he's a jerk."

Amused in spite of herself, Scully turned in her seat to see Morgan smiling 
faintly.  "What made you decide that?" she asked him.

He turned smoothly into an empty spot in the flow of cars, his expression 
bemused.  "He sat down at that table with the direct intention of baiting 
both of us."  He gave her a lopsided smile. "Besides, whenever he talks to 
you or Morgan, he looks at your breasts."

Morgan laughed.  "Oh, thanks for sharing.  I hadn't even noticed *that*."

"I had."  Scully slanted Mulder a look, affection and annoyance in equal 
parts.  "That makes him a jerk?"

"Hey, Scully, a couple of times might be admiration or curiosity."  He 
offered her a crooked grin.  "More than that is just plain rude."

Morgan was snickering in the back seat.  "Maybe Donovan's got a nervous 
tic, can't look women in the eye."

"Well, they used to call him the Stallion, and not just because of his--uh--
endowments."  Mulder was clearly embarrassed.  "They used to make 
bets on his ability to score."

"They?"  Scully arched an eyebrow.

He coughed, a little flushed.  "Some of his buddies.  Seems he never met 
a woman he couldn't convince."

"Or maybe coerce."  Scully was tart.

"Maybe.  But I never heard anything like that about him.  I thought he was 
just lucky."  He blushed more deeply when he looked at her.  "Okay, 
maybe I was a little envious."

Scully smirked at him.  "We like you better than Donovan, Mulder.  Count 
your blessings."

He grinned crookedly.  "That doesn't mean, by the way, that I consider him 
the Architect of all Evil, by the way, it just means I've come to the 
conclusion that he's a jerk."

Scully was silent for a moment, considering Donovan's reaction to 
Morgan's remark about need-to-know.  "Oh, not the Architect," she told 
him drily.  "Just another workman."

"Or subcontractor."  Morgan's voice was soft and they were silent for the 
rest of the drive.

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

"Same ligature marks, same fibers in the marks, use of a condom 
indicated."  Scully set the reports down and took off her glasses.  "It's 
certainly suggestive, Gene."

Kelsey stood at the head of their briefing table, his normally pleasant face 
unhappy.  "Hell of it is, guy was convicted on the second one, at 
Shrewsbury, she was his girlfriend.  He was drunk out of his mind, couldn't 
prove where he was, she'd gotten mad at him and left, saying she was 
going to catch a ride back to Mama."

Morgan sighed.  "Hitchhiking.  Eighteen months ago, where was Chad 
Wilson?  Do we have that yet?"

"I checked.  Called Shrewbury, asked about him."  Kelsey sighed heavily.  
"He was on the Shrewsbury force, just moved east a few months ago to be 
closer to his wife's parents.  Just got married about six months ago."  He 
lifted his eyes to meet Morgan's, shutting Scully out, shutting Mulder out.  
"He's faxing me the Shrewsbury logs.  And when we get the ones from 
Kensington, we might have a chance to get a warrant."

Morgan nodded silently.  Kelsey kept looking at her, as if waiting, Scully 
noticed.  When nothing was forthcoming, he spoke again.  "You think he's 
connected with the other ones?"

Morgan frowned, her gaze unfocused.  "Not in any meaningful way," she 
said huskily.  "But maybe background.  I don't know.  If we look hard 
enough at Wilson's background, maybe...."  Her voice trailed off.

"It's going to be hard to get him for the Shrewsbury case." Mulder spoke 
up, making Morgan jump.  "The DA's not going to want to admit they sent 
the wrong guy to prison."

"We'll deal with that," Kelsey's expression became stony.  "Kid was no 
angel, but if he was innocent--we'll deal with it."  He turned his eyes on 
Mulder.  "I hate a bad cop."

Mulder nodded.  "We'll give you whatever you need from us."  His gaze 
reflected rueful awareness of jurisdictional squabbles.  "But we need to 
concentrate on this one.  If Todd Greene is still alive."

"He's alive."  Morgan knuckled her eyes like a child.

Scully found she didn't want to know where Morgan found the surety in her 
voice.

