By the time Scully repented of her disgruntlement over Pendrell, it was too
late. Mulder had fallen asleep without benefit of Ovaltine or anything
else.

That left more disgruntlement in its wake, and she got into her own bed,
thoroughly out of sorts, dug her book out of her purse and turned off the
television with an unkind sort of satisfaction before climbing under the
comforter.

Mulder made a small sound in his throat, but when she glanced over that
way, he was quiet, face slack in sleep.  Probably drooling, she thought
sulkily and focused on her book until her eyes felt gritty and she heard
Pendrell come in.  Hmmph, nearly two am, she was going to have to have a
word with Pendrell in the morning, she rather thought.

And on that note, she turned out the light and snuggled up in her flannel
pajamas, hoping for another dream of chocolate Cool Whip.


Mulder was unaccountably standing in Ingrid Ibsen's bedroom in his long
underwear.   He wasn't sure why, and it was even more alarming to see a
dreadfully familiar figure standing across the room in the shadows.

Ingrid Ibsen in sleep was frightening enough.  Old fashioned bristling pink
hair curlers and a net cap, a chaste, red flannel nightgown buttoned up to
her chin, and a series of alarming snorting noises drove him back toward
the door.But it was the old woman in the black dress who really scared him. Standing
there in the shadows at the corner of the bedroom, only he couldn't figure
out where the light was coming from at all.

"A lot of people go around determined not to hear and not to see and not to
speak any evil// And I say 'Pooh for them, are you a man or a mouse, are
you a woman or a weevil?'// And I also say 'Pooh for sweetness and light,'
//And if you want to get the most out of life why the thing to do is be a
gossiper by day and a gossipee by night."  The voice was a low, dangerous
hiss.  "Gossip is a sin, a sin, a sin."  Sing song voice, husky and
androgynous.  The old woman's skirt made a swishing sound as she moved
toward the bed, lifting something in her hand.

His balls made a serious attempt to draw up inside his body.  "Who are
you?" he asked, trying to steady his voice.

"I am Vengeance!" the old woman crowed and raised whatever she held up over
her head, leaned over Ingrid like a striking harpy and pulled her jaw down,
brought down the upraised arm.  Something glittered in the light, Ingrid
slept on, oblivious, and Mulder nearly shrieked as he realized it was a
scalpel.

Goddammit it, where was his gun?  He leapt back toward the bed, wrapped his
fingers around the old woman's wrist, vainly trying to hold the scalpel
back.

The old woman pulled Ingrid's tongue out with the fingers of her free hand,
cackled at him.  "Vengeance!  A viper's tongue!"

The scalpel turned, nicked his wrist, Mulder yelped and struggled, the
goddamned woman had all the strength of a man half her age, or perhaps
merely the strength of the dangerously insane.  "Drop it!"

"Sinner," the old woman hissed and nicked at him again.  "You will be
punished, you will forego all your generations, you will lose everything." 

A shove and Mulder fell backwards on the floor.  A little dazed, he shook
his head to clear it, pushed himself back up.  "Nooooo!" as the bright
blood splashed on the pillow.

A crow of victory.  "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live," the harpy
shrilled at him and held up the bloody tongue.

He shuddered and made it to his feet, the harpy advanced on him and he
discovered he was frozen.

"Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord," she told him with relish and pointed
the scalpel at his groin.  "You are next, sinner."

He glanced down at himself and was horrified to find that he was no longer
standing in Ingrid Ibsen's bedroom in his thermal underwear.  He was
standing in Ingrid Ibsen's bedroom stark naked.

Paralyzed in place.  Standing there watching his nemesis advance on him.
The scalpel still bloody from removing Ingrid Ibsen's tongue, and he knew
what was going to be removed next.

He did the only thing left to him.

He shrieked Scully's name......

....and found himself tumbled out of bed, lying between the bed and the
wall while Scully, above him on the bed, patted the air above the narrow
space, calling his name.

"Mulder, it's okay, it's okay, it's just another nightmare."

Was dreaming about castration better than dreaming of premature
ejaculation?

In his present condition, he couldn't decide.  "Scully, Ingrid Ibsen!"  He
was gasping for breath, sweaty beneath his sweats and t-shirt.  "Call
Bergman.  She's going to bleed to death if we don't get to her."

No answer, but the light clicked on, and he had to squint, squeezing his
eyes nearly closed, pawed at the edge of the bed to pull himself up.

He heard Scully gasp. "Mulder, what did you do to yourself?"

"Call Bergman," he told her frantically, "Quick, Scully, there's no time."

"Mulder, you're bleeding," but she obeyed, grabbed the telephone and
punched in numbers, told Bergman someone needed to check on Ingrid Ibsen.

Hung up again and came toward him, grabbed his wrist as he pulled himself
up.  "Mulder, what the hell did you do to yourself?"

A knocking on the connecting door.  "Agent Scully, everything all right in
there?"

"No," she snapped, "It's not, get in here, Pendrell, I need your help."

Mulder stared at the wrist she held, which was, in fact, bleeding.  The
wrist nicked by the harpy.  The sharp coppery smell reminded him of Ingrid
Ibsen's bedroom and he jerked his wrist free, barely making it to the
bathroom in time to throw up whatever remained in his stomach after seven
hours.


"How did you do this, Mulder?" Very soft, gentle voice.  Her finger
carefully skimmed over the surprisingly deep, paper thin slices on Mulder's
wrist.  Deep, livid red, and Mulder flinched when she touched them.

 "Don't make me go to sleep, Scully.  Please.  I don't want to go back
there."  Rational, calm.  Then much more softly.  "I'm afraid."

Scully stared back up at him.  "Where did you get these?"  

Hazel eyes gazed back at her.  "The old woman did it with a scalpel, when I
tried to stop her from hurting Ingrid Ibsen."

"Mulder. . . "  Scully leaned over and turned on the light to look more
closely.  The cuts were still there.  Three on his wrist.  If he'd done
this with a pocket knife, they'd be messier, more ragged.  but there hadn't
been any blood in the bed.

She left Mulder and went to look at it, knelt between the bed and the wall
and searched the floor with her hands, crouched lower and peered under the
bed.  Nothing. 

This didn't make sense.

Mulder was standing behind her.  He had his robe around him now, and was
still shivering.  Slowly and deliberately, he reached out, holding his
wrist to her.  "I didn't do this, Scully.  I don't have a knife, or
anything sharp.  I didn't hurt myself.  I was in Ingrid Ibsen's apartment."

"Mulder, you weren't there."  but her voice was half-hearted.

Ingrid Ibsen was in the hospital down the road in Zimmer, while a surgeon
tried to reattach her tongue.   If Mulder hadn't told her, hadn't insisted-
-she pushed the thought from her mind.  "Mulder, you were in bed, you
weren't in Ingrid Ibsen's bedroom."

She was definitely going to drug him again.  Valium.  For sure.  He was
going to sleep while she and Pendrell checked out Ingrid Ibsen's house.  

He didn't want to take the pill.

"Mulder.  It's okay, you're safe here, there's nobody here but us."  Scully
could hear the frustration crackle in her voice, the fear of what she'd
hear.

Mulder smiled, brittle.  "There was in Ingrid Ibsen's house.  I tried to
tell you.  The old woman cut out her tongue.  She would have died.  And
he'll take the next one tomorrow. . . or maybe the day after. Soon. I was
there. There's a black velvet painting of a mallard on her bedroom wall."

"Mulder--" Scully ran her hands through her hair, bit back a curse and a
sob and a plea to let her do what she needed to do.  "Mulder. I need sleep.
You need sleep. . ." God, Francis was backing away, face pale even though
he wasn't shivering any more. 

"Please, Scully. . . .please. Please don't make me sleep again. I don't
want to go back." He had the bed between them.

Scully swallowed, felt the ache in her throat, the pain in her shoulders
when she pulled herself upright. "Listen to me. I want you to take this
pill. . . " 

Mulder's face twisted, teeth showing on his lower lip, eyes shut tight then
snapped open as though he couldn't stand that much dark. 

"You'll sleep hard," she said desperately, "you won't dream as much. . . " 

"If I go to sleep I'll go back."  Voice a desperate whisper.  "Don't make
me go back.  I don't want to fight you and I don't want to run. But he saw
me tonight."

That was it.  She was too conscious of Pendrell's ears on the other side of
the connecting door.  "You were asleep, it was a goddamned nightmare!"  She
could see that Mulder startled at the shout.  Drew a shaky breath and
balled her fists.

