Mulder was suspiciously quiet when Scully came in, giving her only a brief look and not even noticing the sack she carried. "Hi, Scully." Another quick look. "See Glinda out there anyway?" "Mulder," she scolded, but couldn't prevent a grin. "I did, actually, she was pretty upset. I brought you a surprise, Mulder, some decaf cappuccino." That got his attention. "Scully, you're wonderful--have I told you that lately?" She grinned. "Not lately." Reaching, she adjusted his bed, put the cup on his tray, and snatched a straw off the bedside table. "But thanks, it's nice to hear anyway." He gave her a faint grin. "Scully, I want to have your baby." And sipped through the straw, his eyes closing again in pleasure. "Nah, you're too easy. A muffin, a cup of decaf--Mulder, you need higher standards." But she felt ridiculously happy, given the night's events. Every day, he was a little more himself. "What was Morgan so upset about?" Oh, hell, that interrupted his enjoyment; he gave her a faintly guilty look. "Mulder?" "We sort of had a fight," he admitted hoarsely and gave her that damned pouty, puppy dog look. "I, uh, asked her what happened. She finally said she screwed up." Scully narrowed her eyes. "And?" Another guilty look. "Well, it was a lot wordier than that, Scully, we both kind of lost our tempers." Another puppy dog look. "I feel kind of badly, I never thought she was scared." "Oh, Mulder." Scully sat down, wondering how she felt about all this. "You know, I didn't either." They looked at each other. "Lost your tempers--well, you must be feeling better, I guess that's a good sign." She studied him. "How do you feel about that?" He scowled. "Puh-lease, Scully, don't shrink me, I know the drill. I was thinking, before you came in, I feel--weirdly relieved and just as scared. But other than that, I don't know." Skinner came in, carrying two cups of coffee, blinked at them, and scowled. "Mulder, where is Dr. Grayson?" "She had to leave, sir," Scully told him hastily. Looking at them, Skinner sighed. "I hope that's decaf he's drinking--it is decaf? Good, here's some more, Mulder." Mulder grinned like a kid at Christmas; reaching back into the sack, Scully withdrew an almond croissant--he loved marzipan--and broke it into pieces on a napkin before handing Skinner a cappuccino and muffin, a little embarrassed. He accepted it, obviously surprised, but grinned briefly. "Thank you, Scully." "Least I could do, sir. I got a good night's sleep." Mulder scowled at her. "So did I--sir, have you heard anything about Harcourt?" Skinner's pleasure dimmed. "They've found some dead kids in Baltimore," he told her shortly, "Looks like Harcourt's work. Ah, Dr. Grayson believes he's in Washington." Mulder shivered. "Yeah, I think she's right," he agreed slowly. "He didn't get me, and I stabbed him. He's going to come after me, got to finish it." She did *not* want to have this discussion with him. "Maybe," she told him shortly. "Eat your croissant, Mulder." The door opened again--God, for someone supposedly protected, people were strolling in and out of his room. On the other hand, this one was a tall, slender, African American goddess with hair done in tiny braids. With beads woven in. His jaw nearly dropped. She smiled. "I'm Sharon Walters, a friend of Morgan's. Came in to help keep an eye on you." Scully looked dumbfounded. Closing his own mouth, Mulder swallowed. "You must be the Good Witch of the North," he told her, one corner of his mouth quirking. A brief smile came his way. "West, I'm afraid. I used to be a cop, San Francisco PD. Saw you speak at a seminar, Mr. Mulder." "The Witch of the West was wicked." Mulder ignored this conversational sally, purely contrarily. "Are you?" "Honey, you can't begin to imagine," she answered him, narrowing her eyes. "You give Morgan any more shit, you'll end up in that bed a whole lot longer." There was a brief silence. Skinner arched both eyebrows and cleared his throat. "I'm going home to get a shower and change before I go back to work and frighten the feckless." "But sir--" Scully's eyes glinted. "Mulder's here." Mulder looked at her, miming laughter. "Very funny." He eyed Walters. "So, what tricks can *you* do?" She smiled. "I turn bad little boys into gingerbread and feed them to the ducks." He lifted a brow, deviltry brewing inside him. "What do you do to bad big boys?" "No such thing," she purred, looking down on him. "You're all bad little boys to me." Skinner snorted and retrieved his coat. "Mulder, quit while you're ahead. Scully, I hope you came armed." "I always am," she told him drily. "I never take him anywhere without my gun." She held out a hand. "I'm Dana Scully, this is Fox Mulder. But please," and *she* purred, slanting him a wicked look, "Call me Dana. He's Fox." He was going to get her for that. Opening his mouth, he was further confounded when she put a piece of croissant in it. "He's just cranky," Scully told Sharon Walters cheerfully, as the door closed on Skinner. "But we're damned glad of it. I have an extra cappuccino, would you like it?" "I'd love it. Call me Sharon." Sharon accepted the cup and leaned against the foot of the bed, giving them both a narrow look. "Pretty rough night. You doing all right with this?" After a moment, Scully shrugged. "I've done better." "She likes having me at her mercy," Mulder grumbled and took another sip of his own cappuccino. "How do you know Morgan?" "Old friends," Sharon inhaled the aroma of fresh cappucino from the cup. "Mmm, this is good stuff." "How does a San Francisco cop end up hanging around with a witch?" Mulder leaned up, grinning when she scowled at him. "Watch your mouth," she told him mildly, "I don't mind watchin' out for your skinny white ass, but I don't like hearing my friends bad-mouthed. I don't like having her involved with this, either, but stopping Morgan is like trying to stop an earthquake--and she has trouble sayin' no to people." Mulder swallowed hard, the fun gone out of this particular fishing expedition; taking another bite of his croissant, he studied the pieces as if he could foretell the future with them. Scully leaned back in her chair. "He wasn't bad mouthing her, I have to admit, I thought she was a flake at first." Sharon lifted one eyebrow and chuckled, the sound rich and full. "So did I. A real space cadet--well, she has her ditz moments, I admit, but she walks the talk." Mulder toyed with a piece of croissant, wondering why he felt guilty. "So, you just hang around here all day and watch my skinny white ass?" Sharon chuckled again; evidently, there were no hard feelings. "I hang around until about ten, then I take off for my real job and someone else takes over. Then," a shrug, another narrow look. "Maybe Morgan comes back. I don't have her schedule." She lifted her head, eyes moving around the room. "She did a neat job in here, I'm impressed. I've never seen anything so seamless." Scully blinked at her. As for himself, Mulder just stared. "What?" "The warding." Another grin. "If a cop like me can learn this stuff, you two can--close your eyes, see what you feel?" Mulder closed his eyes. "I feel silly," he complained and opened them again. But Scully's were still closed and she was standing, letting Sharon guide her toward the door. "I don't feel anything." Scully's voice was flat; Sharon opened the door again and raised Scully's hand palm outward. "Okay, just push your hand forward a little, really slowly. Yeah, like that--now back, really slowly. Do it a couple of times, real relaxed, see if you feel anything on your palm." Scowling, Mulder watched, wondering if he'd gone crazy, or if Scully had. The trails of light, whispered his inconvenient inner voice and he clamped down on it. Scully made a surprised sound, not quite a gasp. "Oh. I feel something." Laughter hid under her tone and he felt some relief at that. Skinner in jeans, reading Clive Barker was one thing; Scully believing in--in warding, was another thing entirely. But now, Scully was interested, letting Sharon close the door and move her around the room. He was scowling again by the time Scully turned to him, her face alight with amusement. She arched an eyebrow at him. "Don't be ridiculous, Mulder, it isn't such a terrible stretch to consider the possibility. The human body has its own fields--there have been studies done on therapeutic touch, after all, which--" He raised his hands in surrender. "No more, Scully, please, I'm just not up to it." Her eyes narrowed as Sharon laughed. "I'll hurt you, Mulder, if you don't watch your step. How would you like that catheter removed right now." He grinned, but it was forced. Scully, being Scully, saw that and came to the bed to briefly touch his arm. "Sorry, that was a bad joke," she murmured, her eyes worried. "I'm okay," he reassured her--dammit, he hated seeing her eyes like that--and forced lightness into his voice. "Honestly. But if you come in here with a crescent moon pendant, I'm going to know that you aren't really