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

The tournament in Shrewsbury started at 6:00 pm and was scheduled to 
run all weekend.  Dressed casually, they nonetheless attracted a little 
attention from the other players, in part because they were clearly older, in 
part because, Mulder suspected, he had come in with two very attractive 
women.

Some of the glances were frankly envious.

The tournament coordinators were not happy to have the FBI there, but it 
appeared to be a case of not wanting to believe that one of their players 
could be a killer.  And he couldn't blame them for that.

Three decks of cards and each of them took a separate table.  The game 
was frankly dull as hell, to Mulder's way of thinking, as dull as bridge, 
which at least had the virtue of partners.  At the first break he took, he 
meandered across the room to stand behind Scully, watching as she 
slam-dunked her opponents and raked in the cards.  

Grinning, he leaned down.  "Remind me not to play poker with you, 
Scully."

She flicked him a faint grin up.  "Anything interesting?"

"Boredom's going to kill me," he murmured, and let his eyes move around 
the room.  Morgan had also taken a break and was leaning against the 
wall, sipping at a soft drink, her gaze distant, her expression 
unapproachable.  "Let me go check with Glinda."

Scully gave him a prim look.  "I thought you were past that."

With another grin, he nodded, "Just having some fun, Scully, just having 
fun."

She snorted and went back to playing.

Morgan's expression warmed somewhat when he approached her.  "He's 
not here."

Mulder nodded, turned to lean beside her, eyes traveling over the tables.  
"When we ran the list, we only came up with a couple of matches.  And 
they seem clean enough.  Looks like a lost cause, to me.  Unless he 
shows up later this weekend."

"He still has to sign in."  Morgan's teeth closed over her lower lip, worried 
at it.  "I've already asked them to fax us latecomers."

That made him grin again.  "That explains why they gave me that long 
suffering look when I asked them.  Too polite to tell me I was late on the 
draw."

She flashed him a brief grin.  "I guess that makes me a pain in the ass 
again."

"Nah, just thinking ahead of me.  It's bad for my ego, but I'll get over it."  
He folded his arms, feeling--feeling peacable.  

Her expression shifted again, mercurial, back to gloom.  "We're running 
out of time."

There didn't seem to be anything reassuring to say to that.  "I hope not," 
he finally told her, "But I--we're going to get him, Morgan, but I'm not sure 
we'll find the Greene kid."

Her jaw firmed, lifted.  "We have to."  Softly, almost inaudibly.

"I want to, but we have to be realistic.  We're gathering details, but we're a 
long way off from picking him up.  No face, no name."  He sighed, letting 
the depression of that settle over him.  "And then the girl--that one's 
different, clearly different."  Slanting a look down, he supposed that was 
another oblique apology over his temper at the crime scene.  She sighed, 
stared at the ice in her cup and carefully fished out a large chunk, popped 
it into her mouth and began to crunch it between her teeth.

He narrowed his eyes.  "Is that an oblique comment on my ability?"

That got him a quick look upward, dark brows rising like wings.  Then, soft 
laughter.  "You're a sick man, Agent Mulder."

"Just oversensitive."  He let his mouth curve again.  Her eyes looked better 
when she laughed like that.  

"Habit, not commentary."  Her eyes glinted at him briefly.  "Well, I've had 
as much fun as I'm going to.  Whatever I may think of this game, the 
people playing it seem--generally all right."

Her hesitation made the gooseflesh come out again.  "Generally?"

Morgan rolled her eyes.  "Well, there are a few I think need professional 
help, but then, the nature of this game isn't what I'd call healthy.  Other 
than that, I don't feel any serial killers in the bunch.  Or anyone seriously 
interested in invoking the Elder Gods, beyond having some strange fun on 
a weekend."

He nodded.  "Yeah, maybe they aren't on the fast track to success, and 
some of them lack social skills, but that doesn't make any of them our 
business."

"Yet," she murmured, unnerving him further, but she flashed him that 
wicked grin and moved back to the table to collect her cards.

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

"Well," Scully slid into the front passenger seat and turned her head to 
regard Morgan thoughtfully.  "That was interesting."

"You only think so because you were winning," Mulder told her and started 
the car, glancing up in the rearview mirror before backing out of his parking 
space.