She supposed that a nightmare of impending castration would shake her, too,
if she were male.  And she was damned if she was going to let anything
happen to him.  Not when he gave her that damned puppydog look that made
her knees go weak and made her want to yank him down into a liplock.

Screw Pendrell, let Pendrell have fun with Inge.

Mulder was her concern at the moment.

"Come on, Mulder, take it."  Looked at the nightstand where the pill and
the glass of water sat.  "Take it.  And then get back in bed."  Gently, and
he obeyed, his eyes shadowed.

She sighed, took her clothes to the bathroom to get dressed, came back out
to find him curled up around a pillow, lids already heavy.  

"'M okay, Scully."  Drowsily.

She patted his cheek, smoothed his hair.  "Yeah, I know it."  It took a few
more minutes for him to drift off, and then she grabbed her coat, met
Pendrell at the connecting door.  

Pendrell looked rather sleepy himself, and there was an unmistakable hickey
on his throat, just under his ear.  He was also fully dressed in jeans and
a ski sweater, his parka unzipped, and his case under his arm. "Ready?"

"Yeah."  She glanced back at Mulder, moved back to the door to lock it and
stood there restlessly.  "He shouldn't wake up until well after we're
back."

Pendrell frowned, but didn't say anything.  Wisely.

They drove to Ingrid Ibsen's house in near silence except for directions;
Scully let Pendrell drive, she was thinking hard, thinking about Mulder's
profile, about their shared suspicion that Dr. Olafsson wasn't quite all he
appeared to be.  

Plenty of possible links, but not one shred of real evidence, and it was
driving her nuts.

Mulder had said it was the old woman in his nightmare, which was even more
baffling.  Had Mulder's experience in the church bent something in his
mind--well, more than usual, anyway.  Had he come to associate Olafsson
with an aged harpy, after having heard the stories of the good doctor's
mother?

Sighing, she began to talk, going over the profile with Pendrell,
mentioning their growing sense that Olafsson was involved.  "But I don't
understand the old woman."  She scowled.  "I saw her in the church.  But I
didn't see her in the loft, Pendrell."

He pursed his lips briefly.  "The old woman," he repeated, his tone
thoughtful.  "In the loft--Agent Mulder hadn't been doing too well up to
that point, Agent Scully.  It could have been stress."

She briefly felt the urge to shoot him.  "Yes, I know that," she muttered,
"But I wasn't stressed and I saw her in the church."

He was silent for a few moments longer, then whistled.  "Norman Bates."

Startled, Scully stared at his profile.  Really, he was rather cute in a
fair-skinned, redheaded sort of lab scientist way, said the little voice
inside of her head.  She hushed it, writing it off to extreme sexual
frustration.  "Norman Bates?"  Incredulously.

He nodded.  "Norman Bates, Agent Scully.  Didn't you ever see Psycho?"

"No, I didn't, my parents wouldn't let us watch it, and by the time I got
out of high school, I wasn't interested any more."

"Norman Bates was, of course, completely insane.  He dressed up like his
mother."

She waited, a little impatient, and when nothing else was forthcoming,
"Your point, Pendrell?"

"Agent Mulder talked about an oppressive religious theme in his profile,
Agent Scully.  Perpetrated on an innocent child."  He glanced at her, his
eyes a-gleam in the thin grey light of early dawn.  "It sounds to me like
the UNSUB is dressing up as his mother."

She stared at him for a moment, unaware that her jaw had dropped.  "My God,
Pendrell, you're right!"

He smiled smugly.  "Now we just have to find the evidence, Agent Scully.
Because no way do we have enough to justify a warrant, all we have is a
theory."

Still stunned, she nodded.  "That's brilliant, Pendrell."  With difficulty.

"Thank you, Agent Scully."  Primly.  "But you and Agent Mulder did the
groundwork."

She really was going to kill him.  Brilliant deductions, humility, and he
was getting laid and she wasn't.  But in spite of herself, she was
impressed.

Now, if they could only come up with something useful before Mulder woke up
and she had to try and decide how his hand had gotten cut when there wasn't
a knife anywhere around....

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

It was cozy under the big comforter, and Scully's skin was soft, her mouth
tasting of strawberries, her hair faintly scented with perfume.  She was
atop him, riding him, and wooooo, boy, she was hot and wet and wild, and
god, she felt incredible, pink-coral nipples standing up proudly, and those
perky little breasts bouncing each time she sank back down on him.

Mulder had no idea, no memory of how this had happened, but he was damned
well smart enough not to look a gift horse in the mouth or anywhere else,
and he thrust upward, sliding into that lovely slippery molten heat,
moaning, hands sliding up Scully's little rounded hips to her narrow little
waist, further up to the underslope of those tantalizing, drive-me crazy
breasts and he finally raised his eyes and saw her, her face taut with
effort and desire.

Ooooh, boy, he wasn't going to ruin it now, he was going to show Scully the
good time she deserved, and by God, the good time *he* deserved after four
years of working next to this succulent, delicious, desirable--and yes,
Frohike was right--tasty morsel of a woman.  One hand slid back down, thumb
seeking and finding the little man in the boat, and oh, boy, she bucked on
him in reward, her inner flesh clasping him more tightly and he thought he
was going to simply implode, that the top of his skull was going to come
off.  Pulling her down, he kissed her mouth, tongues stroking together and
oh, her lips were warm and soft and even her mouth tasted good, and he
pulled away, ducked to take a nipple between his lips, suckled it....

Only it wasn't perky any more.  He tipped his eyes up, still intent on his
task, and--holy shit, withered breasts, wrinkled skin, and grey hair drawn
up tightly into a bun.

The hag's face twisted in triumph.  "Sinner!"  

Eldritch shriek and it was his and he was out of bed between the wall
again, shrieking again and again and again, and Jesus, this was worth than
Skinner, and he'd *kissed* her, never mind where his dick had been.

Blinked and she was gone, completely and utterly gone, but there was a man
standing there, wearing an heavy winter parka, a grey haired, Max Von
Sydowish sort of man who looked vaguely familiar and who clicked his
tongue.  "I told her Ovaltine," murmured the man.  "Yah, sure, it's all
right, Mr. Mulder, I'll take care of you."

The nice man would take care of him.  He clutched at the nice man's ankle.
"D-d-d-did you see her?"  

"See who, Mr. Mulder."  Flash of something shiny and his t-shirt sleeve was
pushed up, he flinched at the needle's sting, felt something burn and
sniveled pitifully.

"That old woman?"

The nice man frowned, looked around the room.  "There isn't an old woman
here, Mr. Mulder.  Doncha know, we're the only ones in the room."

That was tremendously reassuring.  "Okay.  Thank you."  But he still held
on to the nice man's ankle until the nice man helped him to his feet.

Helped him put his snowsuit on, and his boots and his hat.  "Are we going
to play in the snow?"

The nice man smiled.  "Something like that."  He guided Mulder toward the
door, opened it.  

The sun wasn't up yet, but there was a pink glow to the sky in the east.
"Pretty," Mulder told him happily and let himself be carefully placed on
the back of the nice man's snowmobile.  "Where are we going?"

"We're going to see Jesus, Mr. Mulder."  The nice man smiled again.

Mulder frowned.  "I don't believe in Jesus."

The nice man patted his head.  "Yah, I know, Mr. Mulder.  But he believes
in you."

He puzzled over that while the nice man sat down in front of him.  Puzzled
over the fact that his hands somehow had gotten fastened to the seat and he
couldn't move them.

Puzzled over the pretty metal bracelets that held his hands there until,
after a few moments of puzzling, he fell face first into the nice man's
back, fell into a pit of sleep and knew no more.

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

"Got him," Pendrell said triumphantly, holding up a strip of clear
cellophane, upon which could clearly be seen three very sharp fingerprints.

Scully turned off her cellphone, turned back to him.  "Are you sure they
aren't Ingrid's?"  Wearily.

"Yup."  He beamed at her.

She longed to slap him, but repressed it, it was just that she was short of
sleep.  And sex.  Not necessarily in that order.  "Okay, well, that was
Bergman.  Ingrid Ibsen is in recovery now, she should be ready to talk--er,
write, in a few hours."

"How did the surgery go?"  Pendrell's tone was absent, he was carefully
placing the cellophane on a white card, wrapping tape around it to secure
it.  "There, that should do it.   Now, we need to see if we can get a
warrant for Olafsson's office."