Scully." She pulled a face at him, mock astonishment that made him grin, more genuinely. "Why, Mulder, I thought you wanted me to be more open- minded!" "Just so long as your brain doesn't fall out through the opening," he retorted and took another sip of coffee. Sharon Walters, doing likewise, grinned at him over the top of her cup. It was going to be a long day. Georgetown: March 22 10:52 am As it turned out, Mulder hadn't suspected the half of it. They came and did something painful to his feet while changing his dressings, making him glad of the medication they pumped into his IV. The rest of the morning was a hazy blur, watching colorful movements on the television without much understanding of what they were, listening to Scully and Sharon talk, a sound that soothed him in and out of a doze, and waking occasionally to drink ice water when Scully held him up. He thought Montrose came in and talked to him, but wasn't at all sure it wasn't a dream. Montrose seemed amused--and also seemed to be there for a while, not that he mustered the alertness to discern why. When he finally surfaced, it was just past eleven, and Sharon's place seemed to have been taken by a skinny kid with black hair, buzz cut. Eyeing the newcomer, Mulder gulped ice water--the damned medication made him dry out like the Sahara. "Who are you?" he asked hoarsely. Scully grinned. "Mulder, this is Tommy Richards, from Berkeley." He looked at her, still foggy. "From Berkeley," he repeated and blinked. "What's he doing here?" "Helping Morgan out," Tommy told him. Scully's face struggled briefly with laughter. "Tommy's mother was Tibetan. His great grandfather was one of Morgan's teachers." Another brief struggle. "Tommy is a graduate student, writing his dissertation on artificial intelligence." Oh, great. Another of Morgan's colleagues. This one wore a lime green muscle shirt under a black leather jacket, black denim jeans, green and black trainers, a Walkman, and was presently fairly absorbed in--Mulder peered, blinking--Snow Crash. Whatever the hell that was. "Oh-kay," he muttered and leaned back again, vainly trying to rub the crusts of sleep from his eyes with his forearms. Scully leaned over him, a damp cloth in hand. "Let me help," she suggested, and bit her lip, still perilously close to laughter. "Why is he here?" Mulder grumbled in a whisper. "I'm tired of having strange people show up." "Good thing Frohicke hasn't been here." Scully snickered quietly at his expression. "Mulder, I'm beginning to think that you and Morgan are scarily alike in some ways." "Huh." He put scorn into it, blinked as she got one eye wiped clean. "Watch out, Scully, I only have two, you know." Another snicker. "Stop being a baby and hold still." Scowling, he obediently closed his eyes, felt the coolness touch his eyelids. Actually, it felt nice. "Do that again." She did. "You feel a little hot, Mulder." He opened his eyes. "Isn't that normal?" Her mouth quirked. "Maybe. But I think I'll see what your temperature is anyway. Damn, at least we could tell with the monitor." "No way," he warned. "When that blew up, so did any chance I'll sit still for another one--Scully, I mean it." He grinned crookedly at her. And he hadn't even had to use his gun. "Calm down, I'm not going to get another monitor, I'm going for a thermometer." "It better be oral." As the door closed, he sank back on the pillow. She wouldn't, would she? Nah, he was being an idiot again. She returned with a nurse who reminded him of World War II movies. And the Germans. The woman was built like a linebacker. "Doctor says we can get rid of the catheter," she informed him and yanked the curtain around the bed. Oh, hell, he thought and flinched. "Um, that's all right, I can wait a while longer--hey, oh, dammit, that hurt!" The nurse smirked at him. Obviously, they all got together and traded secrets about Fox Mulder whenever he came in. Sulking, he pulled the blankets back up. It *still* hurt--but he had to admit, it was good to see her take the damned thing away. Just as he started to relax, she appeared again and she poked something into his ear; he belatedly recognized it as she pulled it away and frowned. "Your temperature is up," she told him accusingly. Helpless, he shrugged. "I don't know why." Scully peeked around the corner, her expression concerned. "Can I come in?" The nurse opened her mouth, but Mulder beat her to it. "Yes, please." Faintly. He hated hospitals. "Scully, get a wheelchair, I wanna go for a ride." Both her eyebrows went up. "I don't think so, Mulder." "Absolutely not." The nurse gave him a severe look and marched out. Scully shrugged, a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Soon," she promised. "Mulder, it's a little nuts to go zooming through the hospital when the government's paying for a guard on your door." He sulked again. He was bored. He hurt everywhere and he was bored. "I want the case file," he growled. "And I want to hear about the kids in Baltimore. And if he's here, there are going to be more bodies, dammit. Don't look at me that way, Scully, I want the case file, I'm tired of lying here in the damned dark." She was shaking her head, her expression grim. "You're out of this one, partner, don't even try. He damned near killed you, Mulder, will you for one minute try to think like a normal human being?" Out of nowhere, the fear zoomed in on his gut. "I can't just lie here, nobody tells me anything, the goddamned room explodes around me, Scully, I need to do something." "You are doing something," she told him, her tone harsh. "You're healing." Then, softening. "Don't, Mulder. I don't want to yell at you, you don't deserve that, but it makes me crazy when you won't listen to reason. I don't even know everything about the case, and I'm part of it." Tears stung his eyes suddenly. "Oh, the hell with it, just leave me alone." Shaking her head, she left the curtain drawn around the bed and went back, evidently to talk to Tommy, he could hear soft voices on the other side of the room. Closing his eyes, he let the drugs drag him back under. ****************************************************************************** Alexandria: March 22 11:15 am Sipping at a cup of herbal tea, Morgan watched as Aarin played crash 'em cars at her feet, too aware of the voice behind her, Emily speaking softly into the phone in the kitchen. A slender waif of a woman with wispy blond hair bound into a single braid, Emily came in, carrying her own cup, and sat down in the char across from Morgan. A small smile, warding off what was in the air. "What would I do without you, Em? What would Aarin do without you? " Emily's mouth curved slightly. "Yeah, not to mention that my being Wiccan makes it easier to keep good help." Her eyes moved to Aarin, still in his Winnie-the-Pooh sleeper. "You'd scare anyone else to death." "I don't think of you as help," Morgan protested, then, guiltily, "Even if I do take advantage of you." Laughing softly, Emily shook her head. "Hey, the pay's good, I don't have to lie about my religious preference, and I'm crazy about the kidlet. No dictation--I'm not complaining, Morgan." Emerging, Emily brought her own cup in and sat down on the chair across from Morgan, smiling at Aarin's play. "Geoff's worried about you, Morgan." Green eyes came back to meet hers, the pale brows drawing together. Morgan grimaced and took another sip, welcoming the soothing taste of chamomile. Though she didn't need to sleep. Didn't need to dream. "I need to get a good offense worked out. I need to stop seeing what Harcourt did to Fox last night. Tried to do." Shivering, she drank again, smiling faintly when Aarin turned to regard her worriedly, silently. "Hey, sweetie, I'm still here." Even after six months, he was still mute, with no physical cause they could discover. She wished she could break through that, hear his voice, hear his thoughts put into words. "Morgan, Geoff's not the only one." Emily leaned forward, her frown deepening, elbows on knees, cup held between both hands. "I know you know what you're doing, but you're rattled." Sighing, Morgan drew her legs up onto the couch, curling into the corner. "I know. I'm worried enough about me for all of us, Em. Believing in your karmic choices isn't the same as meeting them, I'm afraid. I never actually thought I'd face this. Or that it would be real." Leaning back again, Emily smiled faintly, the smile fading swiftly. "Did you get your phone calls made?" "All of 'em." Morgan smiled, this time genuinely. "That lunatic Tommy flew in this morning, did Sharon tell you? And he's at the hospital now." "What are you going to do?" Emily leaned back in the chair. Morgan took another sip. "Get by with a little help from my friends, Em. What else can I do? I can't let it go on, I can't let him kill Fox and go on killing. Even if he'd let me go now, which is doubtful. I've gotten in his way twice, I think the third time will be the charm." Emily was silent a moment. "And when will that be?" Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Your timing or his?" Morgan shivered. "I don't know. Soon. He's killing again, I need to figure out what to do before he gains enough strength to overcome everything we can do." Nodding, Emily drank some of her own tea. "At least you're saying 'we', I was beginning to worry about you." Another sip. "Why are you so certain he's going to come after Fox? Or you?" Sighing, Morgan waved a hand vaguely. "Vanity. His whole existence is about vanity, Em. And power." She bit her lip and shivered again. "Fox fought him, he fought hard. He didn't follow the script Harcourt set up, he didn't break--and I keep getting in his way." Emily's gaze went distant. "Maybe his gods don't like that, either," she suggested softly. Snorting, Morgan sat up again, cross-legged, setting the cup on the arm of the couch. "You know I don't believe that, Em. He's created his own gods, invested them with power that he generated himself. If his gods don't like it, it's because Julian doesn't like it." Her voice faltered. "Not that it matters--it's what he believes that counts. How much power he's given those images in his head." Emily's expression was exasperated. "You believe in something, Morgan--is your belief just a projection?" Morgan smiled, rueful. "Okay, I'm not consistent. But I can't believe in dark gods, Em, it doesn't fit my cosmology. Human evil is persistent enough, there isn't any need for cosmic evil." "I think that was a Christian heresy around the sixth century, wasn't it? Or maybe I'm thinking backwards--didn't the Gnostics believe that good and evil were cosmic--the Lord of Heaven and the Lord of this world?" Rolling her eyes, Morgan nodded. "Oh, yeah. The Lord of this World is Lucifer. Or whatever." A shrug. "I never believed much in the devil, Em." "Neither did I. But that doesn't mean I don't believe in evil with an uppercase E." Emily's mouth curved. "I've seen enough to convince me of it. Especially since working with you." Morgan laughed. "Nanny, secretary, aide-de-camp. Everything but chief cook and bottle washer. Poor Em, I abuse you shamefully." Emily laughed with her, but sobered, running her thumb around the rim of the cup she held. "Morgan, when I chose Wicca, I was content to simply be Wiccan at first. But that's not enough, not when I see what surrounds us. I came to work for you because I saw you making a difference. Saw you standing up against what was evil. Still an uppercase E, by the way, but also the lowercase kind. Don't underestimate this." Sober again, Morgan picked the cup back up, sipped at it, her eyes downcast. "I won't." "And don't try to protect everyone else--the web of life, Morgan. You don't work alone." "I'm not that arrogant." Morgan stopped for a moment, remembering that she'd said those words before. "Well, maybe I can be, but not deliberately. I just hate taking chances with other people." Nodding again, Emily glanced at her watch. "Come on, Aarin, time to put the cars away and get ready for school." Aarin scowled and scrambled up, climbing into Morgan's lap. She laughed softly, rubbing the silky hair affectionately. "Listen, monkey, Mama has to get to work, and you have to get to school. Bring me a picture of what you do today, can you do that?" A doubtful look; his arms went around her neck tightly, a fierce hug, and then he let Emily lift him up, take him upstairs to wash and change clothes. Morgan sat for a moment longer, gazing off into space. She hated this. She always had. But underlying the hate was what she feared more: the thrill of the Hunt, the power she felt when she could put an end to something evil. Power, seductive and beckoning, making her feel good, making her feel--like something other than a fool, a misfit, a changeling left in the cradle for her parents to find. No longer a victim of what others might choose to attempt. Shivering again, despite the heavy sweater that she wore, she bent and reached for her boots, pulling them on over the leggings. She had things to pick up--and she still had to face Mulder. And, despite the urgency of both, she wanted to move through the city, tasting the undercurrents, trying to locate Harcourt. Whether it was wise or not. ********************************************************************* Georgetown: March 21 11:21 am The new shift of guards came on, one of them--Thompson--a stolid, dark skinned man who came in and checked the windows and doors thoroughly, even shining a flashlight into the cubbyhole of a closet. The bathroom received the same thorough going over, making Scully's mouth quirk. But she remained silent, approving it, until he climbed on a chair, pulling a screwdriver out of his jacket pocket to take the television down. "What are you doing?" she asked, softly, not wanting to wake Mulder. He gave her a mild look. "Taking this out. Got another one, the bomb guys did everything but open up the picture tube." A faint grin. "No exploding televisions on my watch, Agent Scully." She couldn't blame him for that. "Okay," she agreed, almost smiling in return. He paused, looking down at her, and lifted his chin at Mulder's sleeping form. "How is he doing?" She followed his gaze and sighed. "Better, I guess. Not so shocky, now he's starting to get antsy, wants the case file." Thompson shook his head. "That's Spooky." It brought a quick retort to the tip of her tongue, but his tone hadn't been unkind. "You know him?" "A little. When he first came out of Quantico, before Patterson snatched him up." A brief smile and he went back to the television. "Who's the kid?" Scully's mouth quirked again. "Friend of Dr. Grayson's. I think he's here for moral backup." He cocked a questioning eyebrow at her. "Grayson?" "Civilian," Scully told him, amused. How the hell should she describe Morgan Grayson? "Kind of a female Mulder, they tell me. Skinner brought her in to help find him when he disappeared." A soft grunt of acknowledgment, the metallic sound of a screw coming loose and falling to the floor--he lifted the television free of its perch, steadied it, and got down off the chair carefully. "No other electronic equipment in here, is there?" "Nope, except my cell phone. And it hasn't been out of my reach." Scully found she was smiling again. "Well, and the call button and intercom." He pursed his lips for a moment. "Better get someone in to check that. Should've been done yesterday." Implicit in his tone was disapproval of sloppy procedure. "How much moral backup does he give with his nose in that book?" Scully chuckled. "It's okay, Mulder's asleep now. They zapped him good this morning, had to do some work on his burns." A faint smile and Thompson moved for the door. "Tell him not to get his underwear in a twist--if he's wearing any. I'll bring a new one back pretty quick." Chuckling again, she sat back down in the chair and let her eyes close for a moment. Just for a moment, she told herself, and felt sleep sneaking up on her, only to succumb when it yanked her down. Mulder woke because his bladder ached. Opening his eyes, he sleepily realized why--the down side of having the catheter out, he supposed, but grinned drowsily at the thought. Pushing himself upright, he blinked at Scully, eyes peacefully closed. Tommy, too, seemed to be dozing--or meditating, and he didn't much care which. No more bedpan, no plastic urinal, he was going to get out of this fucking bed if it killed him. He'd made it out of that cellar in worse condition, and wrestled that fucker Harcourt--going to the bathroom was going to be a piece of cake. Um. How the hell was he going to get to the bathroom with his gown flapping in the back? With great care, obviously. Plan the route--okay, he could use the bed to get him to the wall, the wall to get him to the bathroom, and then--"Okay," he muttered under his breath and inched down, swung his legs over the side of the bed. Oh, hell--the IV. Grateful for carpet on the floor, he reached for it, guided it carefully down the side of the bed, wincing when he had to use his palm to keep it steady. He could walk on his heels, hold the gown closed with his free hand, and use his arm to balance against the bed, the wall, whatever. Sliding down, he eased over the edge of the bed, giving Scully a quick look before resting his feet on the floor. No outraged glare, she was still out. So much the better. Oh, shit, it hurt a lot more than he'd thought. On the other hand--it didn't hurt as badly as it had in that house. And he could keep his weight back, on his heels--oops, a little dizzy there, lean on the foot of the bed--he was actually making progress, guiding the goddamn IV along and resisting the urge to lean on it. Just a little way to the wall-- "Mulder, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Busted. In for a penny--he kept going, not looking back, feeling his jaw set stubbornly. "Nothing to worry about," he told her, through clenched teeth. It really did hurt like a motherfucker, but he'd never