Morgan's laughter drifted up from the back, soft and infinitely amused.  
"Not as interesting as I'd hoped.  But maybe you can see now, there's 
such a variety of people there, our guy could fit in marginally while playing.  
I mean, as long as he's capable of showering and doing his laundry, he 
could still be a long way from normal and manage to pass without too 
much notice.  Oh, somebody might think, that's one weird dude, but it 
wouldn't be--noticeable."

"That still doesn't mean he's incapable of holding down a job."  Mulder kept 
his tone mild, but his thoughts were ticking over, going over and over the 
list in the back of his mind.  "None of which is really helping us at this 
point, dammit, we need hard evidence.  For all we know, he's targeted 
another kid and is getting ready to snatch him."

"Not yet."  Morgan's tone was absent.  "Not until after the sacrifice.  He 
can't keep two on hand at the same time."

He glanced up again, saw the pale smudge of her face in the darkness of 
the back seat.  "The full moon is coming up again in a few days, Morgan."  
Keeping his voice deliberately gentle.  "And once that passes--he's 
probably targeted the kid already, is just waiting to take them."

That got no answer.  He hadn't expected one.

"So, we blew sixty bucks and came away with roughly four decks worth of 
cards," Scully finally sighed.  "Are we ahead any?"

"He wasn't there."  Morgan's voice was very faint.  "I guess not."

"Oh, I don't know, I got the names of some other tournament organizers to 
call," Mulder glanced up again at the mirror, gave Scully a quick look.  
"And every bit of information puts us ahead of this bastard."

"I hope so."  Morgan leaned forward briefly, took Scully's cards from 
between the two front seats and leaned back again, the sound of her 
shuffling almost eerie in the night.  "We need to be."

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

Sitting in an oversized t-shirt, Morgan sighed and went back over her 
notes, touched the stacks of cards sitting on the foot of the bed.  
Attending the game had not brought much.  No trace of the malevolence 
she'd gotten from Todd Greene's cards, no hint of anyone who might be 
acquainted with their killer.  Although, if she were right about him, he 
wouldn't have many acquaintances.  No friends.  No family, at least none 
close enough to interact with him.  

The cards still made her feel queasy, although she supposed it wasn't any 
worse than the vampire game.  She was just filtering the graphics through 
her knowledge of what the killer was doing with them.  Using them for 
inspiration.

And that, she decided, was that--shuffling all the cards together, she 
dumped them in a stray plastic bag and tossed them onto the floor, putting 
her notes on the table beside the bed before turning the lamp off and 
sliding under the bedclothes.

For all it was June, the air-conditioning didn't want to adjust to any setting 
less than chilly and frigid.  She was glad of the light blanket and the 
bedspread on the bed; pulling them up to her ears, she closed her eyes, 
hoping that sleep would come quickly.

Instead, there was a knock on her door.  No, on the connecting door--she 
grinned and turned the light back on.  "Come in."

Mulder's head poked around the door and he smiled faintly.  "Ah, sorry.  
Just checking on you."

"Thanks," she told him drily and drew her knees up under the blankets to 
rest her chin on them.  "I'm fine, not coming apart at the seams."

He winced at that, came in far enough to lean against the door jamb.  
"Hey, that was--I'm sorry about that, it was way out of line."

"But not completely untrue."  She eyed him thoughtfully and smiled again.  
"It's okay, I'm not completely blind to my own faults.   A friend of mine 
once told me, none too tactfully, that I was high strung, to say the least."

Mulder chuckled at that.  "Well, I've heard the same thing said about me, 
but I never believed it."

"You're not high strung, you're just intense."  Morgan leaned back, still 
smiling.  "I, on the other hand, am high strung, God help me.  And up until 
that point, I'd still been seeing myself as the calm, serene type."

He laughed outright.  "But you're okay tonight."

"Disappointed."  She grimaced, brought her arms up to rest on her knees.  
"I guess, despite all experience and common sense, I wanted us to find 
him at the game."  Pointing one hand dramatically, she intoned, "There's 
the fiend, Agent Mulder, arrest him."

