Mulder slept, and dreamt--the usual mix of childhood sorrows and daily rubbish mixed into a complex symbology. Even in sleep, he knew this and simply endured, knowing it would pass; it was less awful than the nightmares about Samantha's disappearance. So, drifting from a long forgotten memory of Rhode Island, he slipped into the kind of dream he dreaded--of Harcourt. ::He is standing on a corner near Dupont Circle, standing near a boy who is a stranger. And yet he knows everything about him, everything that he is doing--and why he is here. Passersby walk through him--he is an observer, just a man in a dream, standing and watching the world go by. And knowing, in the way of dreamers everywhere, the back story behind each face.... Is he dead? No, that thought is absurd, Scully would tell him if he were dead. In the topsy turvy logic peculiar to dreams, he accepts that, watching, waiting.... The boy is Jamie Sims, seventeen and gay and mortally shy. His friend has dragged him here after convincing his parents that they were going to a movie. The friend, presently engaged in consensual sex somewhere else, has deserted him; he has managed to make conversation, but it seldom lasts very long. In addition to being underage and shy, he is not a pretty kid, not the kind that makes eyes light up and heads turn. He knows that, and tries to bear with it, hoping that someone will come along and like him anyway. When the stunningly beautiful man--Mulder's heart hammers, recognizing Harcourt, older now--first approaches him, the shyness remains, but Harcourt persists, drawing him out, questions about Jamie's school, about his family, about his friends....all the pieces that come together to make up Jamie's life, his identity. Mulder sees the boy relax, sees the boy opening up, gradually giving more than one word answer, gradually becoming animated. No, he tells him, don't listen to him, kid--Jamie lets his hand be taken, lets himself be lured farther down the street into the shadows, down the P Street bridge, and down the hill into the park. Mulder follows, horribly certain that Jamie's death is imminent, but cannot pierce through the veil that separates him from the world around him. No one sees him, people move through him. In the darkness, away from the lights above, Harcourt kisses Jamie deeply in the darkness there, kisses him and begins to undress him. But Jamie is shy--too conscious of the traffic above them, too conscious of people walking by a few hundred yards away, he protests, albeit halfheartedly. "I don't think we should--" Good, kid, Mulder thinks, now run, dammit-- A hand closes around Jamie's throat, cutting off the protest. Mulder can feel his emotions, can almost see through his gaze, staring into eyes that glitter, despite the darkness, Jamie is suddenly terrified. Don't talk to strangers, Mulder's mother's voice tolls in his mind like a knell. And Jamie has disregarded this advice, given by all mothers, everywhere. "Never tell me no," Harcourt hisses. Something else glitters in the faint light that filters through the trees, something long and sharp--oh god, the knife, Mulder realizes, the knife he had used on Harcourt, the knife Harcourt had intended to use on him..... He feels what Jamie feels, the sharp coldness when the point of the blade touches the corner of Jamie's eye. Jamie collects his wits enough to stammer an apology and Harcourt releases his throat. "Take off your clothes," His voice is soft, barely inaudible, but holds such menace that even unseen, Mulder shivers, remembering pain spiraling through nerve endings, tearing him apart. The boy obeys, shaking so convulsively that he has to struggle to get his jeans off. His thoughts frantic, he tugs at the hem of one leg, too terrified to remember to take off his shoes. Mulder raging, tries to come between Harcourt and the boy, finding himself prevented--he can't get between them, there is something holding him back, something solid and immovable--but there is nothing there. Swearing savagely, Harcourt throws Jamie down on the ground, his hands brutally exploring Jamie's skin. Unable to help, Mulder tries to reach Jamie, tasting only terror and grief- -Jamie begins to cry silently. This wasn't how it was supposed to be, he thinks, and tries to close his mind to what is happening to him. Harcourt talks to him the entire time, telling him he is not up to Harcourt's standards of beauty, but that he will do, that he will give Harcourt enough strength and energy to finish playing with the fox. Jamie's fear builds--and Mulder is shaken. He is killing this boy to gain the strength to finish killing Mulder--a cold fury grows beneath his own fear, a small hot coal flaring to flame. It doesn't take long, this rape. Not nearly as long as his own. Harcourt lifts himself from Jamie, Mulder hears the quiet sobs, tastes the shame and grief and fear--feels the tip of the blade delicately drawn across Jamie's skin as Harcourt begins to cut. Mulder casts around for something, anything, to stop Harcourt from murdering the kid with the sad eyes. Footsteps draw his attention and he is there suddenly, standing on the sidewalk, seeing two men walking hand in hand nearby, talking softly. Both are big men, and one holds the chain of a rather large German Shepherd. "Hey, dammit, listen to me," he shouts, gets not a flicker of response, not that he had really expected one. But he'd hoped--lunging, he tries to shove them off the sidewalk, toward the clump of trees, but his hands and arms pass harmlessly through. Think, dammit, he tells himself--realizes the dog is watching him intelligently. Inspired, he hunkers down, face to face. "Hey, furface," he says softly, and the dog tugs on the chain, interested in him. "There's a big juicy steak waiting for you over there in those trees." The dog whines softly, tugs harder, but his master ignores this. Feeling like a lunatic, Mulder improvises. "Actually, there's a lot of big juicy steaks over there. But I don't expect a discriminating guy like yourself to be ruled by your stomach. There's also a big, beautiful German Shepherd bitch over there." The dog's ears prick up. A surge of elation. Maybe he *is* only having a nightmare, but this makes up for it. "And she's in heat, chum. Just waiting for you." The dog jerks the chain from his master's hand and dives toward the trees, barking in greeting, with Mulder close behind. Harcourt looks up from his attentions to the boy and has only time to throw up one arm in self-defense. The dog pauses, uncertain, ears flicking backward as he assesses this situation. "That's a bad man, fella," Mulder says, worried now, and not just for the dog--can Harcourt sense him in this state, after all? Those eyes seem to settle on him, a silent snarl distorts the handsome, perfect face. "Watch out for that piece of metal, he can kill you with it." But the dog bristles and growls at Harcourt. Cursing, Harcourt turns back to finish his victim; before the knife can finish the arching sweep, the dog leaps, going savagely for Harcourt's throat. "Hey!" The two men tumble into the clearing. "Jesus, Franz, stop!" one shouts and tries to grab for the chain. Harcourt rolls away from the boy; the other man nearly stumbles over the kid's limp body and yelps in fright. "Christ, Jim, there's a dead kid here!" Jim pulls the dog off Harcourt. "You bastard--good boy, Franzie, good boy." The dog growls, teeth showing; it is plain, failing the steaks Mulder has promised him, that he wants another bite of Harcourt, lying bleeding and cursing on the ground. Quick as thought, before either of the other men can move, Harcourt is up again, running farther into the darkness. Mulder kneels beside the boy, shaking, wanting to follow Harcourt, but scared for the kid--putting his hands out in futile effort to check a pulse, touch a cold cheek--"Come on, please kid." he begs, "Don't be dead, okay, don't be dead." The man kneeling on the other side puts a hand to the side of a slender neck and sighs audibly. "Thank God, he's alive. Kid, can you wake up a little? Christ, the mother cut him up--Jim, you've gotta go get help." "What if *he* comes back," Jim sounds worried. The other man laughs shortly. "I used to be a Seal, remember? And he dropped his knife." "Okay, but you keep Franz." The leash trades hands. Okay, the kid is going to be okay. The big man is tearing cloth, using his teeth to start the rip, using the rags to staunch bloody wounds. "It's going to be all right, kid, you're gonna be all right." Still kneeling on the other side, Mulder peers closely, nods relieved agreement, lets himself relax. The night lightens peculiarly--the man and boy go all misty, as incorporeal as he is--he reaches out, but the instant he does, the world turns dark around him:: ************************************************************************ Georgetown: March 22 10:00 pm Scully was on her way back from the morgue when her phone chirped at her again. Wrestling her purse across the seat, she fumbled for it, knocking her wallet and brush out onto the floor of the passenger side before finding it. "Scully," she said into the phone, a little breathless, hands straightening the wheel to keep from veering onto the shoulder. "Skinner here, Scully. We've got a survivor. Rock Creek