Title: Ignis Fatuus

Author: Lydx

Distribution: Spookys, Ephemeral, Gossamer etc, sure. 
Anywhere else is okay too as long as my name stays 
attached and you mail me at lydx@angelfire.com to let me 
know.

Classification: XA - X-files Angst

Rating: R for violence and a couple of swear words

Keywords: 3rd person POV / some ScullyTorture

Spoilers: through season the 7th Requiem

Summary: In the wake of what transpired in Oregon, someone 
sees his way clear to go after Scully.

Ignis Fatuus ; n. the light of combustion of marsh gas, any 
delusive ideal - pl. ignis-fatui [L ignis, fire, fatuus, foolish.]

Feedback: is food for the soul, so please take a 
moment to tell me what you think

Disclaimer: They're not mine. They belong to CC, the 
creator and most especially to GA, DD, and the rest of the 
gang, who breathe life into them.

~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~

God you're beautiful. You're still the most beautiful thing 
ever, and I'm going to take you and break you if it's the last 
thing I do.

I've been observing you for quite some time now, off and 
on between assignments. I've watched you getting off 
elevators, walking through parking garages, hospital 
hallways and even the halls of the Hoover Building, always 
in your high heels and business suits. 

Today you are wearing the wine red one under a long dark 
trench coat. I've seen you clad in your ever-present 
pantsuits, skirts, the occasional pair of jeans and even -- 
once -- in a yellow dress that set off the striking radiance of 
your hair to great effect. You look great in each of these 
incarnations but this particular suit is a favorite of mine.

Lately, much to my disappointment, you've taken to 
wearing only austere black suits which all kind of look the 
same to me and I'm glad for whatever it was that made you 
decide on the red one today. 

To me it somehow defines you. 

I take it as an omen.

You are a tiny slip of a woman, but the way you stride 
across the pavement belies your size. Your slim body is 
toned and muscular and you're obviously fit and able to 
handle yourself. The strength you possess goes beyond 
the physical though. It's evident in the way you carry 
yourself; head held high, back ramrod straight.

I've watched you walking through hallways and crossing 
streets, saw you chasing an ambulance on one occasion 
and run full tilt into a dark alley chasing after a suspect on 
another, always with the same purposeful, confident 
movements. 

Once, in my mind's eye, imagination fired by wild rumors 
eagerly spread by the water cooler crowd, I even saw you 
stumbling across a field of ice. This time your sure stride 
faltered, but HE was there, holding you up and supporting 
you until you were able to support yourself again.

Lucky bastard...

When you walk by heads swivel and conversations cease, 
and you -- you don't even notice. Neither does that idiot 
partner of yours. Only once or twice, when it seemed it was 
all that would keep you with him or when it otherwise 
suited his purpose, has he bothered to acknowledge your 
importance to him and his stupid cause and I find myself 
hating the self-absorbed asshole even more for it.

He has you by his side day in day out and he is absolutely 
clueless about the true worth of the woman who so 
faithfully supports him in his inane quest.

Stupid fool...

What's more, somewhere along the line it seems you 
yourself have forgotten it too.

No more though, I'm going to change all that and I'm going 
to do it, whether you like it or not.

~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~

Sitting in my car, slumped back behind the wheel, ducked 
down low inside a too thin leather jacket I've been 
watching and waiting for you to emerge from your building, 
amusing myself with thoughts of how to break through your 
cold facade to kill time, giving myself points for originality. 

I know you've been distracted ever since Mulder 
disappeared three weeks ago and, seeing my opportunity, 
have already upped my surveillance of you. It's now 
intensified to the point where I am almost permanently 
parked outside your apartment or just around the corner 
from the Hoover Building or the lair of those three those 
paranoid nerds. 

Aside from a highly clandestine visit to Oregon and the site 
of Mulder's abduction, a visit Assistant Director Skinner 
himself took great pains to hide from the auditors already 
hot on your trail at the time, those are the only three places 
you regularly go to anymore. An increasingly desperate 
triangle from your place to the basement to the Gunmen's 
grungy hideout and back home again as days grow into 
weeks. A routine interspersed with quick trips chasing after 
some lead or other with your chorus of geeks in tow.

Each lead you've followed has turned into a dead end, 
each trip turned out to be a wild goose chase, and that's 
just fine with me. 

When at last you emerge from your building, I sink lower in 
my seat ducking deeper into my jacket and pulling my 
collar up higher to obscure my features. I see you make a 
beeline for your car and your steps are hurried as you 
approach. The wind and the speed with which you're 
moving, make your coattails flap and snap behind you. 
Your hair whips about your head, a riot of color against the 
gray skies threatening rain, and gets in your eyes, making 
them water. You each up and swipe the unruly locks 
behind your ears with an impatient gesture and pick up 
your pace -- almost running now.

Seeing the faraway look in your eyes, I smile at the 
realization that today is going to be my lucky day. That 
absent look tells me you're distracted enough by it all that 
you won't be able to see me coming, even if you tried, too 
wrapped up thinking about your idiot partner to give a rats 
ass about your own safety.

Before, my fantasies of making you mine stood no chance 
of ever being realized. You are a good agent, in truth, I 
think one of the best in the Bureau, and you'd never let me 
take you. You're so good in fact, you've already spied me 
spying on you on several different occasions, though never 
up close enough to recognize me.

I withdrew each time, letting you convince yourself that 
you'd only imagined the shadowy figure sitting a few rows 
back from you in your movie theater or drinking a solitary 
beer a few booths over from where you're sitting with 
Mulder at your usual table in your usual watering hole. For 
weeks on end, I'd lay off shadowing you, hating the 
absence of you but knowing it was necessary.

Each time though, I'd go out of my way to find some 
reason to bump into you in the cafeteria or down in the FBI 
records room. Each time we met like that, you'd greet me 
politely enough but with absolute disinterest. I'd walk away 
reassured by the absence of that half expected jolt of 
recognition in your eyes and at the same time saddened at 
the total disregard with which you would move on without 
stopping to really notice me.

I bided my time, more or less content to watch from a 
distance and fantasize about turning your disregard into 
respect, of breaking you out of that habit of fierce loyalty to 
your crackpot partner and taking on your fearsome 
intellect. Breaking you and reshaping you into what you 
should have been -- and can still be -- if stimulated the 
right way.

I never thought I'd actually get a chance to try though, not 
really. 

Now suddenly, with Mulder's disappearance, the odds 
have turned in my favor and thanking my lucky stars, I've 
taken to tailing you almost constantly. Looking for an 
opportunity and meanwhile making preparations to have 
you stay with me in the short hours when you'd give in to 
exhaustion and crash on your couch. All I needed was the 
patience to wait for an opportunity to bring you home with 
me, or the inspiration to create such a circumstance 
myself.

It looks like my time has come.

Sitting up straighter once you've walked past my car, I turn 
up the radio and start the engine, preparing to peel out 
after you at a moment's notice. I see you get into your 
vehicle and when you drive off with a squeal of tires, I pull 
out after you, disturbed by your reckless behavior, not 
looking in your rearview mirror at all before pulling into the 
steady stream of traffic flowing past us. 

Usually your driving style amuses me no end. So calm and 
controlled in most things, you drive with a lead foot, 
indicating a wilder nature hidden beneath the severe suits. 
I am constantly fascinated by these contradictions in you 
and constantly surprised when another layer peels back 
and more of you is revealed.

Today your lead foot is coupled with a wildly erratic driving 
style that in no way resembles your usual fast but expert 
mastery of the road and which makes following you 
difficult. Alarms start blaring in my head as you overtake an 
already speeding taxi, going obscenely fast in the middle 
lane. You are weaving in and out of the heavy traffic 
clogging the roads recklessly and it is all I can do to keep 
up with you. 

I fret and worry as we make our way through DC at a mad 
pace. It wouldn't do for you to wind up in an accident and 
inadvertently prevent the plans I have for you from being 
realized; it wouldn't do at all.

Soon we are out of the city though and tailing you 
becomes both easier and more difficult when the roads 
become less and less busy. I fall back a bit and bide my 
time, the opportunity I have been waiting for has finally 
come and I am confident in my ability to keep you in my 
sights and keep you unaware of the fact that you are being 
followed. Besides, I know where you're headed. Tired of 
waiting for an opportunity to come knocking, I decided to 
create one of my own. I planted the evidence that led you 
on this useless chase so, knowing where you're headed, 
I'm not overly worried about keeping up with you. 