That made him laugh again.  It struck her that he was feeling diffident, as 
diffident as she'd felt since--well, since they'd made love or had sex, 
whichever it was.  She was inclined to judge it as the latter, but there was 
something about his insistence that morning that made her feel she was 
selling him short.  That he really did see her as a friend.

"Any bad dreams," he told her seriously, "Just holler.  I have them myself, 
remember?"

Her mouth curved slightly, but it faded fast.   "Thanks."

An ironic shrug and a grin and he was gone.  Evidently not taking anything 
for granted.

"Mulder," she called, suddenly regretful, and climbed out of bed, reaching 
the foot before the door opened again.  His expression was--not quizzical, 
exactly, but a little tentative.  "Um," she began and felt incredibly silly.
"I, 
um, just wanted to say--"  What the hell did she want to say?

"You want some company?" he asked softly, cutting across her idiocy.

Her face felt warm.  "Yeah, I would."

Abruptly, he grinned, full of mischief.  "There's a great horror movie on 
tonight," he told her, "Grade Z at least."

That made her snicker.  "Worse than the Attack of the Killer Tomatoes?"

"Dunno, I managed to miss that one."  He came into the room, leaned 
forward suddenly and kissed her mouth gently, tentatively.

It was a way to be less alone on a night when the dreams would torment 
her again.  A way to keep from having them.  Leaning up on her toes, she 
kissed him back.

And it at least prevented him from turning on the Grade Z horror movie.

But Morgan was wrong, it didn't prevent the dreams.  Not entirely.

....the boy in the cellar is like a constant irritant.  He took him too early, 
the hunger for blood taunts him.  And that would anger his gods, that 
would be a cheat.  Not until the moon is round and full, wanton light spilling 
across the hills and highways and sleeping towns.

Not until it is time again to offer to the gods.

But he hears the muffled sobs and they drive him to distraction.  So he 
drives again, late in the night, savoring his invisibility.  Savoring his power.

And stops in a small town, filling the tank of his van and paying with cash.  
This is where he will take his next victim, a lanky boy of sixteen, death's 
head earring to show his toughness, his lack of fear.

He wonders if the boy will show fear when he understands his fate.  He'll 
wait this next time, it won't do to have him hungering prematurely, to risk 
spoiling everything he has worked for because of the desire to taste their 
blood.

Returning, he finds the boy asleep, curled on his side on the dirt floor, 
shivering even in sleep.  Hunkering down, he peers through the dimness, 
the only light that which filters down the stairs from the kitchen.

The boy hasn't eaten, but the water is gone.  He frowns at that, reaches 
out to touch hair gone lank and oily for lack of washing.  The boy stirs, 
moaning in his sleep, jerks awake suddenly and backs away, whimpering.

"Please," the voice is faint and hoarse, husky with--he hopes it isn't 
sickness and takes the water bottle upstairs to refill it.  

A fragment of memory drives him to fumble in the cupboard, finding a can 
of soup.  There is another water bottle; he heats the soup and fills the 
second bottle with it, carries both downstairs and refastens them to the 
kennel bars.

Then, still worried, he gets an old, moth-eaten and mildewed blanket and 
pushes it through the small kennel hatch.

Backed against the bars, the boy watches this, scrambles forward and 
wraps the blanket around himself.

"Eat," he tells him harshly and gestures at the second bottle.  "You'll get 
sick."

If that brings hope, so much the better.  The gods fear on the fear and 
despair of the sheep.  

"I wanna go home," the boy whispers, "Please, mister, let me go home.  I 
won't tell anyone."

Leaning forward, he peers through the bars again.  "You aren't ever going 
home," he whispers and the blood-hunger surges again, making him 
clench his fingers on the narrow bars.  "You belong to the gods."

"It's just a game!"  The boy is weeping again.  "It's just a game, mister, oh, 
please, let me go, I won't tell anyone."

The weeping makes him dizzy.  Jerking his hands away, he all but runs up 
the stairs, wanting so badly that he can barely make it to the top.  Slams 
the door and presses the latch down--presses it down so hard that he 
hurts himself, cuts his hand.

