Washington DC:  July 31, 5:47 pm

Walter Skinner would rather have faced a congressional hearing 
than an angry, distraught Dana Scully at this point in his life.  

She stood before her desk, eyes snapping with fury, her whole 
body tight with it, demanding answers that he wasn't at liberty to 
give her.

"I don't know where he is," he told her stonily, "And you have an 
assignment, you aren't at liberty to go and find him."

"I've talked to Mrs. Skinner," she snapped.  "He called you that 
night he left, he spoke with you for ten minutes.  And your wife 
says you went out for a while.  You met with him that night, sir, I 
know you did.  And, with all due respect, I want to know where he 
went."  She slammed both hands down on his desk.

"I don't know," he said through his teeth, wishing Sharon hadn't 
felt it necessary to be honest with Fox Mulder's partner.  But she 
still trusted the two, after they had stood by him.  "And that's the 
God's honest truth, Agent Scully.  And you aren't doing either of 
us any favors by standing here shouting about it."

She glanced at the closed door and sank sullenly back into the 
chair opposite his desk.  "Damn you both," she muttered, and 
closed her eyes.  "What did he tell you?"

Mulder was wrong about this, Skinner thought suddenly, she 
would keep asking and asking until someone thought she'd 
discovered something and go after her.  

"He gave me a package," he told her brusquely, "And no, I will not 
give it to you, I no longer have it."

Thinking about *that* gave him the shudders.  He'd been 
contacted before, but this was more overt.  And he'd not known, 
still was not sure, that he wasn't betraying Mulder instead of 
helping him.  He'd had to go on trust, which was a damned rare 
commodity for him these days.

She opened her eyes again.  "What did he give you," she asked, 
sounding a little clenched herself.  "Dammit, he's my partner!"

Temper flared.  "Among other things, he gave me his gun and his 
ID, he quit."  

That rocked her badly, he could see, and felt faint satisfaction 
balancing what he had just suffered for fifteen minutes.  But that 
wasn't entirely fair.  "And he gave me a package of material that 
he'd obtained from various sources.  Among them, Morgan 
Grayson."

Her expression became so stark, his chest hurt.  "He'll get himself 
killed."  "If he'd not dead already, Skinner thought, feeling an ache 
at that.  "I warned him of that, Scully."  He rose suddenly. "I'm 
going home, Agent Scully.  I'll walk you out."

Her eyes widened at him briefly and she rose, waiting while he 
rolled his sleeves down and put his jacket back on.

They walked out together, and Skinner's secretary flicked her gaze 
away from them.  He sighed inwardly, knowing that Kim would 
have heard the shouting.  But, within reason, Kim could be trusted.

"I understand you're concerned, Agent Scully."  He deliberately 
pitched his voice for public consumption.  "But Agent Mulder is an 
adult and perfectly able to make his own choices.  I regret that he 
chose not to share those choices with his partner."  

That much, he thought, grimly humorous, was truth.

Scully's mouth tightened and she walked in silence.

It had never taken nearly so long to reach his car, moving through 
familiar corridors, feeling eyes rest on them as they passed, even 
out in the parking garage.  But he walked Scully to her car first.  
"Agent Scully," he said softly, scarcely moving his lips.  "He told 
me that Morgan Grayson was alive."  He had thought she was 
shocked before.  She went so pale he was suddenly certain she 
would faint.  

"He's gone underground." she whispered, her head down, staring 
at the asphalt beneath her shoes.

"Very probably."  Skinner nodded at her.  "And I hope he stays 
there just a little longer, Agent Scully.  There are things happening, 
things beyond me, but things that may change the balance of power 
just enough.  Stay out of it, Scully, unless you want to endanger 
them both.  And don't, for God's sake, tell anyone what I've just 
said.  I'll certainly deny it."

Her head came up.  "Oh, God," she whispered.  "I know what he's 
done." 

Vast irritation made his tone sharp.  "Leave it alone, Scully.  He's 
made his choices, he's an adult, you can do more harm than good."

"He didn't want you to tell me."  Her eyes blazed at him in the 
early dusk.  

"Damn right, he knew you'd go after him.  But if you do, Scully, 
you could kill them all.  Including yourself."

With that bit of wisdom imparted, Skinner turned back to his car, 
walking fast to separate himself from her.

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

Washington DC:  July 31, 9:00 pm

Scully had her most dangerous expression on when Frohicke 
opened the door.   

He gaped at her, astounded, and she pushed past him, kicking the 
door shut. 

"Agent Sc-cully, what brings you here?"  Frohicke was too 
unnerved even to leer at her.

She glared at him.  "I want to know where Mulder is!"

"He's safe," Byers told her quietly.  "And not even we know 
exactly where."

"He's been gone almost two weeks now," Scully raged, "And you 
tell me you know he's safe?  I want to know where he is, and I'm 
not too picky about how I find out."  She touched her gun 
meaningfully.

"We have regular communication with him," Byers's tone was 
placating.  "If you like, you can read some of it."

Langley appeared from the shadows.  "Don't shoot Frohicke in the 
head, Scully.  If you gotta shoot him, aim lower, do the women of 
the world a favor."

Frohicke paled visibly and scowled at Langley.  "Very funny."

She whirled on Langley. "Dammit, I am not kidding around, where 
is he?"

"I can't tell you that,"  Langley told her, "None of us can, because 
we don't know.  But you can write to him, if you like.  We'll send it 
through for you." 

"You bastards," Scully hissed, but her rage was melting away.  
"Goddammit, is he all right?  Can you at least give me some 
general idea?  They're still looking for him, I had to answer 
questions this afternoon!  They think he's gone on some vendetta 
to avenge Morgan."

The three exchanged a look that made her crazy.

She felt as if she'd been wearing blinders for weeks and Skinner's 
revelation made her rash.  "She's alive, isn't she.  And Aarin?"

After a moment, Langley nodded reluctantly.

Her knees felt wobbly suddenly.  Almost, she wished she didn't 
know, because it put a terrible pressure on her, it tore her in two, 
protecting her friend and seeing the grief almost daily in Geoff's 
and Sharon's eyes.  "All right, where's the computer.  I'm going to 
give Mulder a piece of my mind."



Alexandria:  August 1, 8:30 pm

"I believe they're alive," Scully began, choosing her words 
carefully, avoiding Geoff's eyes.  "I don't have any proof of that, 
but Mulder's gone."

Sharon leaned forward.  "I saw him that night," she told Scully, 
"That was a man near out of his mind.  Are you sure he hasn't gone 
after the men he think set that up?"

"Reasonably sure."   She knew that it sounded weak.  "No proof, 
again."  She finally dared to look at Geoff, found him staring 
thoughtfully at his hands. "Geoff?"

"I'm going to kill that bitch when I get my hands on her," he said 
conversationally and rested his forehead on his palms, elbows on 
his knees.  "Damn her soul, did she think this was smart?"

Despite the fact that she and Sharon had gone through the house 
thoroughly, looking for bugs, Scully held up a hand, alarmed, and 
he scowled at her.

"Well, if they are alive, Geoff, maybe she thought after your tirade 
the other day that she had better find her own path."  Sharon's tone 
was dry, almost a little bitter.

His head came up.  "That isn't fair," he hissed and subsided at 
Scully's look. "All right, perhaps it is.  I was upset, how was I to 
know she was going to hold me accountable for losing my temper.  
She never has before."  His tone was disgusted; it was all Scully 
could do not to grin.

"Scully, how good is he?"  Sharon's eyes narrowed.  "Really, no 
bullshit."

Scully sighed.  "He's not NSA, Sharon.  But he's not inept, either.  
He's a damned good agent, and his paranoia has kept him alive and 
whole this long."

"That's not what I asked.  Is he good enough to keep them out 
there, away from the bad guys?"  Sharon leaned forward, lacing 
her fingers together.  

"Yes, I think so."  Scully bit her lip.  "Within reason, Sharon.  I 
don't know what kind of resources are available to him, but he's 
got money and he's got contacts.  And he's good."

"And who knows what resources the other guys have."  Sharon 
frowned.  "Where are they, do you think?"

That much she could answer without compunction.  "I only wish I 
knew," she sighed wearily and shook her head.  "Or could guess.  
This is--outside my experience this time, Sharon.  I just have to 
trust he'll be in touch with me sometime.  He said he would be."  
Not quite a lie, she thought, and Geoff looked less taut for it.  

Sharon gave her a wise look and said nothing, for which she was 
grateful. 

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

Canadian Rockies:  September 22, 8:03 am

McKenzie was grinning when he pulled up this time, the back of 
his truck  loaded with boxes.  Shivering, Mulder stood in the cool 
morning air, glad of his heavy coat and boots, wondering about 
that until McKenzie thrust the usual sheaf of printouts at him.  
"Sorry, Will, but your mail is more fun than I've had in years.  That 
partner of yours is a hellion."

Mulder's heart sank.  

Riffling through the pages, he found what he sought and sighed.  
"Well, hell, I should have known they couldn't keep anything from 
her."  In spite of his dread, his mouth quirked as he read:

	"M.

	When I see you again, you're going to wish I'd killed you 
	when I shot you.

That was Irish temper talking, he reckoned, and kept reading.

	S. finally told me to butt out, and I finally went to the 
L.G.  If 
	anything happens to you or to M2 or A., they're dead 
men, I 
	want you to know that I'm serious about that.

	They're questioning people about you, they've interviewed 
	me twice and talked to others.  They seem to be trying to 
	leave the impression that you've gone off the deep and 
and 	gone off to avenge M2.  Of course, they know they don't 
	have her, so the 	plan must be to set you up as a crazed 
	assassin when they finally lay their hands on you.  For 
	God's sake, M, be careful as mice, all of you.  I'm going 
to 	nail S. and see what can be done from this end, and don't, 
	dammit, tell me not to do anything, I'm not made of glass 
	and you're my damned partner.

	Give A. a hug from me and tell M2 I'm as furious with her 
	as I am with you.  And take care of yourselves.  God, M, 
	you could have told me.

	S.

	I checked on the Fortenberrys via the LG and they're all 
	well and doing fine.  Not so much as a whisper of trouble 
	around them, and they're both being very, very discreet."

His eyes stung.  

God, Scully, he thought and shook his head, missing her, missing 
normality.  He wanted that cancerous bastard dead with a chilling 
strength.  This time, he thought, thinking of Morgan's abandoned 
car, thinking of the blood on the seats, I'd pull the fucking trigger.

McKenzie's grin had faded.  "Bad news."

"No, just--"  Mulder sighed.  "Thinking about choices."

"Don't have many," McKenzie said, his gaze keen.  "Here comes 
your laddie." 

Turning, Mulder sighed.  "Yeah, not too damned many choices at 
all."  He bent and scooped up Aarin.  "You need to go in," he said 
sternly.  "I told you."

Abashed, Aarin peered out of the too-big hood and gauged his 
temper.  "I can help," he said brightly.

"Not this time.  Go in and help Mama with breakfast."

Aarin's face fell.  He trudged slowly back to the cabin door, casting 
one sorrowful look back that made Mulder uncomfortable, 
remembering his own childhood.  This, he told himself, was 
different, and knew that in his bones, but it didn't make it easier 
when Aarin looked that way.  

Turning back to McKenzie, he folded the papers and stuffed them 
inside his parka before beginning to unload.

"They say that if your lady is strong enough, they want you to 
move on."  McKenzie hauled a carton out of the truck and gave it 
to him.

Mulder thought about it on the way back to the cabin.  It was true, 
once winter set in for real, they were going to be stuck here for a 
while.  

He wasn't sure he was comfortable with that; it wasn't a bad spot, 
and he'd spent the last two months exploring for fail safe options in 
case trouble followed them.  But the thought of spending possibly 
four to six more months here....

Returning to the truck, he shook his head.  "I think they're right."

McKenzie nodded companionably.  "Got to do what feels safest.  
Take care of your own."  He handed him another carton and eyed 
him.  "Put some chains on that pup, you could get down all right."

"For how long?"  He paused, holding the carton. 

McKenzie eyed the sky, considered the mountain.  "About four to 
six weeks, I'd say.  Give you time to make your decision, time for 
them to pave the road ahead."

For the thousandth time, he wondered about this man.  "Who are 
you?" he asked softly.

McKenzie laughed shortly, humorlessly.  "I used to be a 
professional man like yourself," he said and leaned against the side 
of the truck.  "Until I lost faith in what I was doing. what I was 
seeing." He eyed Mulder again.  "What do you want me to tell 
them?"