She stared at him.  "How are we going to do that?"

"I know Judge Gunderson," said Trask's voice from the door.  Her broad face
was sagging with sorrow.  "I'll talk to him.  You really think it's Doc
Olafsson?  I never did like that old buzzard."

"We'll know for sure in a little while," Pendrell told her smartly.

Inge was definitely having an effect on his confidence, Scully thought
darkly.  She was beginning to think she liked him more deferential herself.

"Okay, why don't you and I go get the warrant, then," she told Trask
dourly.  "I want to check on Mulder on the way back.  Pendrell, do you need
anything?"

"Nope, just going to finish up the trace, and I'll meet you back at the
morgue."   He was already starting to pack up.

Scully sniffed, turned toward Trask, followed the trooper out to the car.  

"What's wrong with Agent Mulder," Trask wanted to know.

Scully gave her a startled look, shook her head.  "He's had trouble
sleeping, I had him take something."  

That got a disbelieving look, but Trask didn't question her.

Thank God.

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

It took an hour to get the warrant, and by that time, Scully was anxious to
find out what else Pendrell might have come up with, she had Trask take her
directly to the morgue, suppressing a qualm about Mulder, sleeping the
sleep of the heavily sedated.

He'd be fine, he'd be lucky if he woke up before late afternoon, she told
herself.

Pendrell fairly pounced on the warrant.  "Great."

"What else did you find?"  Scully asked, eyeing him.

He was already shrugging into his coat.  "Some trace fibers.  Nothing
especially useful until we do some work at the office.  Except for some wig
hairs, fairly cheap wig, sort of bluish silver."  His eyes held a glint.
"Which may confirm our suspicion about the cross-dressing."

Trask blanched.  "Cross-dressing?"

"Dr. Olafsson," Scully told her impatiently.  "Norman Bates."

Trask went paler.  "Norman Bates?  You mean, Doc Olafsson is dressing up
like his mother?"

"That's our suspicion," Pendrell confirmed and picked up his lab case.
"Let's go, people, daylight's burning."

Scully opened her mouth, closed it.  Frowned.  Finally let it go and
followed Pendrell back out to the car.

She really did like him better deferential.

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

By eleven am, Pendrell looked up from his microscope.  "It's him," he told
the room at large.  "We've got him."

The door to the station opened and Bergman came in, his face drawn with
weariness.  "Well, we sorta got a statement from Ingrid Ibsen, folks.  She
says the late Mrs. Olafsson came to see her last night, at least that's who
she remembers.  Said there was a terrible pain in her mouth and when she
opened her eyes, there was old lady Olafsson standing there."  His tone was
disgusted.  "Some help that is."

"Actually, Sheriff," Pendrell told him coolly, "That's a great deal of
help.

And she'd thought *Mulder* could be overbearing on a case.  Scully
nevertheless obliged, already picking up her coat and moving toward the
door. "I'm going to wake up Mulder," she told Bergman.

Bergman scowled.  "He's *asleep*?"

Scully stopped dead, trying to think of a logical explanation.  "He hasn't
been sleeping well."  Lamely.

Bergman stared at her, she could sense another black mark going down next
to Mulder's name.  Blue jeans, poetry, profanity, vomiting, and now sleep. 

Shit.  Skinner was probably going to get an earful and pass it on to
Mulder.  Sighing inwardly, she put on her coat, pushed open the door. She'd
deal with it later.  "I'll be back shortly."

She hoped.  It would probably be a good idea to get some coffee from the
Country Kitchen before going to the motel.  Short of amphetamines, she
wasn't sure Mulder was going to be any too clear-headed otherwise.

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

Mulder woke to find his face pressed against the slick nylon of someone's
parka.  Worse, he found his lower lip was frozen to it, and he had to let
himself drool a little more to loosen the adhesion.

His head felt thick, stuffed with cotton wool, his mouth tasted like the
better part of the Russian and American Armies (and maybe the Brits, too)
had marched through it, and he felt woozy.

And cold.  Despite the....snowmobile suit?  He was cuffed to a snowmobile.
That was moving.  Slowly.   "Uh, hey," groggily.  "Where are we?"

The snowmobile stopped.  The person in front of him was tall and broad and
when dismounted, oh, shit, it was Dr. Eric Olafsson.  

Oh, shit.

He felt his eyes widen, felt the sting of the wind.  "Um, what's going on?"
His voice stronger, but still in control, despite the fact that his heart
was hammering ninety to nothing.  "Dr. Olafsson?  Um, I'm sorry, I don't
remember how I got here."

Olafsson reached into one pocket of his parka, drew out a leather case the
size of a small Day-Timer.  Unzipped it and peeled off a glove.  Not
speaking.  Not acknowledging Mulder's presence in the least.

Oh, boy, now he was scared.  "Dr. Olafsson?"  Voice cracking.  Shit, oh,
dear, he was in major, deep, fucking shit now.  "Dr. Olafsson, did we have
an appointment?"  Fuck, that was stupid, that was really stupid, but he had
to get Olafsson to acknowledge him as human, not an object.  "I'm sorry, I
didn't remember."

Olafsson took a syringe out of the case, uncapped it, squirted the fluid
inside experimentally and smiled.  "There is one thing that ought to be
taught in all the colleges,// Which is that people ought to be taught not
to go around always making apologies.// I don't mean the kind of apologies
people make when they run over you or borrow five dollars or step on your
feet,//Because I think that is sort of sweet;// No, I object to one kind of
apology alone,//Which is when people spend their time and yours apologizing
for everything they own.//You go to their house for a meal,//And they
apologize because the anchovies aren't caviar or the partridge is
veal;//They apologize privately for the crudeness of the other guests,//And
they apologzie publicly for their wife's housekeeping or their husband's
jests;//If they give you a book by Dickens they apologize because it isn't
by Scott,//And if they take you to the theater, they apologize for the
acting and the dialogue and the plot;//They contain more milk of human
kindness than the most capacious diary can,//But if you are from out of
town they apologize for everything local and if you are a foreigner they
apologize for everything American.//I dread these apologizers even as I am
depicting them,//I shudder as I think of the hours that must be spend in
contradicting them,//Because you are very rude if you let them emerge from
an argument victorious,//And when they say something of theirs is awful, it
is your duty to convince them politely that it is magnificent and
glorious,//And what particularly bores me with them,//Is that half the time
you have to politely contradict them when you rudely agree with them,//So I
think there is one rule every host and hostess ought to keep with the comb
and nail file and bicarbonate and aromatic spirits on a handy shelf,//Which
is don't spoil the denouement by telling the guests everything is terrible,
but let them have the thrill of finding it out for themselves."

Transfixed, Mulder watched the needle approach, could only gape as Olafsson
unzipped his snowmobile suit and reached inside, pulled down one side and
jabbed him in the arm.  "What?"  Stupidly.

Thin smile.  "Go back to sleep, Mr. Mulder."

He didn't have a lot of choice.

So he did.

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

Mulder wasn't in bed.  Scully gaped at the room for a moment, standing
stock still in the door.  His boots were gone, but his coat was still
hanging on the rack next to the bathroom.  "Mulder?"

No answer, naturally enough.  Pendrell pushed past her, frowned.  "Don't
touch anything," he told her, his tone authoritative.  "Trooper Trask, I
think we have a problem."

Trask, still outside, came to the door.  "What?"  Politely.

Pulling a latex glove over his right hand, Pendrell strode to the
connecting door, opened it to peer into his room.    "I'm afraid Agent
Mulder appears to have been abducted."

Trask's jaw dropped and she wheeled, went back out to her radio car.

"Abducted?"  Scully blinked.  "He could just as easily taken off on his
own, Pendrell, he does *that* all the time."

"Not without his coat."  Pendrell's jaw was set.  

"His boots are gone," Scully pointed out, more because Pendrell was
unnerving her than because she disagreed.

Pendrell frowned.  "True.  But it's far more probable that he was abducted,
Agent Scully.  You drugged him.  I somehow can't see him weaving down the
main street of Timmsville in his nightwear without the police being
called."

She had to admit that the image of Mulder walking drunkenly down the street
seemed unlikely to go unnoticed in Timmsville.

"Besides," Pendrell added, going to the door and peering at the snowy
sidewalk.  "His boots have a distinctive cross hatch pattern on the soles,
and the footprints move out this way and then disappear, right here where
the snowmobile tracks appear."  He reached out and pointed, frowned again
and went out to talk to Trask.