Park--the kid's on his way to Humana. Where are you?" Christ, was the man listening to police scanners now? No, he'd just done such a good job of schmoozing the detectives on the scene of the double murder, her little voice pointed out, that they called him. "About fifteen minutes from Georgetown," she told him. "Witnesses?" "Yeah, two--good witnesses, they got a good look at him, even in the dark, and the dog they had with them took a bite or two out of Harcourt. He ran, of course, but they've caught up with a couple of people who saw him running, saw which way he went. Hopefully, that will pan out-- but right now, I want to be sure it's really him, I want you to talk to the kid. I'll meet you at the hospital, Scully." Again, she wondered why he was involving himself in this. She'd wondered at the crime scene earlier in the day. It made her stomach tighten, made her nervously aware of the night all around her. Her silence must have told him something. "Scully." Just a hint of sardonic humor sharpened his tone. "I seem to recall you and Mulder badgering me unmercifully just a short time ago." That didn't help. "Sir," she answered cautiously, "We had a responsibility to the truth." A snort. "And still do." And he hung up. Thinking ruefully of Mulder, she hoped that someone was making sure he went to sleep and turned off her phone. **************************************************************** Georgetown: March 22 11:21 Breathe in. Breathe out. Up on one elbow, panting, as if he'd been running, shaking, sweating, and taking in the ordinary shapes of the room: Morgan sitting up, her eyes puffy with sleep. Tommy completely out, leaning back in his chair. Hospital. He was in the hospital. Oh, yeah. And Mulder took in another deep breath, feeling the hospital gown and the bandages sticking to him, clammy with sweat. "Bad dream?" Morgan rose to come to his bedside. "Yeah." Letting her help him, he sat up and drank more juice, washing the taste of nightmare out of his mouth, reluctant to meet her eyes. Harcourt again. At least it wasn't the other one, where he was still trapped--shivering he took another sip of juice. Morgan's eyes were somber. "Harcourt." Her tone was flat, uninflected, chillingly certain. She touched his forehead lightly, making him jump. "I need to do something. Will you let me?" He looked at her, completely at sea, still shaking from the dream. "Sure, I guess so." Her fingertips touched his cheekbone; her other hand matched the first, his other cheek. Trapped between those hands--almost small, smaller than he'd have expected--he stared at her, stared into her eyes. "Just breathe with me, Fox," she told him softly, holding his gaze. "In, yes, like that, then out. Slow, easy, yes, just like that. Keep looking into my eyes, Fox, and I'll look into yours. Breathe with me, ah, yes, just like that...." Her voice trailed off. He fell into those eyes, so much like his own that it seemed like coming home. Behind those eyes, she breathed, he breathed, pulses slowing to match. In. Out. Feeding oxygen to the blood, blood feeding the muscles, the cells.... In. Out. In. Out. He/she could feel his/her breath, just as it began, just as it ended. Felt the faintest emptying as the air went out. Felt the rush as the lungs took fresh back in. Feeding the blood. Feeding the brain. Feeding the cells..... In. Out. He/she was so still, so amazingly still. The boots were snug, the leggings warm. In. Out. The bandages were clammy against his/her skin, a faint annoyance that disturbed nothing. In. Out. His/her feet throbbed faintly in the distance; he/she ignored it. The heart beat steadily, one heart, one breath. In. Out. Floating. Warm. Eyes nothing but pupil. In. Out. Something tugged hard in the back of his/her head, loosened something he/she hadn't known was knotted....In. Out. One heartbeat. One breath in. One breath out. One pulse, steady even beat. Comfort. Sadness. Bittersweet--something tugged harder, painfully hard and the world splintered briefly, shattered bits of pain here and there--god, what had happened to him, had she put him under? Catching his breath, Mulder watched Morgan sway, watched her put her hand to her head, her expression twisted with--pain. Pain he remembered, had felt, but felt no longer. "God," his voice was ragged, "God, what did you do?" Somehow, Tommy was up, standing near the bed, his hands on Morgan's shoulders, keeping her from falling. Swallowing hard, Mulder inched back in the bed. "What the hell did she do?" His voice was thin, scared--he hated that, was ashamed of it. "It's all right," Tommy assured him quietly, a far cry from the kid who'd come in. He could believe this kid was an adept, the dark eyes met his without concern. "It's done, she's just feeling it. Go back to sleep, no more nightmares, I promise." Sleep? How in hell could he sleep. "What did she do?" he asked raggedly, wanting the answer *now*, not later. "She, ah, broke the link between you and," a shrug, "And took it onto herself. He'll track her, now. Not you. And she can track him." His mouth filled with saliva, nausea overwhelming him, the juice coming back up in his throat. "I'm going to be sick," he told Tommy thinly--still holding onto Morgan with one arm, Tommy reached and had a small basin in front of him before he'd had time to swallow against the sickness. But it receded, leaving him weak and shaken, lying back against the pillow, his eyes fixed on Morgan. It took her a moment to recover from whatever she'd done; Tommy made her sit down in the chair, her head between her knees. And it was past eleven, where the hell had Scully gone? Outer Mongolia, instead of Forensics? "I don't think there are any flights out to Ulan Bator this late at night." Morgan lifted her head, still chalky, her voice groggy. He sat and shivered. He hadn't said it aloud, he knew he hadn't. "Ulan Bator?" She blinked up at him, really punchy. "Isn't that in Outer Mongolia?" He hadn't said it aloud, he really hadn't, he promised himself he hadn't. Which mean that the goddamned witch had just lifted it from his mind. Right now, it was hard to decide who scared him more. On the other hand, Morgan was looking pretty scared right now herself. Raking her hair back--he had the urge to gather it up in both hands and tie it in a knot for her, helluva a ridiculous thought while he sat here shaking--she licked her lips. "I'm sorry, that was a little more--um, intense than I expected. You, ah, were a lot stronger than I expected." She had scared herself. Well, good, dammit, she'd shocked the hell out of him, too. But he could not escape the sneaking sensation of warmth that still lingered from--from whatever the hell had happened. The pain had been brief--and hers. But the warmth, the comfort, even the bittersweet sadness had belonged to both of them. Shared. And it made his hands shake worse. He didn't know her. He wasn't sure he wanted to know her. But she looked at him like that and frightened the hell out of him, made him want to shake her up more, to put her as off-balance as he was. It was only slightly reassuring to see that he'd already done that. "Are you okay?" he finally asked, little more than a growl. His voice was never going to recover, he was going to sound like this the rest of his life--what the hell, it would scare suspects. She nodded slowly at him. "I think so." A faint, go to hell grin. "I'd better be." "Yeah," he agreed, feeling the shaking ebb, leaving him perversely calm. "I guess so." Reaching out, he tried to use the back of his hand to get the tray over his bed again--she was up in an instant, guiding it. "I'm not gonna sleep for a while," he groused and opened the book again, determinedly staring at the print instead of her. Taking the hint, she went back to talk softly with Tommy; when he risked a look at her, she looked relieved and Tommy was grave. Where the hell was Scully, he wondered again, wanting her so badly that his stomach ached. He needed to hear the voice of reason, needed his favorite skeptic-- needed his partner. And he wished vainly for his cell phone before finally letting the words on the page draw him in. Washington DC: March 23 10:15 pm Entering the hospital room, Scully found the boy's parents had arrived. Introducing herself was easy. Asking them to leave was hard. "What for?" his father asked, truculent. She couldn't blame him, not after reading the report. Harcourt had been more forthright with Jamie, he'd simply raped him the old fashioned way. No plugs or probes or electric shocks this time--her chest hurt for a moment, she wondered which of them, Jamie or Mulder, would recover more easily. But she was here for a reason. "I just need to talk with him alone about what happened," she told them softly. "It won't take long. I've already read the police reports, so I can bypass what they've already asked him." The boy's father glared at her. "Why does the FBI want to talk with him, anyway?" Sighing inwardly, Scully opted for a direct approach. "My partner was abducted and--the man who took him hurt him very badly. We want to know if this is the same man." Father and mother looked at each other, fear obvious in their eyes. "What if it is?" Jamie's mother asked softly. "Then we'll be a little closer to catching him and putting