"We need to move, I can feel it."  All his vague imaginings of the 
last several days coalesced.  "And soon."

"I had a feeling."  McKenzie's mouth quirked and he jerked his chin 
toward the carton.  "Mostly freeze dried.  And some bad weather 
gear.  You might need to run hard, you know."

"Tell them that," Mulder felt easier, having made the decision.  
God, it was going to be hell uprooting Aarin.  The dreams had just 
stopped.  "And to hurry." 

"I'll bring the chains when I get an answer."  McKenzie got another 
carton and walked to the house.  "She really your wife?"

Near as, Mulder thought ruefully.  "Yeah.  Kind of."  He slanted 
McKenzie a look, saw amusement there.

"The boy yours?"

"He is now."  Mulder sighed inwardly, wondering when this had 
happened.  

Was it in Massachusetts, back during the Nyarlothep case?  Or 
later, back in Washington?  Or after Morgan had come back from 
California?  

It didn't make any difference, she was as close to him as Scully, 
maybe even closer.  And Aarin--that was another issue entirely.

"Be careful," McKenzie said softly.  "Don't stay on the long road 
too long.  Sometimes it's safer to find a hole and pull it down over 
you."

He thought of his sister, of his mother, even, God help him, of 
Skinner.  "I can't.  Not yet.  There are other people they can get 
to."

They reached the door.  McKenzie put the carton down and 
started back to the truck.  He set his down, too, trying to 
formulate his explanation for their leaving, trying to find the words 
that wouldn't frighten, but which would make sense.

It was time.

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

Mulder told Morgan that night in the bathtub; it had become 
something of a ritual, once Aarin was really asleep, for him to soak 
the day away and she frequently came in to talk to him while he 
soaked.  Morgan appeared at the door, her expression somber.  
"Something's changed."

Grimacing, he sat up.  "That's the trouble with marrying a witch," 
he jibed, "No privacy."

She knelt by the tub.  "What happened?"

"Nothing, I just feel--we need to keep moving.  You're doing fine 
now, your arm's healed.  We need to get out of here."

"Not defensible?"  She rested her chin on her folded arms.

"No.  Yeah."  He shrugged, helpless to explain it.  "It's just a 
twitch, Morgan.  We need to get out of here."

Putting out her hand, she traced his eyebrow.  "Okay."

He looked at her, searching her expression.  

When she turned to him in the night, it was with desperation, 
seeking oblivion.  Not that he was complaining, he'd done his share 
of that too, and some of it with her.  But it made him feel lonely 
for who she had been.  

The expression on her face suggested he needn't be lonely for that 
woman any longer.

"An experienced fellow like yourself would probably be bored if 
someone wanted to wash your back for you," she murmured, her 
eyes dancing with mischief.

"Never bored."  He gave her the expression he had perfected with 
Scully, his best aw-please look.

"No?"  Morgan's fingertip continued down his cheekbone to the 
corner of his mouth.

"No one's ever bothered," he sighed, mock sorrowful.  "All they 
want to do is jump me."

Morgan chuckled softly.  "You're very jumpable, Fox Mulder.  All 
that intensity, just screaming to be nurtured."

"Hey," he protested, "Who nurtures who around here?  I thought it 
was a pretty even proposition."

Leaning up, she kissed the corner of his mouth, replacing her 
fingertip with warm lips.  "Not lately," she murmured.  "I've been 
getting all the attention.  Maybe it's time to even up the score."  

Rising, she stripped off the heavy thermal shirt she slept in and 
skimmed off socks and panties.  "Slide over."

No, he was definitely not complaining, he thought and welcomed 
her into his arms as she settled on his lap.  "But this isn't my back," 
he murmured.

"Cleanliness is next to godliness," she murmured back.  "We have 
to start somewhere."  And bent to kiss him on the mouth.

Morgan was right, of course, he'd had his back scrubbed before, 
though not as often as she thought, and certainly not like this.  

The water was cooling by the time she was done with him, and he 
absolutely was not complaining, lying limply back against the chilly 
porcelain.

On the other hand--"The water's cold," he complained, so she 
turned the faucet on, making him yank his feet back as the water 
turned from cold to hot again.  "Ouch!"

Morgan laughed at him and stirred the water with her hands, 
sending a warm current his way.  "It's not even hot yet, you big 
baby."

Mulder rolled his eyes.  "That's fine, have your way with me and 
then abuse me."

Morgan stroked the insides of his thighs.  "Never that," she told 
him seriously.  "I promise."

That seemed worth a kiss, so he gave her one.  "We'll be leaving in 
a week," he sighed, recalling the earlier conversation.  "Or a little 
more.  McKenzie's bringing me chains for the wagon in case we 
need them."

Sitting between his legs, she turned and leaned against him, her 
hair tickling his nose.  "Where are we going?"

"I don't know, yet.  We need new paper, if there's a chance they 
tracked us, what we've got is blown."

"No doubt."  Morgan sighed.  "There are people out there living 
normal lives, getting up in the morning and going to work and 
never suspecting these things happen.  Complacent.  Comfortable.  
It's what They count on."  Suddenly, she giggled.  "Listen to me.  
I'd never have believed I'd become a conspiracy theorist."

"I've always been one," Mulder told her drily.  "Our paranoia 
doesn't mean someone isn't really out to get us.  Morgan, turn off 
the water, we're going to flood the bathroom."

She twisted the taps and turned to face him again, giving him the 
enigmatic smile that made him wonder what she was thinking.  

She really did, he thought, aware of his own smugness, have 
sensational breasts; she occasionally was troubled about their age 
difference, which baffled him, especially at moments like this, when 
she sat there, looking as mischievous as any water nymph of 
legend.  

He still wasn't sure when affection for a friend had turned into 
something more intense; it wasn't romance, it wasn't what he'd felt 
for Phoebe, thank God.  He liked her and loved her and had felt his 
heart shredded when he thought she was dead.  It puzzled him a 
little; he felt much the same for Scully, though he'd always kept his 
physical responses to Scully firmly squelched, thinking of the rules, 
thinking of their friendship and how he treasured it.  

"You're brooding," Morgan accused him, looking grave.

"No I'm not," he retorted and reached out, tracing the lower slope 
of her breast with a fingertip until he'd reached the nipple.  "I'm 
admiring your endowments."

"And I, yours," she told him tartly, gently pinching the inside of 
one thigh. "Aren't we a pair."

They were, Mulder agreed silently and pulled her closer again.  "If 
we don't get out of this tub, we're going to be a shriveled pair."

Morgan laughed against his mouth.  "Can't let that, happen."

"Nope."  After kissing her hard, he stood up, dripping, and reached 
for a towel. "Let's pursue this admiration in a warmer, softer 
place."

She clearly agreed.

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

"Southwest," Mulder murmured later, on the edge of sleep.  "We'll 
double back around on `em, head for New Mexico."

Morgan sighed and fitted herself against him, lying on her side.  
"Okay," she said fuzzily.  "I don't have any better ideas.  New 
Mexico feels all right."

With that settled, he closed his eyes.

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

"Daddy?"  The child's voice was teary, on the edge of crying again.

Mulder stirred, lifting his head to see Aarin sitting on the bed 
beside him.  Daddy?  

Oh, that was him, he thought blearily, still not used to it after 
nearly two months.  "Whassamatter," he muttered and rolled onto 
his back, putting an arm around the little boy; Aarin was trembling.  
"Bad dream?"

"Bad men," Aarin whispered, "They coming again."

He woke more fully, wondering if Aarin, too, was gifted like 
Morgan.  Lifting the blankets, he tucked the small form in beside 
him.  "In your dream?"

Aarin nodded.  "They coming here, Daddy."

Prescience, maybe.  He'd had dreams like that.  "We're leaving 
soon, sprout.  It will be okay, they won't find us here."

Aarin's trembling eased and a small head rested against his 
shoulder.  "Okay."  

A trusting sigh and Aarin went limp after a few moments.  Trusting 
him.  Believing in him.

He lay awake for a long time.


Washington DC:  October 2, 4:21 pm

"He's moved again."  The man took a deep drag on his cigarette, 
listening to the voice on the other end of the phone.  His palms 
were sweating, the armpits of his shirt were soaked.  "I don't 
know, I just know he has.  They got to the cabin and it was empty, 
no one had been there for at least a few days."

He listened again and a bead of sweat traveled from his hair to his 
temple.  

"We'll get him, you don't need to worry about that."  The 
scarifying voice went on and on, shredding his hide.  "I know, but 
you of all people know how intelligent he is.  And he's got that 
damned woman with him."

Stubbing his cigarette out savagely, he reached for another, 
flicking the lighter impatiently.  "Yes, it should be easier to pick up 
a man traveling with a woman and a child.  But do you know how 
many one child families there are in Canada?  Even if we focus on 
those with dark hair and fair skin, we're still talking in the hundreds 
of thousands.  We'll get him, it will just take time."

Another long vitriolic diatribe made his hands sweat again.  "Fine," 
he said, "I'll be in touch."

The phone went down with a bang.

The man considered the curl of smoke that rose from his cigarette, 
feeling an unwilling admiration for his adversary.  Like his 
namesake, Mulder was canny and clever, and he seemed to have a 
knack for finding hiding places.   

But the dogs were out, and the fox only rarely escaped them.

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

Washington DC:  October 14, 11:00 pm

They'd had Skinner meeting someone new, since Mulder had fled, 
since he'd turned over the manila envelope with the two sets of 
medical reports, the tapes, all the evidence Mulder had dug up.  
Someone who went unnamed, someone who met him covertly, 
nothing so normal as a midday lunch.  

Skinner found he actually missed Jones, missed the apparent 
normalcy, the wry humor.  This contact was deadly serious, but 
then the whole affair was deadly. 

Nonetheless, Skinner hated these meetings.  Never mind, he was 
still never sure if he was helping Mulder or betraying Mulder, he 
hated meeting in the dark, hated covert operations, hated anything 
not seen in daylight.

The shadowy figure shifted in the dark garage.  "They're hunting 
him, and they're getting closer.  They missed him by less than a 
month last time." 

Skinner's stomach tightened; this was hell on his ulcer.  "What are 
you going to do?"

"Give him some covert assistance as we can, Mr. Skinner, but this 
is more important than the life of one man."

"That man can blow this whole thing wide open," he said tautly.  
"Don't underestimate him.  I've learned better."

There was a brief silence.  "What about the woman?" the voice 
said, "She has certain abilities of her own, I'm told."

He struggled with that one.  "Morgan Grayson is a psychologist," 
he said brusquely, "And a damned good profiler."

"She's worked with abductees," the voice said.

"Who the hell are you?" Skinner asked, grating the words out.  
"You know who I am--how the fuck do I know I'm not leading 
you to them?"

"Just call me Mr. Smith," the voice said and a figure came out of 
the shadows.  "As to the other, I can only offer assurances, which 
would do nothing to convince you of our motives.  Mr. Jones said 
you were doubtful, but I hadn't realized that your doubts 
persisted."

"And the enemy of my enemy is my friend?" Skinner jibed.

A soft laugh.  "True, at least in this case.  They grow ever more 
arrogant, Mr. Skinner.  They must be stopped."

"Then do it openly," Skinner challenged.  "Why all this cloak and 
dagger nonsense?"

"Because they still have more power."  The voice was regretful.  
"But not for long.  You and your resourceful agents stymied them 
before, spreading the knowledge of the MJ files.  And the material 
you've given us will do more.  We'll give him what help we can, I 
do promise you.  But these are dangerous times."

"That's all I ask."  Skinnner was suddenly weary.  "God, aren't 
there any honest men left?"  It was soft, almost under his breath.

Another soft laugh.  "At least two or three," it said and footsteps 
moved away from him.

Sighing, he returned to his car.

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

Washington DC:  October 19, 9:00 pm

Scully thought Frohicke's expression was downcast when he 
opened the door this time.  "What's the matter?" she asked, 
suddenly chilled.  "God, they've caught up with him?"

"No, but they're getting closer."  He gave her a hangdog look.  
"We've had to stop communicating with him, too risky.  But he got 
a message back to you." 

Langley sat in front of his computer.  "Yeah, he's a little annoyed 
with all of us, Agent Scully."  He tipped her a mordant smile.  
"And with Mr. Skinner."

"My heart bleeds," she said acidly, and snatched the printout from 
his hands.

	"S.

	Stay the hell out of it!  We're moving again, that's all I can 
	tell you, and we're all fine.  Don't, for God's sweet sake, 
tell 	the house about it, she doesn't think they can hide it any 
	too well."