And watches the blood drip on the scarred linoleum, mesmerized, hearing 
the faint sounds from below, the sounds of despair.  The sounds of 
hopelessness.  The faint dripping sound as droplets hit the linoleum, 
reminding him of how it would be, if he can only contain his need.

If he can only wait on his gods....

Mulder wasn't sure what woke him, the room was quiet and Morgan was 
stirring restlessly, but there was no sound, no sleeping protest or--his 
muscles went taut as Morgan came awake, gasping for breath and 
drenched in sweat.  He reached out, but she jerked away from his touch 
and skittered across the bed to thump onto the floor with a painful sound.

"Jesus," he flicked the light on and stretched across the bed, saw her 
staring at her palm.  Staring at the blood on it.

He stared, too, found himself frozen and completely unable to process 
what was happening for the space of several breaths.

Finally, getting out of bed to kneel beside her, he found she was slick with 
sweat, slick with blood.  Tipping her face up, he found her expression one 
of frozen terror and cursed inwardly before uncoiling. 

A washcloth served to staunch the blood flow, the cut didn't look deep but 
he was going to have to have someone take a look at it.  And that 
someone was probably going to be his partner.

Still naked, shivering convulsively, Morgan allowed him to ease her up, to 
guide her toward the bathroom and the shower.  Her skin was chilled, 
despite the sweat--corpse chill, he found himself thinking, and shuddered 
at that.  Got into the shower with her and stood, holding her upright under 
the hot spray.

The shivering subsided then, but she put her face against his chest, he 
could feel hot wetness that had nothing to do with the hot water that 
streamed down their skin.  But he couldn't hear sobs, didn't feel them, just 
the faint sting of salt on some of the new skin there.  

By the time he got her out, she was calm again.  No, not quite calm, just 
eerily resigned.  She put her shirt back on without protest and sank back 
into bed with a blank, distant expression.

Pulling on his own clothes, he went out into the hall, knocked on Scully's 
door hard enough to rouse her to irritable wakefulness.

"What the hell is wrong?" she asked, raking a hand through sleep 
disordered hair.

He licked his lips, his time sense oddly dislocated from the sudden shock 
of waking, from the strangeness in the night.  "Morgan, she's bleeding, 
Scully, she's cut her hand."

Scully's expression changed; when she followed him out, she'd pulled 
jeans on under her shirt and was carrying what he called her Porta-Doctor 
kit.  Morgan still sat where he'd left her, dutifully holding the washcloth in 
place.

"What happened?" Scully demanded.

"I don't know," Morgan told her softly, shakily.  "I woke up and my hand 
was bleeding."  Her eyes came up to meet his briefly and darted away, as 
if she were ashamed.

Scully's eyes came up, too, sharp and seeing too much.  "Mulder?"

"As far as I can tell, that's exactly what happened."  He swallowed hard.  
"She was asleep, she woke up suddenly, and her hand was bleeding."

Scully carefully took the washcloth away, sighed.  "Shit, Morgan, how--
never mind."  Opening the kit, she began by disinfecting the cut, muttered 
over it and sighed.  "She needs sutures, Mulder.  And I don't have any with 
me this time.  Time for an ER."

"That's about thirty miles away," Morgan protested, her voice still soft.  
"Can't you just butterfly it?"

Scully's mouth quirked.  "No, I wouldn't recommend it.  It's deeper than 
you think, Morgan, although it's not long.  It's going to heal better with a 
couple of stitches.  Sorry, I carry them sometimes, but...."  Her voice 
trailed off and she shrugged.

"I'll get my shoes," Mulder muttered and slipped back into his room, 
allowing himself a moment to have the shakes before pulling on running 
shoes over bare feet.  Snatching the keys and his wallet, he came back in 
to see Scully watching Morgan pull on a pair of shorts under the nightshirt.

"Give me a minute, I'll go with you."  Scully gave him a pointed look and 
padded back out, returning in a few moments fully dressed and looking 
remarkably pulled together.

"I feel so stupid," Morgan murmured and peered around, as if seeking 
something.

Scully was staring at the floor.  "She bled quite a bit," she said softly and 
pointed at the rug near the bed.  