him where he can't hurt anyone else," Scully told her. His father nodded. "All right," he agreed grudgingly. "But don't upset him, he's upset enough." Thinking of Mulder, Scully nodded. When the door closed, she went to the bed. "I'm Special Agent Dana Scully." He gazed at her, still shocky, a little fuzzy with that and drugs. "I heard." And stared at her, clearly not wanting to talk. Reaching out, she laid a hand over his. "I just want you to look at a picture for me, okay." After a moment, he nodded, mute with misery. Reaching into her coat pocket, she pulled out a folded piece of paper and opened it, turning it to show him a very good representation of Julian Harcourt. He nodded and began to cry silently. Reaching into her pocket, she found a clean tissue and wiped his eyes automatically. Too much practice with Mulder, she thought and her throat felt tight, too tight to swallow. "I know it's hard to believe, but it's going to be okay. We're going to get the man who did this to you, Jamie." He blinked at her. "He was so nice," he whispered, "So beautiful. I thought he liked me." Her chest ached worse, thinking of Mulder's description, of Mulder's terror. "I know. Do you want your parents to come back in? No? Okay, I'll see what I can do. Is there anybody else I can call for you, any relatives you'd like to have here?" At his expression, she sighed. "Okay, Jamie. Try and get some rest. You were very, very lucky tonight. I know it doesn't seem that way, but another boy just your age wasn't so lucky, just a month ago. We know he's dead, but we haven't found his body yet." That made him shudder. "He was so nice," he repeated, bewildered, "Why did he do that? It hu-u-urt," and he caught his breath on a sob. Her eyes stung. She gave herself a moment before speaking again. Composure, Dana Katherine, said Gran's voice in her head and that gave her strength. 'I know. Sometimes this kind of person is extraordinarily charming. If they were scary, they'd have more trouble finding people to hurt, I think." He considered that and nodded. "But why me? Why pick on me?" His voice trembled again. Because he didn't get the chance to kill my partner, she thought. Aloud, she answered, "Because he did. Jamie, there's sometimes no reason or rhyme. You were alone, you were young, he thought you were vulnerable." "I was," he agreed bitterly. "I believed him." She sighed. "You're sure that's what he said, that he had to get enough strength to finish playing with the fox?" He wiped his eyes and nodded. "Yes, ma'am," he told her faintly, "It was weird, his tone was so scary." His pain was so evident, she reached out and patted his hand. "Jamie, I know it doesn't seem like it now, but you'll get through this. You just have to be strong, okay?" He nodded again, his mouth trembling. Sighing again, she rose and went to the door. "There will be a couple of policemen outside your door tonight. I don't think we have anything to worry about, but I'd rather be sure. And thank you for answering my questions." With a final, reassuring smile, she walked out the door, leaving him alone, that image too evocative of her partner to give her much peace of mind. Skinner found her talking to the boy's parents, waited, not so patiently, for her to finish and join him near the elevator. "Got a new composite, the dog marked him up." "Send his owner a pound of steak," Scully told him, bitterness and satisfaction mixing to tighten her gut. "And then some." Skinner arched an eyebrow, nodded. "Yeah, maybe we can institute a reward process for witness--better than paying informers." That made her smile, albeit without much humor. "Now what?" "Now, I think we keep in touch with the hunt." Skinner looked up at the ceiling. She was tempted to look up there to see what he found so fascinating, but he looked back at her before she could follow the antic impulse. "I think, given the last report, that he's heading for Georgetown." Her pulse sped, making her briefly dizzy. "Mulder," she breathed and punched the elevator button hard. "I've already got more men on the way," he forestalled her. "But I think it would be good for us to go over there." She gave him a look and punched the button again. "I agree." ************************************************************************ Georgetown: March 21 11:01 While Skinner conferred with the men he'd ordered to the hospital, Scully rode the elevator up to Mulder's floor, silently cursing each time it slowed to a stop on another. She all but ran once the door opened, but slowed decorously as she saw Dennison and Phelps, this night's duo of guards. Dennison looked up from her magazine, smiling as Scully reached the door. "Pretty quiet tonight--nice change." Dennison, plainly, was taking things in her stride. Scully wished she could. "We might have a visitor--you've got the composite?" Dennison nodded, her expression going severe. "Yeah, Rawlins brought it up just a little while ago. Looks like somebody marked him up, some." Her tone suggested that was a pleasure she'd like for herself. "Yeah." Scully nodded at Phelps, a dour man with iron grey hair, and a mustache that belonged on a face from the Victorian era. "I'm just going to see how he's doing, then I'm going back down." They both nodded, Dennison returning to her magazine, Phelps to his silent consideration of the opposite wall. Taking a deep breath, Scully pushed the door open and went in. Morgan was moving serenely--T'ai Chi, Scully recognized and her mouth quirked. Tommy was reading again--as was her partner, though he looked up with unconcealed relief when she came in. Awkward night, she supposed and offered him a smile, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt. "You should be asleep," she told him, coming to lean on the bedrail. "How's your fever?" His expression was surprised. "Okay, I guess. I forgot about it." And grinned when she put the back of her hand against his forehead. "Is that the scientific method, Dr. Scully?" "Millions of mothers can't be wrong, Mulder," she told him soberly and then turned to watch Morgan. "Is that keeping you awake?" "Nope. Just had a nightmare." His eyes were almost apologetic about that. "How come you're out so late?" No hiding it from him, then. "Harcourt's in Washington, he's killed again, two guys. And he tried to kill another kid, about seventeen--I need to go back out, Skinner wants me to talk to the kid who survived." He went white, staring at her mutely. "A kid?" His voice was rusty. "Yeah." She put her hand on his arm, then his cheek, letting it slip to check his pulse. Rapid, but not like it had been. "A couple of guys walking through the park had a dog, the dog too out after Harcourt, interrupted him." The color started coming back to his face; he looked away from her. "Somebody ought to give that dog a pile of steaks, Scully." His expression was peculiar--"I suggested that to Skinner, he didn't think it was a bad idea." He swallowed hard, still staring at the wall. "Imagine that." It was little more than a whisper. "You okay?" He looked back. "Yeah. And stop taking my pulse, Scully, I'm fine." "I see that." But her stomach knotted once, a small complaint. He wasn't fine, but she couldn't pinpoint why. "You want me to order something to help you sleep?" His reaction surprised her. A grim look, a shudder. "Yeah," he whispered, "I think that would be a good idea." And that was more disturbing than any of his other reactions. That he welcomed the synthetic sleep that sedation would give him. He never did, always fought it when they tried to give it to him, barely accepted the pain meds and usually only at a level to let him function. Her mouth was dry. "I'll talk to the nurse," she murmured, almost as softly and gave in to the desire to hug him briefly, carefully, remembering the bandages under the gown with a barely repressed shudder. "I've got to go." She drew back, smiling again for him. "I'll be back as soon as I can." "Get some rest," he told her roughly, shifting restlessly in the bed and wincing when the movement caught something off guard. "Might be time for some more of that good shit, Scully. I'm hurting again." She'd wondered about that. He kept things under such rigid control, but there were lines engraved around his mouth and eyes. "Can do." She touched his face lightly before going back to the door. Pausing, she looked at Morgan, thinking about the night before. "Take care of him." And Morgan nodded. ************************************************************************ Georgetown: March 23 12:32 am Harcourt was very near. Sitting on the floor, Morgan reached within, finding what she had gotten from Mulder, her sense of him, the link with Harcourt--and used it to fashion a kind of spurious echo of who Mulder was, the bait in her trap. He'd gone much deeper with her than she'd expected; it had frightened her, but Tommy was undisturbed. "If it happened, it happened for a reason," he had said, and his calm had infected her, washing away the disturbing lack of self-trust she'd been feeling. She was hot, now, the energy had to come from somewhere to mold things that could not be seen and were measured only by experience. And in hers, the energy came from her. Or through her, she was never wholly certain--but she was hot, very