Harcourt stood in the darkness of an alley, focusing his power, testing 
it. 

Oh, he'd fed richly last night, taking two victims, and would feed again 
before taking Mulder again.  He needed strength; his gods had 
punished him, stripping him of what it had taken decades to gain, a loss 
laid at Mulder's door, like the violation of his house, the discovery and 
destruction of his hidden home.

Rage made his features twist in the darkness--but it was easy, in the 
city, to find prey.  As they had in his day, boys lived on the street, some 
of them selling themselves for survival.  It was easy to find  what he 
sought--youth and strength and all those lovely, lovely fears and  
sorrows. 
 
But Mulder he wanted still, lust and rage burning hotter than anything 
he'd ever known before.

Casting his senses outward, he sought the essence of  Mulder's soul, 
using the link forged as he'd fed on his victim's pain and fear.  And 
memories, gods, the richness of those memories made his mouth water 
still--stretching his mind out over the city, he frowned, not finding what 
he sought.  

Closing his eyes, he reached across the link, found it thin and 
attenuated, almost fading--they'd taken him away! 
 
Furious, he lifted his head and howled like an animal, the sound 
echoing off the walls that stood to each side of him, shattering glass 
and making brick and concrete groan.  When the red fury receded, he 
calmed himself--this was not insurmountable.  Inconvenient, but not 
insurmountable, he could still reach Mulder--but it would take time.

And the presence of his gods, the sullen heat in his mind, warned him 
that his time was limited. 
 
****************************************************************************** 
 
Washington DC:  March 20  7:40 pm 
 
Mulder woke as they began to move the stretcher out, woke with a start 
and a low cry.  

Seeing his eyes, Scully made them stop.  "It's okay."  Leaning over the 
stretcher, she touched his face, bringing it toward her.  "We're here.  
Dr. Grayson is right outside, Mulder."   
 
She saw his throat move as he swallowed, saw his eyes flick around, 
searching, searching--and stop when he heard Morgan's voice--saw 
Morgan come toward them, walking with a man who wore casual 
clothes under the white jacket. 
 
"Hello," the man greeted her, shaking her hand as Morgan made the 
introductions.  Dr. Geoffrey Montrose, according to his name tag--
Morgan had called him Geoff.  "I understand that your partner doesn't 
have a primary physician, Morgan asked me to have a look in."  He 
leaned over the  stretcher, his expression serious.  "And you, of course, 
must be my patient, let's get you to your room."  

His accent was very faintly British--what Mulder would have called a 
Beeb accent, BBC.  Or else simply eroded by many years in the United 
States. 
 
Mulder's eyes were narrowed.  "I don't need a primary physician," he 
rasped, "My partner's a doctor." 
 
"Really?"  Geoff Montrose turned toward her.  "Convenient, I would 
think."  He lifted an eyebrow and motioned to the attendants.  "We have 
a gurney and a orderly over here--there are guards already at his door, 
waiting for him." 
 
Scully nodded at the ambulance attendants.  "Let's go."
 
Mulder was fine until they got into the elevator; she could hear him 
breathing too rapidly, too shallowly and laid her hand on his arm, above 
the elbow.  

Montrose looked at him critically and glanced at Morgan narrowly; she 
shrugged fractionally.  

Wondering at that, Scully eyed them both before turning her attention to 
her partner.  "Mulder, you need to slow your breathing down," she 
murmured.  "I know it's hard, but you have to." 
 
He blinked at her.  "'M trying, Scully," he breathed.  "It's--too close in 
here." 
 
"Nearly there," Montrose told him,  "Hang on just a bit, Fox." 
 
They kept calling him Fox, Scully thought distantly, watching him, and it 
was a measure of his condition that he didn't correct them; he was pale, 
paler than he had been, eyes moving around the elevator--she didn't 
understand if it was the elevator itself, or the people in it, but he was 
trying, God, how he was trying, taking in one breath, exhaling another, 
as if he'd had to teach himself how.  "He prefers to be called Mulder," 
she told them, looking down at him, but no one acknowledged her 
comment. 
 
The doors opened and the orderly pushed the gurney into the hall--she 
caught his look backward then, saw the fear underneath the grim 
refusal to give way to it.   "It's okay, he's not here." 
 
"No indeed." Morgan appeared suddenly on the other side.  "Whatever 
his abilities at projection, Fox, he can't, oh, hell, what's the word?  
Teleport. He can't teleport himself from Baltimore to Georgetown." 
 
He slanted her a look.  "What did he do in the house?" 
 
"I told you, I'm inclined to believe it was illusion, masking his escape."  
She gave Scully a wary look.  "Nothing more amazing than that." 
 
Mulder made a sound; she had to look at him to realize that it was a 
bark of laughter.  "Pretty fucking amazing illusion."  His voice cracked 
upward again. 
 
Montrose fell into step beside Scully.  " I've spoken to Dr. Sullivan in 
Baltimore," he murmured.  "He's very concerned, not merely about the 
burns, but about his general condition." 
 
"I appreciate that." she returned, feeling the slightest flare of anger.  
"And if your friend Morgan would stop feeding into his fears, I think his 
general condition would improve." 
 
Montrose arched one eyebrow.  "Ah, you're the skeptic, I see.  Well, it 
isn't always easy for me to accept either, Dr. Scully, but following 
Hamlet's statement, I'm willing to let that be.  My concern is the 
physical, thankfully, not the metaphysical.   Leave the other to Morgan--
you and I will attend to the rest." 
 
Her mouth quirked.  "Not even going to enter into the argument, I see." 
 
He smiled faintly and raked a hand through his hair; for the first time, 
she noticed that he was an attractive man with a pleasant smile.  "I'm 
afraid not.  I prefer arguments I can win."  A rueful shrug.  "Back to our 
concerns--I think a mild sedative is in order.  Has he had anything?" 
 
"He'll refuse it," she told him, feeling guilty.  "I, ah, ordered some Valium 
before we left.  By rights, he should be out like a light." 
 
"I don't think *that's* precisely necessary."  Montrose shook his head.  
"It may increase his anxiety, which is precisely what we want to 
prevent." 
 
The gurney turned toward the far wall, then angled through a doorway;  
the process of getting him into the bed was painful to watch--and 
undoubtedly painful to endure. 
 
Once there, he seemed to calm again, watching her with something like 
relief.  She only wished she shared it. 



 
The room was private, a nice, normal hospital room with an unusual 
atmosphere of peace and safety.  Flicking a look at Morgan, he 
wondered how much she had to do with that, found he didn't care--he 
could almost breathe again, out of the elevator, without having strangers 
too close to him. 

The monitor had gone by the wayside in the ambulance--that was 
another relief, those leads were simply too reminiscent of Harcourt's 
toys.  He settled back into the pillow with a sigh, fumbling with the bed's 
controls until Scully, taking pity on him, laid his hand in his lap and 
raised the back herself.
 
Regarding them all owlishly, he blinked once or twice.  "You don't have 
to stand around and watch me sleep, you know.  I've been managing it 
for years on my own." 
 
Scully snorted at that.  "Four or five hours a night is a nap, Mulder.  I've 
been thinking about it since I've known you, and I think your real 
problem is that you need a teddy bear." 
 
Skinner almost smiled.  "I've got to get you properly signed in."  He 
nodded at her and Morgan.  "I'm sure I'll see you all later. Mulder, 
behave yourself.  It's going to look very bad for the agency if Scully has 
to shoot you again." 
 
Caught utterly by surprise, he managed to give the AD the ghost of a 
feckless grin.  "But she always feels so guilty later, sir, it's almost worth 
it."  

God, if anyone had ever told him he'd be cracking jokes with Skinner, 
he'd have recommended them for evaluation.  Maybe he should 
recommend *himself* for evaluation, he thought, and the grin faded as 
the door closed. 
 
There was a nurse there, a bulky woman with a stern expression, he 
didn't remember her from any of his previous visits; she reached behind 
the bed.  Looking up, he saw another version of the same damned 
monitor and began to sweat.  It was insane to dread the monitor so, but 
it made him feel restrained again, brought back too many images of 
Harcourt.  "Scully, I don't need to be monitored, I'm fine."  
 
She and Montrose turned from their conversation, looking surprised.  
She came to lean against the side of the bed, patting his arm.  "Mulder, 
you have to, it's only for a little while.  Until they're sure you're really all

right." 
 
Peeling the back from the first patch, the nurse approached him, a 
professional smile on her face.  "You won't even notice it."   Her tone 
was patronizing, which was the last straw. 
 
Fear and anger combined in his gut, knotting it.  "Scully, I hate those 
things, I don't need 'em."  He fended the woman off with an upraised 
arm.  "C'mon.  They can come in and listen to my heart, they don't have 
to watch it, too." 
 
"Mulder."  Scully edged the nurse aside, gently took hold of his arm and 
eased it down.  "Mulder, I know you hate it, and I'm sorry.  But it's 
necessary.  It's for your own good." 
 
"Please, Scully."  He hated the begging tone in his voice; he hadn't even 
begged with Harcourt, not like this, though he'd screamed plenty.  
"Please, don't make me, God, Scully, it's too much like--"  It was hard to 
breathe suddenly, remembering the probes and clamps Harcourt had 
used.  His mouth wouldn't form the words, he couldn't say it, couldn't 
bring himself to put words to what had been done to him. 
 
Scully was a doctor, she'd seen what Harcourt had done; she went 
shockingly white, but her jaw came up in classic Scully stubbornness.  
"Mulder, I'm sorry."   
 
"Fox," Montrose was on the other side of the bed, his voice concerned.  
"She's quite right, it's only for a short time--we need to keep track of 
these things." 
 
"He prefers to be called Mulder," he heard Scully say, her tone short, 
but it didn't penetrate his misery.

Humiliated, blinded by tears of rage and frustration, he closed his eyes 
on all of them, lying quite still as the leads were attached to his skin.  In 
a distant, rational corner of his mind, he wondered if this was the 
aftermath of rape.  The need to survive had carried him through it, but 
now he felt shattered, violated all over again by the need to allow this. 
 
And the goddamned lying monitor spiked up the minute they got it set, 
showing his heart rate to be nearly 170.   
 
They all looked at it, their faces worried, and his feeling of being 
trapped, of being invaded grew, making his chest tighten down, making 
it hurt. 
 
"Do you need something for pain, sir?" the nurse asked; she spoke to 
Mulder, but her eyes were on the machine, never moving to Mulder.  