Her jaw dropped again.  Shaking her head, Scully  moved to the doorway,
peering at the snow.   She could barely see the cross-hatch pattern of
Mulder's soles, followed them out, carefully stepping around them, right up
to the flat pattern of snowmobile tracks.  "How did you do that?" she
demanded of Pendrell, who had come to stand at her side.

Sober look.  "Elementary, Agent Scully. When you eliminate the improbable,
the remaining explanation that fits all the known data is what remains.
Trask just put out an APB for Olafsson and his snowmobile."

She closed her mouth, feeling woolyheaded and confused.  "Why would--never
mind."   It was beginning to sink in, but slowly.  She wondered if sexual
frustration could make you stupid, shook her head.  It made perfect sense
then that Pendrell should be on top of things.  He was getting boinked
regularly by the beauteous Inge.  Suppressing the urge to slap him, she
nodded, felt a wave of panic superseding the irritation.  "Oh, my God,
Mulder has been kidnapped!"

Pendrell patted her shoulder.  "Don't worry, Agent Scully, we'll find him."
Firmly.

"We've got to track this snowmobile, Pendrell!"  She stepped carefully
forward, her eyes on the tracks.  "There's no telling what he'll do to
Mulder!"  Mulder's nightmare came back to her, the fear of castration.  Oh,
please, God, anything but that, she prayed, torture him if you must, but
not castration!    She promised a novena to St. Jude on the spot, should
Mulder be returned in one piece. More or less.

She wouldn't quibble about a few bruises or cuts or gunshot wounds, so long
as a) none of them were fatal and b) none of them were below the waist. The
bargain made her feel better, and St. Jude was certainly appropriate. In
many ways, Mulder was a lost cause.  Or nearly lost.

Pendrell was still patting her shoulder.  "Not to worry, Trask is
contacting Fish and Game, they've got snowmobiles."

"Right."  She took in a deep breath.  "Let's go."

"We will, Agent Scully," Soothingly.  "But we need the proper equipment,
snowmobiles, snowmobile suits, the usual.  We'll find him, never fear."  

"Snowmobile suits?"  She turned to look at him, baffled.  "What the hell--
oh, those snowsuit thingies."

"Absolutely necessary in this windchill, Agent Scully."  He nodded, beamed
at her. 
She wanted to kill him.  She'd looked like a cabbage at the age of six
wearing a goddamned one piece snowsuit, and somehow, she didn't think she
was going to look any better at the age of thirty-three.  But it was for
Mulder, she reminded herself, and swiftly promised another novena to St.
Philomena.  Just in case. 
"Why don't you wait in the room, Agent Scully.  Trooper Trask has a tracker
who is going to come in and see what we can find of this particular
snowmobile's tracks before traffic gets too heavy in town."  He patted her
again, his expression consoling.

For a moment, she considered decking him the next time he patted her, but
the reality was simply too upsetting.

She didn't brighten up until suddenly she realized something.

She was rescuing Mulder, instead of the other way around.

Another novena, this one to the Blessed Mother, she decided, almost
happily.  Just to say thanks.

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

Mulder woke again to find himself tied down to an ancient and sagging bed,
to the wrought iron posts at each corner.  However, care had been taken for
his comfort, and there were some nice, warm blankets over him.  "Hullo," he
told Olafsson groggily.  "Where are we?"

Seated in a dilapidated armchair near the bed, Olafsson looked at him,
frowned.  "That's not important, Mr. Mulder.  I noticed that there were two
beds in that room and that both had been slept in.  Does that mean that
I've been wrong in assuming that you and your partner are fornicating?"

"I'm afraid not."  Mulder blinked, licked dry lips and reflected that just
once, his bad luck might contribute to saving his life.  "We're just very
good friends, Dr. Olafsson."

Olafsson approached the bed, folded his arms.  "Yah, I'm sure."  Drily.
"So, are you a pervert?"

Mulder blinked again.  Well, according to some people...."A pervert?"
Nervously.

"Yah, you know, do you fornicate with men?"

Holy shit.  "No," Mulder told him strongly, rapidly suppressing the memory
of Tim during high school, Alan at Oxford, and Alex Krycek a couple of
times prior to the Duane Barry mess.  "I don't."

Olafsson's expression was troubled.   Thick, iron-grey eyebrows drew close
together, the doctor moved back to the chair and picked up a thick black
book.  "Mother's never been wrong before," almost inaudibly.

Holy shit, his nightmare had almost come true.  Closing his eyes, Mulder
silently thanked Scully's patron saints that she'd been in a pissy mood the
night before.  He wondered if it were too late for a nonpracticing Jew to
convert to Catholicism. 

Olafsson stared back at him.  Blinked.  And suddenly thundered, "Do not
mock God, Mr. Mulder!"

Mulder's fingers twitched reflexively and he hadn't even been taught by
nuns.  "I'm not," he told Olafsson plaintively.  "Honestly."

Olafsson's expression eased.  "You truly are a heathen, aren't you?"

Mulder felt some small degree of offense.  "Well, actually, I'm Jewish.  On
my mother's side.  My father didn't go to church, and when my mother took
us, she took us to the Unitarian church."  

Olafsson sniffed in disdain.  Opened the black book.  With a start, Mulder
realized it was a bible.  "Have you ever read the bible, Mr. Mulder?"

"Not for a while," Mulder told him.  Hoping against hope.  Yes, he exulted,
he could sit through Genesis if that's what it took to give Scully enough
time to find him.  Hell, he could sit through Leviticus, although those
were arguably among the most tedious texts in the Old Testament.  He could
sit through the book of the Apocalypse, which idea actually appealed to
him.

Olafsson studied him.  "Yah, I don't think you're beyond hope, Mr. Mulder.
I pray that I can open your heart to God's Holy Word."

Mulder put on what he hoped was a beatifically hopeful look of his own.
"Me, too."  

And with that, Olafsson, as he'd hoped, began to read.  "In the beginning
God created the heaven and the earth.  And the earth was without form, and
void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God
moved upon the face of the waters.  And God said, Let there be light: and
there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided
the light from the darkness...." 

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

Scully found she had to admit to being impressed.  Even if she did hate
looking like a space age cabbage, complete with helmet and goggles.  

Pendrell had actually managed to work with the tracker Trask brought in,
they'd traced the snowmobile tracks, with a few heartstopping breaks in the
trail, to the edge of town.

Bergman, looking fairly cabbage like himself in his winter coat, scowled at
the tracks and at the gathering of state troopers and rangers.  "You think
you have some idea of where he's taking him?"

"Yah," Trask answered for them, "Looks like he's headed up north.  Ya know,
I've got Katrina asking around, trying to see if anybody knows of any place
up there the old buzzard might be aimed for specifically.  Otherwise, we
follow the trail."

Bergman made a noncommittal sound.  "Okay.  If I find anything out, I'll
radio you."

Scully tried to nod, but the helmet made her head feel heavy, unwieldy.
"Good."  Her voice sounded hollow and she felt ridiculous, but when
Pendrell beckoned to her, she followed, got on back of the snowmobile
behind him.  

"How do you know how to drive these?" she asked.

"You have to live a little, Agent Scully.  I may not cross-country ski, but
I know how to have fun!"  He sounded almost bouyant.  

She closed her eyes and counted to ten, grabbed his waist as the machine
jolted forward and picked up speed.  Holy shit, the little guy liked to
live dangerously, he was.....Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having
offended thee, she began trying hard to remember the Act of Contrition.

The way things were going, she was in worse danger than Mulder.

She mentally added another novena to the list.

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

Mulder hadn't been able to get his bonds loosened, though he had tried
surreptitiously while Olaffsen voice droned on and on, apparently
completely unaware that the texts he was reading contained more sex and
violence than any late twentieth century action film.    Under other
circumstances, and with a less mind-numbing voice, he might have found it
interesting; even while he carefully and quietly worked his wrists, a part
of his Oxford trained psychologist's mind was pondering the quandary of
Adam and Eve's unnamed daughters, and precisely who had Cain and Abel
married, and who the fuck was off living in the land of Nod if Adam and Eve
had been the first human beings, and if the father and mother of the human
race had populated the land of Nod, they must have been boinking like
maniac bunnies, and wasn't it funny that fundamentalists of all types
seemed to ignore the possibility of inter and intra-generational incest.

On the other hand, he'd seen enough weirdo cases involving fundamentalists
commiting inter-generational incest that perhaps that wasn't surprising.