hot, almost feverish, her skin feeling tight and tender, as if she'd stayed in the sun too long. The Mulder image was very strong, she could almost taste the true essence of the man in the bed. Wrapping it around herself was deceptively easy, layering it over the core of Morgan Grayson. It felt funny, like wearing someone else's glasses, that odd sense of disorientation--feeling a little lightheaded, she rose, looking at Tommy, standing like a sentinel near the window. He nodded at her. Licking dry lips, she felt along the link she'd taken from Mulder, shivered as she felt Harcourt's rage and pain. He was almost past what sanity he had still possessed--and that was something to fear. But she didn't, insulated by the pale reflection of Mulder's emotions, insulated by the mock-Mulder she'd created. Instead, she felt more detached, distant from fear, watching in her mind's eye as Harcourt ran through an alleyway, water splashing as his foot struck a puddle. Her heart beat slowly, almost too slowly, deliberately--it would ease this next transition. Closing her eyes was habit, not necessity, but she closed them nonetheless. First, reach down, down through layers of concrete and steel, reaching toward the earth beneath--cup hands, gathering up energy from the deep dark beneath, pulling it in through the palms, deep breaths in and out to stabilize it. Then, reach up, through the layers above, reaching up, higher and higher, pulling in the golden light of the sun, pulling in the colorless light of space, feeling the cold of the stars sting her skin as she breathed in through her palm chakras. Breathe in slowly and evenly, blending the dark warmth of the earth with the cool light from the sky--gather it into the solar plexus, forming it into a golden sphere. Oh, she was hot--raising her arms, eyes still closed, she stripped of the sweater, leaving the thin, cotton knit shirt, inner eye still focused on the sphere, building it, shaping it. When it was of the right heft, she "pushed" it outward through her navel--shivering at the power that thrummed along her spinal cord--and let it hang there for a moment. Then, with great delicacy, she "guided it", shaping a dome as she drew it in a spiral around her body; with the sphere at the top of the dome, she let the energy flow free, following the shape she had defined for it. Skin prickled up in gooseflesh, feeling the energy dance along nerve endings. She shivered, but it was a pleasurable sensation. Breathe in deeply, evenly--breathe out deeply and evenly. Cast free of the flesh, leaving the Mulder-Morgan blend behind, soar into the Otherworld, usually only known in dreams. Seeking the Temple, she found herself on a well worn pathway, bordered by the trees of spring, no cold dankness in the Otherworld. Smiling, she hurried down the path and ran up the pale marble steps that led to the Temple--tall columns of stone guarded the entrance, regrettably Doric, but it was a construct of her unconscious mind. Familiar faces greeted her, some corporeal, some noncorporeal. There were a few faces not so familiar, as well, and she felt gratitude for that. ::You are late,:: her teacher said, sounding unworried. ::I wanted him to sleep before I left:: She let her gaze move around the group, faces of every hue, of both genders, of every age but infancy or childhood, letting emotion flow through her. Emotion would be fatal, if she could not guide it. They all sank to the floor, some sitting, some kneeling Zen style, some sitting Lotus. She sat cross-legged herself, resting her wrists on her knees, the heat gone from her skin, left behind in a darkened room. A temple gong sounded in the back and someone began the Heart Sutra, the chant strong and steady. She let it take her, let it fill her, chanting in counterpoint in her inner heart. The chant went round and round again, then again, then again, and she was free of her body, out of the Temple and in the city, walking down a side street. A man leaned against the wall ahead of her; he lifted his head, the pale hair falling back. "Julian Harcourt." She used his self name, not his true name, used the language of ritual. "Your masters have turned against you. Turn away from them, repent of your bargain and live free of them." He spat at her. "You bitch! You've ruined everything. Look at me!" He came into the light and she saw the damage the dog had done, marring the flawless face. "But it doesn't matter. If I give you to them, they'll even forgive me for Mulder's loss." He lunged for her, but his fingers passed through her. She took a step backward nonetheless, the words stilted, formal. "I ask again, Julian Harcourt, turn off this path." He stared at her. "Never." Once again, she had to ask, it was the law. "Julian Harcourt, whatever they have told you is a lie--turn aside from this path." He grinned fiercely. "Not everything," he hissed and twisted his hand into a fist. She felt an ache in her distant body. He was still strong, she silently acknowledged, and thanked Providence for the protections she had set, for Tommy's presence in the room. "Thrice have I asked thee and thrice have you refused. I condemn thee, Eater of Souls, by thy own tongue. Thrice do I name thee cast out." Saying this, she stepped back again, raising her palms, letting her spirit hear the chanting in the Temple. Power flowed from the earth and sky through them, to her, augmenting her own strength. "Cast out of heaven." Her voice was loud and clear in the stillness of night. "Cast out of earth, and cast from the Wheel. If this is done wrongly, I appeal to the One to right this wrong and forgive our presumption." With that, she let the power loose. He tore himself free of his own body, taking the shape of a black leopard that leapt and savaged her. Taking the shape of the hawk, she flew free, watching him as she readied the next bolt. He flew with her, now, an eagle; he was the hunter, taking aim with a bow. The changes sped, one past the other as they battled, each striking, each parrying. It might have been minutes, it might have been hours--on the street again, he took on the shape of one of his familiars, the grinning demon face dancing in front of her. Reaching for dispassionate compassion, she readied herself and struck. He wailed, the sound far out of the reach of human hearing, wailed and drew himself back into his body, screaming in a language dead for a millennia. She hesitated, fatally, held back by the need to give him one more chance. "I ask again. Will you turn aside from this path?" "Bitch!" he screamed, and bared his teeth at her. "I know where you've got him!" He ran past her, down the street. Taking in her surroundings for the first time, she realized they were only a few blocks from the hospital. Simply by focusing her will, she returned there, nerves on fire as she hurled herself back into flesh--flesh still hot, still burning with the energy required. Still half in the Otherworld, she opened her eyes and surged to her feet. Now, Harcourt would come. Now, it was time to face him. Skinner's voice was muted as he spoke into the cell phone, his knuckles whitening slightly; turning, he smiled grimly at her and disconnected it. "He's been seen, about three miles from here, Scully-- witnesses said he was raving, standing in the middle of the street-- somebody nearly hit him, he was screaming, half out of his mind, they said." A little chill catwalked up her spine, became a hot surge of furious triumph. Her voice was grim. "Where?" He eyed her, the fluorescent lights in the lobby glinting off his glasses. "Let's go, there's a couple of patrol cars on the way there." "What I want to know," she told him shoving ahead to push the door open, "Is how the hell he got to DC. No car, that we know of--and I can't believe no one would have noticed him on the train, Jack flooded the Baltimore PD with the composite." A fast walk turned into a trot. Shaking his head, Skinner caught up with her. ""The answer might be easier--it seems that Tim Andrews was a graduate student, he drove up to Baltimore for class two nights a week." Outpacing her, he cast a glance back over his shoulder, his breath a pale mist in the chill of the night. The amber glow of the streetlights made her shiver, alien colors in a too familiar place. Glass crunched under her feet, she spared a grimace for the beer bottle a half step away. "Andrews gave him a ride back to DC." "It looks like it." Skinner stopped on the passenger side, looking over the top of the car as she bent to unlock her door. "We don't know for certain that he doesn't have a car, but it's a little neat that his first victim here is Andrews." "So far as we know," she added and slid behind the wheel, punching the button for the powerlock. Skinner got in beside her, grimacing and reaching down to adjust the seat. It would have made her smile at any other time. It didn't, now. Skinner grunted agreement, snapped his seatbelt snug as she did her own; the seatbelt pulled taut between her breasts as she pulled out of the parking lot and sped, hell-bent, toward the light. "Shit!" It turned yellow, the driver head of her taking his time--she went anyway, a sharp right, Skinner caught his breath and braced both hands against the dashboard. A kid in a beatup Camaro flipped her off; her hand came up in return, soft laughter under her breath--briefly embarrassed, she tipped a quick glance at Skinner, saw his expression go peculiar. "Sorry, sir." Not sorry in the least, she heard him mutter something under his breath. The street ahead shone wetly--cars sparkling like gems under the streetlights, brake lights glinting red like eyes in the dark. Traffic was moving slowly--God, what was this, date night?