Mulder looked, took a second look and felt chilled again.  "I want samples 
of that."  The words escaped him without conscious volition.  "I want to 
know if it's all hers."

"Who else's would it be?"  Scully gave him another sharp look, her mouth 
flattening out into a thin line.  "Mulder?"

"I don't know."  He found he wasn't sure he wanted to know.  But it 
seemed important.  "Maybe the killer's.  She says she hunts monsters."

Morgan laughed softly, but the sound was irrational.  " 'I could a tale unfold 
whose lightest word would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood--' "

Jesus, Hamlet.  He looked at Scully, found Morgan's shoes and coaxed 
her to sit down and put them on.  

The gauze Scully had put on the wound was reddening, Scully took a 
stack of square guaze pads and folded Morgan's fingers and thumb over it, 
then lifted her gently by one arm.

Morgan gave them a solemn look.  " 'Make thy two eyes, like stars, start 
from their spheres.' "

"Hamlet's father," Scully said drily, and slanted him an almost droll look.  
"The benefits of a good education, Mulder--get her other arm, I'm not sure 
she's tracking."

No more was he, and he put an arm around Morgan's shoulders to lead her 
out.

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

"I'm fine," Morgan repeated and sighed, letting Mulder help her down off the 
examining table.  "It's just--God, I don't know.  Ask Dana, she saw it 
happen when we were looking for you."

Scully heard that and looked away from her conversation with the 
emergency room physician, who looked bored and unimpressed.  She 
eyed Morgan, her expression uneasily, nodded shortly at the doctor and 
came over to stand beside Mulder.  "You're fine, I convinced him it wasn't a 
rusty can, and told him that you claimed to have had a tetanus shot during 
the last two years."

"Stepped on a rusty nail," Morgan told her seriously, "Geoff insisted."

"Good for Geoff."  Scully glanced at Mulder.  "Alarums and excursions, as 
my gran used to say--ready to get some sleep for what's left of the night?"

"I'm mortally embarrassed, I don't think I'll be sleeping anymore for the rest 
of the time I'm here."  Morgan rolled her eyes.

Scully frowned.  "You ought to be, quoting Hamlet in the middle of the 
night is entirely too melodramatic."

"The effects of a bookish girlhood," Morgan told her and grinned.  "Hamlet?  
I guess I was pretty out of it, blame it on my melodramatic subconscious."

"Morgan," Mulder leaned forward and touched her cheek gently.  "What 
were you dreaming?"

Her gaze flicked from him to Scully.  "I don't remember, honestly.  
Something about a cellar door and a steel latch, that's all I can recall.  Can 
we go now?"

"Yeah," Scully sighed.  "With any luck, I can catch a few more hours of 
sleep."

Clearly relieved, Morgan nodded and followed Scully.

Following more slowly, Mulder found he was unconvinced, but let it rest.   
At least for the moment.  He'd called Gene Kelsey to get someone over to 
the hotel to check the blood on the rug, that was all he could do.  If the 
blood in the rug wasn't Morgan's, he'd press her then.

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

Morgan stirred her coffee absently and watched as the program on her 
laptop cross-referenced duplicate names on the latest lists she'd scanned 
in.  "Bingo," she told it softly, when the results of the query displayed, only 
twelve names left.  "Not so much room to hide."

The conference room door opened and Mulder came in, his expression--not 
hostile, but certainly unnerving.

"I've got something," she told him, "At least I hope it's something."

He nodded absently.  "Narrowing it down?  Good.  Morgan, what is your 
blood type?"

She blinked, cautiously extended her othersense, only to find Mulder was 
firmly walled off.  "Um, O positive, why, do you need a transfusion?"

"Nope."  He gave her a scant smile and pulled out the chair next to her, 
turning it to sit backwards, resting his folded arms on the back of it.  "The 
blood in the rug was A negative, Morgan."

She blinked again, felt her stomach take a queasy roll that did nothing for 
her composure.  "Oh."  It made a certain demented sense.  Things kept 
progressing, kept changing, and since Harcourt's death had destroyed all 
her carefully designed mental shields, the things that kept happening were 
more and more frightening.