Guilt made her feel angry; she'd told Geoff and Sharon both, 
privately, impressing the danger on them.  They weren't the fools 
Morgan and Mulder seemed to think.

	"A. says to tell Aunt D hello; he's talking now.  Thanks 
for 
	checking on the California situation.

	The snow almost drove us all crazy, but we're used to it 
	now; if S. is talking to you, find out if he delivered my 
	package for me.  It was something I didn't want to get 
lost.

	M.

	M2. says hello and begs your pardon."

It made her feel wobbly.  "When was this sent?"

Langley looked uncomfortable.  "We think about four weeks ago, 
Scully.   lost some links in the chain, it didn't get forwarded on 
when it should have."

She sat down suddenly.  Four weeks.  They could be anywhere by 
now.  God, she wanted to find him, to hear his voice and really 
know they were all alive and well.  Morgan had been shot, 
Frohicke said, and the worry of that still gnawed at her.

"How does he keep in touch with you?"

"Pay phones," Byers told her.  "Brief calls--wrong number, he says, 
we get the number with Caller ID and call him back via a very 
twisted route."  His expression was kind.  "I'll tell him you were 
here, Scully.  That's all I can do."

That was all anyone could do, she thought, chafing at the 
helplessness.   

It wasn't even the tedium of normal duty, it was the desire to do 
any goddamned thing she could to help Mulder, only he had 
thwarted her.  

"I'm going to kill him," she said wearily and slanted them a 
crooked grin.  "Or at least hurt him a little--partners are supposed 
to watch each other's backs, aren't they?"

Byers nodded; the other two snickered, although Frohicke's was a 
little muted.  Scully suspected he was still worried about her gun 
and was just as pleased to have it that way.

*****************************************************
Castroville:  October 22, 10:37 pm

"Well, Mrs. Graham, how does it feel to be an American citizen 
again."  Mulder stroked the shaggy mane Morgan's short cut had 
become and kissed the tip of her nose; she still lay atop him, both 
of them quiet in deference to the little boy in the next room, deeply 
asleep on the rollaway bed.

They had changed vehicles in Calgary, courtesy of convoluted 
financial transfers and a friendly contact; they were driving a five 
year old Mustang, with a V8 engine that had been grafted in.  
Better speed, more manueverability, he had thought, even though 
it wasn't quite a family car.  

Now, on American soil again, he found he felt oddly more 
comfortable.  

Even if they were in Castroville, California.

Morgan sighed.  "I can't say that I notice the difference, Mr. 
Graham.  And that's Dr. Graham to you."

"Back at you," he said softly, grinning.

"Except for the fact that we're in California, I guess I feel the 
same."  She rested her head on his shoulder.  "How safe are we 
here?"

Mulder put his hand on the silky skin at the small of her back.  
"For the moment, very safe.  Are you sensing something?"

"No.  Yes."  Morgan sighed against his skin.  "Malice.  Fear.  Not 
ours, from somewhere external."

Mulder stroked her hair again.  "It's all come back again, hasn't it?"

"It came back the moment I blew that car up."  Morgan's voice 
trembled and he tightened his arms.  "But it's stronger here, more 
people, maybe." 

For a long moment, she was silent, and he began to think she was 
dozing.  "Maybe there is a sort of racial consciousness.  And the 
more people around, the more can be pulled out of that racial 
consciousness."

Mulder smiled in the dark.  Only Morgan would come up with 
metaphysical theory while recovering from lovemaking and 
worrying about danger.  "Maybe."

"It would make sense."  Morgan sighed again, her breath tickling 
his throat.  "We've got to go back, don't we."

He went still, only his hand moving on her hair.  "I think so."

There was another silence.  "Then let's take the war to their 
fucking dens, Mulder."

Mulder shook his head.  "Aarin."

She sighed, her breath warm against his skin.  "He's not safe 
anywhere while they're looking for us.  Even if we left him 
somewhere, they'd find him, use him against me."

"Us," he insisted hoarsely and turned his face against her forehead.  
"Us, Morgan."

Something hot and wet touched his collarbone.  She was crying, 
and it tore his heart out.  "Us," she whispered.

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

Washington DC:  October 23, 9:00 pm

Walter Skinner was working late, much to his wife's dismay, but he 
was digging in things that he should probably leave alone, such as 
why Peter Stoddard's dental records had confirmed him as one of 
the corpses in the burned car behind Morgan Grayson's.  

Such as why this fact had been deeply buried, so deeply that the 
detective assigned to the case didn't have it.  And why Ross 
Bergman had not notified him that Stoddard had gone missing 
from his Boston assignment.

What he found displeased him, but it didn't surprise him.  He 
detected the fine hand of the consortium in it, and the growing 
suspicion that Ross Bergman, if not dirty, was certainly implicated, 
did nothing to help the ulcer he'd been battling for the last three 
years.

When his private line rang, he was deeply, dangerously angry.  
"Skinner," he barked.

There was a brief silence.  "I'm taking a chance," Mulder's voice 
said, "I want to know if my package got delivered."

He sat straight up in his chair, tossing his glasses aside.  ""Where in 
hell are you?"

"Long way away."  Mulder's voice, abruptly, sounded humorous.  
"I thought life would be easier for you that way.  No?"

"No," he said flatly and sighed.  "Yes, the package went off as 
desired.  I don't know when it was was received, or what the 
reception was."

There was another silence.  "Well, that's that."  Mulder sounded 
utterly exhausted.  "I guess it's just waiting, now."

Skinner leaned forward.  "That woman has been giving me merry 
hell." 

Mulder sighed.  "Yeah, I was afraid of that.  I'll try and give her 
some words of wisdom, if I can."

"Don't take any stupid chances," Skinner growled.  "Ah, how are 
the others?"

"Fine, really.  You wouldn't believe it."  Mulder laughed softly.  
"Gotta go, thanks for everything."

Skinner's hand tightened on the telephone handset.  "Is there 
anyway you can be reached?"

There was a brief silence.  "Nope.  I plan to keep it that way.  If I 
can, I'll be in touch."

The phone disconnected then, leaving him to curse under his 
breath.  Although, what he'd hoped to do or to learn, he couldn't 
imagine.


Los Angeles:  October 24

They stopped in LA for a half day, making contact with the Lone 
Gunmen, picking up another delivery of cash and credit.  

Coming out of the Western Union office, Mulder paused, seeing 
Morgan standing with Aarin near a shop window, her expression 
wistful.

Joining them, he looked in and couldn't suppress a grin.  A New 
Age shop, he saw, and tried to determine what she was looking at.  
Tarot cards, it looked like, although there was a shelf of what 
looked like used books that might have also been in her line of 
sight.  "You wanna go in?  Can't hurt for a minute."

Morgan gave him a sidelong look.  "No, we don't need to spend 
any money."

Mulder patted his jacket.  "We're flush, we can afford a luxury or 
two."

"Mama, pretty."  Aarin pointed at a small amethyst geode.  "Look, 
Daddy."

Mulder grinned at her outright when her expression shifted to 
dismay.  "Aw, come on, my treat."

Shaking her head, Morgan let him guide her inside, immediately 
losing herself in the books.  

Mulder took Aarin's hand and walked around the shop with him, 
standing near a shelf of perfumed oils and aromatherapy products.  
There was perfumed bath oil; testing these, he consulted with 
Aarin to decide which Morgan would like best.  

Selecting something light and clean smelling, he wandered over to 
the counter and set it down on the glass, his eye caught suddenly 
by the jewelry below.  

There was a Yin/Yang symbol among the other pendants; it 
reminded him of something he couldn't put his finger on, but he 
knew he wanted it for her.

Glancing over at Morgan, he saw her holding two books close to 
her chest, idly examining the Tarot display; turning back to the 
clerk, he tapped the glass.  "That one, there," he asked softly.  
"How much?"

"Fifteen dollars," she told him, eyeing Aarin as though she was 
afraid he'd break something.

Mulder nodded satisfaction.  "Okay, give me one of those little 
geodes, the amethyst ones, that pendant, the oil, and whatever she 
decides she wants."

Morgan drifted back over, carrying a Tarot deck--the which made 
him slant her a quizzical look--and the books.  The pendant had 
been boxed and rested in his pocket, having been rung up.  "Do 
you think this is too much?" she asked wistfully.

He examined them.  "Nope.  Lay `em down, Maggie, and we'll get 
out of here." 

Morgan gifted him with a real smile, seen too seldom seen these 
days.  "Thank you," she murmured and slipped her arm through 
his.

Mulder grinned at the clerk, pleased with himself. "That should do 
it."

The clerk, a wispy young woman who reminded me oddly of 
Scully's sister Melissa, rang up the remaining purchases.  "Forty-
one twenty-five," she told him and accepted the fifty he held out.

Morgan looked alarmed at that and he squeezed her arm.  "It's 
okay, we can afford it," he whispered.  "Quit worrying, okay."

"When you do," she whispered back and slanted him another rare 
smile.

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

Once outside and back on the road, Mulder got them back on the 
highway again, eyeing the highway signs.  "Too bad we couldn't 
take him to Disneyland."

Morgan gave him an amused look.  "Right."

"Well, who's going to look for us in the middle of Disneyland?"  It 
really was an oddly tempting idea.  Being on the run gave him a 
dangerous recklessness, Mulder reflected, amused at himself.   

Knowing his sister was alive, no X file to pursue--his emotional 
state was probably an X file in itself.  If not for the possibility of 
endangering Morgan and Aarin--not to mention Samantha and her 
family--he would have gone to Jackson.

"Keep driving, Dr. Graham," Morgan told him sternly.  "I want to 
see the desert."

"Yes, ma'am, Dr. Graham, ma'am," he agreed and slanted her a 
grin.

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

Albert Hosteen was, not to put too fine a point on it, less than 
thrilled to see Mulder when Mulder showed up on his doorstep.  
Or perhaps that was unfair, perhaps it was more resignation than 
dismay that Mulder sensed.  

Albert was, whatever emotion he'd felt on seeing Mulder, as 
gravely courteous and hospitable as ever.  "What brings you here?" 
he asked, sitting in his livingroom, having poured coffee for 
Mulder and himself.

Now that they were actually in New Mexico, Mulder had no idea 
why he had contacted the man.  

It was purest lunacy, Albert might even be watched at this point--
though he doubted he was immediately recognizable, and they 
might well be looking for three people if they were, in fact, 
watching Albert that closely.  

"I'm not here in any official capacity."   Suddenly, awkward, he 
laced his hands together.  "I guess I need some help.  I need to find 
a place to stay for a while, somewhere away from town, 
unnoticeable.  There's a woman, a friend of mine, and she's gotten 
into trouble with--the same men who came here last year."

Albert nodded silently.  "I have dreamt of this woman," he told 
Mulder, his expression almost serene again.  "Star-eyes, she is 
called."

Mulder closed his mouth after a moment, unable to think of 
anything remotely intelligent to say in reply to that statement.  
Star-eyes?  What the hell did it mean?  On the other hand, it made 
as much sense as anything else in this affair.  "I see.  I hadn't 
expected that."

"My brother has a small house farther out of town," Albert told 
him.  "I will find someone to take you.  Where is she now?"

"Back in Farmington, at the motel."  Mulder swallowed hard.  "We 
have a child with us, Albert."

"He will be fine here."  Albert's tone was mild.  Albert's tone 
generally was.  "The desert is still clean, mostly."

They sat in silence for a moment.  "I don't want to put your family 
at risk again," Mulder finally offered.

"We are all at risk," Albert waved a hand, dismissing this.  "And 
we, at least, have some power that others would not have.  Go 
back and get them, Mulder."

Setting the cup aside, Mulder rose.  "Thank you," he told the old 
man, his voice soft.  "I can't begin to say how much."

Albert rose.  "The spirits have their ways."  His mouth quirked.  
"We can only listen and hope to find the right pathway."

That was cryptic enough to have come from Morgan's lips, Mulder 
thought, bemused, and took his leave.

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

Mulder had traded the car for a pickup in Arizona; with the back 
loaded, he followed Albert's grandson into the foothills until the 
road turned into little more than a dirt track, a dirt track which 
ended in front of a small clapboard house, looking oddly out of 
place in the desert.

"There's electricity," the boy told them diffidently, pointing at the 
power lines that ran behind the property.  "We take turns staying 
up here to take care of it for my uncle, so it's still on.  Filled up the 
water tank just last week; I'll see if someone can't come up in a 
couple of days for you."

"Thanks." Mulder held out his hand.