"Fuck off," he snarled, head pounding.  He could hear his own 
heartbeat in his ears, and it scared him and made him more furious.  
He'd be fine if they'd leave him alone.  "I don't need any goddamned 
thing except to be left the fuck alone!"  

Scully reached for him, and he jerked away from her, a little frantic.  
"Goddammit, get the hell away from me."  A sweet, hot earnest desire to 
smash something took hold of him and he nearly sobbed with the  effort 
required to control it.   
 
God, he was really losing it, this was as bad as ever it had been when 
he was in VCS, out of control and a few steps away from a padded cell.   
 
Scully's hand touched him delicately, tentatively and he jerked away, 
gasping for breath. 

"Fox," Morgan's voice was soft.  "You're hurting yourself--I understand, 
but this isn't the same thing."  
 
He longed to slap her.  He could hear Scully apologizing to the nurse on 
his behalf, which made him furious all over again.  But his rage cooled 
when he saw her eyes as she turned, too brilliant with tears.  Looking 
away from her, he fought for control, taking in a sobbing breath, then 
another.  What was wrong with him?  
 
"You're a psychologist,"  Morgan Grayson's voice was still soft.  "You 
know why you're feeling this way.  Trying to control it will only hurt you 
now." 
 
"Fox," Montrose began. 
 
Tears spilling down his face, he flung his arm out, sweeping the 
bedside table clear, knocking the phone off and slamming his hand 
against the wall.  "I can't! I just--I can't!"  His hand hurt dreadfully, 
sickeningly--still, the fucking monitor kept on lying. 
 
Scully's expression was appalled and a little frightened; Montrose went 
to the door and opened it, walking fast. 
 
"Why not?"  Morgan asked, and it all came to a breaking point inside 
him.  

Raging, he wept, slamming his hands on the rails of the bed until the 
world greyed out around him and the pain made him ill. 
 
Hospital jello, he thought, after losing the contents of his stomach into 
the basin Scully had hastily found, tasted no better on the way back up.  
God, he was out of control, fucking crazy--they should have put him 
away after Oklahoma.

Then, lying exhausted on his side, staring at the monitor and hating it, 
he willed his heart to slow down until it read 170 again, until it started 
slowing, slowing.....  "'M sorry, Scully," he whispered, mortally
ashamed. 
 
In spite of everything, she wiped his face with a damp, cool cloth, 
murmuring soothing nonsense, and gave him some water to rinse out 
his mouth.  "Mulder," she sighed, "you have my promise.  When it's 
okay to get rid of the damned thing, I'll give you your gun and you can 
blow it to hell." 
 
Looking in her eyes, he wondered if she meant it, they were so serious, 
and his throat tightened.  Briefly, she bent and pressed her cheek to his 
before leaning back.   He wanted to smile for her, but he was too hollow, 
shaking too hard.  Still, he tried.  "Aren't they a little expensive?  I don't 
think insurance is gonna cover it." 
 
"We'll write it off as therapy," she told him, one corner of her mouth 
twitching.  "The Benefits department is now deathly afraid of Skinner." 
 
"I can relate to that," he told her rustily, and took another mouthful of 
water, swallowing this one.  He hurt all over, but he was damned if he'd 
ask for any meds, not when he'd done it to himself.  Giving Morgan a 
shamefaced look, he tried to shrug.  "They didn't tell you I was crazy, 
did they?  Spooky Mulder, off the rails again." 
 
"Last time I looked, egregious use of the word 'fuck' was not considered 
proof of psychosis."  Her tone was dry.   
 
Scully laughed softly at that.  "Most of VCS would be locked up, not to 
mention the majority of police officers around the country.   I don't even 
want to *start* counting military types or truck drivers."   
 
He lay back.  He was so tired of hurting, so tired of the catheter, the 
monitor, the IV--it was all part and parcel of what Harcourt had done to 
him, never mind that his rational mind knew it was necessary.
 
Coming to the bed, Scully brushed his hair back from his forehead, 
frowning a little as she felt his skin.  "Listen, I'm going home, Mulder, 
get a shower and a change of clothes, all that jazz--I have to go back to 
the office tomorrow, so this is my last carefree chance to be at your 
command.  You want anything from home?" 
 
"Feed my fish."  He looked at the goddamned monitor, relaxed a little 
when it showed a reassuring 145.  He thought that was good, or at least 
better--good might be stretching it a little far.  If he could keep it down, 
maybe Scully would relent.  Maybe Montrose would relent.  "And bring 
me something to read."   
 
Her mouth twitched again, and he braced himself.  "Celebrity Skin?" 
she asked, eyes dancing.   
 
Mortified--God, he couldn't believe she had said that in front of  
strangers, he thought incredulously--he gave her a patient look. "No, I 
had some books on the table, I hadn't had a chance to get into them yet.  
A couple of paperbacks and a hardcover." 
 
"Got it."  Scully's expression softened.  "Take it easy, Mulder."  Her 
eyes told him more.  His eyes blurred again briefly and he nodded, 
looked away again as she walked out the door.

Morgan looked after them and smiled.  "She's quite something, your 
partner." 
 
"Mmm," he agreed feelingly.  Although he wanted to throttle her for 
mentioning Celebrity Skin in front of Morgan Grayson.  "She's a lot 
tougher than she looks."   
 
Morgan's eyes were amused.  "Women generally are."
  
Montrose returned, carrying a capped syringe.  His eyes moved to the 
monitor at once and he approached the bed, uncapping the syringe.  
"One of the advantages of having an IV," he commented, his tone dry, 
"Is that we don't have to stick you with other needles.  This is to help 
you relax, Fox, it's Valium." 
 
"I don't want that."   His heart thumped hard again, he gave the monitor 
a wild look but it was behaving.  "I don't need it." Goddammit, he could 
feel the burn as it hit his veins.  "And it fucking hurts."
 
Montrose capped the syringe again and looked him in the eye.  "You do 
need it," he disagreed.  "Whether you want it or not--I certainly would.  
Now, if Morgan will excuse us, I'd like to have a look at you.  Reading 
the chart is fine, but I'm strictly an old fashioned sort of physician, I 
believe in actually seeing my patient." 
 
"I'm okay. "  His stomach tightened, all his defenses slamming home. 
 
"I very much doubt that," Geoff told him bluntly.  "*I* certainly wouldn't 
be in like circumstances." 
 
Mulder swallowed hard, he'd had enough of people handling him, 
enough of strangers touching him--god, not another one.   "I'm not really 
hurt that badly," he began shakily, such an outright lie that Morgan's 
eyes widened as she moved toward the door. 
 
"That's far from true," Geoff interrupted him and gestured to the 
monitor.  "Your body knows even if your mind wants to deny it." 
 
Tears came again and he turned his face away, a sob building in his 
chest.  He wasn't going to give way to tears again, he couldn't.  But he 
shivered when the stethoscope touched his skin.  Dutifully, he breathed 
in and out, his breath catching now and again 
 
"Your temp's still elevated," Geoff told him a few moments later.  "Not 
unexpected, but it's higher than I'd like.  Burns are notoriously 
vulnerable to infection--we may need to change the antibiotic you're on 
to something else."  He slanted a look at Mulder.  "How's the pain?  I'd 
like to change that in a few days, we don't want you getting habituated.  
Pain raises heart rate and blood pressure, though--it's always a 
balance." 
 
In spite of his state of mind,  Mulder found that Montrose was 
reassuring.  Despite the Valium, despite his resistance, Montrose talked 
him through every step of the examination as if he were an intelligent 
adult, not just a patient in a bed. 
 
But he shivered again when Montrose took the blankets down and lifted 
the side of his gown.  The tear in his side received scrutiny first.  
Peering, Mulder swallowed hard at the number of stitches there.  "How 
many?" 
 
Geoff flicked him a glance.  "I believe somewhere in the neighborhood 
of sixty-five.  But it's doing nicely, and they did an elegant job.  I don't 
expect it to scar badly." 
 
It was silly to be relieved by that, but he was.  Scars were too much of a 
reminder, and he didn't want any. 
 
Flinching as Geoff began a more intimate examination, fighting back the 
images that flooded his inner eye, he managed an apologetic look in 
answer to the questioning one Montrose gave him. 
 
"Catheter's bloody awful, isn't it?"  Montrose's tone was sympathetic.  
"But I daresay that this, at least, looks worse than it is at this point.  
They were worried about your kidneys, I believe, given the extent of 
dehydration and the seriousness of the bruising, but it looks like that 
was unfounded.  We may be able to dispense with it fairly soon.  As for 
the other--sitz baths, naturally, they'll help the healing." 
 
He grimaced again, feeling marginally human again.  One man, he 
thought and closed his eyes, one man had done more than an entire 
trauma team to make him feel--less fragile, less broken.  At least, 
physically.  "Okay.  Are you going to check the burns?" 
 
"Not now.  I'd rather leave them untroubled for the moment, I'll try and 
be here when they change the dressings tomorrow.  I'm not a burn 
specialist--if I don't like the look of them, I'll call someone in, good 
woman, Sheila Clark."  Geoff pulled the bedclothes back up, patting him 
on the knee.  "Nearly dinnertime.  How's the appetite?" 
 
He grimaced again. "Okay, I guess.  Hospital food doesn't tempt me, 
and I've slept through most of the meals." 
 
"I'll have to send in supplies, I can see," Montrose told him, amused.  
"But I can't blame you, it doesn't much tempt me, either."  The doctor's 
gaze rested on him for a moment.  "What you've been through--give 
yourself some time to mend." 
 
He couldn't prevent his mouth from trembling.  "If I have time."  
 
"Trust Morgan." Montrose gave him a keen look.  "I know that's difficult, 
you don't know her--but she's really a remarkable woman."  
 
Narrowing his eyes, Mulder gazed up at him.  "How do you know her?" 
 
"We're friends.  We've been friends a long time."  Montrose pulled the 
gown down and rearranged the bedclothes.   "And we're housemates."  
A brief grin.  "Rather like a commune, but different, a group home." 
 
Mulder's mouth twitched again.  He knew other people in Washington 
who shared group homes, it wasn't that unusual--however, living with a 
woman who could call light with her hands...."You know about her, 
then." 
 
Montrose arched an eyebrow and leaned against the bedrail.  "I do," he 
agreed and grinned.  "I'm still not entirely certain what I think about it 
after all this time, but being British helps, all that mystical dodge about 
Arthur, you know.  Whatever she does--is unusual, I admit.  And I 
haven't yet come up with a complete explanation that suits my tastes.  
But I can't deny the validity of what Morgan does." 
 