welcomed pain more. Quick steps behind him. Letting go of the gown--hell, she'd seen his ass more than once, it wasn't like she wasn't a doctor--he warded her off with that hand. "Leave me alone, dammit, I'm fine." "You aren't supposed to be out of bed." Her eyes were practically electric with anger. "Goddammit, Mulder--" She tried to grab his arm and he jerked it back before she could, off balance enough that his weight fell on the wrong places, making him gasp. "Scully, don't--goddammit yourself, you're fucking up my balance." "I'll fuck it up worse, Mulder--I'm going to have you sedated, you lunatic, are you just stone crazy?" Another grab, this time successful; her fingers bit into his flesh above the elbow. Unaccountably, it panicked him; jerking free, he leaned against the wall, breathing hard. "Leave me alone, Scully." Harsh voice, ragged breaths in and out. "Just let me be." In answer, she turned, went back to the bed and pushed hard on the call button. "This is so irresponsible, Mulder--I thought you were smarter than this." Tommy was awake--oh, good, he thought distantly--his eyes watchful, standing up near the window as if poised--to do something, to take sides, who the fuck knew.... "I don't need a sedative." Another painful step sideways, his heart hammering. "I don't *want* a sedative." Her eyes flashed. "Mulder, right now I don't much care what you want." She was angry, he told himself, she wouldn't have them put him under. But his heart hammered anyway and he tried to move again, biting his lip against the pain....and hurting his mouth again. Bastard, bastard, son of a bitch--the door opened, a young man came in wearing nursing whites and a name tag that announced him to be R. Baker, RN. "What do you folks--oh, hey, that's not a good idea." R. Baker advanced on him, hands out. He'd nearly reached the bathroom door, put out a hand to ward Baker off. "You aren't supposed to be out of bed--" Scully came back. "Come on, Mulder, it's over, time to get back in bed." "Fuck that," he grated and inched backward, so damned close--he could lock the fucking bathroom door if he could just make it there. "Don't sedate him." Tommy stood near the foot of the bed, his expression grave. Scully whirled on him. "You aren't a part of this," she told him dangerously. "So just shut up." For a moment, Mulder liked the kid, but couldn't take time to think about it. Baker had him nearly cornered, he felt trapped, furious with Scully, near tears again, but of anger this time. Not pain. Not fear. His heart went on thumping fast, banging hard--"Leave me the fuck alone," he told Baker, his tone flat. "And stay the hell out of my way." Baker just looked at him, not even angry. Instead. "I know it's tough. But you're not doing yourself any favors, you're going to tear the hell out of your burns. Let's compromise, okay? He was shaking hard enough that the wall was the only thing holding him up. "No." It was sheer stubbornness now, that and needing to take care of himself, needing not to be helpless. "Leave me alone." "Mulder," Scully grated, coming toward him; Baker held out his arm to stop her, slanting her back a look that made her stop in her tracks. Leaning his head against the wall, Mulder took in a deep breath, tried to stop his chin from wobbling. "Just let me be, okay? I was fine until Scully got crazy." That earned him a truly poisonous look; he gave one back, but his shaking seemed to be subsiding. "Let's everybody take a minute to calm down." Baker's voice was even. "Okay--Fox, talk to me." Mulder stared at him. No fucking way. He edged sideways again, then thought better of it. "Ma'am," Baker looked back at Scully. "Would you and your friend just go on out in the hall." For an instant, Scully's expression was dumbfounded. He found he was meanly pleased by that. "Yeah," he agreed hoarsely. "Go, Scully." After a heartbeat, she did, jerking her head at Tommy to follow. When the door had closed, he and Baker regarded each other silently. Stalemate. But at least Baker hadn't sprinted off to get a needle and syringe. "I just want to use the bathroom, all right?" he managed, more calmly this time, his heart slowing again. Baker's expression eased at his tone, became thoughtful. "It's tough being helpless," he allowed and rubbed his chin. "But you don't need to be on your feet--" "No bedpan," Mulder told him tightly, his voice rising again. He damped it, a tiny voice in the back of his mind telling him that this was ridiculous, what the hell did he hope to gain by this..... "Okay," Baker agreed. "How about this--I get you back on the bed, I go and get a wheelchair. You can manage that by yourself, and it makes the rest of us happy, too." He didn't much care, right now, about making the rest of them happy. "What if I say no?" Baker arched one eyebrow. "That's not rational. And if you aren't rational, I have to go get something that will knock you on your butt for a long while." He closed his eyes, shaking again. Not much of a choice. But still--"All right," he agreed and found his chin wanted to wobble again. "Go get the damned thing." "After I get you on the bed." Baker glanced down. "Looks like you already did enough damage for one day." He looked down, saw--not blood, exactly, but something stained the gauze. Biting his lip again, he nodded, let Baker ease him back to the bed. And then sat there, his arm pressed against his eyes while Baker went to get the wheelchair. Out in the hall, Tommy gave Scully a reproachful look. "I know it's not my business, but sedating him isn't a good idea. It leaves him too vulnerable." The palm of her hand itched to slap Tommy. She put her hand in her pocket instead, glad she'd brought her coat. "He's plenty vulnerable awake," she snapped and walked away, walked toward the elevator. While she was waiting, her cell phone chirped. Snatching it out of her pocket, she barked, "Scully." "Skinner." The AD's voice, utterly weary. "Meet me at 2202 16th, Scully. Apartment 702. I think Dr. Grayson is quite right, I think Harcourt figured out Mulder's back home." *************************************************************************** Washington DC: March 22 1:00 pm The room smelled of death. Blood, semen, urine and feces--the odor made Scully's throat work. Two bodies, both mutilated. Either of them could have been Mulder, a thin voice whispered inside her head, making her hands shake. Deep breath, Dana Katherine, Gran's voice said. Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, she obeyed and let the professional detachment of a pathologist snap into place. Both male, both in their late twenties--lovers, the neighbor had said, her face blotchy with tears and shocks. One lay on the abattoir that had once been a bed. His throat had been cut, his genitals cut away. Move into automatic, hands moving to take samples, fiber, hair, semen, blood..... Time of death, best estimate around 11:00 pm the previous night, give or take thirty minutes. The room was cool now, the remains of a fire--and the victim's genitals--still smoldering on the grate. The other body lay on the floor near the fireplace, bound hand and foot, mutilated, the face an anonymous mask of blood. For an instant, Scully couldn't breathe, seeing Mulder's features superimposed on this one, too. Gloves bloody, she knelt near the police coroner, getting a bleak look. He'd ignored her when she came in, he'd already examined the first body and let her go through the drill by herself, watching and making notes on his own examination while she made hers. But she didn't want a jurisdictional squabble on this one. Wanted to play nice. Good girl, Dana Katherine, gets along well with others. "Special Agent Dana Scully," she introduced herself, her voice soft. "Dr. Esterhazy?" He nodded, a man in his late forties, dark hair going iron-grey. "Yeah." He slanted a look back at Skinner. "How did this become a federal matter?" She looked back herself. Skinner's tone was all she could hear from where she knelt. Deferential, yet authoritative. If she didn't know better, she'd say he was schmoozing the detectives. Skinner, schmoozing--the concept made her shake her head--what the hell was Skinner doing at a crime scene anyway? He was an Assistant Director, not a field agent. "One of our guys got abducted and tortured--we think this might be the same subject." Esterhazy's eyes narrowed. "Unknown subject?" "I'm afraid not, I believe AD Skinner has given the police all the details we have, including a composite based on our agent's description." "He survived." The coroner looked back at the bed. "How bad?" "Not this bad." Scully looked down, seeing the gleam of bone through torn flesh. "The ligature--the fivefold bond, I think it was once called." Esterhazy grunted and cut through the twine that cut into the dead man's wrists and ankles. Wincing, Scully pressed down on the hands, tightened into fists-- something pale caught her eye. "Can we get more light in here?" One of the detectives moved