The boy shook it briefly and glanced shyly at Morgan.  "My 
grandfather dreamed about you," he told her, then got back on his 
motorcycle.

Morgan smiled faintly, distractedly and looked back at the house.  
"Gee, Mulder, you know how to show a girl a good time."

Mulder grinned and raised a hand as the motorcycle started up, 
getting a nod in reply as the boy took off back down the road.  
"Hey, you have a great view of the mountains."

Morgan snickered.  "No, really, I like it, honest.  I love the desert."

Mulder put an arm over her shoulders.  "Albert said you were 
called Star-eyes."  He felt her stiffen as he began to lead her 
toward the house.  Studying her, he saw she'd gone pale again and 
was regarding him in fearful astonishment.  

"He said what?"

Mulder repeated the name Albert had used for her, tightening his 
arm around her. "Morgan, what's wrong?"

Morgan shivered.  "It's just--it's nothing, Mulder, it's just that my 
private name--my Craft name, if you will, is Morgan Star-eyed."

Jolted, Mulder stared at her.  "What does it mean?"

After a long moment, her mouth curved.  "Beats the hell out of me.  
If you think of anything, let me know."

After a moment, he found laughter and led her up to the house, 
Aarin moving ahead of them, curious to see his new home.

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

New Mexico high desert:  October 31, 6:31 pm

The days passed peacefully, and Mulder much preferred the desert 
to the possibility of snow in the Canadian Rockies.  Not that the 
desert was immune to snow, but he rather thought they'd be all 
right for a while longer.

The small house shone; unable to do much of anything else, 
Morgan expended her energy in cleaning, in T'ai Chi, in meditation.  
And since the latter two only seemed to increase her energy, the 
scrubbing took up a lot of time.

A little amazed at that, Mulder watched her change the washers in 
the faucets and finally decided that two could play at that game.  
Not that he much enjoyed the scrubbing, but he found a kind of 
peace in using his hands to effect small repairs around the house.

And it was, after all, a way to earn their keep, repaying Albert for 
his
kindness and his help. 

On Halloween, he briefly regretted not having picked up candy on 
his last trip to Farmington, but Aarin seemed completely unaware 
of it as a kid's holiday.

Morgan, on the other hand, was acutely aware of it as a holy day.  

"I'm going out in the desert tonight." She told him that evening, 
looking up from chopping onions for dinner, her eyes a little red-
rimmed.

Mulder frowned at that.  "What?  Why?"  Even though he 
suspected the answer. 

"It's Samhain," Morgan explained, pronouncing it as if it were Sov-
ven. She eyed him for a moment longer and went back to the 
onions as if this made sense.

He thought about that and supposed it did, and that it was 
ridiculous for him to oppose it.  Nevertheless:  "Yeah? So?"

"The gates to the otherworld are open."  There was an eerie 
quality to her voice and it made him shiver slightly.    "And it's the 
time to remember the dead."

Mulder didn't like the sound of that at all.  "Morgan," he began, 
and paused, choosing his words carefully.  She had just seemed to 
come back to herself fully, after all the weeks of healing, of 
meditation, of exercising to gain her strength.  "I don't think it's a 
good idea.  Can't we remember the dead from here?"  

Leaning against the door, he glanced back over his shoulder to see 
Aarin driving a toy car over the back of the well-worn couch, not 
wanting the child to hear them argue.  If they were going to.

"I need to be outside."  The knife rose and fell rhythmically, 
chopping the onions, and her concentration on it seemed nearly 
absolute, her voice had gone distant.  "In the desert."  She flicked 
him another look and he felt his uneasiness increase.  She had that 
far away, otherworldly look again, the one that spoke of trance.  "I 
need to be where I can touch the earth."

"Not alone," he told her and came to take the knife, half afraid 
she'd cut herself in this state.  "Here, I'll do that.  Talk to me, tell 
me why?"

Abruptly, Morgan gave him an amused look.  "I'll be in the front 
yard, essentially, Mulder.  I promise, no side trips."

That eased his mind somewhat.  Only somewhat, but he suspected 
that she'd do it one way or another, even if she had to wait until he 
finally slept.  "Okay," he agreed grudgingly.  "You mind if I ask 
what you're going to do?"

Morgan grimaced at him.  "Cast the circle," she intoned and 
laughed at his expression.  "Honestly, you're such a nag.  Do you 
come by that honestly, or did Dana teach you?"

"Scully taught me," he agreed, laughing.  "All right, I won't pry.  
Just stay close, okay.  And just in case--take the other gun."

Rolling her eyes, she sighed. "No way, Mulder.  Think about it a 
minute, will you?  A spiritual exercise with a gun in hand.  How 
droll."

Put that way, he saw her point.  "Just stay close then," he said 
mildly, determining then that he would keep an eye on her.  "What 
are you doing with these?"

"Brown them."  Morgan grinned at him.  "There, in the pan--you 
know, cooking?"

"I know," he agreed wryly and obliged, having to step back a little 
as the onions hit the oil.  "What are you making?"

"Cheese enchiladas."  She shrugged and gave him a rueful look at 
his expression.  "Hey, I know it's not meat, Mulder, but I've made 
do all this time."

Rinsing his hands in the sink, Mulder nodded agreement.  She was 
still too thin--he supposed he should be grateful she would eat 
chicken and fish.  "Yeah, you have."  Her arms went around him 
from behind, around his waist, and he sighed comfortably.  "That's 
nice."

"Did you beat up your hands today?" she asked, her voice muffled 
in his shirt.  

Mulder smiled and held them out.  When he'd first started working 
in the house, she had bruised his ego by watching this doubtfully, 
as if she was afraid he'd maim himself with tools in hand.  

It was certainly true that he was more used to working with his 
mind than with his hands, he was doing pretty well nonetheless.  
"Not so much as a blister."  He turned in the circle of her arms and 
kissed the top of her head.  "Aarin helped."

"No doubt," she agreed drily.  "We're going to have a tough time 
explaining this all to him later.  Especially why you aren't his 
daddy."

Later.  

Mulder sighed inwardly, wondering when later would actually 
come.  "He'll be fine, I promise.  Besides, I don't mind, I've gotten 
used to it."

Morgan's eyes were skeptical.  "Well, you're marvelously patient 
with him, Mulder, that's all I can say.  I have to confess, I'm 
impressed."

"Don't be.  It's an old family knack."  Mulder winked at her.  
"Want me to grate the cheese?"

Morgan's eyes glinted at him.  "I'd love for you to grate the cheese.  
I can chop onions merrily all day long, but I hate grating cheese."

Mulder smiled at that, but marveled at how easily the small things 
seemed to fill the day, how easily he forgot this wasn't a vacation, a 
trip away from the everyday world of Washington.  

How easily he could forget that it was life and death.

Maybe he would spend the evening remembering the dead *and* 
praying for the living.


New Mexico high desert:  October 31, 11:01 pm

Watching from behind a stand of rocks, Mulder peered at Morgan 
as she kindled the fire, struggling a little with it.  

Once it burned steadily, the faintest scent of incense came to him, 
as if she'd poured it on the fire.  The wind blew, skirling dust, bits 
of debris, and Morgan's skirt.  The moonlight looked like molten 
silver, poured out on the pale surface of the desert, on Morgan's 
skin, giving her and the land itself an unearthly, fey appearance.

"It is Samhain," Morgan breathed, not quite a whisper, her voice 
carrying in the clear night air.  "And the Gates of the Otherworld 
open tonight.  Tonight the dead are with us."  

Raising her hands, as if in a prayer, both palms pressed together, 
she tilted her head back, letting the moonlight silver the hollows 
and planes of her face.  "I do invoke thee, Raphael, lord of the 
East, Guardian of air, to guard our Eastern tower from all that is 
evil."  Her voice didn't rise above that soft note, held no dramatic 
intonation, and reminded him of a child praying.  

The candle to her right flared to life, untouched.

It startled him badly and his heart thumped in astonishment and 
faint shock.  Despite what he knew about her, despite what he 
believed--he hadn't expected this.  

Morgan turned to face south and continued, still softly, reverently, 
raising her hands again.  "I do invoke thee, Gabriel, lord of the 
South, Guardian of fire, to guard our Southern tower from all that 
is evil."  

The candle behind her lit, but he had, after the first, expected it, 
and his pulse stayed steadier this time.  

She moved to face the west and raised her hands again.  "I do 
invoke thee, Michael, lord of the West, Guardian of waters, to 
guard our Western tower from all that is evil."  

That candle likewise glowed, a blossom of flame lifting from the 
wick.  

She turned again to face north, and he drew back behind the rocks 
further, afraid she'd see him.  

"I do invoke the Uriel, lord of the North, Guardian of earth, to 
guard our Northern tower from all that is evil."   The last candle 
flared to life and Morgan sighed, sounding weary, stepping back 
into the center of the space she had defined.  "This is the dark time, 
the time Summer King is mourned while his soul journeys toward 
rebirth as the Winter King, at the turning of the sun.  The earth 
sleeps now, waiting for resurrection."

A slow chill brushed over Mulder's skin; it was cold, he told 
himself, the desert cooled at night and the wind lowered the 
temperature further, but it was her tone, it was the way she spoke, 
the words she used.  And the night was scarcely night, nearly as 
bright as daylight.

"Nuada Airgetlam," Morgan called softly, her voice carrying in the 
clear, thin air. Lady of Battles--the Morrigan, Dagda, Lady Brigid, 
I beseech thee, join me this night, stand beside me in this circle.  
Your child needs your strength and aid, I cannot prevail without 
either."

Celtic figures from myth, the Tuatha de Danaan, the children of the 
goddess Dana.  He had to hand it to her, she never failed to 
surprise him.  None of this Greek pantheon shit, she went straight 
back to her roots.

Suddenly, as if he'd been awakened from a dream, he held his 
breath, mind racing.   Did she believe in what she invoked?  Did 
she see Nuada as a god?  The Morrigan--now there was a cheerful 
figure, the Lady of Battles who rode with ravens attending her.  He 
knew all the archetypes, knew that they were all archetypical 
figures, Nuada replaced with Lugh of the Long Arm.  But to see 
Morgan invoke them raised gooseflesh all over him, for fear of 
seeing her slip out of his reach.

Who was she, he wondered, feeling disoriented, feeling shocked; 
he'd held her when she cried, kissed her, made love to her, but 
found himself if she was even what he thought.  Sanity knocked at 
the door; cracking it open, he was reminded of her pragmatism, her 
questioning of her own beliefs.

He knew Morgan, he told himself and closed his eyes briefly.  He 
knew her well enough to know she was just Morgan most of the 
time.   He'd seen her records, seen her wake from nightmare, seen 
her face intent on desire.  Her body responded to his, his to hers, 
and beneath his shock he found it impossible to believe that she 
was anything but what she appeared.

After a time, he rose without looking back at her and made his way 
back to the house.

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

Having mourned the dead, even those she had sped on their way, 
having meditated on what they needed, having sent out her plea to 
the Universe and remembered the absent living, Morgan felt at 
peace.  

Yet there was something, some troubling sense of an event yet 
unborn, still out there ahead of her in sequential time--she waited, 
not opening the circle, pouring her strength into reinforcing it.  It 
seemed wise, somehow.

Just as she began to think she was foolish, mistaking worry about 
the future for presentiment, she saw a large shape move toward 
her, a four-legged shape that was bizarrely large.  Morgan's heart 
began to beat a little faster--nice going, she thought, bemused, stay 
out here and get et by a wild beast, after all you've done to 
survive....

It looked as though it ought to be a coyote, once it reached the 
outer edge of the firelight.  But it was still too large, Morgan knew 
that, and something pricked at her mind, forcing her to examine 
with her innersense.  Oh, God, she thought, reeling with the 
realization of what it was she saw...

In a shimmer of motion too quick for the eye to follow, the coyote 
vanished and a man stood in its place.

Not coyote, Morgan thought, still bemused, despite her shock; 
Coyote, the trickster--he stood at the South, an arm's length from 
the candle which still burned.  His place, according to what she had 
been told.  

Morgan regarded him for a moment in silence. "I did not invoke 
you," she finally said, her voice soft.

The man shrugged.  "You invoked the Sidhe.  It's all the same, 
really.  One of us or the other."

"Not quite."  Morgan stepped forward, her hands fisted in the 
pockets of her coat to hide her trembling.  "I suspect that those I 
did summon are closer to my folk than to yours."  

In the back of her mind, she felt faint amusement again, thinking of 
the size of the coyote.  Hee was bound by the rules of this 
universe, where mass was mass, no matter what else might be true.