--she had to slow to a stop to avoid running over a couple jaywalking hand in hand. Veering into the right lane, she passed a car going under the speed limit and veered back. "Take a right up here," Skinner told her and braced himself when she did, a soft grunt that almost made her smile again. "Faster going on back streets, but it'll get us where we need to be--right again up here, yeah--" Something flashed in front of her lights, a man, pale hair, rain-slicked and darkened--her foot hit the brake, the car skidded on the wet asphalt and she fought the wheel. "Dammit, that was him." Throwing the car in reverse, she backed into an alley, spun the wheel, and ran the red light narrowly in front of a dark red import. The driver leaned on the horn--"Yeah, yeah," she muttered and heard Skinner punching buttons on the phone, felt Skinner's gaze rest on her for a moment. "He went through here," Quick yank of the wheel, cutting back down the alley. "Scully," Skinner interrupted his conversation and grated, "Try not to get us killed, all right?" "Right," she agreed, eyes trying to check the movement of every shadow as she drove slowly past the unlovely backs of buildings, the car jarring with every pothole. "Hell, hell, where did he go?" "I don't know." Skinner was taut. "Get out of here, back to the hospital- -he's heading there anyway, and he's too damned close. How the hell can he get so far so fast on foot?" She wondered a lot of things about Julian Harcourt. "Who the hell *is* this guy?" Her stomach had clenched tight and her palms were slick with cold sweat. Yanking the wheel, she turned left onto the street and gunned it, only to be stopped at the corner by the light. "Red means stop," Skinner muttered, a half breath before she put her foot on the brake. "Thank you, Scully." Thinly, humor spread just as thin. Turning, she looked at Skinner, saw him staring out at the traffic light. "My pleasure, sir," she managed. Skinner didn't even look at her. "Mulder thinks he's really Julian Harcourt." The words, in that no-nonsense voice, made her mouth go dry. A brief look didn't reassure her. "Mulder thinks a lot of things, Agent Scully. And he's not in the best shape." She didn't answer that, but another chill brought up gooseflesh. "You know," she told him conversationally, her hands tightening on the wheel, "If we had one of those nice bubble lights, and a siren, we wouldn't have to stop at all." "Join the police force," he suggested drily and braced himself as the light flicked to green. "I had to be a fibbie," she retorted and went left, gunned it, and left again, into the drive, pulling up sharply in front of the entrance again. "That was wasted effort," she grated and threw her car door open almost before yanking the keys out of the ignition. A grunt of acknowledgment was all she got; even as fast as she was moving, Skinner passed her on longer legs and held the door for her, flashing his badge at the jumpy security guards. She went for the elevator while he spoke briefly with the guards, held the door for him. "He can't have gotten here first." "He can't have gotten as close as he did in the few minutes it took him," Skinner retorted and passed her, his face taut. It made her stomach knot tighter, her hands shook slightly and she stilled them, glaring at them as if betrayed. Skinner was obviously a believer in something--in her, maybe. She'd only caught a glimpse of dark clothing, pale hair flying, but her gut told her. It was Harcourt. The power went off as the door closed on them. ************************************************************************ Harcourt was in the hospital, now, she knew and waited, still waited. Fear and agony flickered brightly around her, the underlying stubborn strength a darker hue--she pulled it close, felt it lick her nerves, prickle her skin like an itch she couldn't scratch. Mulder's pain, Mulder's fear--and Mulder's strength, stretched so thin it made the pain worse, stretched to the breaking point and then a little farther. Nausea twisted her stomach; she breathed in and out, calming it. Beneath that borrowed self, her inward calm rested uneasily,. feeling it too strongly, too closely to remain completely separate. Wetness--tears slipping down her face, while the detachment kept her safe from it....waiting. Power raked at her mind, making her head throb with the hunger for blood. His hunger, his power, still potent, though vastly less than it had been. In that house. It stirred, reaching to put out put out the lights that kept the hospital a safe haven. Her binding to the earth told her when he placed his foot on the first step on the stairs, let her feel the pressure of it as he moved upward, closer and closer. The door from the stairwell opened, the movement like a feathery chill on her skin. In her mind's eye, she saw him lift his head, scenting the air, smiling as he picked out Mulder's presence in this room. Sealed away from the rest of her soul, her emotions stilled at that. Sealed away--away from his perception, triumph flared white hot, quickly damped back to detachment. Wait. Wait. Calm again, the Hunter poised for action. Still waiting, waiting.....the door opened, cat quiet. Breath held, she opened her eyes, saw the shape as a greater darkness in the night, save for the smudge of a pale face. Waited still, gathering her power again, letting it pool behind her heart, a fiery kiss that sent flame along her veins, exhilaration and terror mixed--like flying.... Waiting, waiting....the shape moved closer, toward the bed. "Dear Fox," a voice crooned. "She's gone and left you alone, hasn't she. Don't worry, she'll pay for that--after you're gone." Light flared from nowhere--she had time to see his face, shocked and a little frightened, before she struck, bringing everything she had to bear down on him, opening him up and tearing loose the dark strands that fed him..... Hunger surrounded her, hunger ancient and never fed, raking her with unseen talons--ohhell, mistake, she thought dimly, tasting its desire for her.... A fatal mistake, more fatal than her earlier hesitation. Strong, cold fingers closed around her throat, searing skin already too hot from the forces raging within it--tearing free of her body again, she hurled herself into the darkness. *********************************************************************** It was dark and cold; shivering, she huddled there, making herself a very small shape in the blackness. But she felt something malign beating against her mind, stirring to full wakefulness, here in the darkness of Julian's soul, put her hand in her mouth and tried not to scream, tried to will it not to notice her. It gathered her up anyway, just another tasty morsel, screaming aloud-- swallowed her into a deeper blackness, formless--nothing to see, nothing to touch, nothing to smell.... Nothingness, only her own thoughts were real. Floating in a sightless, seething darkness, she sobbed--or tried to, no flesh, no sound, only thought--the sense of herself stretched thin, reaching, reaching and touching nothing....she screamed silently, becoming nothing more than panic--but panic required flesh, required blood--tumbling sightless, she had none, screamed silently again and again....awareness winked out, nothing but a silent scream. Time passed. Minutes. Years. Millennia. I am, she thought, conscious of herself as Morgan again. Paradox, for she was surely dead, consumed and annihilated like Harcourt's other victims. Dead and gone, failed at the Hunt. Dull certainty of failure replaced the screaming. Destiny had led her; she had presumed too much, failure had been chosen ahead of time. Accepting that.... Eyes blinded by light, blood rushing in her ears--she was in a room, filled with Victorian furniture, a shadowy figure standing in the corner. Heart hammering, she peered at it, recognized it, stayed still. It wasn't real--it was a construct, but whose? And why. The darkness had swallowed her up, why spit her out here? Knowledge was nothing. She was powerless here, whatever she knew. Victorian. Julian's era, Julian's construction. But she was still the Hunter. The shadowy figure--he was here. ::Julian:: She struck at his core, finding only a shadow that turned away from her, his inner, secret self. Righteous anger burst bright, hot--::Your day is over:: she told him and reached for him. He fought bitterly,striking out at her, pain flaring along nerve endings that no longer existed. Gathering what little she still had, she poised to strike again--and hesitated. Emerging from the shadows was a plain, almost homely youth, nothing of beauty there--comprehension struck, lightning streaking across her mind, her thoughts. This *was* Julian. Ogodogodogod, she knew him too well, he was her mirror, what she might have become....the exhilaration had gone with the terror--her