across the room, hit a light switch and baby floods shone down on the floor, pitiless, revealing every slashing wound, the grimace of terror and agony on the victim's face. She flashed on Mulder, the image of the blood that had covered him when she'd entered that fucking house, and repressed a shudder as Esterhazy shifted the body. "No sign he was raped," Esterhazy told her conversationally, "No anal tearing, no distention--plenty of semen on his skin, but I'd bet it was the perp's." Safe bet, she thought. "He didn't castrate this one." And thought of Mulder again, swallowed hard when saliva filled her mouth, against the acid taste in the back of her throat. Prying open one dead fist, she found several long strands of pale hair, white or very pale blond. Neither victim was blond--all right, you asshole, she thought and clenched her teeth. We've got physical evidence on you now, no more hiding in the fucking shadows. Maybe. "Maybe he ran out of time." Esterhazy whistled between his teeth. "Something under his nails--this one didn't go down without a fight." She briefly wished for Mulder, he would see things in this scene that she would overlook. His gaze would go distant, putting the pieces of the equation into that computer he called a brain and pulling out a brilliant, completely whacko, undeniably accurate reading. Morgan's voice made her head turn. Fighting dismay, she swallowed the protest she wanted to make as Skinner led Morgan in, as Morgan hunkered down beside them, her face pale. "The fivefold bond." Morgan's voice was faint. "Yeah, I know," Scully told her, trying to keep the bite out of her voice. Morgan was a profiler, she was damn good--or so they said. "Mockery." Morgan's voice was still faint. "The King of the Wood is European, not Tibetan. She rose suddenly and went to the bed. Skinner's eyes followed her, Scully noted, but when he spoke, he looked back down. "What have you got?" "The first victim's throat was cut, probably during sex. There's semen on the bed, a few tears in the anal tissue, semen there. The castration came after that, probably while he was still alive. No sign of a struggle, no ligature marks, no bruises or marks other than his throat and...." She let that fade, seeing Skinner's eyes go shadowed on her. "The shock and blood loss of the castration might have killed him anyway, sir. This one--was tortured, see this shallow cuts? Like he was carving runes into the flesh. And the deeper ones--he was still alive while this was done. Time of death, later than the first, probably by a couple of hours. No earlier than 1:00 am, I'd say." Esterhazy nodded, avoiding her gaze. "No indication of rape, though plenty more samples of semen." Skinner looked away, toward Morgan, then back at Scully. She held up the strands of hair silently, laid across her palm. "There are probably several hundred, if not several thousand men in the metropolitan area with long, fair hair." But her gut knew already. It was Harcourt. He looked at them for a moment, his mouth tightening. "Our guy, then. They're canvassing the building, one of the downstairs neighbors saw Tim Andrews come in with someone very like the composite. It caught his eye, the guy wasn't wearing a coat. All in black." "Who called it in?" Her mouth was dry suddenly, hearing Mulder's thin voice as he gave the description. "The neighbor. Andrew's boss is a friend of hers, too, he called when Andrews didn't show up for work. He's evidently pretty reliable, the boss asked her to check and see if he was sick." Skinner shrugged and moved to join Morgan at the bed. The woman outside. No wonder she was close to hysteria. Nodding, Scully carefully placed the hairs in an evidence bag, sealing it tight. She and Esterhazy both initialed the label he slapped on it. Then, she gave Esterhazy an apologetic look and went to join Skinner and Morgan at the bed. "No signs of a struggle." Morgan eyed the bed. Her pallor was more marked now, but her voice was steady. "He seduced this one, cut his throat and then castrated him while he was dying. Letting him know, letting him feel it. The blade is probably sharp enough that he didn't know his throat had been cut, but I'm damned certain he knew that he'd been castrated." Scully eyed her narrowly and eyed the body again, swallowing hard again against the inevitable identification with her partner. She was not going to be sick, dammit, she was a professional. Morgan gave her a brief, bleak look and put her hands into the pockets of her jacket, gazing at the floor. "He knelt here, see the blood on the rug." She turned around, bent her knees slightly as if she was going to kneel, nodded in grim satisfaction before straightening. "Probably about the time we had all the excitement at the hospital. He was pushing hard to get through." Scully met Skinner's uninformative gaze with widening eyes, then turned to watch as Morgan walked away, toward the small bathroom. Unable to prevent herself, she followed, her chagrin at that eased by Skinner's presence behind her. Morgan paused, hands still in her pockets. The bathroom had been dusted for prints, traces of powder on every surface. "He washed the blood off in the tub--did they check the drains?" Scully glanced at Skinner, saw him nodding. "It's on the list, they haven't done it yet." Her gaze went back to the tub; Scully saw her throat work once as if she, too, swallowed hard against sickness. "Something happened in here, he was furious and scared." Lifting her chin, she pointed it at the flat handprint on the side of the tub. "He had to get his balance, he was shaken up. What time of death for the second guy?" Scully told her. Morgan nodded again, biting her lower lip. "He took his time. Whatever he did to the guy on the bed, he needed more. More power, more blood. More fear and pain." Scully looked at her for a long moment. "So he kills for power." "Not the first one. Oh, I'm sure he took what he needed, but that was an offering. He probably burned the poor bastard's genitals." Skinner flicked Scully a warning look; she swallowed again. Morgan hadn't heard that detail, she was sure of it. Unless Skinner had told her. And that look suggested he had not. Oblivious to the silent exchange Morgan took another step into the bathroom, still talking. "Unless he ate them, but that's not his style, I don't think." For a heartbeat, Scully was certain she was going to vomit. All over her shoes and Skinner's--take a deep breath through the mouth, no scent, no disturbing odors. The sickness receded again. "An offering to what?" Or whom. "Whatever gods he believes in." Morgan's gaze was fixed on the handprint. "Only--only, I don't think they much liked it." A shrug. "The second guy--that was for him. He feeds off pain and terror and grief." Her teeth closed on her lower lip again. "He's not used to cleaning up after himself." "Accomplices?" Skinner arched an eyebrow. "Not exactly," Morgan looked at him, her mouth crimped briefly. "Not human, anyway." She turned and left the bathroom, leaving Scully and Skinner to look at each other. "Sir, why are you here?" Scully dared ask outright. "And why is she here?" His mouth flattened into a thin line. "I'm here because I don't want Mulder dead, Scully. And we need one helluva lot more to go on before we can take this bastard down. Like where the hell he is, where he might go. And that's why Dr. Grayson is here. Whatever her personal beliefs, she's a damned talented analyst." He left her there, going after Morgan with long, quick strides. After a moment, she looked down at her gloved hands and sighed; turning back, she went to kneel beside Esterhazy again, her jaw clenched. Going back outside the building, Scully was stunned to see that it was dusk. Or would have been, if not for the overcast sky; it was just plain getting dark. Her watch told her it was after seven, she'd been gone eight hours. Mulder had been left alone for eight hours with Tommy Richards. Shit, shit--getting into the car, she dialed the room and a man answered. "Who is this?" "Matthew Mitchell," the voice told her, "I'm here on behalf of Morgan Grayson. Who's calling, please?" She was silent, scowling. "Dana Scully, I'm Fox Mulder's partner, I'd like to talk to him." "Certainly." She heard faint voices, some static sound as the phone on the other end was moved. Mulder came on, sounding wary. "I'm fine, Scully." She hesitated, the memory of his anger, of her own, making her stomach clench. "Yeah. Mulder, I'm sorry for losing my temper this morning." He was silent. "I'm fine," he repeated, "Don't worry so much." A pause. "We were both upset, forget it." Reaching out, she pulled the car door shut and turned the key in the ignition. "You all right?" "Yeah." Another pause. "They had to redo my bandages." Probably the only admission she'd ever get that he'd been crazy to do it. "I'm not surprised," she told him drily. "And I have to worry, it's in my job description." He laughed a little, but it was prickly. "Right under 'spying