His smile showed exaggerated canines.  "Perhaps.  But they are 
ours, nonetheless.  And your ancestors as much as we are."

Comprehension made her dizzy.  "As I've long suspected."  Her 
halfthought sense that human biology and human intelligence were 
at war with one another stood confirmed within the space of a few 
breaths. 

Or did it?  The ground seemed to shift under her feet as she 
considered again who and what might be trusted.

A slow smile softened the sharp, ironic features slightly.  "I'd 
forgotten, you wouldn't be surprised, would you?"

Her features felt stiff and cold with fright and dismay.  "Too much 
esoteric reading.  I suppose we got only the good from you," she 
jibed at him.

"We aren't tribal, to be sure," he agreed, "And our aggressiveness 
therefore lacks the same dangerous quality as human aggression.  
Although we do have a sense of race that I think humans lack."

"We are developing one."  She lifted a brow.  "Gradually, despite 
your best efforts at divisiveness.  Why have you come here?"

"We are not immune to factions.  Or even to the effect of human 
factions."  He smiled again and sat down crosslegged on the 
ground.  "You're very strong, daughter, stronger than I would have 
expected.  It's very painful to come even this close."

"I'd apologize, but we both know I don't trust you enough to allow 
you in."  His teeth glinted briefly in the firelight as he smiled at her 
again, long and white.  "It's a wise child knows its own father."

"None of mine," she protested sharply, offended.  

"A figure of speech, only," he told her mildly.  "I've come to warn 
you that there are some very bloodthirsty factions in the human 
consortium who see you as a threat."

"They're quite right to do so."  She found her knees were trembling 
and sat down on the ground facing him.  "I've decided to become a 
genuine threat, my friend. What shall I call you?"

"Coyote will do."  He laughed laughed softly at her expression, 
those canines oddly unthreatening.  "Those tales came from us, 
first of all.  Oh, not the tale itself, but we created them 
nonetheless."

"You've been here for a long, long time."   She wondered what 
they had looked like to Samantha, to Fox.   She knew what they 
had looked like to Tamlin and Thomas the Rhymer.   And the 
ground shifted again, making her question what she saw, 
everything she perceived.  Was he here at all?  And if so, what did 
he really look like?  Could he read her thoughts?  "What is your 
natural shape?" 

An elegant shrug belied the scruffiness of his appearance.  "This, 
more often than not.  Or the coyote.  Creatures of this planet.  
We've been too long planet bound, I suspect, but we had been so 
long in flight, so very long."

That made her shiver again, and not with the night's chill.  "Don't 
play to my mythology," Morgan told him sharply.  "I'm not a 
complete fool."

He laughed again, softly.  "Not even a partial one.  Far sharper 
than I would have guessed, as well.  Oh, my dear, you will indeed 
be a blade to turn in their hands."

Morgan sat silent for a moment, wondering at his delight in it.  
"Are my abilities the result of this inbreeding?"

"No, not really.  Humans have abilities they've never dreamt of."  
His eyes laughed at her--no, they mocked her and her concerns, 
her questions.  "Although we've added a few things to the mix, to 
be sure, it was never our intention to give your kind the abilities 
that we have.  Unhappily, even our geneticists were--
underinformed.  We found the natural talents of the indigenes 
somewhat disconcerting and actually hoped that we might supress 
them to a range with which we could co-exist comfortably."  More 
laughter and he shrugged again.  "And of course, your own 
scientists have discovered a few things."

Morgan considered that and her fists tightened in her pockets.  
"Why have you come?" she asked again, her tone uninflected.

Another toothy smile.  "To warn you, mostly.  To see you, having 
heard so much about you."

Gathering the rags of her composure, she arched an eyebrow.  
"Heard about me? From whom?"

He chuckled.  "Some of my less savory relatives have taken a 
dislike to you since the affair with their pet, Mr. Harcourt."

Harcourt.  Oh, God, Harcourt.  What part did he play in this?  Or, 
more accurately, what part *had* he played?  Had he been a tool 
of the Consortium?  It seemed more than slightly unlikely.  But..."I 
see.  I confess, when you said you came to warn me, I hadn't 
thought of Harcourt.  I thought perhaps you were referring to the 
attempt on my life in Washington DC."

He grimaced at her.  "Oh, that."  As if it were of little interest to 
him.  "No, that's your human Consortium all over again, I'm afraid, 
business for them as usual."  He leaned his elbows on his knees and 
propped his chin on his hands.  "I must admit that your composure 
impresses me.  I've been curious about you."

"Curiosity killed the cat," she told him ironically, wondering again-
-if hecould read her thoughts, why couldn't he read her emotions?

He grinned widely again.  "And satisfaction brought it back?  What 
would satisfy you, Morgan the Star-Eyed?"

That jolted her.  

He knew more about her than was comfortable; but she had 
walked the otherside more than once, it was only rational that he 
should.  

And only rational that she should be uncomfortable with it.  
Although the little voice in the back of her mind suggested the 
uncomfortable wasn't quite the right word.  Afraid of it might be 
more accurate.

"Truth would satisfy me," she told him, keeping her voice steady.

"Truth is such a slippery thing," he told, grinning again.  "Which 
truths would you hear?  Mine or yours?  Or your Fox Mulder's?"

"Why have you come?" she asked again, the third time--the magic 
number, third time pays for all--holding his gaze.  "Not just here, 
but to this planet?  And why have your people involved themselves 
with the governments of the world, why is there a need for 
coverup?  You all lived quite comfortably as myth for millenia, 
why this?"

"Ah."  His face changed, losing humor.  "As to why we came, well, 
there are alway--conflicts, Morgan.  And we came to this place 
because it was as good as any other for a people fleeing their 
enemies."  His mouth curved again, only the canines showing 
between his lips.  "From Atlantis, you might say, or so the tales 
tell."

"Why fleeing?"  She refused to be diverted, though a hundred 
questions clamored in her mind for answers, wanting to take this 
precious chance at knowledge that was essentially useless, if 
fascinating.  If it weren't more myth, more manipulation of her 
credulity.

"Enemies, I told you."  He shook his head.  "We ran too far 
through the universe, Morgan, and our ships were not what you 
might think.  Happily, we were not followed, and we found 
ourselves able to adapt, more or less.  Once here, of course, the 
temporary peace wrought by our journey failed, and the factions 
reformed.  Hence, the involvement with your government--not all 
chose to adapt. They did not take the steps necessary to fit into the 
ecosystem, they chose to instead to maintain insularity, never 
mingling their genetic structure with humans.  By the time your 
folk had evolved to the point of bigger and better ways of self-
destruction, they had reached the point at which the viability of 
their way of life was threatened, where their bodies had aged far 
past what they would have if they had chosen adaptation.  And 
when they were discovered, in Roswell, they chose to form an 
alliance with your folk, rather than us.  We, of course, are as alien 
to them as you, but you have th!
e virtue of being credulous, which we are not."

"Credulous."  Morgan tasted bitterness on her tongue, feeling her 
doubts confirmed.  "Is any of this true, or is this just another 
fireside tale for children?"

He was somber.  "True enough, Morgan Star-Eyed.  Truer than 
anything you have heard or thought before.  So, it began, the years 
of manipulation, the years of lies.  Your government believes that 
they are folk from beyond the stars, which is true so far as it goes.  
And that they require help in creating a fusion of themselves with 
alien folk."

"If your people could do it once, back in the dawn times, why 
should they have to rely on our scientists?"  Morgan arched an 
eyebrow skeptically.  

"Because they've lost a great deal.  *We've* lost a great deal.  The 
science we once had is long gone.  Think of the millenia, think of 
the years spent among savages!"  His mouth quirked briefly.  
"None of us could again perform such a miracle.  Not that it turned 
out quite as we expected, of course.  Human genetic structure 
turned out to be much less stable than we had thought.  And your 
folk are so ephemeral.  Einstein was partly right, you know, time 
doesn't move at a constant pace, it depends on velocity."  He tilted 
his head back to look at her, his expression mocking again.  
"Hence the tales of the elves, the alfar, and such."

"Answer me, I have asked thrice.  Why have you come?" she asked 
again, refusing the bait, hearing her inward mind wail at 
opportunities lost.  But she dared not, it might all be a lie, nothing 
more than a tapestry woven for her benefit.  He stared at her for a 
long moment.  "Because it amused me," he finally said flatly.  "You 
know the rules, don't you?  I knew that, of course, but I'd hoped to 
make you forget."

"Tell me."  Exhilaration flooded her veins again, as light as 
champagne.  Bound by the rules of this universe, this planet, and 
humans made the rules, human perceptions of reality, collapsing 
the wave where they thought it ought to be.  She had asked him 
three times, and the third time bound him.  

If he was telling the truth, reminded her little voice.

"We're tired of the warring."  He smiled, at her, a dark charm 
warming his features.  "It's tedious and accomplishes so little.  And 
frankly, it supplants us, we feed on the tales told of us, our meat 
and drink.  And their mythology threatens to replace ours, 
weakening us.  We want them weakened, driven into the light or 
underground, we don't care which.  And we suspect that you might 
ust be able to assist us."

"Why should I?"  She smiled at his quick glance.  "What do I gain?  
What do my people gain?  The tyranny of myth again?  I should 
prefer to keep both of your groups in balance, my friend.  You may 
not be gods, either of you, but you have a good deal more power 
than is comfortable for me.  Did it occur to you that our abilities, 
that the very nature of our genetic diversity, might be the planet's 
answer to your invasion?  That perhaps the ecosystem is more 
complex than you first thought?"

"Of course."   He and arched an amused brow at her.  "But we 
dismissed it." 

She rose again.  "Perhaps that was unwise."  Raising her hands 
again, she focused and allowed herself allowing herself to pull 
energy from the ground beneath her feet.  "If you cannot give me 
help, then take your leave.  I will not intervene in your quarrels 
with your kin."

His smile faded.  "It is to your benefit."

She laughed, feeling truly amused at last, and not a little saddened.  
"I meet Coyote and he asks *me* for my help.  How the world has 
shrunk, Coyote.  Once you could have pulled the mountain down."

"I was stronger in those days," he growled, narrowing his eyes at 
her.  "And I still have strength enough to pay for impudence--"

Mother, help me now, Morgan thought and *reached* into the 
earth, pulling up a wave of heat and power that made her feel as if 
she were wax and standing in the fire; the glow of the dome 
around her intensified and Coyote held a hand up before his eyes.

"Stop," he growled, but she thought she heard the faintest hint of 
respect in his voice.  "I surrender, Star-Eyed, I shall not 
transgress." 


Morgan let the energy flow back into the ground, keeping only 
enough to keep her standing upright and strong.  "I will bring it 
into the light," she told him gravely, "If it is possible for me to do 
so.  If not, I will maintain the balance.  Your folk have no right to 
rule us, whether through our government or through myth.  
Perhaps it's time you considered us as more than chattel, more than 
sustenance."

His mouth twitched.  "Whether you believe it or not, Star-Eyed, 
your folk have more power over us than *we* find comfortable.  
But I wish you luck on your quest, and we will do what we can.  
When you have the chance, make inquiries of a group calling itself 
Illuminati."

Her brows drew together.  "That old tale?"

He grinned broadly.  "Even the old tales have their roots in truth.  
Remember that."  

Shifting again, he stood before her, a coyote that no longer struck 
her as amusing.  Raising his muzzle, he howled at the moon, a 
lonely and curiously melancholy sound that made her shiver.  With 
a final gleaming look, he trotted back off into the shadows.


Mulder seemed distant when she returned to the house, weary now 
that exhilaration and magic had been banished.  She let him be, 
reckoning that three and a half months of enforced closeness might 
be wearing on his nerves.  

He was used to being alone, save for Scully, and children could 
also prove stressful for someone not used to them.  She slipped 
into bed alone, letting him sit on the front step, feeling oddly lonely 
with him so far away.

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

New Mexico high desert:  November 1

Morgan was normal in the morning, free of the shadows that 
seemed to have overtaken her the day before.  

Mulder found *his* thoughts were shadowed still, shadowed by 
watching her the night before.  It was absurd to feel this way.  
Absurd to wonder if she was sane--to remember a night in 
Massachusetts when he, aghast, had wondered if she had been 
driven mad by what she did.

Their life--if one could overlook that they were on the run, that 
nothing was really normal at all--seemed so normal, so ordinary, 
except for this, so--Sharon had said it once, and he'd been 
preoccupied enough to miss it--so mundane.  