The droning voice stopped suddenly, right after Lot had boinked his
daughters.  "I think that's a good start."  Olafssen rose and stretched,
looked sternly over at Mulder.  "What have you learned?"

Mulder swallowed hard, thinking frantically.  "I am the Lord thy God, thou
shalt have no other Gods before me?"

Olafssen blinked.  "We haven't gotten there yet, but that's a good
beginning, Mr. Mulder.  I think it's time for something to eat."

Since his stomach felt as if it were clinging to his backbone, he had to
agree.  "Er, Dr. Olafssen, I, uh, really need to use your bathroom."

Narrow look.  "Number one or number two?"

Mulder gaped.  He hadn't heard that since elementary school.   "Er, number
one."  Meekly.

A brisk nod and Olafssen vanished into another room, returning with a
Tupperware pitcher.  "We can take care of that," he told Mulder, his tone
jocular.  "Now, remember, I'm a doctor, don't be shy."

Staring, Mulder opened his mouth, closed it when Olafssen began to unbutton
his jeans.  Oy, the mortification, he wasn't even going to be allowed to
take a piss by himself.  He hoped that was a two quart pitcher, and jumped
when cold hands reached inside his thermal underwear.  "You're a doctor,"
he repeated faintly and closed his eyes, sternly warning his bladder to
cooperate, despite the circumstances.

With his luck, between the cold and Olafssen's hands, his bladder was going
to retreat somewhere up where his hollow stomach was hiding.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------

"We *can't* stop!"  Scully was feeling frantic. Hours and hours of riding
behind Pendrell, whose shy exterior evidently not only concealed a sex
maniac, but a deranged snowmobile artiste.  They had leapt over snow
drifts, sped between trees at a pace that had turned her stomach inside out
and blurred her vision, and while she wasn't *crazy* about the idea of
getting back on the machine, Mulder had been in the hands of that lunatic
Olafssen for at least twelve hours.

"We're just stopping for a little while."  Pendrell's voice was pitched to
soothe, his hand made patting motions in the air above her shoulder.  "Just
to let the tracker go ahead.  Bergman says there are some fishing cabins up
a little farther north, right on the edge of a small lake, looks like the
late Reverend Fulke owned one, and the widow has been letting her brother
use it on occasion.  Bergman thinks Olafssen might be there, and I agree
with him."

"He could be dead!"  The snow was too deep to pace, so she stamped her feet
in place.  "Don't you get it, Pendrell, this isn't an academic exercise, he
*has* Mulder!"

"I know, Agent Scully.  I know."  More patting motions. "But if he's still
alive, rushing in like the Marines could very easily get him killed." Calm,
patient expression, and damned if she didn't find herself wishing that
Pendrell had been taken instead.

After all, he was fornicating with Inge, and it seemed horribly unfair that
a quirk of psychology and some alleged psi ability should mean that Mulder
was the target of choice.  She began to advance on Pendrell, but a shout
froze her in place.  

Bergman met the man who appeared out of the trees, then turned and slogged
toward them in the heretofore virgin snow.  "It looks like he's got him in
there," Bergman told them, his breath coming out in white puffs, barely
visible in the rapidly deepening twilight.  "It's going to be tricky.
Katrina's talking to the Widow Fulke about the layout of the cabin, I don't
want to go in there blind."

"Is he alive?"  Scully demanded fiercely.  "Did the tracker see anything?"

Bergman eyes her.  "He heard voices, he said, and both of them were men.
Sounds like Mulder's playing him along, he said.  Talking about the Bible."

The mind boggled at that.  She blinked and nodded.  "Let's go, then."

"On foot," Bergman told her apologetically.  "Sound carries up here.  State
Troopers are gonna meet us there, and we've got plenty of snowshoes."

"Snowshoes?" Disbelieving.  "Snowshoes?"

"Best thing for this kind of country, Scully.  Except for cross-country
skis."  Pendrell's nose wrinkled.

If she wasn't ready to kill him, it might have been cute.   "You," she said
warningly, and followed Bergman, thinking dark thoughts about snowshoes and
promising another few novenas.

At least.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------

Olaffsen at least had fed him, he was feeling better, clearer-headed,
stronger, and just as stuck as he had been earlier.

Which was a good thing, since Olafssen had vanished, leaving him to think
hard about his situation.  The sound of running water suggested that
Olaffsen was washing up their dishes; after a while, brooding on certain
death lost appeal and he dozed a bit, woke with a start when Olaffsen
returned.

Only it wasn't Olaffsen, God help him, it was Mama.

"Sinner," accused the hag-like figure, dressed in in black again.

Without the adrenalin rush of finding a body nearby, he studied Olaffsen.
Makeup to cover beard stubble--not well, either--and the wig was slightly
askew.  Olaffsen was breaking down under the stress of all the murders, he
thought and that made his balls draw right back up into his body, possibly
all the way to his lungs.  "Yes," he said meekly, "I am."

It wasn't what Mama had been expecting, clearly, she looked affronted
somehow.  Two long strides toward the bed and, oh, God, she was holding a
scalpel again, please, please, please, no, don't let this be happening, but
it was, and she unbuttoned his jeans again.  "What are you going to do
about it?" Mama hissed.

What was he going to do about it?  Christ, he didn't know.  "Repent?" he
suggested, his voice wobbly.

Mama drew back, frowning.  "Repentance must be sincere."  Severely, and she
reached inside his thermal underwear.  Same cold hands, alas, and he was
glad of shrinkage.

"It is sincere," he told her sincerely, "Believe me, it is sincere."

Mama, clearly, was confused.  Dark grey eyebrows drew together, ice cold
eyes surveyed him.  "Repentance alone is not enough."  Finally,
forbiddingly.

His mind darted hither and yon, seeking an escape from this trap.  He
whimpered, stared into the harpy's gaze.  "I know."  Where the hell was
Scully?  Where was that little geek Pendrell?   Hell, he'd settle for
Bergman at this point, he'd settle for Trask and her pink bubblegum, he'd
embrace Inge, he'd kiss the Country Kitchen cook!   "I," he gasped,
struggling against his bonds again, saw the flash of light that reflected
off the unforgiving steel of the scalpel.  "I accept Jesus Christ into my
heart as my personal savior!  Hallelujah!"  All but screamed it.

A sort of peace settled over him then.  He watched as Mama frowned more
forbiddingly, sighed slightly as her fingers released him and carefully
tucked him back into his thermals.  The scalpel flashed again the in
lamplight as Mama turned and paced around the room.  "True repentance," he
heard her say, her voice puzzled and irritated at the same time.  "True
repentance, Lord, what do I do now?"

He kept his mouth firmly shut, but then he didn't feel the urge to say
anything.  He felt sleepy, rather than alarmed.  Blinked when Mama turned
back to study him and smiled beatifically at her.  "Praise the Lord."

"Praise the Lord," she echoed, and scowled again.  More pacing, and then
she vanished through the doorway.

He yawned, let his eyes close again.  Opened them at the sound of footsteps
some unknowable stretch of time later and saw Olaffsen standing over him,
as perplexed as Mama had been.  

He smiled again.  "Hello."

The scowl deepened.  "Someone's coming, Mr. Mulder, we have to leave."

"All right."  He lay still while Olaffsen freed his wrists, rubbed them to
relieve the ache.

Olaffsen caught one and examined it, still frowning.  "Hmmm, those are
rubbed raw.  I should do something about that." 

Mulder studied his wrists.  His mind was definitely getting fuzzy, he
thought distantly, not at all alarmed.  "Oh, I think they're all right."
Mildly.  "Where are we going?"

Another long look.  "We'll see when we get there."

Mulder nodded happily, held out his arm when Olaffsen brought the coat over
to him.  "Okay."

He wasn't sure why, but Olafssen looked troubled when he replaced the
cuffs, this time over Mulder's sleeves.  

The cold air struck him like a blow, he must have made some sound, because
Olaffsen turned around and solicitously tightened the hood, produced a
woolen scarf from out of nowhere and tied it around Mulder's face.  "There,
that's better."  Softly.  "We've got to hurry, I can feel them coming."

He wondered distantly who was coming, and obediently got on the snowmobile
behind Olaffsen.  

The insectile hum of the motor lulled him somehow; he leaned forward
against Olaffsen's back, felt a wave of comradely affection and closed his
eyes.

Thus, he didn't see the shapes emerging from the woods behind them, or hear
the cries demanding that Olaffsen stop.