Whistling along with the radio, I let my mind drift, thinking 
pleasant thoughts of having you all to myself. Of getting 
you to trust me, getting you to reveal your secrets to me, to 
reveal your dreams and let me tear them down and put 
them back together as I see fit, usurping Mulder's place in 
them and by your side.

Although I've known you for years, have watched you for 
years, admiring you even as I've sometimes hated you for 
ignoring me, I've barely had opportunity to really speak to 
you other than our hasty exchange of greeting, for longer 
then I care to remember. You're always off with Mulder 
looking into some stupid fucking case or other that no self-
respecting FBI Agent would touch with a ten-foot pole. It 
makes me so angry to think of you wasting your talents on 
such meaningless drivel. 

Mulder took you from your sure path to a position of power 
within the Bureau hierarchy. When I first laid eyes on you, I 
immediately knew you were destined to rise through the 
ranks swiftly and I ingratiated myself to you, knowing 
myself well enough to know I was going to turn out a 
mediocre agent at best. Taking your promising career from 
you, he thereby took from me the means to advance my 
own rise through the ranks. I'm not beyond hitching a ride 
on anyone's coattails and at one time, yours had seemed 
ideally suited for the purpose. 

Not much chance of that happening now though.

Where once you were a promising agent, now you have 
more strikes against you in your personnel file than any 
other Agent in the Bureau, except for that asshole partner 
of yours of course. Not to mention the fact that your 
medical bills are the stuff of nightmares for whichever 
unfortunate auditor is sent in to review them, usually after 
another wild goose chase has gone to hell in a hand 
basket in spectacular fashion.

You don't seem to care though, nor do you seem to mind 
that through your association with Spooky and the wild 
tales of the goings on in that basement office, your 
chances of promotion have been shot to hell.

I just don't understand you, chasing aliens with that 
nutcase and suffering the ridicule of everyone around you 
is just not something I would have thought you'd ever be 
into. I'd never have thought that you'd be able to ignore the 
scorn of your fellow agents and the anger of your superiors 
as you have these past few years, though to be fair not 
everyone thinks Mr. and Mrs. Spooky are around the bend.

There are some who think that what you're doing has this 
almost mythical edge of heroism to it that apparently 
appeals to this small contingent on some level I don't care 
to understand. 

They're obviously as mesmerized by that clown Mulder as 
you are and it's time someone set them straight. I decided 
a long time ago that you should be taken out from under 
the influence of that creep and set back on course and now 
I've resolved that that someone should be me. 

It'll be a coup sure to put me back in the good graces of 
those higher ups who mourn the loss of you as a fine 
agent. I lost their esteem entirely when they demoted me 
for one long ago act - justified and by the book I might add 
-- that questioned his judgement and regretfully put you in 
jeopardy. An act for which I was unfairly reprimanded by 
the OPC, probably all because HE was angry at the 
danger I had inadvertently put you in and called in every 
favor he owed sicking them on me. His over dramatization 
of what happened lost me the trust of my colleagues and 
the respect of my superiors.

I want it back.

Now that he's out of the picture, I'm going to seize my 
opportunity and as I follow you out of the city I take delight 
in the idea that soon you will be mine and that with Mulder 
gone there's no-one there to stop me.

It's payback time.

~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~

Dusk is setting in when you pull in to a gas station. I follow 
you and see my opportunity when you head towards the 
restrooms, which are situated off to the side and set 
slightly back from the main building. 

I park right next to the overflowing dumpster leaning 
drunkenly against the side of the building, and hide in the 
shadows. The smell of hamburger, greasy fries and coffee 
grounds is thick in the air, making me gag and wish I'd be 
able to light up to smother the overwhelming stench. Can't 
though, it wouldn't do to give myself away too soon, and 
the risk that you'd come out and spot the glowing tip of my 
cigarette and be forewarned is not worth the small 
indulgence. Besides, I gave up smoking years ago when it 
became politically incorrect to poison others in the act of 
poisoning yourself. 

Thankfully, the wind is starting to pick up. A storm is 
brewing and the air is crackling with electricity. The fine 
hairs on my arms stand at attention like soldiers before 
their drill sergeant and I'm as charged as the air around 
me.

When you come out I step up to you and press my gun 
against your ribcage.

"Just do as I say," I tell you, trying to infuse my tone with a 
note of reassurance to compensate for the fact I'm holding 
you at gunpoint. "And don't worry, I'm not going to hurt 
you." 

Your instinctive reaction is to go for your weapon but when 
I prod you with my gun, you think better of it. You go stock 
still and I admire your composure as you calmly bring your 
hands up and away from your sides and slowly swivel your 
head in my direction. Cool blue eyes meet mine and widen 
slightly in recognition. You give no other outward sign of 
your surprise though and I am oddly pleased.

"Now why don't I believe that," you say, calmly looking me 
up and down, an expression of utter contempt on your 
usually impassive face. "Wait -- I know, must be the gun 
you have pointed at me." Your voice drips sarcasm.

"Yeah well," I reply and I strive to match your tone but have 
to admit I can't pull it off half as well. "I didn't think you'd 
follow me just like that so I brought some added incentive."

"You were right." 

With that you suddenly swivel and bring your knee up, 
aiming for my crotch. I've been waiting for it though and 
easily deflect your attack. Grinning at you I dance back a 
step, all the while keeping my aim true, gun never 
wavering. You blow a stray lock of hair off your brow and 
away from your face, a speculative look in your eyes. You 
seem to be sizing up your chances at besting me and I 
guess you've assessed them too low when you don't follow 
through on your attack. 

I'm a bit surprised; I would have thought you to fight tooth 
and nail. I take it as a sign that maybe you're curious as to 
what I want. Encouraged, I smile at you. 

You don't smile back. Instead your left hand goes to your 
stomach in an almost protective gesture and you look 
pained. I figure you must have pulled a muscle or 
something. You keep your left hand where it is and raise 
your right in a gesture of defeat, signaling your surrender.

Your eyes tell a different story though, as they travel from 
the gun clutched tightly in my hand, up my arm and finally 
land on my face and I'm not letting my guard down. 

You pin me with a gaze cold enough to freeze over a 
sizeable lake. When you speak your voice matches your 
stare. "What do you want from me?" 

"I want you to take out your gun and chuck it in with the 
garbage," I say, bobbing my gun up and down once to 
underscore that I mean business. You're not overly 
impressed I can tell from the way the corners of your 
mouth bow down in an angry grimace. "Nice and slow," I 
add when your right hand goes to the small of your back.

Never taking your eyes off me, you slowly reach for your 
gun and slip it out of its holster, then step over and toss the 
weapon in the dumpster where it lies, shining dully in the 
half light amidst the loose trash and overflowing garbage 
bags. 

"Shove it in nice and deep," I say, feeling annoyed that you 
obviously think you can fool me so easily and leave a trail 
to follow for anyone interested enough. I don't think anyone 
will be, not for a while yet. There's only Skinner and the 
Three Stooges and they're all looking for your precious 
Mulder.  It'll be a while before they notice your absence I'm 
sure, and our trail will be cold by then.

Best to be safe though, I remind myself, and watch closely 
as you do as told.

I nod my thanks when soon there is no more sign of the 
shiny metal. 

"Good," I praise, still smiling to show my good intentions. I 
motion for you to precede me in the direction of my car 
with my free hand. "Now come with me, I've got something 
to show you."

"I don't want to know." The open defiance in your voice is 
more along the lines of what I expected of you. Your too 
easy physical acquiescence makes me feel nervous for 
some reason.

"Why Agent Scully --" I say, acting like I'm shocked. 
"You're a Special Agent with the FBI, where are your 
investigative instincts?"

"I left them at home," you reply with your trademark 
deadpan delivery.

"Can you honestly tell me you aren't you the slightest bit 
curious?" I ask, not entirely feigning the resentment in my 
voice. In truth, I'm more than a little disappointed at your 
lack of reaction.

"Trust me when I say there's nothing you could show me 
that is of the slightest interest to me." The words cut me to 
the quick, digging deep enough to draw blood. Feeling a 
little angry, I step closer and grab a hold of your arm. I 
don't mean to hurt you but you wrench it from my grasp 
with surprising strength and when I look down there's a 
purple smudge circling your wrist that I know will bruise.

"Get the hell away from me or so help me I'll --"

"Temper, temper my dear Agent Scully," I wave my gun in 
the direction of my car. I'm gratified I finally got some 
reaction and start to whistle as you start for the car; head 
held high, walking towards it with that purposeful stride of 
yours I love. 

This is going to be interesting.