*He* was mundane, a concept which both relieved and depressed 
him.  Scully was mundane, and he missed that with a fierceness 
that made him ache.  He wanted normality again, wanted to come 
into the office, bitch about Skinner, and look across at Scully's 
skeptical look while spouting one of his wilder theories.

And simultaneously felt closer to Morgan than to anyone he had 
ever known.   

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

New Mexico high desert:  November 4, 8:01 am

"I'm going into Farmington," Mulder told Morgan, while she was 
making coffee, the morning of November 4th.  

He'd remained in that distant mode since Samhain, and it made her 
ache.  "We need some things, and I need to call the guys, get some 
more money wired in." 

Morgan gazed at him in silence, wondering if it would be unethical 
to probe him with innersense, to try and make sense of where he 
was.  "All right," she said softly, then, before she could change her 
mind.  "Mulder, do we have a problem?" 

Mulder's expression was closed, shuttered.  "Not that I know of.  
Why?"  Turning away from him, she carefully measured the coffee 
into the filter.  "No reason," she told him wearily.  

Perhaps it was her imagination, perhaps she was falling into their 
cover a little too far.  So far, she had managed to refuse 
categorizing her feelings for him, save for one slip months ago, 
after Langley had brought him to her, but refusing didn't always 
mean that she kept her balance the way she should.   

Perhaps, she thought suddenly, perhaps it was time to go their 
separate ways.  He could go back to Washington eventually if they 
did, perhaps even clear himself enough for reinstatement.  

"I was thinking, Mulder," she began, and realized that was true, 
that she *had* been considering this for some time.  "Maybe it's 
time to go on separately.  It might be safer.  If they're following 
now, they undoubtedly know we're together."

Mulder's hands closed over her shoulders, hard.  All she could 
sense from him was a chaotic mix of emotions: fear, relief, 
anger....and, fatally, mistrust.  "Are you crazy?  Whatever they 
know, we're safer together.  Do you want to risk Aarin again?"

The relief and mistrust she held to, blinking against the sudden 
stinging in her eyes and strengthening her voice.  "This isn't your 
battle, Mulder.  They're after me, that's all."

He was silent, his grip hurting her.  "Are you going to leave Aarin 
with me, then?" he asked, voice deceptively soft.

"No!"  Her denial was automatic, fierce, and she stiffened under his 
hands. 

Suddenly, he pressed his cheek against her hair, and her eyes stung 
again. "Morgan, we're staying together.  I won't leave you."

Morgan closed her eyes, weakening.  "If you did, you might be 
able to go back, you might be able to do something from 
Washington."

"Fuck, I'm as powerless as anyone," he told her bitterly.  "I 
couldn't even protect my father.  They murdered him, you know, 
while I was sitting in the fucking livingroom."

Morgan shuddered, trying to shield herself from the emotions she 
could sense from him.  "No, you never told me."

"Oh, yeah, they took my sister, murdered my father, drove my 
mother to a stroke.  Morgan--just stop this, okay.  We're staying 
together, all of us.  It's the best way, the smartest way."   Mulder's 
mouth brushed her temple, a fugitive caress that made her eyes 
sting again.  "I'd better get going.  That old truck doesn't go too 
fast."

"All right."  Morgan closed her eyes again, listening to his 
footsteps move out the door, listening for the sound of the truck's 
engine.

"Mama?"  Aarin's voice was worried.

Turning, she put on a smile.  "Right here, sprout."  It was funny, 
how they adopted each other's phrases.  She wondered if that in 
itself was a sign of weakness, of dependency.  The thought 
depressed her further.  "What's the matter?  You look worried?"

"Where's Daddy?"  Aarin stood at the kitchen door, still in his 
pajamas, covered with flying saucers, a gift from Mulder.

"He's going to Farmington to get some more groceries," she told 
him and held her arms open.  In a heartbeat, she had her arms full 
of a warm child.  "Mmm, you're all warm and sleepy.  Want some 
pancakes?"

"Uh huh."  Aarin laid his head on her shoulders.  "Daddy be back 
soon?"

"After a while."  Morgan closed her eyes again.  Even Aarin was 
dependent, only natural for a child.  But was it wise? she 
wondered, feeling hollow.  

God, for someone who could call power from the very stones 
beneath her feet, she was appallingly off balance.  Maybe it was 
time to work on that.  

Or maybe, just maybe, it was time to break the dependency, kick 
the habit, go cold turkey.  Facing herself honestly, Morgan had to 
say it had begun in Massachusetts; perhaps she could end it in New 
Mexico.  If she could steel herself against his arguments, steel 
herself against the dangerous weakness he stirred in her.

God, she was hopeless, everytime she learned the lesson, she had 
to unlearn it, and then relearn, if only to stay sane.  But he meant 
too much to her, more than she had ever anticipated when she had 
first answered his body's needs with her own.  

Wasn't there any way to keep that from happening, she wondered 
bleakly, to keep from allowing physical intimacy to turn to 
emotional intimacy?  At least for her--other people seemed to 
manage it well enough.

And for all her anger at herself, she knew she didn't want to leave 
him alone.  He was as much at risk now as she was.  And after her 
conversation with Coyote, for lack of a better identifier, she knew 
that risk was not going to decrease anytime soon.

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

On the road:  November 4, 2:45 pm

It took Mulder longer in Farmington than he'd planned or 
expected.  

Driving back, he thought about what he'd felt when she'd 
suggested they take different roads, puzzling it out.  Had she 
sensed the horrible mixture of emotion he'd felt at that moment?  
God, he hoped not; that sudden astonishing burst of relief and 
mistrust had left him shamed.  

It wasn't her he wanted to get away from, it was the constant 
presence of things he no longer wanted to explain or believe.  If 
she had sensed it, he could only hope that she had also sensed his 
fear for her.  And something else, something he refused to put a 
tag on, his feelings for her.  For Aarin.  

Morgan was the most annoying, delightful, enraging, stimulating 
woman he'd ever met, and when he didn't want to kill her, he 
sometimes thought he loved her.

Whatever this relationship was, it was important to him.  *She* 
was important to him, Aarin was important to him, and he was 
damned if he was going to let an attack of nerves threaten that.  

Reaching into his pocket, he touched the small box he'd gotten in 
Los Angeles, a few weeks earlier.  He'd nearly given it to her a 
half-dozen times, but always faltered.  Why, he wasn't sure.  

The fake rings on her hands meant nothing, they were just part of 
their cover.  This, for some reason, meant more; he'd finally 
remembered why it had appealed to him, that damned story he'd 
told her about penguins and the funny near-dream he'd had while 
telling it.

Get yourself together, Mulder, he told himself grimly.  You need 
each other, that's all there is to it, don't slip into a goddamned 
romantic haze. 

Not that he seemed likely to do so.  

Romance was more what he remembered with Phoebe, that 
drugged insensate feeling that had no relationship to his brain; 
romance was cooked up to explain lust, he told himself wryly.  But 
giving Morgan a symbol of the Tao didn't seem to have anything to 
do with romance; it was more a kind of committment, a promise to 
a friend.

And part of that promise was keeping all three of them safe, 
something he'd had more experience with these last years.  And 
maybe that's why he missed Scully so much lately.  Not just 
practical, she was also fierce in her loyalties, and he was used to 
having her watch his back.  A gun was more comfortable than--
magic, Morgan called it.  

Mulder was used to it.  

The magic reminded him too much of Harcourt, of other cases, 
even of his sister's abduction.

And Mulder was damned if he could figure out why.

It wasn't until he pulled into the yard and saw the lights on that he 
realized how much he'd feared she would just take off while he was 
gone.  The driving urgency he'd felt all day, amidst a comedy of 
delays, was because he'd suspected her of following the path he 
had once followed.

A small whirlwind burst out the door when he got out of the truck.  
"Oof."  Mulder grinned as Aarin grabbed his knees.  "Hey, sprout, 
you been good?."  He lifted the boy up and Aarin nodded 
energetically.  "Good deal.  I got you a present."  Reaching back 
into the bed of the truck, Mulder fumbled in the sack until he 
retrieved a box of crayons and a large sketch pad.  "Here ya go."

Aarin's eyes went wide with surpise and delight.  He crowed and 
clutched his booty; when Morgan emerged from the house, he ran 
to show her. 

Watching them together, Mulder studied her face as she bent to 
admire Aarin's gifts.  She looked tired and unhappy, he thought, 
and it made his chest hurt. 

When she looked at him, he lifted his chin, beckoning to her..

"I brought you a present, too," he told her, when she got close, 
feeling fresh shame at her wariness.  She *had* sensed his feelings 
this morning, he'd been a fool not to stay long enough to talk with 
her, explain.  

"A present?"  Some of the wariness left her expression and her 
mouth curved slightly.  

Mulder nodded and slipped his hand into his pocket, opening the 
box to catch the chain between his fingers.  "Close your eyes."

Morgan closed her eyes, her smile growing.  Hee put the chain 
around her neck, brushing her nape with his fingertips and making 
her shiver a little as he worked the clasp.  "Sorry," he murmured.

"Your hands are cold," she told him and opened her eyes.  "Oh, 
Mulder--"  She lifted the pendant to look and raised her eyes to 
his, her cheeks faintly flushed.  "It's wonderful, I love it."

"Fox," he murmured, and kissed her mouth, catching her off-guard.  
But her arms went around his waist and she warmed to him, 
leaning into the kiss and kissing him back quite satisfactorily.

They stood together like that for several moments until the door 
burst open again.

"I made a pitcher," Aarin crowed, holding up the paper by the 
ragged edge.  "Come look!"

He had indeed.

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

New Mexico high desert:  November 4th,  3:15

Aarin's picture froze Morgan to immobility on the couch.

"It's a very pretty picture."  Her voice was detached, calm, but her 
eyes were wide.  "What is this, Aarin?"  Tapping the paper, she 
pointed out a figure.  

Mulder sat down, the sacks in the kitchen forgotten, his eyes on 
the paper.  

The red irregular smear of the rocks was clear enough; the figure 
standing nearby was odd, though--no, he thought, we're 
overreacting, children draw stick figures at Aarin's age, that's all it 
is--with an oversized head and eyes slanting upward.  

"Who's this?" he asked, tapping the figure, glad to hear that his 
tone was casual.

"Dunno," Aarin looked at him, a little troubled. "She's scary.  But 
she's scared of Mama and won't come in."

Morgan went as pale as chalk and swayed in her seat.  Taking her 
hand in his own, he found she was trembling.  

"Does she talk to you?" he asked Aarin, wondering about the 
choice of gender.  

Aarin shook his head vigorously and added Morgan's hair to his 
newest portrait.  "There," he said and sank back, pleased.  "That's 
Mama."

"That's a great picture," he told the child and squeezed Morgan's 
hand lightly.  This new portrait bore no resemblance to the 
enigmatic face of the first drawing.  "When did you see this one?"

Aarin tilted his head back, his small face thoughtful.  "Sometimes 
at night," he told them and bent back over his paper.  "Sometimes 
at day.  I draw Daddy now."


He was, Mulder noticed and felt faint amusement at noticing how 
much taller than Mama this figure stood.  

"She don't have no clothes on," Aarin added suddenly, "And she 
scared of Mama."

For a moment, Mulder was afraid Morgan was going to faint on 
him; he put his arm around her waist, steadying her.  This was 
nothing more than a child's imagination, nothing more than what 
Aarin had overheard them talk about, what he had seen on 
television, what...but rational explanation failed him and he heard 
himself ask, "Does she tell you that?  No?  How do you know?"

"Cuz she don't come in."  Aarin said reasonably.  "She wants to 
take Mama away, but she's scared of Mama.  She's like those bad 
men, Daddy.  But they weren't scared of Mama.  They wanted to 
hurt Mama."

Mulder's stomach did a lazy roll that left him sweating.  Christ, 
were Morgan's abilities catching?  He wondered abruptly where 
Morgan's "gifts" had come from, if it was something innate to 
everyone and being around Morgan's more or less acceptance of 
her own made it easier to access.  Leaning forward, he pushed 
Aarin's hair back from his forehead.  "Are you sure?"  Aarin 
nodded solemnly.  "Aarin, why do you call her `she'?  Did she tell 
you her name?"

Another vigorous shake of the head.  "She got no penis," he said 
practically and pointed.  "See?  No clothes on."

That almost made him smile.  "That's a nice picture of Mama," he 
said and ruffled the boy's hair.  "Come on, you want to help put the 
groceries away?  I brought some apples for you."