After all, he was Saved.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------

"Goddammit!"  Scully lowered her gun, peering through the dark in the
direction Olaffsen's snowmobile had gone.  "Now what?"  Resisting the urge
to pistolwhip Bergman was no easy task, but he was on the radio already,
muttering into it.

"Now we wait for the helicopter," Pendrell told her helpfully.  "The State
Troopers are bringing one in to track the bastard."

Now, she thought wrathfully, after a day of cold and snow and death-defying
leaps over snowbanks, now they bring in a helicopter.  Minnesota was a
lunatic asylum.  "May I ask," she began, her tone icily courteous, "Where
this goddamned motherfucking cocksucking helicopter was all day today?"

Pendrell stared at her as if she were possessed.  Hell, maybe she was
possessed.  By Mulder.  No, don't think that way, she told herself, he
wasn't dead, she'd just seen him on the back of the snowmobile.  "Uh,
working traffic down in the Twin Cities?"  He backed away a step.

She saw red. Literally.  Pinched the bridge of her nose hard.  "I'm going
to kill someone, Pendrell.  You'd better hope it's Olaffsen."

His gulp was audible.

When she checked her weapon, he took another few steps backward.  "I'd
better talk to Bergman," he told her hastily.

"Yes," she told him sweetly, "You do that."

There was something satisfying in watching Pendrell scamper away in
snowshoes.

But she still wanted to kill someone.   Or something.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
---------------------

It was so comfortable, leaning against that kind Dr. Olaffsen.  Dr.
Olaffsen, who might have been wrong about the Ovaltine, but who was right
about Jesus.   Why, he could even accept his sister's disappearance, she
was safe in Jesus' arms, or she was with the aliens, and who was he to say
that the aliens weren't all a part of God's wonderful plan.

Maybe even Cancerman was, although if anything symbolized the devil better
than Cancerman, he wasn't aware of it.

The snowmobile veered and dove and he nearly lost his balance, yelped in
surprise and shock.  

Olaffsen brought it to a halt immediately, turned to look at him worriedly.
"We'd better take those off so you can hold on, Mr. Mulder."

He nodded shakily.  "Okay."  Then smiled again.  "I trust you, Dr.
Olaffsen, and I trust that Jesus will watch over me."

Long look, and then an answering smile.  "I was wrong about you, Mr.
Mulder, and I ask your forgiveness."

"Of course!"  Mulder's smile was blissful.  "And you weren't wrong, Dr.
Olaffsen.  I was a sinner.  With God's help...."  Oh, the world spread out
before him, pregnant with possibility.  A wife, children, that white picket
fence.....

"All it takes is repentance, Mr. Mulder."  Olaffsen freed his wrists,
patted his shoulder.  "Now hold on, they're awfully close."

He wondered who They were, decided it didn't matter.  He was content.  He
held on to Olaffsen as the snowmobile leapt forward and thought dreamily
about his future.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------

"They're heading toward the lake,"  Bergman said grimly.  "Looks like the
doc is planning on going over it, heading for Canada."

"We can alert the Canadians," Scully growled.  "And I want that fucking
helicopter to land right now and pick us up."  She offered Bergman a
menacing scowl and meaningfully checked her weapon.

"Already arranged it, but we've got to the get to the clearing ahead before
they can land."  He scowled back at her, clearly unimpressed.  Maybe his
weapon was bigger, she thought disgruntled, and wasn't that just like a
man?

"Then let's get moving," she snarled in return.

Pendrell's expression was wary.  "Lead on, Agent Scully."

She sniffed disdainfully and did just that.  Maybe he was afraid to have
her behind him with a loaded weapon.  Too bad Inge wasn't here; in her
present psychotic state, she'd have been more than happy to rid the world
of the buxom blonde bimbo.

She wanted her Mulder back and she wanted him now.

So she trudged through the snow as fast as the snowshoes would allow,
peering ahead for the clearing.

The sound of the 'copter alerted her before she broke free of the trees. It
was just setting down when she emerged into a large clearing that stretched
out toward the lakeshore.

Shielding her eyes against the rotor driven bits of snow and ice, she
ducked her head and ran clumsily for the cabin.  "Agent Dana Scully," she
shouted, and the pilot and the state trooper nodded, made room for her.

She waited impatiently for the others, shifting to make room for Pendrell;
in the snowmobile suits, they had to squeeze in uncomfortably close, and
when Bergman lumbered aboard--she wasn't going to think about throwing
Pendrell and Bergman out of the helicopter once they were off the ground,
no she wasn't, she was going to focus on finding her partner and rescuing
his sorry ass from that maniac Olaffsen. 

And once she had done so, she was going cuff him to her side to prevent
this from happening again.

Once he'd calmed down, *then* she'd molest him.

The 'copter lifted off,  rising above the trees surrounding the clearing;
the wind was stronger and buffeted the craft, she could hear the pilot
muttering in Swedish as he kept the helicopter on course and ignored this,
peering down through the night to follow the white arc of searchlight.

"He was heading due north," the state trooper's voice was thin, attentuated
by the noise of the copter. 

Looking around, she found a headset, put it on, gave the state trooper a
thumbs up as she adjusted the volume.

Bergman gave her a sour look and she considered throwing him out again.
They were over the lake now, an almost featureless expanse of white, even
beyond the searchlight.

"We had that thaw last week, I hope he's not aiming to cut straight across
the middle."  Conversational tone in her ear.  "Doncha know, this time of
year is sometimes tricky, lose a lotta ice-boaters and fishermen to weak
spots in the ice."

Oh, lovely, she thought and peered down intently again, as if the ferocity
of her intention could save Mulder from that eventuality.

Maybe it couldn't, but there were always more novenas.  And maybe a visit
to Rome.  A donation to the Church.  She could always borrow against her
401K.

Mulder better be worth it.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
--------------

The wind was bitter out on the lake, and Mulder kept his face pressed
against Olaffsen's back, still content if not comfortable.

He wondered where they were going.  Olaffsen had shouted something about
making sure he was safe from further temptation, but he wasn't sure what
that meant, and wasn't sufficiently worried about it to ask.

He who had trusted no one, now trusted God and Dr. Olaffsen, in that order.  

The snowmobile slowed, came to a stop.  "I'm going to have to risk going
across the middle, Mr. Mulder." Shouted against the wind.

He nodded against Olaffsen's coat.  "Okay, Dr. Olaffsen.  Whatever you
think is best."

A big gloved hand patted his, and the machine started up again.  It was
nearly full dark now, and if he had cared to risk the burn of the winter
wind there was nothing to be seen but the narrow bit of landscape
illuminated by the snowmobile's headlamp.  So he kept his face pressed
against Olaffsen's back, happily considering what he was going to do on his
return to Washington DC.

First thing, he was going to throw out all his videos and his magazines. No
more temptation.  No more sin.  He felt peaceful now, considering his
partner, smiled at the thought of her.  She was so beautiful.  So pure.  It
was up to him to protect her from temptation, too, no more of this sharing
a room or wandering in and out of each other's rooms.  He was going to
treat her with respect, stop thinking about her in that nun's habit.  God
was going to help him, yes indeed, for didn't God love the sinner and hate
the sin?

He was going to get his act straightened out.  No more of this X-Files
crap, no indeed.  He was going to accept all things as the will of his
Creator, of his Savior, he was going to become the model FBI agent and do
his part for the right, for justice, and for law.

Skinner was going to be amazed, but he would explain it to him.  Maybe he
could even help Skinner; after that hooker business, it was clear that
Skinner suffered from his own temptations.

Thinking about that made him feel all warm and fuzzy.  Skinner was a
friend, he just needed to be led toward the Light.

A rending, cracking sound interrupted these meditations, particularly since
it could be heard over the hum of the engine.  He blinked in surprise,
lifted his head, listening, and heard another sound, the sound of
helicopter rotors battling the wind.

Looking up and back, he saw a single light in the sky, aimed downward,
stared in amazement as it approached; Olaffsen pushed the snowmobile harder
and he tightened his hold.  

The cracking sound grew louder, more frightening, he clutched at Olaffsen
and looked down, saw the jagged crack beneath the snowmobile widen.  As
comprehension came, he found the space to be blissfully happy that if he
was going to drown, he was going to drown clean of sin.

All washed in the Blood of the Lamb, and what more could anyone ask?

The ice gave way, he heard Olaffsen scream in terror and wanted to comfort
him, but the icy water robbed him of breath.  It's all right, he thought
happily, sinking into dark water, you saved me, Dr. Olaffsen, whatever else
you've done, God will forgive you.  