righteousness melted as grief racked her, for herself, for all of Julian's victims, for Julian himself. ::Why?:: she asked, aching with sorrow. :For beauty? All this for beauty?:: He looked at her, his eyes still his own, pale, but haunted. ::For everything,:: he told her faintly and flooded her with emotions not her own, and yet very like: loneliness, isolation, need--he'd been shown power and grasped it eagerly, reaching into the fire and accepting the burning as necessary. And that burning had consumed him completely, transformed him, leaving only this remnant of what he had once been. It might have been her. Could have been too easily. ::Turn from this:: she begged, ::Julian, it's not too late, you aren't alone, I've been there, you can still stop, you can still turn from it, take back who you were, please, come with me, I can show you:: He quailed, hands tight to his chest, face twisted and acid-etched with dread and hatred, shifting bone and muscle to reveal the beauty he had chosen--the man she had faced in the darkness of that house. Clinging to grief, she stepped close to touch him. Mourning the small lost self he had murdered, mourning her death and his life, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders to breath his charnel scent and seek the freshness buried within. He shrieked and writhed, the body in her arms trembling--he ripped himself from her arms, convulsing back, sick hunger walling him from her. ::Don't!:: Her grief was a shrill cry, ::oh, don't--come back, Julian come back! You can't escape this way, the wheel won't let you go . . .: : Too late, too late, the illusion around her folded them in and tore them apart--a wrench that shattered bone and sinew and nerve that didn't exist--his scream echoed, rage and anguish agelessly deep, and the room blew apart in a thousand glittering shatters as illusion caved to the reality of nothing that was the truth. The essence of him quailed from her, hatred like acid, burning, burning.... But she had found pity once and could not let it go. She was dead already; if her soul was to be destroyed, let it be on her own terms, let her not disperse in rage and despair. From somewhere, she found strength again, even in this formless darkness, wrapped what she was around him, pain flaring as he fought, weakening her. Still, she held him, seeing that boy, that unhappy boy in the shadows, behind the brilliant, glittering mask... What more was there to lose? If this was Destiny, let her meet it, if she had been formed for this, let her achieve it. She believed in the Wheel, but nothing was certain and all was illusion. Even this. With a final shuddering spasm, he cast her aside, cast her through the darkness around them both--a star streaked past, lightening the blackness and she touched something benign, butterfly light, many somethings that clustered near her, young and frightened, seeking comfort, healing, freedom from the endless night.... ::Julian?:: she thought and felt revulsion echo back at her. Bewildered, she drew them in.....and wrapped herself around them as that malignance once more awakened around her, dark wings beating soundlessly around them.... ::NO!!!!!:: she heard, and then faded into nothingness, still clasping the others against herself, all of them together, clinging tightly out of terror....felt them leave her alone, all alone in the void.... *********************************************************************** The dream was Harcourt again, eyes like flame, leaning over him. "Wake up, Fox." It was soft, deceptively so, and menace lurked beneath it; he huddled under the blankets, barely able to breathe. No, he thought, Harcourt wouldn't find him under here, but the blankets were jerked away, leaving him chilled and he couldn't move any more, tied hand and foot, stretched out like an offering for the altar. "This is the sacrifice," Harcourt crooned and drew a thin blade across his belly, letting the blood pool in his navel. "The gods will savor you, Fox. You have so much in you for them to eat, so much darkness with the light." Harcourt's teeth glinted briefly and his mouth came down on Mulder's, a strong hand forcing his jaws apart, Harcourt's tongue invading his mouth, hot and wet and tasting stagnant, coppery. Oh, God, blood--it wasn't a dream, this was real.... He struggled with all he had, gasped when Harcourt released him, those strange light eyes gazing at him as if from a distance. "It is time." Rage overpowered terror, lending him strength, and he struck out with bandaged hands linked, caught Harcourt hard across the face, feeling flesh and bone crunch with the force of it. Harcourt screamed, pain and fury mixed. He struck again, found himself hauled forward to crash onto his knees on the floor, the impact sending waves of pain he couldn't isolate. And then Harcourt was chanting, some malign and guttural tongue that raised the hair on the back of his neck. Then, he saw Morgan on the floor, Tommy lying a little way beyond her, barely visible in the light from the street. Steel kissed his shoulder blades, not hard enough to cut, just cold as death, traveling in strange spiral patterns, as if Harcourt were drawing on his flesh. It stopped a moment later and Harcourt made a throaty sound of triumph. "You are mine." His voice was hoarse, nearly as hoarse as Mulder's but not from screaming. Rage surged in him again, driving him up on legs that ached from impact with the floor. Hard elbow to Harcourt's midsection and he tried to hold onto Harcourt's wrist, grip it hard past the agony that flared from the burns under the gauze. Harcourt was weaker, weakening, no longer inhumanly strong--and he thought for a moment he might win this one, might hold the fucker off long enough for help to arrive. "Dennison!" His voice cracked upward as Harcourt bore down on him. A leg raked his out from under him and he fell again, fell and rolled and the door burst open, the light from the hall dimmed for night. The elevator started again, a scant few moments after the power had gone off, the light making them both squint. "I don't like this." Skinner's voice was soft; he drew his gun. She'd drawn hers already. When the door opened, they went through together--one finger, two, three, raising her hand for Skinner to see. The silence on the floor was eerie, even for this late at night. At the nursing desk, she paused, peered over, saw a limp bloody hand and shook her head grimly. Skinner motioned her to take the other side of the hall. Moving in tandem, a purity of motion and intention nearly as intense as moments with Mulder, danger honing wit and senses. Nearly. The door was blackened in the dim light of the hall. Dennison and Phelps lay on the floor, limp and bloodied; she knelt and checked a pulse, found only clammy flesh, no life left in it. Skinner, doing the same to Phelps, gave her a grim look and looked at the door; it was going to be hellishly dark in there, she thought and knew it was his thought, too. He stood on one side of the door, she on the other--he went through first, sweeping the room, jamming the door with his body, she followed low--"Back off!" she shouted, her eyes making out the shapes in the dimness, even before her brain had fully processed it. Morgan lay crumpled on the floor, like a broken doll. Not far beyond her, Mulder also lay, but he was struggling up, his face twisted with the effort to move. What it cost, she couldn't guess, but had no time to think of it. Harcourt turned his head, baring his teeth at them in a parody of a smile. Gooseflesh prickled Scully's skin, even under the coat--he was completely insane, psychosis in extremity. Seconds dragged like minutes, like hours....like decades, she heard Skinner shouting at him, repeating the demand, and Harcourt moved toward Skinner in the near dark. Skinner fired, then, the sound hurting her ears in the confines of the room, fired twice--impossibly, Harcourt still stood, leering at them. "Put your hands on your head," Skinner barked, and Scully marveled at the steadiness in his voice. No doubts, simple command. Bending, she used one free hand to check Morgan's pulse and found--nothing. Oh, God, no, not this, she thought distantly and fumbled, certain she'd put her fingers wrong. She had to have missed it, Morgan couldn't die over this, they'd fucking dragged her into this, she couldn't be dead. Harcourt began to scream--not rage, but terror, pure and undiluted. Scully felt again, swore under her breath, felt again--and was rewarded by something faint and thready under her fingertips. "She's alive, sir," she told him harshly. Skinner approached Harcourt, gun leveled, pulling a set of handcuffs out of his coat pocket. With quick, almost dazzling movements, he snapped one on Harcourt's left wrist, yanked it around back to cuff it to the other wrist. The screaming stopped sharply, as if someone had suddenly cut the bastard's throat. Stepping back, Skinner trained his gun on him. "Step out of the room, Harcourt." Inside Scully's head, a small voice asked what they were going to do if he blew out of the cuffs the way Morgan had blown in his doors and windows. The way *he'd* blown the television and everything else in this room. And say, hey, let's not even talk about why the bastard hadn't gone