His expression changed, softened. "Hey, don't look like that, it's--it's just 
strange."

Numb to the lips, she nodded, looked back at the names on the screen.  
"It's his blood," she whispered, "It has to be."  And shuddered suddenly, 
putting her hands over her mouth to hold in a scream.  Oh, God, she didn't 
want this anymore, she'd never wanted it, and she didn't want to be the 
Hunter, all bravado aside, all pure motives trashed--she wanted to be 
normal, to raise her child, to enjoy being held and made love to by 
someone she counted a friend, never mind she was older and supposedly 
wiser.

He reached out, a warm hand cupped the side of her head.  "Come on, 
stay with me, here."  When she looked, his eyes were concerned, 
genuinely, no sign of the pleasure he'd confessed to feeling when she was 
upset.  That only undid her further.  Unable to focus through blurred vision, 
she closed her eyes, heard the chair scrape and felt his arms go around 
her.  "Hey, take it easy.  If it is our guy's, we've got something else to go 
on, Morgan.  That's a good thing, don't you think?"

Under the light tone, she could feel his concern, a kind of somber weight 
that made her shiver again.  "I'm fine," she told him roughly, taking her 
hands away from her mouth.  "Really, I'm fine.  Just--just surprised, that's 
all.  I wasn't expecting that.  I didn't know--"  She hadn't known he'd had 
samples taken.  Couldn't decide whether to take it as doubt or simple 
curiosity or even as belief in her, in her freakish abilities.

"You want some fresh coffee?"  His voice was soft, very near her ear.

"I'd love some fresh coffee," she said shakily and managed to smile at him 
as he rose.  "But a nice shot of tequila would be even more welcome."

His mouth curved briefly.  "No drinking on the job, Dr. Grayson.  If I can't, 
you certainly can't."  Touching her cheek again, he turned toward the door, 
but Scully came in, looking entirely pleased.

"Tim Dillon, one of the New Devon tournament organizers, just got back 
into town and called, Mulder."  Her gaze flicked to Morgan, rested there for 
a moment.  "He says he can come down or we can go there."

Morgan rose swiftly.  "Let's go there.  I'm tired of this damned room."  She 
flicked Mulder a quick smile.  "I can have fresh coffee later."

After arriving, and having been shown downstairs to the basement 
apartment, Mulder was hard pressed not to laugh.  

Tim Dillon fit Morgan's wicked characterization of the average gamer to an 
alarming degree: living in his parents' basement, working at the local card 
and comic shop, spending vast quanitities of his money and time on 
gaming.  He was nearly as tall and lanky as Mulder, with short dark hair 
that looked as if he'd gone after it with a pair of dull shears or a weed 
whacker; he peered owlishly at them through thick lenses, hunching his 
shoulders in discomfort or shyness.

Despite all that, he clearly made a positive impression on Scully and 
Morgan, offering them soft drinks and hastily clearing off space on his 
sagging sofa.

Mulder declined politely, repressing the urge to grin, and took a seat on a 
ramshackle wooden chair.

"Sure, I know Todd," Tim told him earnestly, perching on an arm chair 
already occupied by boxes of cards.  "He's a friend of my cousin Ronny's.  
You trying to find him?"

Mulder nodded.  "Yes, and we think that his abductor targeted him through 
the tournament.  We already got the list from your boss, but I wanted to 
see if you remembered any of the regular gamers, if you could give us any 
descriptions, anything you remember."

"Sure, I'll try."  Tim blinked thoughtfully as Mulder handed him a printout.  
"Oh, wow, you've got a lot of names."  He peered at the list and frowned.  
"Yeah, a lot of these are just once in a while players.  But this guy, I know, 
he lives here in New Devon.  Vince Cerro.  He's okay."  A sudden quick 
look at Mulder, worried.  "Isn't he?"

"We've already checked Mr. Cerro," Mulder assured him.  "Just look at the 
checked names, those are the ones we need more information about."

Which wasn't strictly true.  Some of them had already been investigated, 
but there were doubts about them.  Cerro, however, was clean.