"Why does she do it?"  If he was going to trust her, it might help to 
know her motives.
 
Sighing, Montrose straightened.  "Because she does.  It's what she is, 
who she is.  St. Morgan of Alexandria--but don't ever call her that, she'll 
put your bloody lights out."  Another brief grin.  "And mine.  She doesn't 
see herself that way, she just sees that she's doing what she ought." 
 
Mulder found himself doubtful.  "Altruism?" he asked, skeptically. 
 
"I don't think she'd call it that," Montrose's gaze went distant on him.  
"She seems to think there is no such thing as altruism, that we do what 
we do because it makes us feel better.  With that in mind, I suppose I'd 
have to say it makes her feel better."  His mouth flattened and he looked 
back at Mulder.  "Whatever that means.  How are you doing now?  
Feeling a little less taut?" 
 
In fact, he was; he was also feeling slightly fogged, which he didn't like, 
but at least he wasn't out of control.  A mixed blessing.  "Better."  It was 
a grudging admission. 
 
"I'll leave you to Morgan's tender mercies then," Montrose grinned at 
him.  "Oh, and whatever you do, don't call her a psychic.  Strong men 
have quailed at what happens then."  He moved toward the door. 
 
In that case, Mulder thought fuzzily, she'd been holding her temper in 
rather well when he did it.
 
Montrose paused after opening the door.  "I quite like your partner, by 
the way.  I hear she was such a terror in the emergency room up in 
Baltimore that they threw her out." 
 
He couldn't help smiling faintly at that.  "That sounds like Scully.  She 

takes a proprietary interest in my health, having saved my life more than 
once.  Of course, she also shot me, so I guess it's relative." 
 
Montrose raised both eyebrows.  "Really?  How interesting."  He flicked 
a grin back at Mulder.  "A dangerous woman--try and rest, I'll see you 
tomorrow morning." 




The E-mail message was brief and to the point.  

     "It's done, everybody's signed on and woven themselves into 
     the web, get some sleep.

     Gawaine

     PS:  Kate says to hug Aarin for her."

Smiling, Morgan touched the screen with a fingertip, thanking everyone 
silently.  She'd worked most of the evening, had a dozen messages 
from friends in the network and on the `Net.  Whatever cracks she 
might make about New Agers, most of the people she knew had started 
there, honing skills and gifts until they no longer needed the trappings.  

She wasn't New Age, but she could understand the appeal for people 
who wondered about their sanity until they came upon a viable 
explanation for what they experienced.

She wasn't Wiccan, either, but Gawaine and Kate didn't care.  Neither 
did the rest who had agreed to help her.  

Guilt stroked her spine, then--she hadn't told them all of it, not about the 
dead kids, the bones which stretched Harcourt's body count out back 
for nearly a century.  She'd just told them she'd met the Eater of Souls, 
that she needed help.  She wanted the hunt herself, but she wanted her 
bets covered.

Self-loathing was bitter on her tongue; touching the power button, she 
watched the screen go black, leaned back in her chair, rubbing her 
eyes.  God, she was so tired, even her hair ached.

And scared.  This whole thing scared the hell out of her.  Harcourt 
scared the hell out of her. 
 
*Mulder* scared the hell out of her, looking at her like she was his only 
chance of salvation.  

At least Scully thought she was a flake.  She could live with that.  
Skinner wasn't sure, but he was willing to wait to decide.  She could live 
with that, too. 
 
But even though Mulder didn't trust her, he looked at her with those 
eyes.  Eyes that expected her to know what to do.  Eyes that expected 
her to understand what he'd been through.  Eyes that expected her to 
tell him how to deal with Harcourt.  And he hadn't the slightest chance 
of doing so.  
 
She got scared when people looked at her that way, it was too much to 
live up to.  Too much for one human being, flawed--as much as she 
hated admitting it, she thought wryly--and imperfect as anyone else.  

Even though she craved the exhilaration of the hunt.
 
Rising, she padded barefoot down the hall, wearing a man's flannel 
night shirt that flapped gently at her calves.  Opening the door of the 
next room, she peered in to see her son, Aarin, asleep, thumb in mouth, 
curled around his stuffed bear.  His security bear, she thought, smiling 
and closed the door again. 
 
One of the cats rubbed against her ankles and she bent, picking the 
animal up, closing her eyes to extend her senses outward, sorting out 
the usual complex mix of emotions generated by the sheer numbers of 
people in the metropolitan area.  

She was looking for something rather different from that mix, something 
first tasted in the front room of that house in Baltimore, later sensed 
more strongly in the subcellar.   Still holding the cat, the velvety paws 
moving like starfish against her shoulder, she shivered, sensing 
something far away, still out of reach, no more than a tickle across the 
back of her mind.  

Harcourt knew that Mulder was gone--good, that meant that distance 
did affect him, he couldn't teleport.  Despite her words to Mulder, she 
hadn't been any too certain of that earlier.  Logic had suggested that 
she was right, but logic had little to do with any of this. 
 
The hall floor creaked; turning, she saw Geoff, wearing pajama bottoms 
and robe.  "What are you doing up?" he asked softly. 
 
She grimaced, stroking the cat's chin until Sadie tilted her head back, 
purr rumbling like a small motor.  "Can't sleep." 
 
He regarded her thoughtfully in the glow from the hall nightlight.  "You 
need to." 
 
"I know, I know."  Rolling her eyes, she rubbed her chin against the 
cat's head.  "Sadie, I'd better go to bed.  Keep an eye on the house for 
me."  Pressing her face into the softness of fur, she smiled faintly.  
"And everything else you can think of," she added, her private joke that 
cats could, if they but chose, walk through space and time. 
 
Geoff chuckled as she set Sadie on all four feet.  "You and the cats--go 
on, get in bed, I'll bring you a glass of wine." 
 
"Better not," she sighed.  "This is a bad one, Geoff."  
 
"So you said.  The Eater of Souls."  His tone was faintly skeptical--not 
of her, but of the foretelling.  "Look, Moggs, I know you believe this man 
is a monster--beyond simply being a human monster--but I have 
difficulty believing in one hundred year old murderers.  Even after what 
I've seen with you." 
 
"So do I."  She shivered, rubbed her arms through the flannel.  "But you 
weren't there, Geoff.  I wish I hadn't been." 
 
He looked at her for a moment, his mouth quirking.  "Go get in bed, I'll 
get you a pill."  

Sighing, she went back to her room, climbing into bed and leaning back 
against pillows piled high and deep.  
 
He came in a few moments later, carrying a glass of water in one hand 
and a Dalmane in the other, watching her to be sure she swallowed it.  
"If you're right," he told her firmly, "You're going to need to sleep.  You 
want to talk about it?" 
 
Sighing, she drew her knees up, resting her arms on them, resting her 
chin on her arms.  "That house--Geoff, it was horrible.  I could almost 
taste the bastard's soul in his rooms, God, it was enough to make me 
sick.  But *that* room, I nearly passed out, I could still feel his 
pleasure." 
 
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Geoff grimaced.  "God." 
 
"God had nothing to do with it," she told him sadly.  "And Fox looks at 
me like I'm going to save him." 
 
He arched an eyebrow.  "And you aren't?" 
 
Unable to prevent it, she blushed.  "Of course, I am."  But her mouth 
suddenly trembled.  "That doesn't mean I'm not scared.  That doesn't 
mean Harcourt won't find a way to hurt him again before--before I deal 
with him." 
 
His eyes studied her, clear and a little worried.  "Are you strong enough 
for this, love?" 
 
Putting her face down on her arms, Morgan considered.  "Not by 
myself," she admitted and sighed.  "But I'm calling in favors." 
 
"Favors."  Geoff snorted and got up.  "As if they wouldn't help you.  You 
know I don't like this, I never have liked this, but I feel better knowing 
you've sense enough to call for help." 
 
Raising her head, she scowled.  "I'm not *that* arrogant," she protested. 
 
"Not intentionally," he agreed, smiling faintly.  "But you have a way, love, 
when you're trying to be perfect.  And when you've focused on the 
target--inadvertant arrogance, I think, and I rather think it was that, 
rather than your, ah, unique gifts that got on Dr. Scully's nerves." 
 
"I don't think she likes me much."  Morgan sighed, weary again.  "When 
am I going to be old enough that *that* doesn't bother me?" 
 
"I don't think she dislikes you, I got the impression she was being 
protective of her partner."  Geoff leaned against the foot of the bed, his 
arm wrapped loosely around the bedpost.  "Now that Skinner, that's 
interesting.  I had the feeling he was carefully not listening to your 
statements.  What's that about?" 
 
Morgan grinned suddenly.  "He believes, but he doesn't believe.  Well, 
he doesn't want to, anyway.  But he's willing to let me work, to let me 
play profiler, as long as I keep Mulder alive.  That's my take, anyway." 
 
"You don't give yourself enough credit," Geoff smirked.  "Maybe he likes 
*you*." 
 
She threw a pillow at him.  "He's a married man, Geoff.  Go to bed and 
keep your mind out of the gutter." 
 
"Married men don't become eunuchs, Moggs.  Try and remember that--
"  He caught the pillow and threw it back at her. 
 
Her grin faded.  "I need to know more," she brooded.  "I need to get 
inside Mulder's head.  I need to know more about Harcourt than what I 
can find in Mulder's notes, or at the Historical society. 
 
"You can do that in the morning."  Geoff arched both eyebrows.  ""And 
go to sleep." 
 
"Yes, my lord," she told him tartly, an old joke between them. 
 
"And be quick about it," he retorted, going to the door, his tone pure Brit 
aristocracy.  With a final grin, he left her to contemplate the day just 
past. 
 
And pray she could find sleep tonight--the confrontation was going to be 
soon, her bones ached with that knowledge.  Hunting ordinary monsters 
was hard enough. 
 
Hunting real ones was going to be far more difficult.

******************************************************************** 
Georgetown:  March 21 8:01 am 
 
It was cool in the morning, frost rime on Scully's windshield thick 
enough to have to scrape off.  

She was utterly sick of winter, tired of dead leaves lining the gutters and 
sidewalks, tired of ice, tired of rain--God, she was in a poor mood today, 
she really did not want to go in, she wanted to be in the hospital. 
 