down when Skinner had fired at him, point blank. She ignored the voice, focusing on what she did know, focusing on what was real and here and now, the small dragging noise Morgan made as she fought for breath--Christ, he could have crushed her windpipe--and Mulder took in a ragged breath, she could hear him, it was almost a sob. Stepping over Morgan, she edged closer to Mulder, holding her gun on Harcourt. "C'mon," she shouted, losing control over frustration and rage. "Goddammit, he said step out of the room!" Harcourt moved toward her, a face out of nightmare, flesh shrinking in on the skull, the light in his eyes fading, fading, and then gone. His body fell to the floor with a thud and she caught her breath against the sudden desire to scream. He was falling to pieces in front of her. She wanted nothing of this, nothing this inexplicable could be right, could be true. Looking wildly at Skinner, she saw him staring, pallor visible even at night, even in the dimness of the room. "What in hell--" she began shakily and Harcourt's skull collapsed, like a bad slow motion effect in a horror movie, dust drifting on the air. She coughed, sneezed, shaking her head. Oh, God, he was like a corpse dead for a hundred years, past decomposing and well into dust..... Hysteria threatened her--if she saw this in a movie, she'd rag on the special effects, and she was seeing this happen before her eyes. But she leaned over her partner instead. "Mulder," she whispered, touching his cheek, felt tears there. "C'mon, Mulder--sir, can you give me a hand here?" And after an audible and shaky inhalation, Skinner did. Floating, Morgan heard the pulse of the Cosmos beating in her ear, felt it in time to her own. She was still nothing, but there were stars head, she tasted light, saw sound, the heat of newborn suns blossomed on her skin, the chill of the dying stars made her shudder. Then, without space for transition, for adjustment, she was back in the flesh, her throat afire with pain, every bone feeling as if it were filled with ground glass. Gasping, bringing air into oxygen starved lungs, conscious only of pain at first, she fought for awareness, felt a soft surface under her, opened her eyes and saw the ceiling passing with dizzying speed. "Stay put, Dr. Grayson," Skinner told her, walking beside the gurney. Her throat was in a vise. Struggling, she formed words, almost silently. "Harcourt." "He's gone." Skinner's expression might have been carved in stone. "Nothing for you to worry about." Gone. Gone how? She searched his eyes, finally earning a grim nod. Gone dead. Gone permanently. She'd won, at whatever cost. It was, finally, over. With that, she took in another painful breath, sinking back into the greyness that gave surcease from pain. ******************************************************************* Mulder's burns had been rebandaged and Geoff Montrose, despite Mulder's faint protests, had given him a sedative. The burns weren't in great shape, and Montrose had called in the specialist, not content to rest with simply redressing. Mulder had more bruises. And a few new cuts. Shallow ones, scarcely more than scratches, like runes on his back, between his shoulder blades. And his nose had bled one helluva lot, enough to worry her a little. There was a monitor behind his bed again, giving her reason. His blood pressure was moderately high. She wondered how high it had gotten while he'd fought for his life. And he was in no condition to tell her, needing to hear again and again that Harcourt was dead, truly dead. She'd even told him the truth, her hands shaking badly enough that she'd stuffed them in her coat pockets as she'd told him. Skinner appeared just as she'd finished. "She's going to be fine," he told them tiredly. "Bruised and battered, but about as difficult as always." "That's not fair, sir," Mulder told him hollowly. "She--I think she weakened him. Or I couldn't have--" He stopped suddenly, bit his lip until Scully touched his mouth, one fingertip to remind him not to. Skinner looked at her, then at Mulder. "Yeah," he agreed flatly and let it go. "Mulder, it's done now. If you don't listen to Montrose--I don't want to have to quash you this time, but I will." "Scout's honor," Mulder promised faintly, casting a wan smile in Skinner's direction. "Were you a Scout, Mulder? No? Then don't expect me to be impressed by that oath. Scully, this is an order, go home and get some sleep. A lot of sleep. I don't want to see you at work for at least two days. You look like hell." Raising her head, she studied the AD. "So do you. Go home yourself, sir." "He's right, Scully." Mulder told her weakly. "You need rest worse than I do." Skinner looked at the ceiling. "I wish I'd recorded that statement," he told it and left, evidently taking Scully's advice. She looked at him for a long moment. It was over, he was alive and was going to be okay. She had to believe that, if she believed in nothing else. "Okay, I'll go home." Rising, she leaned close to touch his cheek. "If you'll rest, too." "Scout's honor," he repeated hoarsely, the ghost of a smile, curving his mouth. In the hallway, walking toward the elevator, she could still see it. ***************************************************************** On another floor, Morgan slept. And sleeping, dreamt again of her teacher. "It is done," he told her gravely. "And it is beginning." More puzzles. "But the Eater of Souls is dead." She eyed him curiously. "Yes, his life on this plane has ended. But you will Hunt again, Hunter." And saying this, he gradually faded away, leaving only his smile behind him. ********************************************************************* Pushing open the door to Morgan's room, Scully peered in, saw her awake, reading and making notes, the cast on her right arm propped on a pillow. Hi, mind if I come in?" Looking up, Morgan smiled crookedly. "Hi. How's your partner?" Scully let the door close behind her; Morgan's voice was a close match for Mulder's this morning. "He's doing pretty well, all things considered. How are you?" A grimace. "Pretty well, all things considered. Shaky, but okay." Morgan gave her a worried look. "How's Tommy? No one seemed to think I needed to be told." That was a question she could answer, and gladly. "Fine. Slightly concussed. They released him last night. I gather Dr. Montrose browbeat him into staying at your house for a couple of days of observation." Morgan closed her eyes briefly, her expression relieved. "And Fox? Really, Dana, how is he?" This was not a conversation Scully wanted to have. "Mulder had one helluva nightmare and--" But Morgan deserved more than evasion from her. "He has some new bruises on his throat, a few cuts. And he had a nosebleed." Morgan considered that, eyebrows drawing together, then shivered. "But he's okay." A statement, not a question. "As okay as he can be, considering his injuries." Scully hooked the chair closer to the bed and sat down. "How long you in for?" Some of the light came back to Morgan's eyes. "Hopefully out today," she told Scully, sounding almost cheerful. The door opened and Geoff Montrose's head came around. "Ah, Dr. Scully, I wondered where you were, I just looked in on your partner." Scully grimaced. "The nurse came in to change his dressings, he kicked me out." Geoff nodded and came in all the way, giving Morgan a severe look. "I suppose you want to go home today." "You know it." Morgan smiled winningly. "You gonna let me?" "I'm afraid so, we need the bed for people sicker than you." He sounded faintly irritable. "But consider yourself under house arrest." "Mm." Morgan grinned at him, but Scully saw shadows in her eyes. "Somehow, I expected that." "Dr. Scully, may I have a word with you?" Geoff looked at her, arching an eyebrow. "Dana," she offered, struck again by the realization that this was an attractive man. Thank God, maybe her libido hadn't completely died after all. Rising, she offered Morgan another smile. "Mulder says you weakened him. That he couldn't have held him off until we got there if you hadn't. Just telling you thanks seems pretty pale." Morgan flushed, a tide of scarlet that Scully watched in fascination. "Just doing my job," she muttered and looked back at her book. "A little more than that," Scully told her and reached out to briefly clasp her fingers outside the cast. "Thanks." An embarrassed shrug was all the answer she got. Smiling faintly, Scully followed Geoff out into the hall. "Before I worry you, your partner is doing well, considering the circumstances, although he's as difficult a patient as the one we just left." Geoff grinned at her briefly. "Although, frankly, I can sympathize more with his reactions than Morgan's. He wants his life back, I dare say, and fighting over restrictions is symptomatic. I've gathered that you have some degree of influence over him." He arched a questioning brow. Scully sighed. "More than most, but probably not as much as you'd like. He's annoyingly protective with me, but if he gets it back, he fights it." "Ah, one of the weaknesses of my gender." Geoff's voice was light. "We're supposed to be beyond all that. There's a therapist I'd like him to see, one who works with victims of violent crime--I want Fox to see him." That had been grating