~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~

Not taking any chances, I have you handcuff yourself to 
the door as soon as you sit down in the passenger seat. 
You grudgingly oblige, not bothering to vocalize your 
protests, knowing they won't do any good anyway. You 
instead shoot me a look that tells me just exactly what you 
think of me.

It isn't pretty.

Starting to feel more than a little uneasy at your open 
hostility, I make my way around the hood of the car and 
take a deep breath before opening my door. I tell myself 
that I have all the time in the world to soften you towards 
me and explain my purpose. Take it slow, don't force her 
but get her to listen to you or this will end badly, my inner 
voice cautions, and I listen carefully.

When I get in the car with you, your clean sweet scent 
immediately assaults me, reminding me of that particular 
smell that will hang in the air some nights and tell you rain 
is going to come down in buckets in the not too distant 
future.

I jam the key into the ignition, squirming a bit in my seat. I 
try not to be obvious about it but your proximity is enough 
to give me a raging hard-on. I arrange my coat across my 
lap to conceal it. This is not what I took you for and I don't 
want you to get the wrong idea, but I can't help the way 
your smell and the warmth you radiate combine to leave 
me flustered either. The thrill of it all has me feeling weak 
in the knees like a schoolboy out on his first date. I 
disguise my excitement with careful movements designed 
to put both you and me at ease, starting the car and easing 
it back onto the road.

We drive for a while in silence and I concentrate on what 
I'm doing to distract myself from my physical reaction to 
your presence. It's hard to keep from stepping on the gas 
in an effort to get us to our destination as quickly as 
possible but the last thing I want to do is attract attention. 
Swerving to overtake a lumbering truck I move into the 
right hand lane again, mindful all the while not to exceed 
the speed limit. I don't want to alert anyone by going too 
fast -- or too slow for that matter.

I glance at you from out of the corner of my eye and you're 
staring out the window with a determined look on your face 
that I interpret as you not wanting to be the first to strike up 
a conversation, so I do instead.

"How have you been Dana," I ask pleasantly. "It's been a 
while since we last spoke."

"Scully," you say in a low dangerous tone that's so 
incongruous under the circumstances with you cuffed to 
the car door and me holding the gun, that I can't help but 
laugh. My smile quickly fades though when you turn your 
laser eyes on me and they sear a path across my nerves.

"Why Scully?" I ask striving to remain polite. "Dana's such 
a nice name."

"Only my friends call me Dana."

"Mulder doesn't." I hate the way my voice trembles just a 
bit. I have all the power and you somehow make me feel 
like you're the one in control of this situation.

You turn towards me at the mention of the bastard's name 
and the cold flame in your eyes burns even brighter, 
something I hadn't imagined possible but there it is. Your 
gaze scalds me and I feel I just might catch on fire any 
moment now, or suffer some serious freezer burn -- I'm not 
sure which.

"Mulder's Mulder." There is a finality in your voice that 
pisses me off and I find myself pressing the accelerator a 
bit harder in my haste to get to our destination and get you 
all to myself. There are too many prying eyes here and 
there's no way for me to enforce some discipline on you 
and still hope to remain inconspicuous.

When I glance at you I catch your satisfied smirk and 
realize I've let my anger bleed through. I make a conscious 
effort to reign in my temper and after a deep breath 
continue as if nothing's happened.

"Well DANA." I taunt you with the use of your first name, 
deciding on the spot to not give you the pleasure of 
bending to your will and calling you anything else, "aren't 
you going to ask me where we're going?"

"No."

"You're not curious are you?"

No answer.

"Don't wanna know where we're going or what's going to 
happen when we get there huh?"

"I told you I'm not interested."

"Okay," I shrug to emphasize my indifference. "Be that 
way." 

I don't say anything else and after a few moments, I catch 
you casting a surreptitious glance in my direction. I smile 
triumphantly but only on the inside. On the outside, I'm 
cool as a cucumber now and I don't spare you another 
glance, meaning it as a punishment for your recalcitrance, 
and enjoying your uncomfortable silence.

You fidget in your seat a bit and your free hand goes to 
your wrist. Abrasions are already forming where the 
handcuff is biting into your flesh and despite myself I 
glance over and watch in utter fascination as two tiny drops 
of blood well up from where your skin has broken in the 
cuff's steel teeth. The droplets slide down the inside of 
your wrist and then fling themselves into the unknown 
territory beyond your body in a synchronized dive.

Time slows to a crawl as the tiny drops fall endlessly 
through the void and I imagine I can hear the splash as 
they finally shatter against the leather upholstery.

You wince the slightest bit and massage your pained wrist 
and I almost allow myself to feel sorry for you, almost hand 
you the keys to unlock yourself but I restrain the urge when 
I see the venomous glance you throw my way. I turn my 
eyes back to the road instead and start whistling along with 
the radio to show your bad-tempered look doesn't bother 
me.

"Stop that." 

"What?"

"Just sop it," you say quietly and the pleading note in your 
voice, faint though it is, is so unexpected my hands jerk on 
the wheel a bit. We swerve halfway into the other lane but I 
manage to bring the car back under control quickly. Luckily 
the traffic is now almost non existent and there was never 
any danger. The incident shakes me though and I curse 
myself for my inattention. I could have killed us, scratch 
that YOU could have killed us, startling me like that.

"What the hell are you on about Dana," I ground out 
between clenched teeth, turning towards you with a snarl 
on my face.

"Stop your whistling." You are altogether undaunted by my 
show of anger, the hint of weakness gone from your voice 
so completely I tell myself I must have imagined it.

"Why the hell should I?" I ask, mad but also genuinely 
bewildered. The song on the radio is some old Al Green 
tune, "Ain't It Funny How Time Slips Away" I think, and my 
whistling is not so off key that it should have provoked 
such a reaction from you.

"Just stop." Your words are like icicles, hanging in the 
space between us. When -- unwilling to but heads over 
something so trivial -- I give in to your demand, you turn 
towards your window again and go back to ignoring me.

The reflection of your face in the window shows your 
distress where your voice doesn't and I look away.

I remember now, that once, when I broke into your 
apartment while you were off chasing monkey babies or 
some such nonsense -- in West Virginia I think it was -- this 
particular CD was in your stereo and I played it while I 
went through your things. I remember thinking at the time 
that it didn't quite seem like you, I'd imagined you being 
more into classical music, but I liked this new facet of you 
just the same. I wonder what the significance of this 
particular tune is to you. 

We drive on in silence and I entertain myself watching the 
trees whiz by on either side of the road in an endless 
parade. It's about as stimulating as watching paint dry, but 
it distracts me from my confusion and resulting anger. 

Not speaking has the decided advantage of letting me 
enjoy your nearness without letting you spoil it by angering 
me and while you continue to fidget, massaging your wrist 
and squirming in your seat, I continue to ignore you. 

I'm thinking that maybe if we can keep the talking to a 
minimum we might just both weather this unscathed. 

Physically that is, mentally I'll make sure you're thoroughly 
deconstructed and then we'll put the pieces back together, 
you and I, so they'll fit perfectly with that image I've carried 
with me all this time of the promising agent I first knew.

A break in the trees tells me we're nearing our destination 
now and my excitement grows in leaps and bounds. The 
storm that's been threatening all evening finally breaks and 
it starts to pour like there's no tomorrow. The steady drum 
of raindrops shattering against the roof and the swish of 
the wipers on the windshield underscore the quiet in the 
car -- loud as they are when held against our deafening 
silence.

When I slow down and turn off the main road, you glance 
up and I catch the brief look of consternation that flits 
across your face. It's there and gone and I would have 
missed it if I'd looked at you a split second later. I admire 
your quick composure and relish the chance I have of 
breaking it.

"Almost there now," I say with a grin that feels like it's 
about to split my face in two it's so wide. 

We're on a dirt road now that's nothing but potholes and I 
concentrate on not blowing a tire or wrecking the axle. The 
storm is raging in earnest now and the resulting lack of 
visibility is not helping matters.

Lightning flashes and thunder roars in a continuous 
cacophony of elemental sound and fury that almost drowns 
out the soft snick as the cuff on your wrist springs open, 
your key still in it. I look up, startled, and curse myself for 
being stupid enough to forget to relieve you of your cuff 
keys at the same time as doing away with your gun. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

For a long moment, we're both locked in a silent freeze-
frame and all I see is the light catching your determined 
eyes, the tight line of your mouth. 

I'm still frozen, wholly unprepared, when you throw open 
the door and fling yourself from the car with a perfectly 
executed drop and roll.

We're going slow because of the rain as it is. I hit the 
breaks and don't even wait for the car to roll to a complete 
stop before I throw myself after you.