The drive in through morning traffic didn't improve her frame of mind; 
making her way into her office, Scully was bitterly amused to find that 
people who usually passed her without a word now greeted her, asking 
her after Mulder, what had happened. 
 
As if they cared, beyond their own morbid curiosity.  Spooky fucked up, 
Spooky blew it--fuck `em.  Her own bitterness surprised her; and her 
temper threatened by the time she reached the door, deflecting inquiries 
with cool evasions. 
 
Where to begin?  Picking up the phone, she checked her voice mail:  
Skinner wanted to see her.  Skinner would have to wait for a moment. 

Punching in buttons, she called the Baltimore office and asked for Jack 
Taylor.  They put her on hold, a crisp radio announcer telling her that a 
seventeen year old boy had been found stabbed to death in an alleyway 
in downtown Baltimore, his body mutilated so badly he could not be 
identified.  A little chill went up her spine at that; when Taylor came on, 
his tone was brusque and it proved to be the straw that broke her 
temper wide open. 
 
"Scully, here."  Curtly, to Jack Taylor, who had been at Quantico with 
her, who had dated her roommate there, who had been her friend.  "Any 
news on Harcourt?" 
 
"We've got a couple of dead kids here."   He sounded mortally tired. 
"One eyewitness who gave us a description of the second kid's 
companion.  Sounds like our man." 
 
She was silent a moment, letting her temper ebb.  "Any leads?" 
 
"No.  Look, Dana, I'm sorry about Spooky.  How is he?" 
 
Was she going to let herself be mollified by a kind tone?  No, she 
decided, she was not.  "Better, not great." 
 
There was a brief silence.  "I've got your cell phone, I'll call you if I hear 
anything, okay?"  Now, Taylor sounded mildly apologetic.  "Good 
instincts, kid, you were right on the money and I was wrong." 
 
Kid?  Oh, very nice, she thought drily, too bad she'd gotten to the point 
that a smile and soft tone no longer impressed her.  Hadn't impressed 
her since, Jesus, Ellens Air Force Base, way back then.  "Thanks, 
Jack,"   she sighed, keeping her tone mild.  "I'd appreciate it." 
 
"No problem, Skinner's insisting on updates every couple of hours.  
Guess it's true what they say about him, he can tear his agents apart 
limb from limb, but if anybody else screws with them--adios, amigos." 
 
Jolted, she stared at the wall.  "Yeah."  It wasn't quite true--or was it?  
Skinner had put his ass on the line over the MJ tape.  And now--she 
needed to think about this sometime when she had time.  And not 
before she went up to see him.  "Yeah, I guess.  Thanks again, Jack."  
She hung up the phone, regarding it with some bafflement.  

Is that what they said about Skinner?  How in hell would she know, she 
and Mulder were never on anybody's hit parade, let alone the grapevine. 
 
Sighing, she thrust it all away from her and picked up her purse again. 

Skinner said only a few words to her.  "Get out of the office, Scully."  
Then.  "Go home, go to the hospital, I don't care." 
 
He didn't look at her when he said it, poring over a file.  Mulder's file?  
She didn't wait to ask.  "Thank you, sir," she told him and got out while 
the getting was good. 
 
Even good Catholic girls sometimes had the urge to play truant. 
 
 
"I can't eat this, what the hell is it?"  Mulder was grousing, a sound that 
made Scully's heart lighten as she came through the door.  
 
The person who had delivered whatever it was looked offended, her 
round Pillsbury face flushed.  "It's hot cereal," she told Mulder.  "And 
you're supposed to eat it."  Giving Scully a long-suffering look, she 
flounced past out the door. 
 
"Are these supposed to be eggs?" Mulder called after her.  Or tried to 
call--his voice still sounded like he'd gargled with something caustic.  
"Scully, look at what they expect me to eat, this is awful." 
 
Laughing, Scully shook her head and held up the sack she carried.  
"Don't get too excited," she warned, when his expression brightened , 
"Nothing loaded with fat or sugar, I picked up some muffins for you.  
Banana nut.  My mom used to make them for us when we were sick, 
but not too sick to eat." 
 
He looked pleased at that, and a little embarrassed.  "Thanks, Scully."  
He pushed the offending items back on his tray.  "I want some coffee."  
Wistfully said, a sidelong gaze at her. 
 
"Tough," she told him, hard-hearted, and took out two muffins; putting 
the sack down, she stripped off the little paper cups and broke them 
into pieces that he could handle with what little he could use of his 
fingers.  "No coffee, partner, or I'll have to shoot whoever gives it to 
you." 
 
"There's decaf," he mourned.  Before sitting down, she popped one 
piece of muffin into his mouth, smiling as he closed his eyes briefly in 
pleasure.  

"Real food," he muttered, after a moment.  "Thanks, Scully." 

"And if you're really good and eat all of it, I'll get you some decaf later.  
But first, I had to come in and torment you."
 
That brought the first real smile she'd seen from him since before he'd 
gone to that damned house, and it *was* real, however small.  "Scully, 
you can torment me any day.  Especially if you bring muffins." 
 
She grinned at him.  His smile faded a little, but she thought he looked 
better.  More color in his face, more life in his eyes.  The scene over the 
monitor yesterday had genuinely frightened her--you know he's stronger 
than that, Dana Katherine, he's already survived so much.  But her eyes 
flicked up to it, almost automatically, checking pulse, blood pressure--
"How you doing this morning?  Did you sleep okay?" 
 
He shrugged, popped another piece of muffin into his mouth and 
chewed, closing his eyes again. 
 
For someone who ate as much dreadful takeout as he did, he was an 
absolute hedonist when it came to the good stuff.  She laughed again, 
feeling almost lighthearted.  He was doing so much better than she'd 
expected, it almost eased her mind.

Almost. 
 
"Yeah, I did, but remember, my doctor pumped Valium into me."  His 
pleasure dimmed slightly, as if he were thinking about why.  "Scully, I 
really hate that fucking monitor." 
 
Reaching out, she put her hand on the back of his, very, very lightly.  "I 
know," she told him softly.  "Not too much longer, Mulder.  Hang in 
there." 
 
He looked at her, shrugged and tried another smile on for size.  It 
seemed to fit.  "These are terrific." 
 
"Corrigan's is serving Irish stew tonight," Scully teased, "I'll have to 
smuggle you some in." 
 
Sinking back on the pillows, he mimed a swoon, making her laugh 
again.   "Scully, if you'd bring me a decaf, it could be love.  Would you 
consider marrying me?  No?  Well, how about adopting me?" 
 
She was laughing again, almost too hard to answer him.  "I already 
have, you idiot, I don't bring banana nut muffins for just anyone."  
Patting him lightly, she withdrew her hand, afraid to put much pressure 
on it.  Oh, the backs of his hands were okay, Harcourt had concentrated 
on the palms.  Looking down, she sighed.  "Still have the catheter--I 
thought they said they were going to take that out today." 
 
His expression went shuttered on her, his eyes distant.  "I hope so."   It 
was no more than a whisper, given his shattered voice, and it made her 
ache.  "It reminds me too much--"  And he stopped, hands shaking 
suddenly, eyes closed. 
 
Don't think about it, she begged silently and got up again, just to stand 
near him, gently brushing back the hair that wanted to fall on his 
forehead.  "Hey, things have been pretty--Mulder, I just want to tell you, 
if you need to talk about what happened, I'm here." 
 
His eyes opened.   After a moment, his gaze flicked away, back to the 
television, where game show contestants were shouting with frantic 
mirth.  "I gave Skinner a statement," he muttered, still no more than a 
whisper.  "I don't know if I can talk about it any more." 
 
Scully was silent for a long moment, searching for words that were 
right, that would help him let go of it.  And I'm going to hurt Skinner, 
dammit, he must have pushed hard after I left--

"You don't have to talk about it," she told him softly, "But if you need to--
ever, I'll listen."  The truth was, she could  imagine, remember torn 
flesh, skin darkened by bruises, reddened by electrical burns.  Her 
stomach roiled and she shut the images away,  steeling herself against 
it.  He'd endured it, she'd only observed the effects. 

And nothing he could say could be worse than what her imagination 
conjured, seeing him in the dark, listening for her footsteps.... 
 
Mulder was silent, staring at the television as if his life depended on 
guessing the right price of what looked like a washer dryer combination.  
"Okay."  Finally, so faintly that she almost missed it; he pushed the 
table away with the back of his hand and sank back. 
 
God, it made her chest hurt.  "I called the Lone Gunmen, I expect you'll 
be hearing from them today--I keep forgetting, are hospitals considered 
part of the military-industrial complex?" 
 
He glanced at her, frowning a little.  "I think it's more the crypto-fascist 
medical establishment."  He tried to smile.  "Something like that." 
 
"Then they probably won't drop by," she told him  lightly.  "Thank God, I 
don't think I can deal with Frohicke." 
 
Another faint smile, this one stronger.  "He'd probably swoon, Scully 
saves the day again."

She only wished it was true.  "Wait until he meets Morgan."   

Mulder almost grinned, made a faint sound reminescent of laughter.  
Relieved again, she suddenly remembered.  "Damn, I left your books in 
the car.  I'll be right back, okay." 
 
"`S okay," he fumbled for the control to the bed, his expression worried.  
"Scully, I didn't mean--" 
 
No, she couldn't bear that, that he should apologize for, for whatever--
bending over him, she hugged him gently.   "Hush.  I'll be back in a few 
minutes."   Leaning back, she gave him another grin.  "And I'll bring you 
some decaf, okay?"
 
He was taut under her hands for a moment, then relaxed, taking in a 
deep breath.  "Okay."  

And he looked--looked all right when she looked back from the door to 
smile at him.  As all right as he could be, anyway. 
 
And with that, she had to be content. 



Humming under her breath, Morgan started forward as the elevator 
started and nearly ran into Dana Scully--literally.  "Oops, sorry--good 
morning.  You look terrific this morning, he must be doing better." 
 
For a moment, she thought Scully was going to give her a severe look, 
but then a smile formed.

"Yeah, I think he is.  Emotionally, anyway."  She looked at Morgan, her 
eyes giving away some internal struggle.  "Listen, I'm sorry if I came off-
-as strident, it's just that he's been through so much, and he needs to 
let go of it, he needs to let himself heal.  I'm worried about his state of 
mind.  He's hurting so much physically, everytime he moves, he has to 
remember--I don't want him locked there, that's all." 
 