Aarin clutched a crayon in his fist.  "No, wanna make a picture of 
Daddy."

Just as well, Mulder thought, since he and Morgan needed to talk.  
Taking her hand, he pulled her up and guided her into the kitchen.

They didn't talk much for a while; she held on to him as if she were 
afraid of letting go, her face buried in the flannel of his shirt.  He 
stroked her hair for a while, letting her be, feeling mortally afraid 
himself.  Why hadn't they seen anything?  Why hadn't he, of all 
people, sensed anything, noticed anything?

And was he jumping at shadows?  Except for an ambiguous 
experience in Arecibo, and the remembrance of his dreams, his 
hypnotic regression with Dr. Verber, he had no reason to fear 
anything but human enemies.  As human as he was, red blood and 
all.

"I saw Coyote in the desert," Morgan whispered, after a long time.  
"At Samhain.  He told me things, Fox.  Like in the dream I had last 
summer."

Mulder was silent, thinking about that.  Coyote?  Or something 
she'd seen as Coyote--it was impossible not to remember that she 
had found the bodies in that damned cave in Massachusetts.  But 
he stroked her hair.  "What things?"

"About--this whole thing, about why it's all happening."  She 
shivered.  "If any of it's true, anyway.  Coyote was always a 
trickster.  I don't know what to believe, except what I've seen.  
What Aarin's seen.  In Washington, I saw that figure twice.  And 
once in the mountains, though I thought I'd imagined it.  And now 
Aarin's seeing it."

Mulder's arms tightened, trying to still her trembling.  "Coyote," he 
breathed, his thoughts in chaos.  He was so afraid for her, so afraid 
of the hold the unseen had on her and her perceptions.  God, he 
would have once killed for proof that people could do things like 
this, and now it made him sick.  If she was having presentiments, 
though, he needed to take stock of that, to assess it, however she 
expressed it.  "Morgan, I don't know what to think, what to tell 
you.  Except we need to be careful."  He thought of Sam, thought 
of Scully, thought of Aarin being taken away, and his stomach 
turned over again.  "Very careful."

Morgan nodded and drew back.  "There's something I need to do," 
she whispered.  "I need to walk the boundaries here, to set wards 
on this house and land.  That may help."

This meant very little to him, but it was clear that it was important 
to her.  Another goddamned ritual, he supposed.  "All right.  What 
do you need me to do?" 

Morgan's hand went to the pendant at her throat and she gave him 
a very small, very shy smile.  "Just--be there, that's all."

"That you got."  Mulder kissed the tip of her nose.  "Count on it."


In the end, Mulder fixed Aarin's supper and got him into bed while 
Morgan prepared herself for what she planned.

She went out barefoot, to which he objected, thinking of the desert 
chill at night.  All he did with that was earn himself a blank look.  
She was a million miles away already, off in the ether with the 
fucking Sidhe or something equally incomprehensible.  Did he 
believe in gods?  

He believed in evil, but he wasn't sure human beings needed 
demons.  He believed in good, but not in God, and the latest series 
of events did nothing to convince him.  

Sighing, Mulder followed her outside, wincing as the wind skirled 
up the slope toward them.  At least she was wearing a damned 
coat, although bare feet surely eliminated some of the benefit.

Morgan stood outside for a moment, staring out at the distance, 
holding a small dish of salt in one hand, with four rusty, long, iron 
nails resting on top of the salt.  Antiques, the detritus of man's 
passage through the high desert.  In her other hand, he noticed, she 
carried his compass, which added a note of hilarity to the entire 
proceedings.  

Evidently, modern tools were considered acceptable under some 
circumstances, bare feet aside.

Putting his hands in his pockets, Mulder sat on the porch to watch 
her.  No hocus pocus and less ritual than he had seen at 
Halloween--no, she'd called it Samhain--just Morgan, carefully 
determining the compass points and pushing the nails into the dirt.  

As she moved around the perimeter of the yard, he thought he saw 
an eerie nimbus of light follow her along the line she walked.  But 
the light from the Westering sun made it hard to be entirely certain 
of what he was seeing.  

When Morgan moved behind the house, Mulder  followed her 
when she went behind the house, feeling uneasy about having her 
out of his sight, and uneasy enough about Aarin to bolt the door.

It was foolish to rely on a locked door, a locked door hadn't 
stopped Duane Barry, and it hadn't stopped whatever or whoever 
had taken his sister.  It was all he could do.

When Morgan came back to her starting point, Mulder blinked, 
still seeing the faintest shimmering of light in the rapidly fading 
sunlight, in the early dusk.  Suggestion, he told himself and moved 
to stand behind Morgan where she stood, gazing out at the 
western mountains.  Pulling her close, he nuzzled her hair, inhaled 
the faintest scent of shampoo and the bath oil he'd gotten her in 
Los Angeles.  "I saw you on Halloween," he confessed, "At 
Samhain."

Morgan leaned against him.  "Did you see Coyote?"

Coyote again.  His mouth curved slightly and he pressed her cheek 
against her hair. "No, I must have gone back to the house too 
early." Nice normal tone, no hint of skepticism or amusement.  
Maybe a little bemused.  Sliding his hands into her coat pockets, he 
found hers, fisted for warmth, and folded his own around them.  
"But I saw the candles."

Morgan tipped her head up, looking surprised.  "The candles?"

He nodded.  "Yeah.  When they lit."

Morgan looked away again, out toward the west.  "Busted.  One 
of my stupid, psychic party tricks."

"Pyrokinesis."  He smiled again.  "Just think how handy you'd be at 
barbecues.  At mass.  Too bad you couldn't be an altar boy."

Her laughter was very faint.  "You mean you aren't afraid of me?"

"I'm terrified of you," he murmured, "But not because you can 
light candles.  It spooked me a little, to tell the truth, but not as 
much as your--invocation."

"Invocations are just a focal point."  Morgan sounded tired.  "But 
the candles didn't bother you?"

"No, I've seen pyrokinesis."  Mulder chuckled at the way her head 
turned.  "Really.  Weird case, a Brit stalker of British ministers.  I'll 
tell you about it sometime."

It was a measure of how tired and worried she was that she didn't 
demand the story now.  "I feel a little better," she confessed.

After a moment, he exhaled a ragged breath. If it made her feel 
better, that was good.  But he kept thinking of Aarin.  "Has Aarin 
seen ET, Morgan?"

"I suppose."  Morgan leaned back against him again and sighed.  
"Why?"

"And he's seen the cover of your book, right?"

She was silent a moment.  "I think so.  You think it's fantasy, don't 
you?"

"I don't know," he confessed, then,  "Do you suppose your abilities 
are contagious?"

"Maybe.  Listening to Aarin, I wonder sometimes."  Her hands had 
loosened under his.  "God, life is so strange.  Sometimes I'd give 
anything to be someone else.  Do you suppose things would have 
been different if I hadn't been named Morgan?"

Mulder smiled faintly and kissed her hair.  "Instead of after a 
sorceress?  Maybe.  Maybe I'd be normal if my name wasn't Fox."

"Doesn't count, you don't use it."  Morgan burrowed against him, 
welcoming his embrace.  "Morgan Anne Grayson.  When I was in 
high school, I managed to nag my friends into using my middle 
name.  Only they called me Annie.  Too prosaic for an adolescent."

Grinning, Mulder considered her as an Annie.  "I think I like it.  
Annie's more approachable than Morgan."

Morgan snorted.  "Huh.  Approachable?  I'm approachable."

"Yeah, but Annie's something else."  He held her closer.  "Annie 
would let me talk to her about things Morgan doesn't want to 
hear."  She went utterly still in his arms and he regretted the 
words.  "Hey, I'm kidding--but I like Annie, too.  

Morgan sighed.  "Maybe we should get our next set of papers with 
that name for me."

"Certainly not for me," he teased.  "Let's go in before you catch 
pneumonia." 

Morgan was silent a moment.  "What did you want to talk about 
that I didn't want to hear?"

Mulder sighed.  "How I feel, how you feel, not just about each 
other, but about this whole fucking mess."

There was another long silence; the last spill of rose and orange 
above the mountain began to mute toward grey.  "I hate it," 
Morgan said simply, just when he was ready to give up on hearing 
an answer.   "I love you, I love Aarin, I miss my life, my friends.  
I'm afraid the essential weirdness of all this is going to get to you 
and ruin whatever the hell it is we have with each other. When I'm 
not worried about it getting you killed, that is."  

Be careful what you ask for, Mulder thought with mordant humor.  
"It does get to me, sometimes.  I think it's Scully's revenge.  But I 
don't think it's going to ruin this.  We started out as friends, 
remember?  Weird friends, but friends.  I love you, Morgan, but 
I'm not sure how to handle it, let alone how to handle this.  I just 
know how I felt when I saw your car, saw the blood inside."

Morgan  sighed.  "The whole thing is nuts anyway, Mulder.  I'm 
eight years older than you, I'm about half-crazy, hearing and 
sensing things that no one else does or can--I just don't want to 
lose you as a friend."

She was pulling back again, he recognized, having done the same 
too many times in his life himself.  He granted her that--she had 
tried, and given him a lot.  

Bending, he kissed the spot beneath her ear.  "Are you saying you 
think of me as a boy toy?"

Her laughter was relieved.  "Not quite a boy--but what a 
marvelous toy," she told him cheerfully.

He laughed with her.  "I'm deeply hurt, I thought you admired my 
brain.  Now I discover it's only my body."

"Hey, the brain's important," she told him gravely, "After all, you 
gotta talk sometime."

On that note, he pinched her backside and guided her back into the 
house.  

***************************************************
Washington DC:  November 5, 1996  3:10 pm

"Agent Scully, I understand you've requested time off."  Skinner 
looked over the top of his glasses at Scully, feeling uneasily certain 
that he already knew where she was going.

"Yes, sir, it's been a difficult year and I think that the break would 
be good for me."  She smiled at him coolly.

Annoyed, Skinner tapped the request on the edge of his desk.   
"I'm not sure you can be spared at present," he said and winced at 
the glint in her eye.  "Agent Scully, I understand your feelings, but 
sometimes personal feelings have to be set aside."

Red-gold brows arched slightly at him, although her expression 
didn't change much.  "I respectfully suggest, sir, that this is not one 
of those times."

After a moment, he stood up.  "Walk with me," he said curtly and 
moved to stand by the door.  Scully gave him a long, level look 
and rose to accompany him."

About halfway down the hall, he spoke.    "Scully, he specifically 
asked me to prevent you from going after him."

"It's been too long."  Her voice was tight, too tight.  "I don't even 
know for sure that he's still alive."

Glancing at her, he sighed.  "I do."

Her brows drew together dangerously, this time.  "I see," she 
murmured, and only a fool could fail to sense the rage beneath 
those soft words. 

"I'm doing what I can," he added flatly.  "You can't still distrust me 
after all this--or do you?"

She was silent for a moment.  "I'm trying not to," she told him 
grudgingly. "But this is hard, not knowing."

They reached the elevator and Skinner veered toward the stairs, 
trying to shorten his strides.  "I know," he said softly and held the 
door open for her; once it had closed behind both of them, he 
started down the stairs.  "I think he's back in this country," he 
murmured, barely audible over the sound of their footsteps.  "And 
that they're all well.  That's all I know--and I believe that they will 
be contacted shortly by someone interested in protecting them."

She flicked him a quick, questioning look.  "By whom?"

"A group opposed to our friend with the Morleys."  Skinner smiled 
grimly.  "That much I'm now sure of.  And very interested in both 
of them."

"Why?"  Scully was unconvinced, the set of her mouth skeptical.

"I'm not entirely sure.  Here,"  he stopped on the second floor and 
opened the access door again.  "I think it has something to do with 
what they suspect about the Mulder family.  That there was some 
kind of genetic experimentation going on in utero for both the 
children."  Her expression satisfied him; she had never suspected 
such a thing.  Maybe Mulder hadn't, either.  "I think their reasons 
for being interested in Morgan are pretty evident."

Scully paused, still standing in the doorway.  "Genetic 
manipulation," she whispered and shivered.  "Who are they?"

"I wish I knew," Skinnner told her truthfully.  "But they've been 
reliable so far, at least in reporting to me.  I just don't think it's a 
good time for you to be running off on your own."

To his dismay, her chin came up.  "All the more reason, if you 
aren't sure of these people."

His hesitation raised her chin higher.  "All right.  But be careful, for 
God's sake--I've lost most of my hair following Mulder's career, I'd 
rather retain what little I still have."

She didn't smile.  "Thank you, sir," she told him and slipped past 
him at the door.  "Wish me luck."