I can just make out the flap of your dark coat disappearing 
into the trees lining the side of the road and sprint after 
you. All the while I'm cursing myself for my inattention, 
cursing you for your craftiness, cursing the rain for instantly 
soaking me, cursing the mud for seeping into my shoes 
and staining my pants legs.

Now I'll have to go home and change before going into 
work tomorrow which means I'm going to have less time to 
spend with you. I'm annoyed but I don't blame you for your 
rash action though. I can understand the impulse that 
drove you to try and escape. We're moving off the main 
road and soon you'll be out of everyone else's sight and 
completely at my mercy. You've still no idea that I'm not 
out to hurt you but only want to help you and I figure I'd 
better start to explain myself as soon as we reach our 
destination. 

First, I need to recapture you though.

Catching sight of you in a break between the trees I 
redouble my efforts trying to intercept you and slowly gain 
ground, even though you're going at breakneck speed. I 
wonder how you manage to set such a pace clad in a skirt 
and with those three-inch heels on and worry about you 
falling and breaking something.

When I'm finally close enough to hear your breath rasp in 
and out of your lungs, I fling myself into a flying tackle and 
bring you down. 

The air whooshes out of your lungs and you're face down 
in the mud, your hand goes to your stomach again and it 
seems that with the force of our fall, all the fight has gone 
out of you. Perhaps it hitched a ride on your breath as it 
was so forcefully and unexpectedly expelled from your 
body. 

I grab you by the hair non-too gently and shove my gun 
into the soft flesh underneath your jaw, forcing you up, 
treating you with more roughness than I'd ever intended 
when I first snatched you to get my point across. 

Don't try this again.

From your angry but subdued movements as we walk back 
to the car I think you got the message.

~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~

We finally arrive at our destination; a small secluded cabin 
that has been in my family for decades but which has gone 
unvisited by any of us for years. When I conceived of this 
plan upon Mulder's disappearance, I checked it out to see 
if it was suited for my purposes. 

I'd discovered the place had fallen into disrepair quit a bit 
since I last visited it but was, nevertheless, ideally suited to 
my purposes. I spent the last few weeks cleaning it up and 
refurbishing it, making it ready for you, spending most of 
my time setting up a room for you to stay in. It has only the 
bare necessities, a bed and a chair, both bolted to the floor 
and bedside table, similarly locked in place. I provided 
bottled water and some paper cups for you to drink from 
and even a few books to keep you occupied while I'm not 
here and set a corner aside for you to wash and relieve 
yourself. 

I also made sure the chain on the single shackle I bolted 
into the wall is long enough to allow you to reach it easily. 

I'm not a monster; I want you to be as comfortable as 
possible while I go about my business as usual during the 
day. I even spruced up the living room so that you and I 
can spend my off hours there getting reacquainted in 
comfort, getting Mulder out of your head and getting me -- 
and the you I know you can be -- in it.

We enter the cabin and proceed through the living room to 
the back where the bedrooms are. We're both dripping with 
rain and tracking mud in from our earlier scuffle but I don't 
particularly care that it is undoing all my hard work. I'll 
clean it up after I've settled you in your room. It'll give you 
some time to get familiar with your surroundings in peace. 

I hope you'll be pleased with what I did for you and am 
barely able to suppress my excitement. 

I open the door to your room and as you hesitate in the 
doorway, I give you a gentle shove, holding on to the chain 
linking your hands with my left hand. They're now both 
cuffed behind your back; I'm not taking any more chances.

You stumble inside and I quickly reach back with my free 
hand, hit the light switch and lock the door. While you're 
still squinting against the unexpected burst of light I push 
you away from me and grab a hold of my gun, pointing it at 
you and motioning for you to walk over to the bed at the far 
end of the room.

You stand stock still though, unable to comply with my 
instructions as you gape about the room, trying to take in 
the sight that greets your eyes. I grin and observe you and 
silently cheer when your shoulders slump in defeat. You 
turn your stunned eyes on me and I imagine that there are 
a few tears hidden inside that steely blue gaze you rake 
over me.

"How long have you been preparing this?" you ask and 
your voice is colorless and betrays nothing of your 
thoughts and feelings. The corners of your mouth twitch 
down almost imperceptibly though, and I think it means 
you're unsettled.

"A few weeks now," I reply, "but I've been watching you for 
years."

"That much is obvious," you say, letting your eyes travel 
down the row of photographs lining the walls of your room 
without another hint of emotion. 

Somehow, you managed to find that deadpan face again 
and I'm confused as to whether you're taking in what's 
before you and trying to comprehend it or are just totally 
uninterested in making the effort.

"Do you like it?"

"What's not to like." Sarcasm drips from your tone like acid. 
It corrodes away at my patience but I reign in my temper 
and try for a cheerful smile.

"I did it all for you Dana." 

"You shouldn't have," you say and the sneer is still just as 
heavy in your voice but you're getting a bit nervous now, I 
can actually tell this time by the way your thumbs move 
back and forth across the pads of your fingers. You were 
always so cool, calm and collected doing whatever you did, 
and I learned to discern that this was one of your few 
concessions to showing unease or nervousness.

"Oh but I beg to differ Dana," I say, keeping my voice and 
demeanor pleasant, not daring to show my sense of 
triumph at having gotten to you, if even slightly.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do all this?"

"Because I want you to see what you were when I first 
knew you and I want you to see what you've slowly 
become."

I wave towards the wall with my gun and you precede me 
to the first picture hanging near the door. It shows you 
going into a classroom, face half turned away, speaking to 
someone over your shoulder, red shock of hair piled high 
atop your head in a ponytail designed to make you look 
taller than you are. A few curly tendrils have escaped and 
caress your face. You look fresh and innocent. Beautiful 
beyond belief, if a bit heavier than was fashionable at the 
time. But then, on your small frame any excess weight is 
sure to make you look chubbier than you would have liked. 
Freckles stand out starkly against you fair skin and there's 
a smile on your lips, aimed at someone off camera. I think 
it was taken sometime during your first week at Quantico.

Without a comment, you move on to the next picture. Not 
just you this time but you're the focus of the shot anyway. 
Your red hair makes you stand out in a group of about 
twelve people running on some track somewhere. You're 
all of you dressed in FBI sweats and winded. Your face is 
flushed with exertion and sweat beads your brow, it makes 
your hair curl wildly and stick to your face in messy strands 
but you look relaxed, despite the exertion, and happy. 
There's a stunning smile on your face.

Next you're in an autopsy bay, bone saw in your gloved 
hand, protective glasses in place, hair again in a ponytail 
and a serious expression on your face negated by the 
gleam of excitement in your eyes; the first time you got to 
do an autopsy all by yourself.

Another shot of you walking down a hallway, briefcase in 
hand, baby fat still clinging to your cheeks, clad in a gray 
plaid pantsuit and a gray blouse. Your glorious red hair 
toned down to a reddish-brown color and longer - past 
your shoulders -- and shockingly straight. It's obvious 
you're trying to look stern and professional but you're not 
quite pulling it off courtesy of the small delighted grin 
etched on your face.

I prod you on to the next picture, which is one of you and 
Mulder. You balk and I don't press you, knowing that 
there'll be ample time for us to resume our trip down 
memory lane later. 

Stopping our circuit, you turn to me.

"So I was a lousy dresser with bad hair, worse shoes and a 
little too much fat on my bones when you first knew me. No 
big revelation there, any of it. I was there; I know all this. If 
that's what you kidnapped me for to show me, you 
shouldn't have." Your voice is laced with a double serving 
of that acerbic humor you seem to have patented.

Angered by your sarcasm I prod you in the small of your 
back with my gun and push you forwards past the row of 
pictures to the last photo in line.

It was taken about two weeks ago and it shows you 
walking out of a church somewhere. You're dressed all in 
black as though you're in mourning and your face is very 
serious. Deep lines angel from your nostrils to the corners 
of your mouth, chiseled as though hacked from unforgiving 
stone by some master sculptor. You're no longer smiling or 
slightly chubby looking, or exited or delighted. You're thin 
as a reed and your cheekbones stand out prominently in 
your too pale face. A frown pulls your eyebrows together 
and there's pain and despair in your eyes -- they're as dark 
as the sky was an hour ago, just before the storm broke.

You turn towards me with a startled look on your face and 
behind it, I see comprehension dawn at last.

"Now do you see?" I ask as I motion you towards the bed. 

"What?" The startled look is already being replaced, 
composure settling over your features again like a mask 
slipping into place.