Morgan arched an eyebrow in invitation. "You know, I'm not here as his 
therapist, but anything you would feel comfortable telling me might go a 
long way toward working with him.  He trusts me to--ah, do what needs 
to be done, but he doesn't quite trust me.  Does he?" 
 
A rueful smile.  "He doesn't trust anybody, Morgan." 
 
Morgan waited, one beat, then shrugged, letting it go.  "Except you.  
Can I buy you a cup of coffee downstairs?  I'd really like to talk."  
 
"I have to get back, I left his books in my car, I promised him I'd be right 
back."  Scully smiled faintly, her expression guarded.  "Really, I don't 
know what else to tell you--he's had some difficult experiences, that's 
all.  And because of his interest in the paranormal, he takes a lot of heat 
in the Bureau." 
 
"I can imagine."   Almost amused, Morgan studied her.  The guarded 
expression told her a lot; the smile, even more.  But she still felt the 
barriers slam home, confirming it.   She stepped out of the elevator door 
and let Scully pass her, her mind already back on her arrangements for 
the next few days. 
 
Mulder appeared to have dissected a muffin, she discovered, and was 
evidently enjoying every morsel.  He gave her a startled look when she 
came in and lifted his chin in greeting, his mouth evidently full. 
 
She grinned.  "You look almost human today, Fox.  Has Geoff been in 
to see you?" 
 
Mulder nodded, swallowing.  "Yeah," he told her  hoarsely.  "When they 
changed these."  He held up his hands.  "It wasn't as bad as it feels."  
 
She pondered that for a moment, briefly confused.  "Oh, it looked better 
than you expected."  She couldn't imagine how, but then he'd been the 
one burned.   A flash of sensation hit her, she was picking up his own 
memory of it; she slammed her own barriers up around her, badly 
shaken.  "That's good.  I think.  I think I'd rather have it look worse and 
feel better." 
 
A grin ghosted across his face.  "Me, too.  But small favors."  A shrug 
and he searched her face with that haunted gaze.  "Have they found 
him?"  
 
"Not that I'm aware of--your partner would know."  Morgan put down the 
laptop case and moved to the bed, gently turning him to face her.  "I 
need to know everything he told you about himself.  I know it's hard to 
talk about--but I need to hear everything he said to you." 
 
He jerked his face away from her hand and looked at the television.  
"No, you don't."  Hoarsely.  Harshly.   "But I'll tell you what he said about 
himself."  
 
Frustration and fear made her stomach knot.  "That's a start.  But 
anything he said might tell me more about his weaknesses.  And I need 
to be able to exploit those, Fox.  I'm not Glinda, the good witch of the 
South, I need some help on this." 
 
He turned back to her, his expression wary, yet somehow amused.  
"You aren't?" 
 
She held her temper, counting to ten.  "Not even close." 
 
His mouth curved very slightly.  "I'll try and remember that."  Then, 
sobering, eyes shadowed again.  "All right, sit down, I'll tell you." 
 
Scully gave her an evil look when she returned, by which she supposed 
that their truce might suffer; however, the younger woman simply stood 
listening, leaning against the bedrail, her eyes locked on her partner's 
face. 
 
"He said I had to remember everything, every detail of my life." Mulder 
shrugged at his partner.  "Every goddamned thing--and he meant it, too.  
If I didn't remember it all, he knew it, and shocked me until I did.  It's 
amazing how well that works, Scully."  He was looking at his partner, as 
if he were addressing her.  Scully listened expressionlessly, 
occasionally flicking her a glance.  "If I lied, he knew it, and he shocked 
me until I told him the truth.  I only lied once."  Leaning forward, he took 
a sip of his juice, still avoiding Morgan's gaze. 
 
Her stomach hurt worse.  She nodded, even though he didn't see her.  
"There wasn't a lot of conversation, mostly him asking me questions, 
what my first memory was, what was the name of my first friend--and 
he asked me about my sister."  Mulder made an abortive movement; 
she saw his hands tremble before he drew them under the blanket.  

Scully pulled it up to his chin, the movement careful, as if she were 
afraid of hurting him. 
 
Of hurting him more than Morgan was.

Swallowing hard, Morgan bit her lip to  keep from interrupting him.  She 
needed to know more, dammit, it was lunacy to feel guilt.  But her 
stomach knotted anyway.  She pushed her hands into her pockets and 
closed them tight. 
 
"He asked me about my sister," Mulder repeated and closed his eyes 
briefly; he moved his mouth as if to bite his lip, but Scully touched him 
there, a warning touch--his eyes opened on her again, he focused there, 
his profile turned toward Morgan.  "He--wanted to know about the night 
she was abducted." 
 
Scully's mouth tightened; for the first time, she glanced away from him, 
glanced at Morgan with a glitter in her eyes that boded no good. 

Mouth dry,  Morgan asked, "Abducted?"  Then, "He knew she was 
abducted, or you told him?" 
 
He shivered, but he didn't answer that.  "He made me tell him about it, 
he kept asking me who, who took her."  He moved his hand toward 
Scully.   "I didn't remember that night for a long time, Scully, you know 
that, not until the regression.  But now--now I can see it as clearly as 
anything."  His mouth curved again, a death's head grin.
 
He was trembling visibly, not just his hands--rising, she went to the bed, 
gently touched his arm, winced when he flinched away from her.  "Fox, 
I'm sorry--I wouldn't ask, but I have to know." 
 
He still wouldn't look at her.  His eyes closed; a tear slipped out from the 
corner of one eyelid.  "Anyway, that was most of it, question after 
question after question.  I told him everything, even though I knew it 
wouldn't make it stop.  I kept hoping.  And if I didn't, the shocks were 
worse."  He inhaled raggedly.  "Anyway, when he did stop, he told me 
his name, that he was born in 1874, that he had gone to Oxford--and 
that he had discovered the Tibetan manuscripts in England." 
 
Morgan's eyes widened.  "Tibetan, you're sure he said that." 
 
His eyes opened again, he glanced at her, a sharp, brief look that cut to 
the quick.   "Yeah, I'm sure.  And he talked about it later, something 
about the gods who had ruled over--"  a quick grimace, "The mountain 
vastness of Tibet, he said.  Like a goddamn tour guide."
 
"Tibet," she repeated, thinking hard.   "I just need to look some things 
up."  Then,  softly, her stomach still clenched, "Thank you, Fox.  I think 
it will give me a  starting place." 
 
"I would hope."  Scully's voice was uninflected. 
 
Mulder still wouldn't look at her.  Leaning forward, he took another sip of 
juice and sank back again, staring at the television.  "So, did you really 
need to know all that?  Does that help your profile?"  Under the strained 
tone, she heard anger flaring.  

When he did turn his head, she stepped back at the look in his eyes.  
"You're getting off on this, aren't you?  The great white hunter, out to get 
the man-eating tiger.  No, I'm sorry, that's not quite right--the good witch 
out to get the bad witch.  You said you knew about him, you recognized 
him that night.  This isn't about protecting me, this is about getting that 
fucker, isn't it."  His mouth flattened out, trembled as the sutures pulled 
taut.

"Mulder."  Scully's voice was low and held a warning.  Behind the bed, 
the monitor told its own tale, showing his heart rate, showing his blood 
pressure rising.

Hands still clenched in her pockets, Morgan nodded.  "I was told about 
him several years ago."  She couldn't rage back, not when he was partly 
right.  It was about him--not just about the hunt.  She'd dreamt of him 
weeks before Gene had called her.  "But I didn't expect him that night, I 
didn't know it was him until I saw him.  I came to help your partner find 
you."

His nostrils flared briefly; he jerked away from Scully's touch and those 
eyes held her, almost green in this light, the pupils drawn tight.  He 
didn't like what he was seeing, that much was clear.  "Don't you wanna 
know any more, don't you wanna hear about what he did?  About the 
fucking toys he used on me?  That should help your profile, Dr. 
Grayson, believe me, I know how it's done, you have to look at the work 
he does to understand him!"

She was shaking her head, her mouth dry.  "I'm sorry, Fox, I know how 
hard this must be, believe me, I do--"

"You don't know the first thing about it," he flared at her, leaning up from 
the pillows.  "Not unless you've ever had anyone stick an electric cattle 
prod up your ass!"

Scully looked up at the monitor, her expression appalled.  "Dr. Grayson, 
you had better go."  Her voice was hard enough to cut glass; her eyes 
were cold when she glanced at Morgan before reaching for her partner.

Feeling like seven different kinds of monster, Morgan fled. 
 
 
Scully had to admit, the woman had a way about her.  In an effort to 
make amends, Morgan Grayson showed up just before visiting hours 
ended with an olive branch--a VCR and a plastic bag full of movies.  It 
was hilarious to see Mulder's eyes widen in surprise, and damned 
reassuring to see his interest in what Morgan had brought.  Not quite 
normal, yet, but getting closer.

Well, as close as Mulder ever got to normal, and that was good enough 
for her. 
 
"The Abyss," Mulder read, "Alien and Aliens, Scully, we can watch 
both, one after the other." 
 
Morgan slanted her a sly grin.  "She looks thrilled.  Not to worry, they 
aren't all sci-fi or horror--I brought some real movies, too." 
 
Scully leaned over the pile Morgan had dumped on the side of Mulder's 
bed.  "Dangerous Liaisons, Hunt for Red October, The Big Easy--I like 
that one."  She gave Mulder a sly grin of her own. "Mulder's not overly 
fond of New Orleans." 
 
He grimaced at her.  "Watch that one when I'm taking a nap," he 
suggested hoarsely.  "I haven't seen the Abyss, I vote for it first."  He 
looked at Morgan, his mouth quirking.  "Thanks, this is nice." 
 
Morgan shrugged it off.  "Hey, I've been in the hospital, I loathe it.  You 
need all the distraction you can get."  Dragging one of the chairs over, 
she peered at the back of the television, made a triumphant sound and--
the television picture turned to snow. 
 
Laughing, Scully handed her one end of the cable and bent to fasten 
the other end to the back of the VCR.  "Are you sure this is long 
enough--no, that works." 
 
Morgan got down from the chair and lifted the VCR onto it.  "Good thing 
you rounded up more chairs," she told Scully,  with satisfaction, and 
snatched the video off the bed to pop it in.  "Now, I've seen this before, 
but I cannot be browbeaten or threatened into revealing key points of the 
plot." 
 
Scully rolled her eyes.  "A movie called The Abyss has a plot?" 
 