Then, as his consciousness began to wink out, he thought of his parter with
affection.

He hoped someone else could help her with temptation, since he wasn't going
to be able to.

The last of the air left his straining lungs and he sank down, down, into
darkness and cold, surrendering to it.......

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
-----------------------

Scully shrieked like an Irish banshee when the snowmobile tipped downward
and began to sink, taking both Olaffsen and her partner with it.  Midnight
black water, and it swallowed them both whole and the helicopter dipped and
swerved, retreating.

Drawing her gun, she held it to the pilot's back.  "Take us down!!!"

"Not here," the state trooper stared at her as if she'd gone mad.  "The ice
won't hold us!"

Pendrell, for once, backed her.  "Don't land, just go low enough I can
jump."

"You're insane!"  The state trooper stared at Pendrell.

"Do it!"  Bergman shouted.  "And get a team ready,  blankets and medics."

After a moment, the trooper tapped the pilot and the helicopter went down,
hovering above the ice.

"Look," Pendrell pointed at a dark shape.  "Ice hut.  We'll get him out and
take him in there, there's bound to be some blankets in there."

She nodded.

Leaping out of a hovering helicopter was a job for superheroes, not FBI
Special Agents, she decided a moment later, lying on the ice with the wind
knocked out of her.

Pendrell, she was annoyed to see, had tucked and rolled and was struggling
out of his snowmobile suit as he ran for the gaping hole in the ice.

Show off.

Resentfully, she gathered herself up, dragging air in with some difficulty;
once on her feet, she lumbered after Pendrell, who was followed by Bergman
already.

God, it was cold, and Pendrell finally kicked free of boots and suit and
dove into the dark water.

She had to admit, even if she wanted to shoot him, he was a brave little
son of a bitch.  Crossing herself, she began to say a rosary, counting the
decades on her fingers for a fearfully long time.  Could Pendrell really
hold his breath that long?  Holy Mary, Mother of God, let Pendrell find
Mulder and get them both out, please, please, please, please. Yes, not only
would she go to Rome, she'd go to Lourdes if God would let them both
surface in the next moment.

And after that one had passed--okay, in the *next* moment.

It seemed an eternity before Pendrell surfaced, his breath like steam in
the frigid night, holding on to someone's collar.  The hair was seal sleek
and dark, it was Mulder and she helped Bergman fumble Mulder out of the
water, helped Pendrell climb out on to the ice.

Somehow, they got both men into the ice hut, heard the 'copter return.
There were rough wool blankets on a cot in the ice hut; she busied herself
with Mulder while Bergman attended to Pendrell.   Somehow, the journey over
the ice to the hut had gotten him breathing again, although she had to turn
him on his side to let him cough and vomit up the lake water.

He was nearly blue, in the faint light of the lantern that Bergman lit and
hung up on the wall.  She stripped him, finally tearing off her gloves in a
frenzy of impatience and terror.  Don't you dare die, she told him, and
took one of the musty wool blankets, began rubbing him down just as Bergman
was rubbing Pendrell down.  

The lab tech's head emerged from the folds of the blanket.  "Is he
breathing?"  A little breathlessly himself.

"Yes," she told him shortly.  Mulder wasn't even shivering, a very bad
sign.  With Bergman's help, she levered him up on the cot and continued
with the blanket; pallid flesh began slowly to respond, to turn faintly
pink, and his lips were no longer dark blue.   "Is there a heater in here?"

Bergman paused in the act of holding up Pendrell's suit for him. "No, I
looked.  Just the lantern."  Gruffly.

She glanced that way, saw Pendrell's sodden clothing.  "Good, get him into
his suit, that will at least keep him warm."

"Sheriff," Pendrell murmured, "Do you think your suit would go on Mulder?"

"We've got to get him warm first," Scully snapped and suddenly thought of
something.  "Turn your backs, please."

Bergman blinked, his eyes widened.  "Oh, yah."  Nodded understanding and
turned Pendrell away before helping him back into his snowmobile suit.

Rising, Scully snatched after another blanket before stripping her own off.
Hesitated for a moment and stripped down to bra and panties, pulling the
blankets over both of them on the cot.  Musty and itchy and Mulder's skin
was as cold as the ice underneath them, and she shivered, wrapped her arms
around him.

Sound of a zipper and something heavier covered them both, Bergman's suit,
which provided a little more protection from the cold.  "Pendrell's going
to flag down the 'copter," he told her, still gruff.  "They'll have some of
those heating blankets, those space age things."

She was freezing now herself, wriggled to get more comfortable.  "Good,
tell them to hurry."  Faintly.  

Mulder's eyelids fluttered, he made a sound in his throat, coughed again,
wretched raw sound, but it was life and movement.

She rubbed her hands over his flanks, bumped her hips against his.  "Come
on, Mulder," she murmured.  "You can do it, I know you can."

Hell, hadn't the goddamn Nazis done experiments just like this, she told
him silently, wriggling again.  Hmmmm, now that she thought about it--she
let her hands wander, shifted again to give them free rein.  Allowing for
the shrinkage of frigid water, it was the same territory she'd mapped the
other night, albeit quiescent; Bergman thoughtfully kept his back turned
and she let her hands grow bolder.

Ah, he was definitely still alive, the skin beneath her was warming, and he
wasn't quite so quiescent now, just the slightest stirring from the
stimulation of touch.  She put her lips in the hollow of his throat, tasted
lake water and Mulder, and nearly wept in gratitude at the pulse she felt
there.  Yes, yes, he was going to live and she was going to beat him
senseless.

But later.  

And didn't he feel just lovely now that he was warming up again.  Thank God
for Pendrell, she'd offer a mass for the little lab geek, maybe get him
something nice for his birthday, whenever that was.

Mulder made another sound, coughed again, and his eyelids rose to half-
mast.  "S-s-s-scully."  Dazed voice.   "I thought I was dead."

"Not on my watch, Mulder," she told him and stroked the thickening shaft in
her grip.  "How does that feel?"

His eyes widened.  "Scully, no!"

No?  No??  After everything she'd done to get him back?  "Don't be silly,
Mulder, this is for medical purposes."  Smugly, and yes, he was warming up
quite nicely indeed.  His lips might say No, but his dick was saying Yes,
and in a big way.   Hmmm, too bad she'd left her panties on, but perhaps
she could shimmy out of them, Bergman might never be the wiser, and what
was she thinking?

She was thinking of how long she'd waited, that's what she was thinking,
she told herself and made a very determined effort to slide those panties
down.

"Scully, this is wrong!"  Mulder sounded desperate now.  Funny, terror
seemed to be doing more to bring him back to consciousness than desire,
which was decidedly annoying.  "We can't, you've got to stop, it's wrong."

"What's wrong?" she asked, a little perplexed at the way he was deflating
in her grasp.  What the hell was wrong with Mr. Adult Video News now?  From
premature ejaculation to impotence? She was going to have to shoot him,
that was all there was to it.

"It's fornication," he hissed, struggling to get out from under her.  "It's
a sin, Scully."

Sitting up abruptly, Scully stared at him, oblivious to the chill in the
air.  Maybe he'd hit his head.  Maybe it was Stockholm Syndrome.  "You
don't believe in sin," she told him accusingly.

Bergman cleared his throat.  "Here they come."

Damn.  Damn and double damn and triple damn and he was giving her that
sweet, wounded, beaten puppy dog look again that made her want to damn the
torpedos and go ahead full speed.  "I do now,"  he told her mournfully.
"It's wrong."

Definitely Stockholm Syndrome, Scully decided and got up, swiftly dragging
her clothes back on before she froze.  Although fury might keep her warm,
she doubted it would help Mulder, and tucked all the blankets around him.
She put her boots back on, shrugged back into the bulky snowmobile suit and
stalked past Bergman, whose expression went utterly impassive on her.
"Where are you going?"  he asked.

"I'm going to get Olaffsen out of that water and shoot him," she snarled
and went out into the cold.

Someone, she thought, someone had to pay for this. And if she shot Mulder,
she'd never get laid.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
-------------------------

They were airlifted to the small hospital in Zimmer.   While Pendrell was
pronounced in good health and uninjured, Mulder was admitted for
observation; Scully stood with her arms folded in the hospital room, sourly
watching as Bergman and Trask and other Timmsville denizens, including the
motel owner, came to pay their respects.