"Now do you see what he's done to you?"

The ire in your voice is carefully controlled. "All I see is you 
violating my civil rights; kidnapping me, following me and 
taking unwanted pictures of me." 

You take up position beside the bed and look at me with 
defiance but I imagine I see a hint of insecurity.

"They're to show you what he's done to you, all of this is to 
show you what he's done and what you've allowed him to 
do." I gesture at the photographs lining the wall, a 
testimonial to what that obsessive freak has put you 
through and your eyes flicker towards the first few 
photographs and then back to me.

"Mulder hasn't done anything to me but be the best friend 
and partner I could've ever had," you say and I'm thankful 
you don't play dumb with me pretending you don't know 
who the hell I'm talking about. At the same time, I'm furious 
with you for trying to deny what's obvious.

"Hasn't he now," I say as I turn away from you in anger and 
move towards the door, keeping my eyes on you at all 
times. I had been meaning to let you out of your handcuffs, 
and out off your muddy, waterlogged coat. Instead, I now 
decide, I'll leave them on for a while longer and let you fret 
for a bit while I go into the other room. It'll serve to get my 
point across and underscore who's in control here. The 
interlude will also let us both calm down enough to talk to 
each other rationally when I return.

"He hasn't."

"If that's what you believe then I suggest you take another 
good look at those pictures and when I come back you tell 
me what they tell you." With that I slam the door closed 
behind me and lock it, leaving you standing there in the 
middle of the room, muddy and bedraggled and with an 
incredulous look on your face.

~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~

I putter around the living room a bit, cleaning up the mess 
we made crossing it. Muddy footsteps lead from the front 
door in a straight line towards the bedroom and there's a 
puddle, where we stood still while I opened the door. I 
notice with a pang that my footprints are way larger than 
yours are and regret flits through me at my earlier rough 
treatment of you. 

I feel the urge to join you again and talk to you, explain 
why we're here but I restrain myself and go make some tea 
instead. I finish up cleaning the floor and mopping up the 
puddles we left just as the kettle begins to whistle. I pour 
myself a cup and sit down on the couch in front of the 
fireplace. As I blow into the hot tea and push my face into 
the rising steam, I contemplate my next move.

I'm inclined to leave you to yourself a while longer, let you 
think things through for a bit. On the other hand, I don't 
want you to get the wrong idea, which will happen if I don't 
clarify why you're here, and try to make you understand my 
reasoning. I think that with the way I left, maybe now you're 
thinking you're here solely so I can spite Mulder. Although 
that's part of the reason, it's the least of it. My purpose is 
not to slight Mulder but to rescue you out from under his 
influence. There is a difference there but I'm not at all 
convinced you'll see it like that, you certainly won't if I don't 
explain it to you better.

I realize I need to talk to you if we're ever going to clear up 
the air between us. I get up, pour you some tea, grab some 
gauze for your bloody wrist from the first aid kit under the 
sink and a towel to dry your hair with, and make for your 
room. 

You're sitting with your back against the foot of the bed, 
wet coat spread out behind you as far away from your 
body as you've been able to arrange it. Messy tendrils of 
damp hair partly obscure your face and a few drops of 
water slide down from where they gathered on the tip of 
your nose and in your wet lashes and plink onto the picture 
on the floor in front of you. It's one of Mulder and you 
together from towards the end of the display, you're in one 
of your business suits and he's in casual jeans and 
wearing a cap that says "Stonehenge Rocks". 

You're staring at the photograph so intently that for a 
moment you don't notice my entrance. A momentary flash 
of triumph surges through me. Could it be that you have 
already grasped and come to terms with what I'm trying to 
do here? 

When you look up, I see that I'd better think again. 

Anger burns in your eyes like a flame on a Bunsen burner, 
blue and hot enough to scorch.

"You fucking bastard," you say and I'm taken aback, not at 
the use of profanity but because the words are coming 
from YOU. I've never known you to swear beyond the 
occasional "what the hell" and "crap" and hearing these 
words coming from you somehow shocks me in some 
elemental way.

"What..?" Not much of a comeback but I'm too stunned to 
react otherwise.

You get up with a grace and dignity that should be 
impossible with your hands still cuffed behind you back 
and stalk on over to me. 

Despite your much smaller stature, I take an involuntary 
step backwards at your furious approach.

"You had no right," you say in that low, deadly tone you 
use when interrogating suspects -- the more despicable 
ones that disgust you on some visceral level.

"I believe I had every right," I reply and point my gun at you 
to emphasize the point. "Now sit down on the bed." 

Turning around with an angry scowl you do as I say and as 
you sit down I walk over to the other side of the bed and 
put the tea and the gauze down on the bedside table.

You're sitting with your back to me and I see the way the 
cuffs have bitten deep into both your wrists. Deep cuts and 
angry contusions circle them and you've obviously been 
working on trying to get loose because the bruises and 
abrasions go halfway up your hands, which have started to 
go blue from lack of circulation.

Moving to stand at the foot of the bed, I toss my keys at 
you and you pick them up with clumsy fingers and make a 
valiant attempt to try and unlock the cuffs. Your face 
grimaces with pain and effort and for a moment I don't 
think you're going to be able to do it. Getting yourself out of 
a pair of tightly locked handcuffs is a feat almost 
impossible to pull off even with your hands cuffed in front 
of you. Then suddenly you smile in triumph and your hands 
come out from behind your back.

"Impressive Agent Scully," I say, appreciating your 
dexterity.

"Lots of practice." The curt reply is hardly an opening for 
further conversation and we both fall silent. I pick up the 
cuffs and fidget with them, not knowing what to say or do 
to break the tension between us. 

You look at me with a steadiness that's unsettling until a 
resounding sneeze explodes from you suddenly and your 
body bends double with the force of it. 

The noise shatters the silence and seems way too big to 
have come from your tiny frame. 

"I brought you some tea." I point at the steaming cup on 
the bedside table and try a friendly smile in an effort to 
appease you. Your eyes swivel back to me, and you 
resume your intense scrutiny, all the while massaging your 
wrists, no doubt in an attempt to get the circulation going 
again. The feeling of blood rushing back into areas too 
long deprived must be excruciating; pins and needles like 
going to sleep lying on your hand and waking up with it 
asleep, only much, much worse. 

There's not a whimper out of you though and I'm duly 
impressed.

"Aren't you going to drink it?" I ask, unnerved by the 
unwavering intensity of your stare.

"I'm not thirsty."

"Suit yourself, I'll leave it here in case you want it later." I 
move to face you, stooping to pick up the picture you left 
lying on the floor at the foot of the bed when my foot 
connects with it. 

I glance at the wall and wonder how the hell you managed 
to get the picture down with your hands tied behind your 
back, then I wonder what made you go for this particular 
picture out of all the images displayed up there.

"Take your coat off Dana," I say and am actually a bit 
surprised when you do as told. The heavy waterlogged 
fabric drops to the ground with a small thud. I'm glad to see 
your red suit has escaped the mud and, though it hasn't 
escaped the downpour and is wetly clinging to your skin, is 
essentially non-the worse for wear. 

I take a moment to appreciate your ample curves. God for 
such a small woman you're well endowed. I long to put my 
hands on those flaring hips or cup those proud breasts in 
my palms, even though that's not why you're here. I 
actually take a step towards you but I'm abruptly shaken 
from my reverie when you bring your hand up to your face 
and sneeze again. Impossible as it seems, the sound is 
even louder than the first time. I toss the towel at you and 
you catch it one handed and use it to pat dry your face and 
hair. 

When you sit back on the bed, dabbing at the cuts on your 
bloody wrists with the now damp towel, I try again. 

"I'm sorry for the gun and the handcuffs and all Dana."

"Then why use them?"

"Because I didn't think you'd follow me of your own accord 
and I needed you to come with me."

"Why?"

"To see the truth."

Your lips twist down and for a moment I mistake your 
expression for a grimace, then I realize you're trying to 
suppress a smile. 

"The truth?"

"Yes, the truth," I snap. "Someone needs to bring you to 
your senses, show you what he's done to you."

Your only response is a raised eyebrow and it's as 
eloquent as any verbal statement of denial would have 
been.

"Come on Dana, work with me here, we need to talk."

"You need to let me go," you counter.

"I will," I say and I'm gratified at your surprised glance, "but 
first you need to recognize the ruin he's caused in your life 
and your career."

"If either of them were in ruins, which they aren't, then the 
person to blame would be me," you say and lean back 
against the headboard, your posture so utterly relaxed it 
infuriates me no end, "and I'm not having this conversation 
with you." 