Laughing, Morgan nodded.  "Hey, it's better than Leviathan, Dana." 
 
"Leviathan was a no-brainer,"  Mulder gave them both a warning frown.  
"Be quiet, I can't hear." 
 
"It's just the credits, Mulder," Scully told him, but her heart thumped 
with pleasure and relief.  Now this--this was normal.  "Before you get 
too deeply into it, you want some more Seven-Up?" 
 
"Uh huh."  He gave her a small smile, his eyes thanking her.  "Thanks," 
he added softly, as she followed Morgan out the door. 
 
Rawlins and Dennison were on duty outside the door.  "You guys want 
anything to drink," Morgan asked, surprising Scully.  "We're on a 
refreshment run." 
 
Rawlins, a broad shouldered man in his early forties, chuckled.  "Better 
hurry.  They're gonna catch you two and sling you out of the hospital." 
 
"We'll hide in the bathroom," Morgan grinned, and Dennison, a thin and 
wiry blonde in her late twenties--God, was I ever that young, Scully 
wondered--grinned in return. 
 
"We'll hurry," Scully told them, amused.  "What would you like?" 
 
"Coke is fine."  Dennison reached into her pocket, but Morgan shook 
her head, raising both hands. 
 
"Hey, it's the least I can do for my government, pick up some of the 
slack on Cokes."  A wicked grin and she was off down the hall. 
 
"Coke's fine," Rawlins agreed, then, "How's he doing, Scully?" 
 
"Better," she told them, really meaning it.  "A lot better.  Thanks."  And 
went after Morgan. 
 
"This is a great idea," she told her, catching up.  "Thanks.  I have to 
admit, I wish I'd thought of it." 
 
Morgan gave her an embarrassed look.  "It's the least I could do after 
stirring all those things up again.  But I've got a better idea of what's 
going on in Harcourt's head, now." 
 
Scully grimaced; reaching the elevator, she stabbed the button with 

unnecessary force.  "And?" 
 
"He's going to try to find Fox, of course.  And the odds are pretty good 
that he will.  But the time we've gained in between will weaken him and 
give us time to prepare.  Not just a strong defense, but the good 
offense."  Morgan frowned.  "Or maybe a strong offense and a good 
defense."  A shrug.  "Whichever, they're one and the same." 
 
Scully turned to regard her.  "I have no idea what you're talking about." 
 
Morgan grinned at her suddenly.  "I know.  I'm thinking aloud, terrible 
habit, it confuses people all the time.  Just--try and trust me a little, 
okay?  I really do know what I'm doing.  And I'm not arrogant enough to 
believe that I'm the only one who does, I've got several other people 
working with me on this--" 
 
Laughter bubbled up out of nowhere.  "Never mind," Scully forestalled 
her  hastily.  "I don't want to know any more than I have to, Morgan.  I'll 
do my job, you do yours, and we'll both keep Mulder alive and well 
enough that he can heal." 
 
Morgan held out her hand, Scully shook it, and they got into the 
elevator, both of them laughing like idiots. 
 
It might have been the last few days catching up with both of them.  
Scully didn't care.  Mulder was watching a movie like he was interested 
in it, not just lying with a book in his hand, pretending to read, but really 
staring off into the corner.  She didn't even mind that Morgan had done 
it; she was simply glad someone had. 
 
When they returned to the room, Mulder was still focused.  When 
Scully poured his drink into a cup of ice, he gave her a faint grin.  "This 
is sooo bad, it's terrific.  I love it, I can't believe I missed it." 
 
As Morgan had allowed herself, after all, to be browbeaten into revealing 
the plot, Scully snickered.  "Mulder, it's got everything you love, the 
military run amok, an obsessed civilian--" 
 
"Hey," Morgan protested, "No giving it away, Dana." 
 
Mulder scowled.  "Don't tell me, Scully, you'll ruin the movie for me." 
 

"I would *never* do that," she told him sincerely and held up the cup 
with a straw.  He accepted a drink and gestured for her to put it on the 
tray table. 

Morgan handed her a can of diet cola and winked, and then sank back 
into her own chair, turning on her laptop.   Sitting down beside Mulder, 
Scully settled back to watch the movie.

Well, Ed Harris *was* cute in a way--this might not be so bad. 
 
 
Mulder fell asleep well before the credits rolled, something that he was 
sure to complain of in the morning.  Amused, Scully turned off the lamp 
above his head, leaving the fluorescents in the other half of the room on.  
"He's gone," she told Morgan. 
 
Looking up, Morgan peered over the top of wire-rimmed glasses and 
laughed softly.  "Quick, turn it off, that way he can take it up again in the 
morning." 
 
Snickering, Scully obeyed, leaving snow on the screen.  Where was the 
remote--oh, Mulder had it, almost childishly pleased that he could use 
his fingertips and change the channels.  Still snickering, she moved 
toward the bed again--and the lights flickered, dimming almost to 
nothing and then brightening again. 
 
"That's odd."   She paused, hand on the bedrail, frowning at the lights--
Morgan rose suddenly, looking around the room, her eyebrows drawing 
together slightly, her glasses in her hand.  "What is it?" 
 
"I'm not sure."  Morgan moved to the door, opening it with one swift 
movement.  The lights repeated their odd behavior--but only in the room. 

The hall lights remained unchanged.   Her expression cautious, Morgan 
put a hand out in the air, palm toward the hall, and suddenly hissed, 
drawing her hand back as if burned. 
 
Baffled, Scully looked up at the lights again, saw them repeating their 
performance--only this time, they dimmed nearly to black before 
brightening to normal again. 
 
Closing the door, Morgan turned to look around the room again.  "I 
didn't think of that," she murmured shakily.

The television screen brightened suddenly, and Scully looked up, 
seeing a shadowy shape struggling to superimpose itself over the snow.  
Her heart thudded hard, irrationally, she looked away, not wanting to see 
what was taking shape on the screen, then lifted her chin and looked 
back to see the edges of the shape growing clearer and clearer.
 
"I can't have that."  Morgan's tone was conversational, as if it made 
sense, and she moved to stand by the bed.

The lights were flickering again, faster and faster, up and down and up, 
until Scully was dizzy with it, gripping the rail of Mulder's bed until her 
fingers were white knuckled.  Mulder slept on, but he whimpered in his 
sleep, the whimpering becoming more and more like a sob. 
 
To her astonishment, Scully heard Morgan murmuring something she 
recognized as the Memorare.  "Remember, oh most gracious Virgin 
Mary, that never was it known...." 
 
Reaching inward, she pulled the words out of memory, hearing an 
unearthly humming sound increase in intensity until it reminded her of a 
dentist's drill, saw the shape on the television set solidify, the face of the 
man revealed, Mulder's description given vibrant, malign life--Julian 
Harcourt.  Shuddering, she closed her eyes, opening them again to see 
it there still.  No, this wasn't happening.

It couldn't be happening. 
 
"...or fled to thy protection was left unaided.  Inspired by this 
confidence, I fly unto thee, oh Virgin of virgins, my mother.  To thee I 
come, before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful.  Oh, mother of the 
Word Incarnate, despite not my petition, but in thy mercy hear and 
answer me..."  Suddenly, without the Amen, Morgan whirled on her, 
shoving her face toward the wall with bruising force, pulling the blankets 
over Mulder and throwing herself over both of them, insofar as it was 
humanly possible. 
 
There was a sharp, explosive sound--something hot bounced off the 
back of Scully's neck and fell harmlessly at her feet.  A piece of glass.  
Shoving Morgan back, she looked up as the lights flared once more, 
incandescent, white hot light. The wreckage of what had been a 
television set hung from the frame, a dark crater lined with shark's teeth 
of glass, smoke hazing the the corner. 
 
The VCR spun crazily, the sound grating at her ears, already shocked 
from the explosion.  "Oh, my, God!"  A grinding sound replaced the 
grating and more smoke poured out.  Mulder was never going to see the 
end of *that* movie.... 
 
Snatching the blankets back down, she found, incredibly, that Mulder 
still slept, tears spilling down his cheeks, a soft, painful sobbing that 
terrified her as much as anything else.

Leaning back against the railing, Morgan lifted her chin, closed her eyes 
and muttered, faintly, "Oh, brothers and sister, please be with me now." 
 
Scully had time for one bewildered look before the door burst open, 
Rawlins shouldering through with drawn gun. 

"What the hell is going on in here?"  Then, "Jesus Christ on a sidecar, 
what the hell happened?  Dennison, get your ass in here!" 
 
Morgan leaned over the bed, resting her fingertips lightly on Mulder's 
cheek.  "Whatever you do," she told her  firmly, "Don't wake him."  And 
she took Scully's wrist into a steel grip. 
 
Scully cried out, more in surprise than anything, and fell forward into 
darkness. 



Harcourt had him.  Harcourt had always had him.  Would always have 
him.  Pain was eternal, and safety was only a dream. 
 
"Look at me, Fox," Harcourt's voice sent agony rippling along already 
damaged nerve endings. 
 
No, he whimpered silently, I can't, I'm safe, I'm with Scully, I can't. 
 
But the pain was too much for him.  "Look at me, Fox, or I will make you 
pray for death." 
 
I am already, you bastard, Mulder twisted helplessly, trying to free his 
hands, succeeded only in causing new hurt.  Slowly, his eyes began to 
open. 
 
"Fox, don't listen to him."  He knew that voice.  It was Morgan Grayson's 
voice.  But she was part of the dream of safety, the fantasy of 
escape....."Fox, it's a trick.  Look this way, Dana's here, and I am, we've 
come to take you back.  He can't hurt you here, Fox, he can only 
frighten you." 
 
He let his eyelids rise a little, but turned his head toward Morgan's 
voice, wanting so badly to believe.  Harcourt turned on the power again, 
his body convulsed with it, hurting, oh, God, hurting..... 
 
"Fox, please, listen to me, he cannot hurt you!  He can only frighten--
your hands are free, take them down."

Morgan's voice was oddly anguished;  when he could breathe again, he 
turned his head more, slitting his eyes to peer at her.  Oh, God, Scully 
was here, oh, god, no, that wasn't supposed to happen--she was harder 
to see than Morgan, his vision kept blurring.

But Morgan held her hand out to him. 
 
"Just reach for my hand, Fox, and we can take you back, we can take 
you away from this place.  He can only frighten you, he can't hurt you, 
remember that--just reach for my hand." 
 