"Oh, I do, Agent Scully," he said wryly.  "You can count on that."

*****************************************************
Annapolis:  November 5, 1996 8:30 pm

"Dana."  Geoff's voice was patient.  "If you must do this, I'm going 
with you."

Scully stopped packing and looked up at him, bemused.  

They had gone through some hard times since Morgan's 
disappearance; she knew he couldn't help laying at least part of the 
blame on Mulder, illogical as that was, and she was loathe to let 
him, which had led to some extraordinarily tense moments.  

But his going with her was purest lunacy.  "And lead them right to 
her," she told him mildly.  "Bad enough I'm going, but I can't just 
sit and wait.  If both of us go, if we're still being watched, I think 
it's highly likely that we'll end up leading the hunters right to both 
of them."

Geoff didn't like it; he folded his arms and regarded her without 
much pleasure.  "How do you know they won't follow you?"

"I've had some experience with this."  She went to her closet to 
retrieve her hiking boots.  "And I've got a little help."

His eyes narrowed.  "The same help Mulder got?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."  Rearranging things, she fit the boots 
into her suitcase.  "Geoff, I'm going.  I'm sorry it upsets you and I 
do understand that, but I'm going alone."  She held his gaze for a 
moment.  "I'll keep in touch, if I can."

His mouth twisted.  "That's very Morgan-like of you."

They had gotten through the other hard times, she told herself, 
counting to ten, they could get through this.  Or, if they couldn't, it 
was better for her to know ahead of time.

As if sensing her doubt, he came to her and put both arms around 
her.  "I have this attraction to dangerous women."  His voice was 
muffled by  her hair. "Dana, I'm sorry, it's the nature of 
testosterone to make men behave in an obnoxiously protective 
way."

"Evolution."  Amused, in spite of herself, she hugged him hard.  "I 
told you, I think I might be able to find him.  And I'd hate to have 
to break in a new partner--Skinner's been really good about not 
assigning me to anyone else and I'd just as soon keep it that way."

Geoff arms tightened, then loosened again.  "But how are you 
going to protect him once he's back?"

"If we get the facts, we'll let them take care of the opposition."  
She hoped that would be enough.  She doubted it, but she hoped, 
and refused to allow herself to let go of that hope.  "Last year, 
when Mulder disappeared, I thought Skinner was on their side.  I 
didn't trust him.  There was a missing computer tape, he'd taken it 
to keep it out of their hands, to try and keep Mulder from getting 
hammered.  This time, I think he's found some other contacts, 
something that might give him more power than he had then.  I 
hope so."  

Skinner had been notably closemouthed about whatever he was 
exploring; she could understand that, it was safer that way, but it 
was damned frustrating, sitting on her hands in the dark.

"Just--be careful."  Geoff tilted up her chin and kissed her hard.  
"I've gotten rather attached to you, Dana Scully.  And your 
mother--I'd hate to have to explain to her that I knew you were 
going and let you go alone." 

"She knows how stubborn I can be," Scully laughed softly.  "But I 
promise I'll be careful.  I don't want to risk anybody."

"Keep it that way."  He drew her close again.


Farmington:  November 6, 1996

Michael Donovan began to feel a growing sense of triumph in 
Farmington, New Mexico.  No one else seemed to think Mulder 
would have any reason to come back here, but he doubted they 
knew Mulder very well at all.  And that silly bitch Grayson--he 
could see her just drinking in Native American mysticism, she was 
that much of a damned fool.

He'd already backtracked Mulder's history and gone to every spot 
but those in England; he had been assured that other operatives 
could investigate those.  This was the last, and he had taken 
snapshots of both Mulder and Morgan, and a small surveillance 
photo of Morgan with the kid, and finally found a motel clerk who 
remembered a woman with a small boy who had checked in about 
a month earlier.

Now, it just remained to play the scene cool enough to find them, 
to convince Mulder that he was there to help.  He wondered if 
Mulder would buy a scenario where old friendship had brought 
him.  The bitch wouldn't believe it, he knew, but it might be worth 
a shot if Mulder did, at least long enough to lead him to her.

Preston wanted her badly; he wasn't entirely sure why, but he 
suspected that it was half the desire to acquire a useful tool, and 
half the desire to punish her for the men who had died trying to 
take her the first time.  He hadn't much liked Stoddard, but it was a 
shitty way for anyone to go, flash-fried to a crisp in a few 
heartbeats.

He would have to be more cautious.  And that meant getting 
Mulder to take the hook.  He thought he knew how to do it.

*****************************************************
In the air:  November 6, 1996  2:03 pm

Staring out the window at the houses below, looking as tiny as 
game playing pieces, Scully remembered the dream she'd had while 
still grieving for Mulder, the dream that had convinced her that he 
would be back.  An entirely illogical response for the scientific 
Dana Scully, but the emotions had been so intense that she had not 
been able to disbelieve.

And, as subsequent events had proven, she had been right.  Nearly 
a week ago, she had dreamt of Morgan in the desert.  It could have 
been California, it could have been Arizona.  But New Mexico felt 
right.  

Her gut told her she was right, even as her rational mind kept 
throwing out reasons that she was wrong; working with Mulder 
had taught her that there were definitely times to listen to her gut.  
She hoped this was one of them.
  
**************************************************

New Mexico high desert:  November 6, 1996  11:45 pm

Mulder woke to find the space beside him empty; rolling over, he 
saw Morgan at the window, staring out at the night.

"What is it," he asked groggily, reaching under the mattress for his 
gun. 

"I thought I saw something out there," she murmured and turned 
to look at him.  "Did I wake you?  I'm sorry."

He settled back, studying her in the moonlight from the window.  
"Nah, just a dream."

She came back to the bed; the mattress shifted under her and he 
gathered her up against him, pulling the blankets around them 
both.  "Bad one?"

"Yeah, kind of."  He pressed his cheek to her hair, put his arm 
around her waist so they were spooned together.  "Old stuff."

"You wanna talk about it?  I could use some distraction from 
thinking about Reticulans."

He smiled faintly in the dark.  "If that's what they are," he agreed, 
thinking of her account of her meeting with Coyote.  "Well, it was 
just something that happened when I was little, that's all.  My 
father--"  He broke off, feeling the old pain that refused to go 
away.  His father had been killed, just when they might have come 
to terms with one another, just when he might have been able to 
confront the demons his father had left him as a legacy.  

"My father used to hit me," he said abruptly, more abruptly than 
he'd intended. "He, ah, wanted to make a man of me, even when I 
was Aarin's age, I think, and he used to get ballistic when I acted 
like a baby."

Morgan's hand found his where it rested on her belly and she 
stroked the back of it with a gentle fingertip.  "Oh, Fox," she 
murmured, her tone holding pain and compassion in equal 
amounts.

Oddly, he didn't feel the need to defend the man anymore, to keep 
living the lie that it was okay, that his father had been acting 
normally.  He doubted he could actually say that out loud yet, but 
he could accept that William Mulder's treatment of him had been 
dangerously extreme.  

"Anyway, I was just dreaming of something that happened when I 
was about four.  My teacher had told him something about how I 
was still socially immature or something like that, so he took a belt 
to me.  He hauled me up so hard he snapped my forearm.  
Greenstick fracture, I think they call it.  For some reason, I was 
dreaming about how mad the nurse was at the hospital and now 
nice she was to me.  I'd cry at night and she'd come in and rock 
me.  She wasn't supposed to, I don't think--I seem to remember 
him raising cain about that later--but she just ignored him."

Morgan's sigh was faint in the darkness.  "What did your mother 
do?" 

Mulder sighed.  "She was pregnant with Sam, she didn't do much 
of anything.  We've never talked about any of it, so I don't know 
what she remembers."

Morgan was silent for a long time, so long that he nearly drifted 
back to sleep before she turned to face him.  "I love you," she 
whispered, the first time, outside of her confession the night 
before, that she'd entrusted such words to him.

Moved, he cupped one hand on her cheek, his throat almost too 
tight to speak.  "I love you," he told her, meaning it for the first 
time in years.  Then, mischief overriding the slide into emotion, he 
kissed the tip of her nose.  "Annie."

She made a sound akin to laughter.  "Brat.  I shouldn't have told 
you."

"Go back to sleep," he murmured and closed his eyes again.

She obeyed with swiftness that surprised him.  Still awake, he 
slipped out of bed and went to sit by the window, keeping watch.

It was all, he thought unhappily, that he could do.

*****************************************************
New Mexico high desert:  November 7, 1996  10:47 am

"A'bert coming," Aarin announced in the morning, standing by the 
front window.

Mulder rose from the table and retrieved his gun before checking 
Aarin's preceptions.  

"Yeah, it's Albert's truck."  He and tucked his gun in the back of 
his jeans, letting the flannel shirt fall over it.  "He's got someone 
with him, looks like."  He didn't like that, didn't like that at all.  

Albert hadn't been up at all, since their arrival, and his presence 
suggested something gone awry.  The sun glinted off the 
windshield,  preventing him from determining who might be on the 
passenger side.

He let the curtains fall back into place.  "Aarin, put your shoes on."

At the note in his voice, Aarin looked up, his expression worried;  
without protest, he ran back to the small back bedroom to obey.

"Mulder?"  Morgan's tone was worried.

"You, too."  He glanced at her stocking feet.  "If we have to move 
fast, I want to be ready."  

Moving quickly himself, he retrieved his wallet, keys, and jacket 
before going out to meet the truck.  The wallet held everything of 
real importance, he told himself, and held a hand up to shield his 
eyes from the sun.

The figure in the truck beside Albert seemed vaguely tantalizing 
familiar.  As the truck neared, he could make out more details--
smallish, red-haired--he swore savagely and folded his arms.

Morgan emerged to stand beside him.  "What was that about?"

"It's Scully," he growled, and tried not to feel pleased about that 
fact.  She shouldn't be here, he told himself and scowled 
forbiddingly as the truck stopped.

Albert grinned at him through the window, but said nothing.  
Scully got out slowly, her expression cautious as she met his gaze.

"Dammit," he burst out, "How in hell did you find us?"

"Thanks, Mulder."  Scully's mouth twitched slightly.  "It's really 
good to see you, too."  Turning to the back of the truck, she 
hauled out a duffel bag only slightly smaller than she was.

"You aren't staying," he told her flatly, but his mouth quirked in 
reponse; glancing at Morgan, he saw she had put a hand over her 
mouth, as if to hide a smile.  "Scully, this is nuts."

"I had to know."  That Scully chin came up stubbornly before she 
leaned into the truck again to say something he couldn't catch to 
Albert.  When the door slammed shut,  Albert flashed him another 
grin and backed the truck up to turn down the road again.

For lack of anything sensible to say--she'd already disarmed him 
there, and it was too goddamned good to see her--Mulder watched 
the truck move back down to the highway.

Scully dropped the bag and approached them, her smile no longer 
hidden.  In fact, it was damned near incandescent.  "Dammit, it's 
good to see you"   She blinked at them and then leaned in to hug 
Morgan hard.  "Aarin, I swear you've grown an inch."

Accepting defeat, Mulder sighed.  "Come on in, you want some 
coffee?  Morgan's is better than mine."

Scully looked up at him, amused.  "No doubt," she said, "I could 
remove paint with yours."  And hugged him, equally hard, just as 
abruptly.

His eyes stung abruptly.  "You shouldn't have come," he repeated, 
but it was half-hearted and his arms went around her.  "Damn, it's 
good to see you."

"Skinner said to assure you that something was happening."  Her 
voice was muffled in his coat.  "But he wouldn't say what."

Relief touched him, then.  "No kidding?  That would be good 
news."  He slanted Morgan a look, saw she was still as astonished 
as he was.  "We're going to have to move, now, Scully, I hope this 
is worth it."

"It is."   When she drew back, Scully was still smiling at him, her 
eyes a little too bright.  "I was worried about you, Mulder.  
Morgan's not an MD, and that last few times you've run off, you've 
gotten hurt."

He rolled his eyes at that, cutting a look sidelong at Morgan, who 
was smiling in return.  

Clearing her throat, Scully ruffled Aarin's hair and looked back up 
at him, insouciant.  "Coffee, Mulder.  I had to argue all night 
before Albert would even admit that he'd seen you."

Albert.  He might have known she would figure out to check with 
Albert.  Maybe, at some level, he had wanted her to.  "How did 
you find us?" he asked again, less forcefully.

"I had a dream," she told him, and followed Morgan back into the 
house, leaving him with the image of that grin.

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