With that you turn towards the bedside table and move to 
pick up the gauze I left for you there.

"But..." I start to say, feeling dismissed and feeling anger 
rise in me at the thought.

"I said I'm not having this conversation with you." Your 
harsh words drift back to me through a haze of anger. You 
haven't even bothered to turn to me to utter them to my 
face and the implicit rejection stings worse than your 
words.

I decide that you need to be reminded who's in charge and 
am on you like a flash. You're half turned away from me, 
leaning on the bed with one hand in the act of grabbing the 
gauze. When I pounce on you my weight pins you to the 
bed and makes your arm bend at an awkward angel. You 
grunt in pain, the sound muffled by the sheets into which 
your face is pressed.

I turn you over on your back and sit on your hips, feet 
locked on your legs, gun pressing into your cheek just 
below your eye, both your wrists clamped in one hand.

Pain flits across your face and I can feel your blood slicking 
my palm, feel the delicate bones in your wrists as they are 
ground together in my large fist.

"I suggest you start treating me with some respect Dana." 
I'm pleased to note I have found the same low, menacing 
tone of voice you used on me before. 

I see fear make a brief appearance in your eyes but then 
you manage to chase it away and you look to be totally in 
control again. You don't say a word.

Furious with your determination to not react to me, I press 
the gun into your flesh a bit harder and watch as the skin 
breaks in a delicate cut just beneath and to the side of you 
right eye. A drop of blood inches slowly down the side of 
your face. A crimson tear disappearing into the red of your 
hair. I'm getting more than a little excited at the sight and 
realize it's time for me to get some distance between us or 
I'm not going to be able to keep it together. I get up slowly, 
pointing my gun at you all the way. 

"I'd planned on spending a pleasant evening together 
discussing our next step but I see you're not ready yet." I 
take a few steps back to take in the full effect, smiling at 
the sight of you splayed out before me, wishing for a 
camera to document the moment.

You don't acknowledge my stare. You just roll over onto 
your side and don't say anything, left arm tight against your 
body, right hand clasping your left elbow, the one that was 
bent at such an unnatural angel just moments ago.

I leave you like that, figuring that if anything were really 
amiss, like broken or something, you'd let me know.

You do know I'm doing this to help nut hurt you don't you 
Dana? 

I send the thought your way hoping you'll catch it like I saw 
you do with Mulder so many times but you just lie there 
and -- disheartened -- I gently shut the door behind me.

~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~

The next morning I shackle you, clamping the iron band 
around your ankle to prevent any attempts at escape while 
I'm not there. I make sure to pad it, winding some of the 
gauze that's still lying untouched on your bedside table 
around your ankle before clicking the shackle shut. I 
apologize profusely while I do it but you don't react and I 
leave you to pout and ponder your circumstances some 
more. 

I go home to shave and change and arrive at work bright 
and early. 

Not wanting to arouse any suspicions, I go about the 
business of the day as usual, slaving over expense reports 
that don't have to be sent in for days yet. Signing off on 
case reports only after carefully scrutinizing every word to 
see how it reflects on my performance.

I make it a point though to visit the water cooler about once 
every hour. It's always been the place to catch the latest 
rumors first and today is no exception. I try to remain 
inconspicuous and don't approach when the same people 
are there that were there the last time. I normally never mix 
in office blather as I think it's detrimental to the 
advancement of your career to be caught gossip 
mongering and I don't want my presence to be noticed and 
noted as unusual. Don't want to become the subject of 
debate amongst the water cooler crowd.

During my second stop to catch the latest gossip, it 
includes you not getting into work this morning. Talk is, 
you're either sick or pregnant or dead or possibly abducted 
by little green men -- oops sorry little gray men -- like your 
partner or any and all combinations of the above. That or 
you just took some time off.

The third stop includes the news that AD Skinner has 
personally checked every listed and unlisted telephone 
number where you can habitually be reached and is now 
getting extremely worried. Next, the water cooler gossip 
has him sending agents to your home address and even 
trying Mulder's apartment. By about lunchtime, word is he's 
putting together a task team and has already found quite a 
number of agents, some of the Bureau's finest in fact, 
ready and willing to sign up and the hunt is officially on.

All this activity has me more than a little worried. I hadn't 
counted on such quick and decisive action being taken, 
figuring that the erratic hours you keep and the ongoing 
search for Mulder would explain your absence for a while 
longer.

I try to get a seat in the cafeteria next to Skinner's assistant 
Kimberly during my lunch break to get the scoop on the 
who's who of this task team that Skinner is amassing but of 
course everyone who's anyone in gossip land tries to do 
the same. Figuring I'll hear about it soon enough anyway, I 
slink back to my desk and stay out of the way. Wouldn't do 
to attract attention to myself now, now would it?

In between stops at the water cooler, I spend the 
remainder of the day idly doodling on my note pad, trying 
to appear busy, and meanwhile thinking of how tonight 
we'll sit down and talk things through like the reasonable 
adults we are. Our attempts at communication have up till 
now been thwarted by your stubborn refusal to talk about 
Mulder. I'm not sure how to break through this and the 
more I think about it the more it disturbs me. The fact that 
you're in total denial about his influence on you being 
anything but good is not helping things either.

Idly reflecting on what to do for dinner tonight, I snap to the 
fact that for some unknown reason people tend to act more 
civilized towards on another over food. The thought leads 
me to plan an elaborate meal for us, which gets me 
through the last two hours without further worsening my 
mood. I convince myself that a nice dinner will be the ideal 
way to open the lines of communication between us again 
and even perk up enough to go online to try and find the 
perfect wine to go with the Spaghetti con Funghi dinner 
I've planned for us. 

Don't want to appear unknowledgeable when ordering and 
I certainly don't want to come off as lacking in social 
graces when sharing a meal with you. I'm sure Mulder 
knows exactly which wine to order with what and is never 
out of his depth in any given social situation, the privileged 
bastard.

I shake that thought, not allowing it to intrude on my ever-
improving mood and gather my things as I start to make 
my way towards the elevators and you. My brain already 
busy computing the fastest route between here, the Deli 
and our cabin, anticipating your delight, not wanting to 
waste another minute getting back to you. 

Daydreaming of our date and the way it's going to go, I 
step onto the elevator when the doors ding open, finding it 
thankfully empty. 

When Skinners gruff voice booms across the hallway, I 
nearly jump out of my skin.

"Agent, a minute of your time," he calls out in that 
authoritative voice that comes so naturally to him. You 
share that with him and I'm suddenly and irrationally 
jealous. 

He's on me in three long strides and his big hands slap 
against the closing elevator doors, forcing them into 
retreat.

"Sir?" I say, looking at him with what I hope is an innocent 
expression on my face. Don't you just hate how your face 
registers guilt automatically when confronted by a superior 
asking difficult questions, even when you're innocent of 
any wrongdoing?

"Agent I've been meaning to ask you," he says and one of 
his eyelids twitches minutely behind his polished glasses. 
"Have you seen Agent Scully?"

"Sir?" 

"She hasn't come in to work today and I haven't been able 
to reach her." I'm fascinated by the way his jaws are 
clenched so tightly together when he speaks. It's amazing 
that any intelligible words make it past, you would think 
they'd be ground to bits before leaving his mouth.

"I'm sorry Sir, but I haven't seen or spoken to her for quite 
a while now."

"Oh." The single syllable somehow speaks to his doubt as 
to the veracity of my statement. He looks me up and down 
as if I'm a specimen under a microscope and he's going to 
cut me open and discern the truth from the way my insides 
are arranged.
 
"I mean I bumped into her a couple times but I haven't 
REALLY spoken to Agent Scully for a long time," I hasten 
to amend my statement. "Too long in fact." I say the last bit 
with a wistful smile plastered on my face and watch his 
jaws unclench a bit. He obviously agrees that any time 
spent not talking to you is time wasted and it's evident that 
he carries somewhat of a torch for you from the way he 
looks just a bit flustered at the open admiration in my 
voice.

He nods once in understanding and I know I've found my 
way out of my predicament. Now for an opportunity...

"I'm sorry Agent, it's just that someone mentioned they'd 
seen you with her a few weeks back, I just thought..." He 
trails off and looks a bit helpless, an incongruous look for 
such a big and powerful man and I cough discreetly to 
suppress an ill-timed chuckle.

"No matter Sir, it's perfectly understandable. Dana's a fine 
Agent and I'd hate for anything to have happened to her."

"Any ideas where she might be?" 