"Okay, this guy, this J. Cronin, he was kind of weird, ya know.  Don't know 
his whole name, nobody really seemed to know him and he signed up with 
just his first initial.  Really into the game, really focused on the role.
Didn't 
talk much, just sat there, kind of staring off into space.  But he could play, 
man, he had the strategy."  He looked at Mulder.  "I don't know him too 
well, I've just seen him a lot at the tournaments I've worked."

"Did you happen to see what kind of vehicle he had?"

"No."  Tim frowned.  "No, wait a minute, somebody said something weird 
about that.  He had a van outside, left the lights on, somebody came in 
and reported it."  He looked at Mulder again.  "The guy who told me said 
the van smelled really rank, like something had died in it."

"What color was it?  Did he tell you?"  Mulder leaned forward, taut.

Tim sighed.  "Yeah, let me think.  Yeah, it was one of those Ford utility 
vans, kind of butt ugly baby shit green."  He blushed suddenly, 
remembering his audience.  "Sorry--"

Chuckling, Mulder raised his hand.  "Great, you're doing great.  Okay, let's 
check the rest."  He glanced at Morgan, busily taking notes, and Scully, 
who arched an eyebrow in approval.

Tim looked back at the list.  "Okay, Terry Andrews, he's from Kensington, 
too, he's works at the garage there."

Leaning back, Mulder took his own notes, but felt a growing excitement 
that Tim had just identified the murderer.  J. Cronin, he thought and smiled 
ferally, startling Tim for a moment.  We're coming after you, you sick 
bastard.  We've got you now.

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

Unhappily, that appeared to be overly optimistic.   J. Cronin's car was 
registered, but his driver's license address was two years old, and had not 
been updated.  

The paper trail ran out in Derby, farther north.

The disappointment they all felt at that led to an increase in tension as that 
afternoon.  

On Morgan's part, that displayed as an increased tendency to avoid 
Donovan and Stoddard, to dig back into the state databases using tools 
that neither Scully nor Mulder wanted to examine too closely.

On Mulder's part, that displayed as an increased focus on the remaining 
names, with a heavy reliance on sunflower seeds.

Scully found herself relieved that they weren't going to argue again, and 
found her own temper rising, late in the afternoon when they did.

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

"This isn't getting us anywhere."  Morgan tossed a sunflower seed hull in 
the trash and sighed in frustration.

Mulder regarded her with amusement; sometime in the last hour, she had 
started stealing his seeds and eating them.  

Fascinated, he had watched her absently take one, crack it between her 
front teeth, and carefully fish the seed out of the hull before tossing it to
the 
wastebasket.  All the while, apparently unconscious that she was doing it.  
He cleared his throat.  "What do you suggest we do?"

"Go out to Derby."  She suddenly stared at the sunflower seed she'd just 
taken.  "Oh, I'm sorry, that was rude."

"Help yourself," he grinned, leaning back in his chair and stretching 
muscles gone stiff from sitting hunched over.  "You've been eating them for 
about an hour."

She flushed faintly, offered him an apologetic smile.  "Um.  Sorry.  
Anyway, I think I might be able to pick up the trail in Derby."  Her eyes 
moved to Stoddard, presently talking on the phone with another comic 
shop.  "But I want to go alone."

Nodding agreement, he came upright at that last.  "No way, Morgan.  Are 
you nuts?  What if you connect with him?"

Her eyes moved to Stoddard again.  "And I don't want them to know I'm 
going," she added shiftily, as if he hadn't spoken.

"You aren't going at all."  Okay, no guilt--he kept his temper under control 
with difficulty.  He'd sworn to her it wouldn't happen again, he was damned 
well going to keep his promise.  "Look, Morgan, I know you don't like him, 
I'm not particularly fond of him either.  You've got to admit, he's one step 
above Donovan, at least."

"No, I don't."  Her chin came up stubbornly.  "I more than don't like him, 
Mulder, he gives me the chills." 

That was so illogical that even *he* couldn't figure it.  "Morgan, okay, you 
don't like him, I don't like him much, Scully doesn't like him, I'm used to 
guys like him.  He's no threat to you."

She looked away.  "You don't know that," she whispered.