He wanted to, god, how he wanted to, even though he didn't entirely 
trust her--taking in a sobbing breath, he tried once more to free his hand 
and found he could.  Stretching out that arm, he felt the shock come 
again, gasped and sobbed for breath-- 
 
"Just a little farther, Fox," Morgan coaxed, sounding near tears.  "Come 
on, Fox, hurry, don't let him frighten you, Fox, that's all he can do here, 
but you don't have to let him." 
 
His fingertips were nearly touching hers.  How odd, she seemed to be 
trying just as hard, stretching just as far, tears on her face--for him?  
She didn't even know him. 
 
"Hurry, Fox," Morgan's voice was taut, effortful. "Please, just a little 
farther, Dana and I can get you then, just a little farther, Fox." 
 
He strained hard, tearing muscles that already hurt, felt warm flesh 
close around his hand and hurtled free of Harcourt's chamber..... 
 
 
Tumbling in darkness, Scully gradually became aware she was 
dreaming.  Morgan stood beside her, they stood and watched Harcourt 
bending over Mulder's prone and helpless self.  Fury took hold of her, 
driving reason out; drawing her gun, she found she could move and 
raised it to fire. 

Harcourt gave her a vicious smile.  "He's mine, pretty thing.  You may 
not have him back, he's been promised elsewhere." 
 
Smiling back just as viciously, Scully fired once, twice, three times--
Harcourt's chest exploded, dry dust puffing out to cover Mulder's face, 
blocking his mouth and nose.  "No," she cried, appalled and tried to run 
forward, but suddenly it was like walking in tar, she lifted one foot 
partway only to have it slowly fall again before she had made any 
headway. 
 
"Just a little farther," Morgan coaxed someone.  Looking, Scully saw 
only darkness, looked back to find Mulder had vanished. 
 
"We have to find him," she cried.  "Morgan, we have to find him!" 
 
"Give me your hand," Morgan told her, sounding distant and cold, 
completely detached from human sorrow. 
 
Scully gave it, felt warm flesh enfold her fingers and hurtled free of the 
darkness.... 
 
 
Falling hard on her knees, Scully fell to her knees and caught her breath 
as the lights went the way of the television screen, glass shattering in a 
high pitched scream.

Rawlins and Dennison stared, utterly thunderstruck,  as the windows 
began to crack from top to bottom.  Mulder moaned; she yanked back 
the blanket and his eyelids fluttered, lifted; his eyes regarded her with a 
total lack of recognition for several heartbeats and she realized that the 
monitor was pinging like merry hell, all readings garbled.

Does not compute, Scully thought, with lunatic hilarity--yanking the 
leads free of the machine, she reached up and took hold, throwing it 
from the shelf--the metal was hot, scalding fingertips and hands.  
"Watch out," she cried and threw herself over the bed again to protect 
her partner as more glass shattered. 
 
"What in the name of God--"  Rawlins voice was deep and betrayed 
bone deep fright. 
 
Fighting the urge to burst into either tears or laughter, Scully blinked.  "I 
don't think God has anything to do with it, Rawlins." 
 
"His soul."  Morgan's voice was clear, she turned to look at them; the 
light from the hallway revealed devastation that had no place in a 
hospital.   "Oh, my...." she breathed.  And fell face down into the litter of 
glass and plastic. 
 
Dragging herself to her feet, Scully reached down to find Mulder's 
pulse, found it rapid--doing the Funky Chicken, she thought dizzily. 
 
He moaned and turned his head, his eyes opening.  "Scully, why's it so 
dark?" 
 
She fought the urge to hysterical laughter.  "Dunno, Mulder, things just 
sort of happened."  Turning, she barked at Rawlins, "Go get a gurney, I 
want him out of here." 
 
Rawlins whirled and went out the door, moving fast. 
 
"Scully," Mulder asked  faintly, "What happened?" 
 
Dennison knelt near Morgan.  "She's just out," she told Scully softly and 
rolled her over.  Morgan made a small sound and tried to lean up on one 
elbow.  Dennison steadied her. 
 
"I don't know," Scully answered Mulder and closed her hand gently over 
his forearm, above the bandages.  "But we're getting you out of this 
room." 
 
He didn't answer her; she spared a glance to see him looking at the 
windows, the lights from the street catching the shattered glass too 
brightly.  

She shivered and shook her head; no way, this was all a bad dream, 
something she'd made up, born of too much Coke, not enough sleep, 
and watching that flaky movie. 
 
Except that monsters weren't monsters in that flaky movie.  None of it 
made sense. 
 
Morgan made another sound, something like pain, and managed, with 
Dennison's help, to get to her feet.  "Where's the gurney," she asked 
groggily. 
 
"Sit her down," Scully ordered, helplessness tightening her gut.  
"Dammit, Morgan, you just knocked yourself out on the floor." 
 
Morgan shook her head and swayed, leaning on Dennison.  "Nope, I 
was already out." 
 
For a heartbeat, Scully uncharitably wished she'd stayed that way. 
 
************************************************************************* 
Washington DC:  March 21, 11:37 pm 
 
Hurled back into his body again by the bitch's interference, Julian 
Harcourt fell back against the bed he had so lately used as an altar of 
sacrifice, the aroma of burnt flesh still rising from the offering he'd 
burned in his victim's fireplace.  Blood dappled his naked body, turning 
into shadows in the dim light, a bloody Harlequin; the bed behind him 
was stained scarlet, the limp form of the sacrifice cooling even as *he* 
gasped for breath.  
 
"I will have you," he hissed, once he could breathe again, but his mouth 
was dry with fear, and he wasn't entirely certain if he was telling Mulder 
or that poisonous cunt who had taken an interest in him.  Or in Mulder, 
it was hard to say. 
 
The only saving grace was that she was afraid, even as she thwarted 
him time and again, she was afraid.  He needed to find a wedge into her 
mind and soul, to use that fear as his own weapon.

It was what he did best. 
 
Rising, he walked into the small bathroom, the bright yellow and white 
colors providing an amusing counterpart to the blood that clotted in his 
hair, that painted his pale skin.  Looking at himself in the mirror, he 
smiled, raised a finger to the hollow of his throat and wiped away a 
smear of blood, lifted his finger to his mouth and sucked on it, tasting 
copper.

Ah, well, he was not Nosferatu, if there was such a thing.  In all his 
years of life, he'd never been interested enough to find out, although the 
dark eroticism of the legend appealed to him. 
 
He *was* a vampire of sorts, he supposed, but lying dead during the 
sunlit day had never appealed to him. 
 
Leaning over, he reached for the bathtub tap and turned it on, stepping 
into water soothingly warm.   Not, he reflected, unlike blood and bent to 
scoop water into his hands, washing himself clean, staining the water 
crimson--darkness swallowed him whole, a place where his nerves 
sang with the kind of agony he inflicted, never endured, the voices of his 
gods a deep rumble in his mind that made his teeth vibrate, made them 
ache, made him scream soundlessly..... 
 
I promise you, I will have them both, he sobbed, still silent, in a place 
with neither light nor sound nor sensation--other than pain.  My soul on 
it, I will have them both! 
 
When he could see again, he was kneeling in the hot water, weeping 
like a frightened child--like Mulder had, like all his victims had.  Oh, they 
would pay for this, for making his gods angry, he would hear them beg 
for death before he had finished. 
 
Moving mechanically, he washed himself clean of blood and semen, 
rose and dried himself, not looking in the mirror for fear of what he 
would see.  
 
But vanity proved stronger than fear--raising his eyes, he caught his 
breath on a scream....He was aging, he looked more than thirty now, 
lines forming at the corners of eyes and mouth, his features almost 
haggard.  Punishment for failure--but he would not fail, not in the end. 
 
When the door to the apartment opened, he smiled thinly at his 
reflection.  He would need to feed again--his gods were harsh, but 
loving.  

Still smiling, he went out to meet his next victim. 
 
************************************************************************* 
Georgetown:  March 22 12:02 am 
 
Skinner stood in the room, moving the flashlight across shattered 
plastic, broken glass and twisted metal.  The only thing undamaged in 
the room was the bed, hastily abandoned. 
 
"Looks like a damn bomb went off in here," one of the DC cops 
remarked, shining his flashlight along the wall, cracked and 
pockmarked from--whatever had happened in here. 
 
"Yeah," he agreed shortly and bent, picking up Morgan's laptop, the 
display starred with a crack that shot out in all directions.  "Sure does."   
Except that there was no sign of flame--save for a few scorch marks 
around the electrical outlets.

The television swung crazily from its perch; Mulder was damned lucky it 
hadn't landed on him.  The VCR--well, no one was going to be able to 
watch the video that protruded, partway, from the slot, the label burnt 
black. 
 
"Damnedest bomb I've ever seen," commented one of the other cops, a 
bomb specialist.  "And where was it, the television set?" 
 
"I don't know."  Skinner swallowed hard.  He wished he'd foreseen 
some of this when he'd called Gene Kelsey.

On the other hand, if Morgan hadn't been here, Mulder might be dead.  
Might be.  He wished he knew.  Scully seemed certain of it, but was 
either unwilling or unable to explain this certainty.  And Morgan--Morgan 
was tightlipped, saying only that Harcourt had tried for Mulder. 
 
Which didn't, to his mind, explain this room.  Turning, he stepped over 
the remains of the monitor and walked back down the hall to the 
elevator.  
 
Mulder was one floor up now, the entire matter having thoroughly 
unnerved the staff on this one.  He was asleep, so completely zoned on 
a sedative ordered by Geoff Montrose that it *would* take a bomb to 
wake him again. 
 
Morgan was sitting in the corner, holding a cold pack to her head, while 
Geoff Montrose stood over her, his expression grim.  Scully sat near 
Mulder's bed, leaning back in the chair.  She started awake when he 
came in. 
 
"Go home," he told her gruffly.  "I'll stay the rest of the night." 
 
Morgan nodded, from her corner.  "The rest of the night will be quiet, 
you need the rest." 
 
He turned to her.  "You go, too."  
 
Her mouth thinned.  "Not a chance." 
 
He let that rest; he knew a stubborn woman when he saw one, and two 
of them were too many to deal with.  One at a time.  "Go, Scully.  He'll 
be fine, he'd sleep through nuclear attack right now." 
 
Scully's mouth trembled briefly.  "That's what I'm afraid of." 
 
He sighed.  "I won't." 
 