Aha, the opportunity I've been waiting for come knocking 
already, thank you, thank you, thank you. 

"She's been rather distracted ever since Agent Mulder was 
lost." I reply innocently, knowing full well that Skinner was 
with Mulder when he disappeared. His face flushes red in 
embarrassment, something I never thought I'd live to see 
the day of. Baiting him further, I continue as if musing 
aloud, "I hope she hasn't done anything foolish." 

"She wouldn't," he's quick to assert but there's an edge of 
doubt to his voice that leaves me to wonder just how well 
he knows you, how intimate you two have become these 
past weeks.

"Perhaps she just took some time off to process what's 
happened," I suggest and an idea starts to take shape in 
my head. 

"Hmm, perhaps." He doesn't sound convinced and his face 
takes on a strange cast, eyes turned inward as if he's 
scanning some file folder, yours probably, looking to see if 
what he's hearing fits with the profile.

I can't begin to guess which conclusion he reaches but 
suddenly all self-doubt vanishes from his face. He sighs 
once and then straightens up to his full imposing height 
again and it's only when he does that I notice his shoulders 
were slumped in something very much like defeat until 
now. 

"Thank you for your time Agent," he says, and let's go of 
the elevator doors. "If by chance you do hear from her let 
me know."

"Yes," I say, "I'll be sure to Sir." I hold open the doors for a 
moment longer, looking him in the eye, aiming for sincerity. 
"If there's anything I can do to help please let me know."

"I've since put together a task team Agent," he says with a 
frown. Then a small smile flits across his face. "It's frankly 
too big already as it is." He turns towards his offices again, 
apparently dismissing me, but then he turns back to me 
and that small smile puts in another appearance. "Your 
offer is much appreciated though and gratefully accepted. 
Report to me tomorrow morning first thing."

"Thank you Sir," I say, chalking up points on my career 
path score card at the same time as gloating over having 
found an opening that will keep me in the know as to 
where the search for you is headed. The irony of me 
having created this opportunity myself is not lost on me, 
nor are the many possibilities to this development presents 
me with going to go unused.

~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~

I get back to our cabin and throw my briefcase on the 
couch, put our dinner in the oven and then make for your 
room, setting the wine on the counter as I pass. I call your 
name and then knock on your door, gun in hand. When 
there's no answer I unlock it, point my gun square in the 
middle of the doorframe, right where your head would be, 
and push it open with my foot.

You're sitting against the headboard, cross-legged, the 
chain on your ankle trailing to the floor, a blanket thrown 
around your shoulders. You've managed to pull all of the 
photos from the wall, though some -- I could have sworn -- 
are well beyond the reach of the leash you're on. The 
pictures are arranged in two piles in front of you and you're 
studying the images intently. As your hand moves over 
them, putting the one you've been studying face down on 
the first pile, picking up a fresh one from the second, I see 
you've tended to your wrists and they're now swathed in 
the gauze I brought you.

When the door creaks softly as it swings open you look up 
and I gasp in surprise. The flesh around your right eye is 
bruised and swollen, the crescent shaped cut where I 
pressed the gun muzzle against your cheek painfully clear 
against the surrounding purple and green discoloration.

"God Dana...did I do that?" I ask and I feel myself 
blushing scarlet as you nod in silent confirmation. "Do you 
need something for it?"

"Too late now."

"I'm sorry I hurt you," I say and mean it.

"I'm sure."

"I am." 

"Whatever."

 "You brought it on yourself you know. Making me angry 
like you did last night."

"Hmm."

Disappointed with your petulant behavior, I nevertheless 
extend my free hand in invitation. You stare at my hand as 
if wishing your look could make it spontaneously combust 
and I withdraw a step and motion you up with my gun 
instead. 

"To make up, I brought us a nice dinner -- join me?" I'm 
careful to keep my manner courteous to offset the threat of 
the gun, hoping to charm you into accepting my invitation.

"I'm not hungry," you say and look away, ignoring my 
outstretched hand. I'm slowly but surely getting annoyed at 
you for sulking like you are but I don't show it.

"You have to eat."

A beat of silence, as you continue to disregard me.

"Ah come on Dana, I want to make amends," I cajole. 

I'm a bit surprised when you suddenly decide to give in to 
me.

You let the blanket slide from your shoulders but keep a 
tight hold of the picture you've been studying and don't let 
go of it as you get up. Though I'd prefer it if you left it in 
your room, I don't tell you to get rid of it. I don't want you to 
revert to your earlier sulk.

You straighten up to your full height and stand there, 
swaying a bit and eyeing me wearily. I see now that your 
cheeks are flushed and tiny beads of sweat stand out on 
your forehead. I figure you may have caught a chill 
yesterday, out in the rain and I resolve to get you some 
extra blankets.

I toss you the key to unlock the shackle around your ankle 
and as you bend down, I take a moment to admire the way 
you move. I like the way the red fabric of your skirt 
stretches across your backside. You're graceful as ever 
but I do notice how you're cradling your left arm against 
you protectively. I make a mental note to ask you about it 
later.

"Nice and easy now Dana," I say when you straighten up.

You throw me a venomous glare and start making for the 
door but I stay you and stretch out my free hand -- palm 
upward -- demanding my keys back when you don't return 
them to me of your own volition.

Your face hardly registers your disappointment but your 
sharp movements and rigid back do as you precede me 
into the living room. I allow myself to gloat a bit when I 
realize I'm getting more adept at reading your body 
language all the time.

We move into the dining area and I make you sit down and 
cuff you to the table. You look pissed off and wince 
dramatically when the cuff closes on your wrist but I'm sure 
most of it is just you playacting to get my sympathy and I 
don't react.

I'm eager to talk to you but not stupid.

With you safely secured, I move about setting the table, 
putting out plates and silverware and lighting some candles 
to add to the mood. I even went so far as to buy some 
wineglasses when I stopped at the Deli. I did it in a 
spontaneous upwelling but I'm glad I gave in to it when I 
see your incredulous stare as I unwrap the delicate long 
stemmed glasses and set them beside our plates with a 
flourish. Stepping back to admire the nicely set table and 
you sitting at the head of it in your red suit with your 
glorious hair glowing in the flickering light of the candles, I 
nod once, pleased with the overall effect, and walk to the 
counter to retrieve the wine.

When I return to the table, you're looking at me with a 
contemplative expression. The bruises on your cheek look 
better in the candlelight and the flush on your face serves 
to hide them further even as it brings out the blue of your 
eyes. 

"Why are you doing this?" You sound perplexed and 
vaguely troubled. You put your precious photo next to your 
plate and your eyes stray to the image of you and Mulder 
as if you're somehow finding some sort of moral support in 
it.

"Doing what?" I ask, opening the wine to let it breathe as 
per the instructions I read through while browsing the 
winery's site.

"This," you gesture with your free hand at the candles and 
the glasses and the bottle of wine I set before you, just out 
of easy reach of course. One of the candles blows out with 
the gust of wind your gesture causes and I drop the bottle 
opener on the table and re-light the still smoldering wick.

"I dunno," I reply, "why do you think I'm doing it?

"Beats me."

"Maybe I felt like it."

"Whatever." You shrug and blow a lock of hair out of your 
eyes. "It's a first, that's for sure."

"What do you mean?"

"This is hardly the first time someone's taken me against 
my will," you say with a chagrined expression. Then you 
smile a tiny little half-smile. "It's the first time anyone's 
made an effort to go about it halfway nice though."

"Oh." I don't quit know what to say to that so I just hold my 
tongue. I think the small admission means you're softening 
towards me though and I feel mildly euphoric. I try to mask 
it by busying myself getting our dinner from the oven.

"Still, it doesn't mean I like it," you say as I return from the 
kitchen area.

"Fair enough," I concede, feeling magnanimous, smiling as 
I set the steaming Spaghetti dinner on the table and pour 
the wine

"So why are you doing this, really?"

"Maybe I wanted to try talking to you again and hoped this 
would set the mood."

"I'm not talking about our little candlelit dinner, I'm talking 
about why I'm here."

"I know," I say though I hadn't followed your train of 
thought that far. When I glance at you, I realize you haven't 
noticed I'm about two stations behind and I sigh in relief. 
The soft expulsion of breath makes you look up and 
covering for my lapse with activity I heap food upon your 
plate and then help myself and sit down, raising my glass 
in a toast.

You return the gesture and then take a sip. Nodding your 
head in appreciation you take a bigger draught, set your 
glass on the table and proceed to devour the generous 
helping of Spaghetti con Funghi I served you.