on Spooky'?" "Above it," she retorted. "God, I forgot that clause, do you suppose I'll get demoted?" More laughter. Better laughter. "Guess what?" "What?" Her mouth curved. "The Tibetan adept has been replaced by a Unitarian minister." She could almost see his grin. "Morgan has some interesting friends." "I think it's time to put a stop to all these friends coming in to your room," she told him drily. "I don't know what she thinks she's doing, I know she means well, but I don't think you need it." "It's okay, Scully, he's kind of an interesting guy. Not my image of a minister, definitely. He and I have been debating theology for the last hour. In a friendly way, of course." He laughed again, softly. "And Tommy was great, he went down and got me food from the cafeteria. Hey, how come the food patients get is so lousy, the cafeteria isn't too bad." Rolling her eyes, Scully grinned. "It's a government plot, Mulder." "Nah, the insurance companies do it. They want to get you out of the hospital cheaply, and they figure the food's enough to do it. They're right, Scully." "You're crazy, Mulder." He laughed again. "Anyway, I'm fine, don't worry, you don't have to hurry back." A pause. "When are you coming back?" The hint of wistfulness made her smile again. "Soon. I have to do a few errands first--and I have to take my mom home tonight, Mulder." He sighed. "Bring me some ice cream, okay?" "What kind?" "Mint chip." Another pause. "Thanks, Scully." "I haven't got it yet." "Thanks anyway. See ya later." Pressing the button, she disconnected and put the phone down. On the way back to the hospital, she stopped at his apartment and rummaged shamelessly in the back of his closet, emerging triumphantly with a well worn, almost battered bathrobe, a subdued tartan that made her giggle and which almost certainly was old enough to have attended Oxford with him. Still, she'd never been certain her partner owned anything so mundane as a bathrobe--she hoped to hell it didn't have any memories lurking of Phoebe Green lounging around in it. On the other hand--she giggled again--tartan didn't strike her as Phoebe's thing. Another quick stop at Borders--browsing through the aisles, she rejected murders, mysteries, and aliens, but found a couple of new books in the science fiction section she thought he'd like. Cadigan went into the basket over her arm, De Lint joined her, and John Crowley looked intriguing enough to catch and hold his attention. His tastes tended to the eclectic--she wandered over the horror section and frowned. Absolutely *no* slasher tales--but Matheson was always good for a chill. And Straub--he'd read Ghost Story and liked it. Passing by the bargain table, she paused, checking nonfiction titles and suddenly grinned when she saw Morgan Grayson's name on one. The alien abduction mythos, she thought and opened it at random to read a few passages. It made her grin again. It was going to drive him nuts to read this, Morgan appeared not to believe in little grey men. She put it into the basket, snickering quietly to herself. Rousing him to temper was a lot healthier than the adrenaline produced by fear--it was a must buy. The New Age section was tempting; standing there, she giggled quietly to herself, catching several curious glances from other patrons. Nah, that would be too easy--and she was almost afraid to find out he believed in any of the things that made her snicker. He certainly seemed to have more faith in Morgan's interpretation of events than she did. That wasn't fair--he'd believed because of what he'd endured, not because of Morgan. In apology, she added several issues of the New York Times crossword puzzle books and made her way to the counter, feeling smug. It wasn't everyone who would blow their monthly fashion budget on their partner-- he'd damned well better appreciate it. But she already knew he would. Despite the fact that he made her nuts at times, she knew in her gut that she'd been wrong, a flaming, high stepping bitch, just another in the long list of people who tried to force Fox Mulder to do what was good for him. These were peace offerings she brought--even if he didn't understand that, it made her stomach easier. Opening the door to Mulder's room, Scully found him sitting on the edge of the bed, freshly shaved--shaved?--his hair clean--clean?--and soft, carefully spooning up bites of what looked like chili, engaging in animated conversation with a total stranger, a burly gentleman who looked to be sixty, at least, his dark hair and beard now liberally salted with silver. The minister. Mulder gave her a bright smile. "Hi, Scully. She eyed him. The man could develop an attack of guilt for the damnedest reasons, and then be completely oblivious when he really *was* a jerk. On the other hand, she'd been a jerk, too. "Hi, yourself. I see you shaved." He gave her a mordant smile. "Um, yes. Washed my hair, too." Turning, she saw the wheelchair on the other side of the bed, hiding in that corner as if afraid she'd notice it. "You are completely impossible," she murmured and shook her head. "But you look infinitely better, I must admit. Just tell me you didn't have a shower. Please--not with those burns." He smiled again, still brightly. "Got my hair clean in the sink--Rick did it for me, said he didn't have gloves that would go over these bandages. Had to put up with a sponge bath for the rest--they redid the dressings afterward." "It seems to have done you some good." She arched one eyebrow. "I brought you some presents--Mulder, doesn't it hurt your feet to hang like that?" He looked down and grimaced. Well he might, given that his feet resembled two anonymous lumps of gauze more than feet. Large anonymous lumps, mind you--"A little. But it feels good to sit up like a human being, Scully. And I'm stoned anyway, they're giving me really good shit." An almost wicked smile graced his face before he took another bite. Then, evidently just fuzzed enough, he looked up, his expression shifting to interest. "Did you say presents?" She grinned back. "Presents." Pulling the bathrobe out of the bag, she laughed at his embarrassment. "I thought you could use it to hide your skinny white butt from the nurses." He grinned wickedly. "Dana, this is Reverend Mitchell, Reverend Mitchell, my partner, Dana Scully." Scully grinned, held out her hand to have it engulfed by a big, calloused palm before turning back to Mulder with the bathrobe. "I'm not even sure it fits me." But Mulder obligingly put one arm into a sleeve. "God, I forgot I still had this, Scully, you've been through my closet--I keep telling you, you're only supposed to feed the fish." The other arm went in with her help; draping it decently, she grinned again. "Better?" He grinned back, almost wholly Mulder again. "Much." He picked up his spoon again, holding it delicately with just his fingertips. "Scully, you can't call my bathrobe a present, it was already mine." His eyes flicked to the bag, bright with curiosity. And drugs. Sitting up, pushing himself--dammit, she wished just once...no, she didn't. He was trying to take back his life, that was all. And she could understand that, felt it down in her gut--remembered feeling that herself. He couldn't even hold the spoon right, but he was, by God, going to do it himself, get shaved, wash his hair--and the vulnerability she saw in that assertion scared her as much as Harcourt. They were going to get that bastard before he ever got near Mulder again, that was all she could tell herself. Smile, Dana Katherine, he needs it, keep it light, keep it normal for him. "You are such a pain," she told him and pulled out a pint of mint chip ice cream. "Better eat it fast, it's been in the car thawing for the last ten minutes." Emptying the rest of the bag onto the bed, she grinned as his eyes widened again. "Don't ever say I never did anything for you." His eyes came back to meet hers, sober and wide. "I'd never say that, Scully," he told her softly, seriously enough that her eyes stung for a moment. "And this one is special," she muttered, after a long moment, snatching up what she'd found on the bargain table. "Ta-da, a theme near and dear to your heart, Mulder." He eyed it, eyes widening again, this time in humor. "Glinda wrote this? UFOs and Aliens: A Modern Mythology. Oh, god, don't tell me--is it bad?" Scully grinned. "I only looked at it for a few minutes, Mulder, but it actually looks pretty interesting. Give it a go, what the hell, you might find out you two have common ground after all." Rolling his eyes, he grimaced at her. "Perish the thought." But she thought it was half-hearted. If it made it easier for him to distance himself from what had been done to him, so be it. "Listen, partner, I've got to go by the lab for a while, I'll be back with my pillow before visiting hours are over." Nodding, he grinned at her. "Don't bring your bear, Scully, it might cause talk." "Heh, heh," she told him merrily and leaned in to give him half a hug. "Behave