for a while; now she arched an eyebrow back at him. "He prefers to be called Mulder. He doesn't like being called Fox." A brief silence met this announcement. "Mulder, then." Geoff's expression was mild. "Do you think you could persuade him to talk with Dr. Ferrante?" "I can try." Scully sighed again. "But I think we'll have better luck if Skinner insists on it. Let me try, first--I hate having to coerce him into this, after everything he's been through." "Agreed." Geoff smiled at her. "Now that I've had my professional say, I'd like to ask you something personal." Suddenly wary, she looked up at him. "No, Mulder and I are not personally involved." Geoff laughed, a rich and unaffected sound that made heads turn in the hallway. "No, that wasn't it--I was wondering if you'd let me take you to dinner sometime soon." She hadn't really expected that. But, despite the color she felt in her face, she was pleased nonetheless. "I think I'd like that." He looked just as pleased, and faintly relieved. "Well, then, when would be a good time?" Her mouth curved. "Why not tonight?" "Tonight it is. Sevenish?" His color was a little high, too, she reflected. "Sevenish sounds great." Her smile widened. "I'm afraid you'll have to pick me up here, I hate breaking inb a new partner, and I'm afraid the nurses are going to kill him by the end of the day." "At least. If they only hurt him, he'll be here longer." Geoff chuckled. "Very well, I'll check back with you on Dr. Ferrante later today--ah, here's my number." He extracted a card and pen from his pocket and scribbled a number on it. "Home--and office." "Thanks." Scully offered him a smile and glanced at the front of the card. "Swimming pools?" Geoff blushed again. "One of my patients--had his gall bladder out, was convinced he was going to die prior to that. He insisted that he could give me a substantial discount if I decided I wanted a pool. I couldn't convince the poor fellow that I had no desire for one." Laughing softly, Scully tucked the car into her purse. "Grateful patients--something I'm not over familiar with, most of mine are dead. Except Mulder, of course." Grinning, Geoff shook his head. "I think I've finally convinced him that I'm nearly up to your standard of medical care." "Mmm, probably because you actually talk to him." Scully laughed. "And you don't yell at him--he hates being yelled at." "Don't we all." "Mulder more than most." She smiled, feeling a little diffident. "I'll see you tonight, then." "Tonight," he agreed cheerfully and went back into Morgan's room. ********************************************************************* By the time she'd returned to Mulder's room, he was groggily watching a game show. "How can you watch this stuff." "How else am I gonna find out how much a refrigerator costs?" he told her, his voice a little slurred. "Bad time?" She nodded at his feet. "Uh huh. They keep cleaning away all the dead stuff, they tell me--if it's dead, why does it hurt worse?" He turned his head, licking dry lips. "Can you hand me my water?" She did more than that, she helped him sit up and held the cup while he drank through the straw. "You mouth is looking better." "Gotta stop biting it." He sounded pleased, though, one small victory at a time. "Hands are better, too, wanna see?" She smiled at that. "Yeah. You sure it's not gonna hurt you?" He shrugged it off. "`Sides, I know you'll give me the straight story, Scully." "I get the impression that Dr. Montrose would." Another shrug. "I think so. But I *know* you will." So, very carefully, Scully unwrapped one hand enough to peer at the damage. "It *is* doing better, Mulder, but you aren't going to be playing racquetball anytime soon." Still careful, she began to rewrap. He grinned. "Or anything else that requires more than my fingers, I guess." Pressing the surgical tape across the gauze, she regarded him with amusement. A wicked comment came to her lips; she thought about suppressing it, but it was irresistible. "Better lock your videos up, Mulder, gonna be a little while before you can really enjoy `em." "Scully!" His mouth curved, but she was shocked at the shadows behind his eyes. "A long while," he added, his voice faint. Which brought her to Geoff's suggestion. "Listen, partner, we need to talk." A wary look. "About what?" "About what happened--no, I don't mean you have to tell me everything, Mulder, but we need to talk about how you're going to deal with it." "Shit happens, Scully." His expression went shuttered. "I can deal with it, that's all you need to know." "You need to talk to somebody, Mulder, not me, but a professional who's used to dealing with these things." "I *am* a professional," he told her shortly. "I'm okay, Scully." "So am I, Mulder, and if I was raped, I'd need to talk to someone. I *have* talked to someone--I don't know what happened to me when I was abducted, Mulder, I have this huge space of nothing in my memory, I don't even know if I *was* raped." Pain surged up, making her throat tight, blurring her vision. She didn't want to do this to him, didn't want to do this to herself, but oh, God, she couldn't let him stonewall on this. He looked away, blinking rapidly, not saying anything, his mouth trembling. "Okay," he finally whispered. "What do you want me to say? Yeah, I was raped, Scully, I understand that, I'm not stupid and I'm not in denial." But he swallowed hard after that, his throat working as if it had been painful to say. "I want you to talk to someone--Geoff Montrose gave me the name of someone, but I'd like to check him out before you agree to it." Leaning in, she closed her hand gently around his forearm, unable to take his hand. After a long time, he swallowed again, licked his lips. "I suppose Skinner's gonna force the issue anyway," he finally agreed, his voice still not much more than a whisper. "Okay, check this guy out." She squeezed his arm. "If he checks out okay--no dancing with him, Mulder--okay? Let him help you." He gave her a look, eyes angry. One more person forces Mulder to do what's good for him, she thought and closed her eyes briefly. "I know you, you're too damned smart, you know too much--let him help you. Promise me." Another hard swallow. "I'll try." Then she smiled, the smile she felt so rarely and usually in conjunction with him. "That's all I'm asking." And squeezed his arm again. "So, what do you want for lunch? Jesus, I hope I get reimbursed for all this by Accounting, it should count as business expense." He looked at her for a long time; just when she had begun to despair, his mouth quirked again, a half-smile. "Yeah, but you know how they are. Sneak it by Skinner--he's gonna be shocked I agreed to see someone, catch him off-guard." Laughing, as much with relief as with humor, Scully agreed. *************************************************************************** Skinner came in early to find a haze of cigarette smoke polluting his office. Pausing, he looked at the smoker with dislike he no longer troubled himself to disguise. "Good morning, Mr. Skinner." The smoker leaned back in the chair in front of the desk. "I have a few questions about Agent Mulder's latest-- involvement." Damn. Moving toward his chair, Skinner stopped to turn on the air filter that sat on the floor behind his desk. A thinly veiled insult, that, but it didn't faze the smoking man. "Pretty straightforward case." His tone was deliberately short. "Not exactly your area of interest." "You might be surprised," the smoker told him, smiling thinly. "My area of interest is fairly wide. I understand you called in a civilian consultant. A Dr. Morgan Grayson. Why?" "Jim Barlow was out of town." Sitting down, Skinner met the hooded gaze straight on. "And she's very good. The issue of time was a driving factor--Mulder very nearly died." "So I understand." Another deep drag on the cigarette. "There are other analysts in the Behavioral Support Unit, Mr. Skinner. Surely someone there could have met the pressing demands of--time." "Maybe." Skinner leaned back, eyes narrowing. This wasn't about appropriate action, he sensed, but something else. Maybe Morgan Grayson. "Maybe not. I believed then and believe now that consulting Dr. Grayson was justified, given the risk. I believe that subsequent events substantiate that belief." Another smoky exhalation. "Yes, I read your report." Another deep inhalation. "I trust that Mr. Mulder's recovery will go smoothly. You will, of course, require some therapeutic intervention before he returns to duty." "If necessary." Skinner's jaw tightened. "From Bureau resources." Now, Skinner's gut tightened. "If necessary," he repeated. "He may choose for himself, I believe that's within Bureau regulations." Another hooded look. "Certainly." The smoker rose. "Do you believe you'll be calling on Dr. Grayson again, Mr. Skinner?" "I have no plans to do so at the present time," he told his opponent drily. "Nor do I think Dr. Grayson particularly welcomes the opportunity to assist FBI investigations. She took this case as a favor to a mutual friend." The smoker blinked; Skinner had the sense that *that* piece of information took him by surprise. "It's always good to have friends, Mr. Skinner. A point you might remember." And he left, leaving behind the fog of burning tobacco. THE END