The worst shock came when the Reverend Jurgenson came.   Mulder took his
hand, that whipped puppy earnest expression on his face and said,
"Reverend, would you baptize me?"

Oh, God, he was in worse shape than she'd thought.  Taking two steps
forward, she put her hand on the beaming minister's arm.  "He's not quite
in his right mind, Reverend," she murmured.

"Yes, I am," Mulder insisted.  "I want to be baptized."

"No, you aren't," she snapped, "You're suffering Stockholm Syndrome,
dammit, and I'm not letting you do something you will regret."

He gave her that damned look again.  "But Scully, I have accepted Jesus
Christ as my savior, I want to be baptized.  I can't tell you what it means
to me."

Her head began to ache.  Only Mulder.  Only her demented, out-beyond-the-
edge-of-the-solar-system partner.  She could accept his belief in little
grey men far more easily than this alleged conversion, and goddammit, if he
was going to suddenly go religious on her, what the hell was wrong with
Catholicism?

If she fucked him senseless, he could always go to confession and be
absolved, but no, he had to ask the Lutheran minister.  "Mulder, if you
want me to, I'll ask Father when we get home, I'll ask him about giving you
instruction if you like."

They both glared at her.  "I want to be baptized NOW, Scully, and I didn't
say I wanted to be Catholic."  

Reverend Jurgensen made a suspiciously smug sound.  "Agent Scully, I
believe that Sheriff Bergman is looking for you.  I believe they've located
Dr. Olaffsen's body."

She hung fire, caught between needing to protect Mulder from his own
insanity and doing her job.  "Mulder, don't agree to anything," she finally
growled, "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Deceptively mild smile, oh, she was familiar with that one, the Yes,
Scully, don't worry about it, but I'm going to turn right around and do
what I want smile.  

Her head ached.  She pointed a finger at Jurgensen.  "Don't you *dare* take
advantage of his mental condition, Reverend.  I'll report you the Council
of Churches."  If anybody got Mulder, it was going to be the Catholic
Church, she told herself, and stalked out of the room.

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

"Oh, yah, looks like Doc was as crazy as an outhouse rat," Bergman told her
somberly.  "Found a diary, and his Ma's old clothes.  Dressing up as his
ma, he was, doncha know.  Must have been that woman you two saw at the
church when you found Marcy Olafsen's body."

She nodded, looking at the cardboard boxes of evidence.  "What's in the
diary?"

"Details of every alleged sin committed by his patients and his neighbors,"
Pendrell told her with relish.  "Along with his 'mother's' account of how
the guilty were punished.  The man was completely insane."

Like Mulder, she thought sourly.  "Where's the body?"

"The usual place."  Bergman jerked a thumb in the direction of the funeral
home.  "How's Mulder."

"He's fine, really.  They're going to watch him for pneumonia, of course,
but his core temperature is nearly normal again."  She sighed, pinched the
bridge of her nose.  "He wants to be baptized."  The words escaped her
before she could call them back.

Pendrell arched an eyebrow.  "Really?  Hmm, sometimes a close brush with
death will make a man re-evaluate his priorities."

"And the state of his soul,"  Bergman told her, but his mouth twitched.
"Looks like Doc did one good thing, eh?"

She briefly wondered if she could claim temporary insanity if she shot and
killed both men.  "Maybe."  

Pendrell seemed to suspect of homicidal impulses.  He patted her shoulder.
"It will probably pass, knowing Agent Mulder, don't be too worried about
it."

She could only hope.  Shrugging back into her coat, she sighed.  "Let's go
get this over with, Pendrell.  I need to save Mulder from his own need for
redemption."

He almost smiled, and wisely decided not to; Bergman, on the other hand,
was still laughing when they got into the elevator.

"Look at it this way," Pendrell told her, "We're almost finished, nobody
else died except the perp, and we can go home."  He smiled at her happily.
"And, I'm getting married."

She stared at him. "Married?"

"Oh, yes.  Inge and I are engaged.   Her father knows the Senator from
Minnesota, so I might even get a boost to my career, along with my Inge."
He beamed at her.

Inge.  In DC.

She pinched the bridge of her nose and said an Act of Contrition.

Only God could save her now.  Maybe Mulder had the right idea.

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

Being in Skinner's office was like coming home, Scully thought, sitting in
the usual place.  Skinner gazed at both of them, looking more nonplussed
than she had ever seen him.  "I have here several letters commending all
three of you, including one from Agent Mulder commending you, Agent
Pendrell."

Scully glanced sidelong, tried not to grind her teeth at Pendrell's happy
puppy wriggle.  "Yes, sir, I told him that wasn't at all necessary, I was
just doing my job, but he insisted."

Scully closed her eyes briefly.  Pendrell and Mulder were suddenly the best
of pals, hanging out together, going to basketball games together, and the
little labgeek had already asked Mulder to be his best man.  Her eyelid
twitched and she put a finger up to it; she'd developed a nervous tic since
returning to Washington, and damned if it wasn't Mulder's fault.

Skinner nodded, clearly bemused, and picked up another letter.  "I have
here another letter from Agent Mulder, Agent Scully, recommending that the
X files division be closed down because, and I quote, 'many things under
the sun are explainable only by faith in God and will not surrender their
secrets to the investigations of ordinary men and women.' "  His eyebrows
drew together.  "Can you explain *that* to me?"

Her eyelid twitched again.  "Agent Mulder was severely traumatized in
Minnesota, sir."  Firmly.  "He appears to have undergone some type of
religious conversion."

Skinner stared at her in disbelief.  "Agent Mulder?"  Incredulously.

She nodded and pressed her finger against the twitch.  "Yes, sir.  Agent
Mulder.  He had himself baptized a Lutheran in Timmsville before left." She
gave Pendrell a venomous look.  He had counseled her to simply accept
Mulder's new mania as the result of his trauma; however, on their return to
DC, he and Mulder had gone to Promise Keepers, bible study meetings, and it
looked very much as if Pendrell were going to end up Lutheran as well.

Just as well, mixed marriages were not always successful, her mother had
said philosophically, and "At least Fox has found some kind of faith."

She'd briefly considered slapping her own mother, and the priest who had
heard her confession that Saturday had been shocked.

"Where *is* Agent Mulder," Skinner growled.

"Oh, he took a personal day of leave, sir."  Pendrell beamed again.  "A
men's retreat in Virginia."

Skinner's eyelid twitched.  Scully almost wept in gratitude; it wasn't just
her, then.  Skinner, too, found this distressing.  "Agent Mulder," he mused
and looked back at the letter. "I'm not going to close the X files, Agent
Scully.  I suggest you give this back to your partner.  He's going to have
to respect earthly authority a while longer."

She nearly got up and flung herself at him in tearful relief.  "Yes, sir."
Rising, she took the letter from him and then reseated herself.  Really,
now that she thought about it, Skinner really was built well; she wondered
if he had any religious fixations.

"In the meantime, I'll inform the Deputy Director of these letters, and
recommend that you, Agent Pendrell, be given an official commendation for
your part in closing the case and saving Agent Mulder's life."  He looked
at the letters again, perplexed.  "A retreat."

"Yes, sir."  Pendrell beamed at him again.  "He's a changed man, I think."

Skinner gave him a quelling look.  "Evidently."  He rose, a sign of
dismissal, and Scully once again noticed that fine narrow waist, the torso
that strained against those tailored starched shirts.  "Very well.  Agent
Scully, inform Agent Mulder that I'd like to see him when he comes in
tomorrow."

"Yes, sir."  That firm, high ass, she found herself thinking and mentally
shook herself.

Still, as she walked to the door behind Pendrell, she found herself putting
a little extra swing into it, letting her hips move just a bit more than
usual.  

Mulder was lost to her, firmly in the clutches of religion and the idea of
sin.  But Skinner....

She turned.  "Sir?"

He glanced up at her.  "Yes, Agent Scully."

"Do you know who Ogden Nash is?"

He blinked.  "Some poet, isn't he?"

Good, he wasn't liable to quote Nash at inopportune moments.  "Yes, sir."
She smiled at him, putting every bit of seductive skill into play.  "You
aren't a churchgoing man, are you?"

He looked mildly affronted.  "No, I'm not, Agent Scully, and if that's all-
-"

She dimpled at him, saw him blink again. "Just wondering sir."  Turning,
she left the office, humming softly under her breath.

A heathen still, she thought.  

There was always the chance he could be converted to Catholicism.  She
wondered how he felt about cranberry silk bustiers and garterbelts.......

the end