yourself while I'm gone. No outings. Reverend Mitchell, let me warn you, this man can talk people into almost anything, don't listen to him." Mitchell chuckled softly. "I'll remember, Ms. Scully." Scully paused at the door to give Mulder a warning look. "Don't make me hurt you like that beast woman hurt you, Mulder," she told him and grinned wickedly before letting the door close behind her. Georgetown: March 22 8:45 pm At 8:30, Reverend Mitchell apologetically took his leave--his replacement was late, but should be here soon, he'd said, leaving Mulder bemused. Having them there had made him feel no safer than having the guards outside the door. Scully made him feel safe. Hell, Morgan made him feel safe, even though she also made him long to throttle her. Or something. Tommy appeared before Morgan did, this time wearing a black sweater under the jacket and evidently over the muscle shirt. "Hey, man, you look a lot better than you did earlier." Mulder grinned, well aware of it. The effect on his morale had been significant--and he hadn't done anything by himself but brush his teeth. "Thanks. I think. Where's your friend?" Tommy gave him a blank look. "Morgan?" "She's parking the car." Tommy eyed him curiously. "You known Morgan long?" "It seems forever," Mulder answered drily and grinned again. "Just a couple of days. And I don't really know her, exactly, she just helped pull my ass out of the fire." The faintest tremor made his stomach clench. Literally, he thought and closed his eyes for a moment. Morgan came in, her hair damp and curling wildly, her coat darkened in places from the rain, a dark green backpack slung over one shoulder. She dropped it on the floor almost immediately. "I hate winter." She raked her hands through her hair, leaving it wilder. To Mulder's amusement, she avoided his gaze, looking everywhere but directly at him. "Tommy, can you give us a minute? Maybe you could get me some coffee, it's going to be a long night." Tommy gave her a long look. "I'll get you some juice. " He shook his head. "You don't need stimulants, Morgan." She grimaced, handed him a couple of bills and took off her coat. She was wearing black too--maybe it was a witchy thing, he told himself, mordantly amused, although she was supposed to be a *good* witch. Only when the door closed, did she turn to regard Mulder with an amazingly stoic expression. He might have laughed. He might have said something shitty. But his temper had cooled over the course of the day, and the memory of her tears kept him from laughing. "Wet night," he commented conversationally. She looked away for an instant, then back again. "Yeah," then, almost in a rush, "What I said this morning was unforgivable. I don't expect you to forgive me, but I hope you'll believe that I'm deeply sorry for it." He had to admire her style, even if she got on his nerves at times. Shrugging, he found it was his turn to look away. "It's all right, I was being a jerk." Her fingers curled over the foot of the bed; fascinated, he watched, saw the knuckles go white. "I'm not in this alone." Her tone was smooth, uninflected. "There are a lot of good people helping me--but I meant what I said, I won't let him take you again." A shiver crept up his spine at the very thought. He flashed again, the first time in two days, feeling the cold steel around his wrists and ankles and caught his breath, forcing the real world back into focus. "How are you going to stop him?" Her mouth thinned. "By blocking him." She shivered herself. It should have made him more afraid. Paradoxically, it made him calmer. "And then? What if he does an end run?" Something feral showed in her eyes for just a heartbeat. "Then, I drain what he's got. And after that--after his power's broken, it's up to the gods. Or God. Whatever." A fractional shrug. "And the police. And Tommy's here in case he does--what? An end run?" His stomach tied itself into a knot and then double knotted. "You like this, don't you? You like the hunt." Morgan turned away, walking as carefully as a dancer across the room to stand near the window. Her hands came up and adjusted the blinds, shutting out the night. "I don't like it. But--the power is there, and I do like that." A brief pause, as if she was thinking. "It scares me a lot--I understand him too well. I understand how power lured him. And whatever he's become--once I finally accepted that I was a freak, that I had certain abilities not generally considered normal, I let power draw me, too. The only difference between the two of us is that I fear it, too. I don't want to become more or less than human, I don't want to lose my soul to the hunger for more and more. Wasn't it Acton who said that power corrupts? And absolute power corrupts absolutely. I'm scared, yes, and yes, I want to bring him down, it's a feeling like no other." A quick look over her shoulder. "You've known that feeling yourself." Swallowing hard, he managed to find his voice. "Not like that." Denying it. But wasn't it true, after a fashion? She moved restlessly, with curious perfection and grace. "No, I suppose not." Another pause. "Remember the best sex you ever had, that moment before orgasm, poised there--and combine it with what you've known of the hunt. This is like that. With a touch of the feeling you get in dreams when you fly." His mouth was dry. First, she stonewalls him, he thought, and then tells him more than he ever wanted to know. But he was beginning to believe in her again. "Because you're the Hunter," he muttered, and saw her shiver, tuck her arms up into the bulky sleeves of her sweater. Turning, she avoided his gaze again. "I'm cold through," she commented, her tone almost normal. "I loathe cold weather--I'm not over fond of this area, I have to admit, but it was time for me to be here." Sighing, Mulder leaned back in bed. Some arcane reason, no doubt. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. "So what do you do when you aren't ghostbusting?" That got him a long look from under dark brows. "I'm a psychologist," she told him evenly, "I don't do clinical practice anymore, but I do a lot of work with the youth center, with the runaway shelter, and with AIDS groups." He tapped the book Scully had brought him. It was interesting, even if he disagreed pretty strongly with what her conclusion appeared to be. Although that was unfair, he'd only gotten through about a quarter of it. "And with victims of alien abduction." Something flickered behind her eyes. "Sometimes," she agreed faintly and walked around the room aimlessly, not that it was easy to do-- although private, this room was not that big. After another moment of aimless pacing, she opened the backpack and rummaged through it, coming up with a bottle of saline solution, the kind used for contact lenses, and what appeared to be a packet of oregano, finely ground. Oh, boy, he thought and leaned forward a little, curious and amused at the same time. He sure as hell hoped she wasn't planning on smoking whatever it was--it would be surly to have to arrest the woman who'd saved your life. He grinned at that, waiting and watching. Without paying any attention to his interest, Morgan took out a small pottery bowl, the size of a coffee cup, but much shallower and proceeded to open both packet and bottle and pour a small amount into the bowl. She caught him smiling and smiled in return, humorlessly. "Ritual, of whatever kind, has the virtue of allowing the mind to focus more intensely. The wards I raised downstairs and in here I did without any fuss, just me and my intention. But I want something sturdier, I'll feel better." "So you're going to perform a ritual?" Suppressed laughter kept tugging at the corners of his mouth, despite the knot in his stomach. "You didn't bring anything to sacrifice--no pigeons gonna die today?" She ignored that, save for a brief, narrow-eyed look. "Not exactly. But the use of ritual objects charges them with--oh, I guess energy is as good a term as any. And, there are certain traditions about the protective value of certain substances. Lavender, for example." Humor evaporated, leaving nausea. For a moment, he could smell it, smell the lavender sachet that had permeated the sheets on which he'd lain. On which he'd suffered and screamed. "Lavender," he repeated flatly. Her eyes flicked up curiously, then returned to the bowl. Standing up, she closed her eyes for a moment, then frowned. "God, I get turned around in this city--is this north?" He had to hand it to her, she was diverting. His stomach eased up on him while he thought about it. "A little to your right," he told her, thinking of the street outside. Nodding absently, she looked at the wall, directly across from the point at which she stood, frowned, and took a ninety degree turn toward the east, tipping her head back to see him. "East?" Amused again, he nodded. But it was interesting in spite of everything. No hocus pocus, she did it all quite silently, standing at the wall, her fingers coming