That got a thin smile; she rose and picked up her coat, slanting a 
worried look back at Mulder, and an even more worried look at Morgan.  
"She needs to rest, too, sir." 
 
"One at a time," he told her drily, got another thin smile and she went 
out the door. 
 
Geoff Montrose looked at him and shook his head slightly.

Sighing, he went to the bed to take a look at Mulder, sleeping like kid, 
one bandaged hand under his chin, then settled back in the chair Scully 
had vacated.  Fortunately, they were reasonably comfortable chairs, 
both upholstered, both halfway decent for spending a night sitting up.

If you were a midget. 
 
There was more quiet conversation in the corner, too low for him to 
hear, and Montrose left, giving him a sardonic look on his way out. 
 
Morgan still sat in the corner, shoulders slumped, weary unto death, 
staring out at the night.  He let her be for a while until he realized that 
she was shaking. 
 
Rising, he went and rested his hip on the window sill, gazing down at 
her.  "What happened?" 
 
She glanced up at him briefly.  "Harcourt tried for him," she admitted 
softly and rubbed her eyes with one hand.  "I dropped my glasses in 
there, I'll bet they're broken." 
 
"Your laptop is."  He gazed at her.  "What happened, Dr. Grayson?" 
 
"Morgan," she told him automatically.  "It's hard to explain.  Harcourt 
almost broke through the protection I'd set up."  A quick sudden 
movement, quickly stifled, caught his eye and he wondered, watching 
her.  She didn't quite have Scully's battlefield stare, but she was 
shaken. 
 
"How close?" he asked, silently questioning his own sanity.  "Is 
Harcourt in DC?" 
 
"Pretty close," she told him softly, almost a whisper.  One hand went to 
her mouth briefly.  "I think it was very close, I think Mulder very nearly 
ended up dead." 
 
He didn't want to know.  He really didn't want to know.  But God, so they 
said, hated a coward.  "How?" 
 
The hand to the mouth again, resting there longer.  "He has a link with 
him."  

Flat tone, deliberately flat.  Almost uninflected.  He'd heard *that* in 
Nam, too, kids who talked that way to keep from feeling fear.  From 
showing fear.  

She looked at him again.  "It was weakened when we came here, but 
he's in DC now.  He can use it again." 
 
Link.  God, what had they gotten into?  Flicking a look over at Mulder's 
sleeping form, he shook his head.  "I don't understand." 
 
"`S all right," she answered faintly.  "I do." 
 
He waited for a moment, but there was nothing else.

Going back to the chair, he picked up a book retrieved from the 
wreckage downstairs.  Clive Barker, he thought and opened the cover.  
Well, it was better than watching Morgan drive herself crazy.  In a lot of 
ways, she was beginning to remind him of Mulder.  

A healthier Mulder.  Or maybe not, maybe the only difference was in the 
degree of damage they had both suffered. 
 
Shaking his head at his own fanciful thoughts, Skinner began to read. 



 
There was a bad taste in Mulder's mouth again.

He remembered biting his lip until it bled again, trying to keep from 
shaking apart, remembered Montrose slipping some more tranq into his 
IV.

Nasty taste, compounded of sleep, fear and blood. And probably the 
goddamned drugs they were pumping into him.  Raising his head, he 
peered around the room, a tranquil room, no breakage here. 

Skinner sat beside his bed, which startled him, the more so because 
Skinner was wearing jeans and a paint-stained sweatshirt.  And was 
reading his book. 
 
Skinner, out of a suit, reading Clive Barker. 

The world had undergone a *serious* change overnight, he thought, a 
little giddily and looked around again, seeing Morgan Grayson, curled 
up in a chair in the corner, covered with what looked like Skinner's 
overcoat. 
 
"Good morning," Skinner told him; turning back, he found the AD 
regarding him over the top of his glasses.  "You okay?" 
 
Uncurling, he sounded himself.  Pain here, pain there, pain everywhere-
-business as usual, he was okay.  "Yeah," he agreed sleepily.  "Thirsty." 
 
Rising, Skinner obliged, holding the cup to steady it while he drank, his 
fingertips against the icy glass.  It was fresh, which suggested that 
someone had brought it in--or Skinner had gotten it for him.  "What time 
is it?" 
 
"Nearly six."  Skinner sat down again, picking up a styrofoam cup that 
smelled enticingly of coffee. 
 
"Scully go home?"  Pushing himself up a little, he blinked at the room.  
 
"I twisted her arm," Skinner told him drily.  "But I expect her any minute, 
frankly.  She was a little shaken up last night." 
 
He didn't wonder.  Sitting in the dark, hearing Scully's tone, *he'd* been 
shaken up, and he'd missed all the fireworks.  "What happened, 
anyway?"  
 
"No one seems to know."  Skinner gave him a sharp look.  "I was 
hoping you might be able to tell me something." 
 
"I wish."  Mulder sighed, shaking his head.  "I slept through it, the only 
thing I remember is one helluva nightmare."  He flicked a quick look at 
Skinner, saw only concern in them and relaxed. 
 
"Harcourt?"  Even Skinner's voice was concerned. 
 
Looking back at him, Mulder frowned.  "Yeah.  But that's not 
surprising."  And shivered very slightly. 
 
"No, I suppose not." Skinner still sounded troubled.  His gaze traveled 
over to where Morgan still slept, but stirring in her sleep, muttering. 
 
Mulder followed that look, frowning.  Morgan sat up suddenly, regarding 
them both owlishly, her eyes disoriented. 
 
"Good morning."  Skinner's voice was soft.  "Would you like some 
coffee?" 
 
She rubbed her eyes, raked a hand through disordered hair.  "Um.  
Yeah, that would be great."
 
Nodding, Skinner eyed Mulder.  "They have decaf," he suggested 
gruffly.  "Want some?" 
 
A grin tugged at Mulder's lips.  "That would be more than great," he 
agreed feelingly. 
 
Skinner almost smiled before he left. 
 
Alone with her, Mulder found it hard to keep his temper from stirring to 
life again.  "What happened last night?" 
 
Morgan got up, carefully laying Skinner's coat across the back of the 
chair she'd slept in.  "Harcourt tried to get in," she told him and 
vanished into the bathroom. 
 
The sound of water splashing made him envious, and that fed his 
temper.  
 
When she emerged, drying her hands and face, he let it loose a little.  
"So, what the hell happened?  He almost made it?  I thought you were 
the Good Witch of the South, unbeaten in all contests?"

He was jabbing at her, he knew it, and from the set of her mouth, she 
could feel it.  What was worse, he liked that feeling--and slammed his 
mouth shut before anything else came out. 
 
Morgan's eyes came up, a brief flick of a glance, then went down again, 
focused on the towel.  "I never said I was unbeaten."  Her voice was 
toneless.  "I said I wouldn't let him take you again." 
 
"Oh, yeah, that's right." Despite his intentions, his mouth opened again, 
sarcasm enriching his tone.  "I forgot.  Well, he took out everything else 
in the room but us, lady, and that doesn't make me feel any too 
confident right now." 
 
She was drying her hands as if her life depended on it.  "I can 
understand why you might feel that way," she answered carefully.  
 
His temper pulled loose of its leash, tearing through the frayed control 
he had over it.  "Don't fucking talk to me like that.  I don't need your 
dime store self-help phrases, lady, I need to know what happened.  Or 
is that too godammned much to ask?" 
 
Her head came up; she was white to the lips, he saw, and briefly 
contemplated that.  He'd heard the phrase a hundred times, a thousand 
times, but had never actually seen anyone go white to the lips before--   
"Look, dammit, I'm not the one who went into that house alone, just to 
prove I had balls enough to do it, I didn't ask for this mess, I got hooked 
into it by your boss and Gene Kelsey, who I *thought* was a friend of 
mine, and I'm doing the best I can.  I fucked up, okay, is that what you 
wanted to know?  I missed one little piece and that monster was smart 
enough to find it and try for you anyway.  Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea 
maxima culpa.  Maybe you ought to find yourself the Wicked fucking 
Witch of the West and see how much she does for you."  Dropping the 
towel, she swung around and snatched up her coat and bag, moving for 
the door.  
 
He felt a little pale right now himself, he reflected, his gut aching.  Well, 
he'd asked for it, he'd started this fight.  "What did you forget, hotshot?  
Maybe I can give your replacement the good word." 
 
She stopped dead in front of the door.  Ten beats and she turned to 
face him.  The tears on her face shocked him.  The fear in her eyes 
scared him.  

"Electrical outlets," she told him flatly and was gone, leaving him caught 
between temper, terror and hilarity. 
 
 
Blinded by tears, Morgan walked fast, struggling with one sleeve.  As if 
she hadn't enough to deal with in her life, she'd taken this shit on--she 
was crazy, that was all, flat out stone crazy.

And now that *fucker* knew her, even if she walked and left Mulder to 
his fate, Harcourt knew her, and she couldn't hope to escape the 
confrontation.

Whether or not she was ready for it.  He'd come after her, and Aarin, 
and all her "family". 
 
Reaching the elevator, she pushed the button and wiped furiously at her 
eyes.  She wouldn't just leave Mulder to his fate, she couldn't.  No 
matter the temptation, no matter how scared she was.  Just 
remembering that room nauseated her, the echoes of pain and fear and 
rage all coalescing into one hard lump in the pit of her stomach. 
 
For a moment, she hated Gene Kelsey for telling stories about her, for 
bringing her to Walter Skinner's attention, for knowing she'd jump, 
knowing she was too fucking addicted to responsibility, too fucking 
concerned for the victims. 
 
Too addicted to hunting the monsters who had damaged or killed them.

And where in hell was the elevator?

Oh, God, why had she said that to him, like he was to blame for 
Harcourt's insanity and evil, like he hadn't paid for having tried to stop it.  
Shame added to her nausea, shame and guilt--she remembered being 
a victim, remembered hearing how it had been her own carelessness 
that had brought her fate down on her.  Tears stung again, hot and 
angry, and the elevator door opened. 
 
Thank God--but she blundered into Scully, just coming out.

Scully turned, her expression worried.  "Is Mulder all right?" 
 
Stumbling past her, Morgan nodded.  "He's fine," she managed and 
pressed the button for the first floor. 
 
Scully stepped between the doors, holding them, still perplexed.  "Are 
*you* all right?" 
 
"Never better," she told Scully brightly--dammit, Dana, just let me go, 
please.  And Scully stepped out, still staring  back at her as the doors 
closed. 
 
She cried all the way down.