out to write something--no, to form a symbol with the saline and whatever else it was.... "Is that lavender?" he asked finally, unable not to. She flicked him a look and sprinkled the stuff lightly on the floor, along the base of the wall. "No, actually, it's a compound of sage and cedar. And saline." For contact lenses. A thoroughly modern twist. His lips curved again as she moved around the wall, heading south. Another long silence, eyes closed--he could see that now--and she marked the wall again, something he couldn't follow. He waited until she was moving again. "Does it work if I ask what you're doing?" Another brief look. "Of course. It works even if you think it's funny." Considering that, he finally asked. "How?" "Because I believe it." She shrugged as she came to the bedside table. It received a few drops, as did the wall in back of the bed. For a moment, he thought he'd get some, too, but she only walked around the foot of the bed to take up again on the other side. "And my belief is stronger than your disbelief." "Don't I get any?" he asked, unable to keep from smiling. "You don't need any," Morgan told him absently, baptized the corner and continued along the west wall. At what was pretty close to true west, she paused again, eyes closed and marked the wall again before continuing back to the north. Another silence, another symbol, and she continued back to her starting point, sighing when she stepped back. "That's better." Then bit her lip; moving to the door, she gave it some special attention. He could almost make out the symbol when the light hit it just right, but it was nothing more than meaningless scribble to him. "Why don't I need any?" Morgan shrugged and went into the bathroom. The tap came on; when she emerged, she was drying the bowl; bending, she put it back into the backpack, retrieved what looked like a contact case and the saline and proceeded to take out her contacts. He howled, it was too damned funny; laughing helplessly, he sank back on the pillows, raising a hand now and then to gesture vaguely. Her mouth quirked, but she looked amused more than anything. When he caught his breath, she came toward him with the towel and wiped his eyes. Her expression was rueful "I'm glad I'm useful for something, at least. Comic relief, if nothing else." Little riffs of laughter kept wanting to break free. "Sorry," he managed, "But you have to admit, that was funny." A faint grin met his. "I'm a funny person, ask anyone. Besides, why shouldn't things be practical? I hardly think that God, whatever she is, stands on ceremony." "Oh, this is about God? I thought it was about magic." Another riff of laughter escaped him. "With a k." "Magick *is* about God." She arched one eyebrow. "I saw a bumper sticker the other day, the Goddess is alive, Magick is afoot. Made sense to me." He snorted, trying to hold in another burst of snickering. "A bumper sticker. Modern philosophy." "Buffy St. Marie, actually, but someone turned it into a bumper sticker." Morgan slumped into the chair. "Did Tommy go to Maryland for that juice?" "Probably." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Buffy St. Marie?" She grinned. "Before your time, probably. I think it was a song she wrote. Or poem. I forget which." Before my time, he thought, grinning again. "Right, I was still in diapers." "Probably." Leaning back, she rubbed the back of her neck. "Where's your partner?" "She took her mother back to Baltimore. Who the hell is Tommy?" Morgan sighed. "He's the great grandson of the man who was my first teacher." "I know that. Tell me something I don't know." A narrow look. "He's an adept--or very nearly. Don't let the materialist drag fool you, he's very strong for all he's just a kid, not even twenty four yet." "Hardly old enough to shave," he agreed ironically and she nodded seriously, making him laugh again. "He's an adept, huh. Better than you?" "Oh, hell, yes." Morgan sighed again. "I'm too--too Western. Despite the fact that Tommy's dad was born and raised in Santa Rosa, he's very--I guess I'd say spiritual, for lack of a better term. And Tommy's great grandfather was very much a part of his life and training. Mark's the eldest, he's a monk, he went all the way in the other direction. But Tommy sees life as a game, as an illusion that is one helluva lot of fun to play with. He's pretty Zen for a Tibetan Buddhist." A wry look. "And I'm still too wedded to the illusion to be as--oh, clear as they are. I hurt too much over people and things--I'll have to let go of attachment before I can get as far as that." "Think you'll manage it?" Her expression was thoughtful. "I'd like to think so. But honesty compels me to admit--not in this lifetime, chum." He grinned. "Don't call me chum, chum." Tommy came in, juggling several bottles of juice, one of which he cheerfully gave Mulder, after unscrewing the cap. "Good for healing, lots of vitamin C. Helps rebuild tissue." Pineapple-grapefruit, Mulder noted and grinned, picking up his straw to put it into the bottle. "Thanks. I'm really disappointed, Morgan, I wanted to see the rest of the Abyss." She chuckled. "The VCR ate it, Fox, sorry. I'll get you a copy as a get well present, shall I? What are you reading?" Oops, now he was embarrassed. He let her peer at it, but Tommy chuckled. "He's reading your UFO book, Morgan." She colored faintly. "UFO mythology, Tommy." "Mythology, my ass," Mulder grinned. "Sorry, they must be giving me sodium pentothal." "I take it you don't agree with what I've said in there," she told him, clearly amused. "Nope, but it would be rude to argue with the woman who saved my life." He studied her. "You don't look anything like the picture on the cover." Morgan laughed. "That's because it isn't me. I wouldn't have a photo taken, so a friend of mine stood in for me. She said she didn't mind, really, since so few people recognize her as Dr. Morgan Grayson." It made him laugh again, holding his arms close against his side. "Don't make me laugh, it hurts. There *must* be a Federal law against letting someone impersonate you for the cover of your book." She shook her head. "Nope, I checked." There, Scully, he thought, still chuckling, I'm playing nice. "Why don't you want to be called psychic?" She grimaced. "Listen, what you've seen me do--it's just a matter of learning all the levels of reality. Or, at least, learning a lot of them. I don't flatter myself I've learned them all. It's not being psychic, it's being aware." Another long sigh. "Look, I believe that what we see as the real world bears as much relationship to reality as a map of Washington does to the city of Washington. One is two dimensional, the other three. We see reality in three dimensions, we're three dimensional creatures, but reality, I think I recently read, is probably ten dimensions." "Hey, I'm already convinced." He was suddenly bitter, his stomach tight again, "It's the rest of the world that goes on believing that the map is the universe. I've seen things--" He broke off suddenly, looking away for a moment. "But nothing like Harcourt before. He got inside my head, Morgan, and stirred everything around. Just when I had it all in place. You know, not very long ago, I thought my partner was dead, I had to identify the body. Someone came to me with a lead--two years ago, I'd have taken it, instead of doing the human thing. I feel like I've got to start over again." "That's bull," she told him bluntly and his eyes came back to her, startled. "I can see it, Fox, and I scarcely know you." His mouth quirked. Damn, but she got under his skin sometimes. "Yeah, " he agreed, all smarmy seriousness, "But we've shared *so* much." Morgan grinned crookedly. "Too true. Hey, I'll show you my MMPI if you'll show me yours." For some reason, that struck him as funnier than it was. Laughter overtook him again, until he had tears in his eyes again. Real laughter. The woman was crazier than he was, which must be some kind of record. But despite what he had thought, he couldn't describe her as a flake. Strange, yes, but she was too damned sharp to be a flake. The book, whatever he felt about her point of view, had convinced him of that. Wiping his eyes, he looked at her and sighed. "That must be a new line. Instead of smart is sexy, sane is sexy." "I wouldn't say that," she countered, "Sane is boring. I've found life much more productive since I lost my sanity." That made him grin again. Tommy shook his head, drank some more of his juice and went back to the corner, curling up again with his book. No, a new one--Mulder couldn't make out the title. Morgan settled into her chair more deeply, closing her eyes as if to sleep. For a pair of ghostbusters--no, sorry, adepts, they were remarkably dull, he thought and had to fight the urge to snicker again. Downright boring, in fact. So, he turned to his book again, unaccountably soothed by their presence. Not safe, exactly, they weren't either of them Scully, but soothed. And after a while, he slept again.