I follow your example and for a while we eat in what almost 
feels like companionable silence to me. The food is good, 
the wine is better and I start to feel pleasantly relaxed.

When you put down your fork and reach for your wine 
again I observe the way your cuffed left arm lies idly in 
your lap, despite the fact I made sure the chain is long 
enough that it shouldn't impede you. I suddenly remember 
the way you were nursing it earlier. "What's the matter with 
your arm?" I point to it with my fork, masking the fact that 
I'm upset with myself for not asking about it sooner with 
callous behavior.

"I think I sprained it yesterday," you say. When I blanche at 
the implication of your words -- that I hurt you somehow -- 
you're quick to catch up on it and hasten to add, "It's no big 
deal, don't worry about it."

"I'm sorry," I apologize, still feeling the need to, though 
you've obviously forgiven me.

"It's okay."

I look at you a long moment and see that you're 
underplaying the discomfort you're in but I decide not to 
call you on it. You return to your food and I observe you as 
you eat. Your appetite is ferocious and when you finish 
your plate I get up without saying a word and heap some 
more Spaghetti on your plate.

"Thank you," you say and the small admission of gratitude 
further convinces me I might actually be getting through to 
you.

"You're welcome," I say, smiling my most winning smile as 
I sit down opposite you again. Encouraged I press on, "Did 
you get a chance to think over what we talked about last 
night?"

"Yeah, I did." You sound to my hopeful ears like you did 
more than just think about it. I wait patiently for you to 
continue but you don't follow through, instead attacking 
your second helping with as much enthusiasm as the first. I 
suddenly remember I forgot to leave you anything to eat 
this morning and I blush with the realization. Thankfully, 
you don't seem to notice. 

Taking a sip off my wine to steady myself I see you've 
already drained yours and I seize my opportunity to make 
amends, getting up and leaning over the table to refill your 
glass though I'd earlier decided not to overdo the alcohol.

 "What did you conclude?" I try to sound casual as I sit 
back again.

You finish eating and lean back in your chair, picking up 
your wine and taking a small sip. "You tell me." You 
manage to sound relaxed and look almost bored as you 
set your glass on the table.

"No fair making me spell it out Dana."

"No I mean it," you say with a frown standing out like an 
exclamation point between your eyebrows. "Tell me 
because all I got was a headache trying to figure out what 
you want from me."

"You were a promising agent once..." I trail off when I 
finally catch up to the undertone of mockery in your voice.

You shrug. "And?"

"I want you to go back to that again and make good on that 
promise." I take a swig of wine and set the glass down with 
enough force to spill some of the contents over the 
tabletop. It's red -- like blood.

"So all this is to get my career on the right track again?" 
you say after a moment, left eyebrow rising in a perfect 
question mark.

"Yeah." Getting angry now...so angry.

"Well for your information, it doesn't need straightening 
out," you say and your eyes do that freezing thing again.

"The hell it doesn't!" I get up and shove my chair away with 
such a violent push it topples over. 

You don't back down at my display of anger and this 
infuriates me even more.

"I can't believe we're having this conversation," you say 
and the expression on your face is one of bemusement. 
You raise your glass to your lips and take another sip. 
"This is my career and my decision, it's not anything to do 
with you."

"Maybe not but you can't tell me you're happy to see your 
career going straight down the toilet via Spooky's fucking 
basement!" My fingers hurt and when I look down, I see I'm 
gripping the edge of the table so tightly my knuckles are 
white with the strain.

It seems the angrier I become the calmer you become and 
I don't like it.

"So okay," you say, "not that it's any of your business, but 
just for the hell of it, tell me how you think I should go 
about saving it?"

I lean over and get right in your face and whisper, "Leave 
the X-files."

"Excuse me?" Your eyebrow does that gravity defying bit 
again as it raises nearly to your hairline. 

"Leave the X-files and partner up with me. We'll be the 
best damned team the Bureau has ever had."

"What?"

It seems I finally succeeded in flummoxing you and I smile 
as I unclench my fingers and straighten up. "You heard 
me."

"I already have a partner," you say and shove the 
photograph that's been lying beside your plate all this time 
at me. 

The reminder of how close the two of you actually are 
serves to inflame me again.

The picture was obviously taken at a crime scene. You're 
both wearing latex gloves and otherwise look like the FBI's 
finest in your business suits and trench coats. Crouched 
side by side, you're looking down at something intently and 
though there's nothing in the picture to indicate anything 
untoward is going on between you two, you're still just a 
little bit too close to comfortably deny it either.

"But where is he now?" My voice sounds cruel to my own 
ears. I'm getting beyond angry. I move around the table 
and stalk over to where you're sitting, helplessly bound in 
place.

"I don't know, but I know he'll be back." The total conviction 
in your voice grates on my nerves.

I reach for the picture and you try to snatch it back. My 
patience snaps like a rubber band stretched too wide and I 
lunge for the photo, grab it and violently rip it in two, then 
hold the half showing Mulder over the flickering flame of 
the nearest candle.

Breath coming in short hard bursts, you jump up and strain 
towards the picture so hard that for a moment I fear either 
the cuff will give or your wrist will, but neither does. You 
give another hard, impotent jerk and then watch on as 
flames consume the image of Mulder.

You're leaning towards me, getting as close to me as the 
chain on the handcuff will allow, left arm stretched back so 
far I know it must be painful, right hand planted firmly on 
the tabletop. 

"You unmitigated asshole." Your whisper is louder than a 
shout and your beautiful face is twisted into a snarl of such 
ferocity I actually take a step back. Your expression makes 
me realize you've just been playacting all this time, trying 
to get on my good side by feigning attention. You're not 
interested at all in what I'm saying, all you've been trying to 
do is play on my emotions so that I'll be more easily 
persuaded to let you go.

With the realization anger sweeps through me, blotting out 
everything else, and I let it.

My gun is out in one quick movement and I jam it into the 
back of your right hand -- hard. My free hand goes diving 
into my back pocket searching for the handcuff key. It's not 
there and for a moment, I believe you're somehow 
responsible for making it disappear on me, that's how far 
you've pushed me with your unreasonable behavior.

I shake the thought, dig through my other pockets, nearly 
rip trough the seam on the left front one, and finally come 
up with the key. Grinding the muzzle of my gun harder into 
the back of your hand, I unlock the cuff and grab your other 
wrist, twisting your arm up high behind your back.

I can actually hear the tendons in your shoulder and elbow 
creak in protest. You make a strangled half sound, as if 
you're biting your tongue trying not to let me hear your 
pain. I'm so angry that I don't care that I'm hurting you; in 
fact, I kind of like the sound you just made. It beats having 
to listen to that superior tone I realize in retrospect you've 
managed to use throughout our argument.

I march you towards your room and when you struggle as I 
push you through the doorway, grabbing onto the doorpost 
with your free right hand, I respond by wrenching your arm 
up another few inches. I hear something give, the sound 
sharp and concise like a bat hitting a ping pong ball, and 
this time you do moan. Instead of feeling guilty, I let myself 
enjoy the sound, you brought this on yourself after all, 
defying me every step of the way, and after I brought you 
dinner and wine to boot.

We cross the room and when I throw you down on the bed 
face first, your head connects with the wooden headboard 
with an audible crack. You go limp and though your eyes 
are open, they're unfocused. There's no struggle when I 
grab your foot and you remain still like that as I close the 
manacle around your ankle. 

Completely out of it and unresponsive, your heads lolls on 
your chest when I grab your arm and try to pull you upright. 
You moan softly but after a moment your eyes open a bit 
and, gratified by this sign of returned consciousness, I 
release you. You only fall back again, weakly flailing for 
some purchase then slumping when your left arm won't 
support your weight. 

I feel a little remorseful when I step back and see the tiny 
heap you make on the bedspread.

Grabbing one of the paper cups from the bedside table, I 
fill it with water and sit down beside you on the bed, careful 
to keep pointing the gun at you and to keep a safe distance 
between us.

Clumsily I pour some water between your slack lips and 
after a moment you cough and roll over onto your side, 
blinking awake. It takes a long moment for you to come to 
your senses and during it you just lie there, staring at me. 
Then suddenly you're all there and as soon as my 
proximity registers you jerk back and start to rise. I feel 
sorrow and anger warring for dominance within me at your 
instinctive recoil. When you lean on your bad arm, it folds 
under you again. I watch on as with a groan you flop back 
on the bed, boneless like a rag doll. 

The sight of you so incapacitated cools me down a bit 
more and I get up to help you. 

"Don't touch me," you say and the look you throw me 
makes me rethink my chivalrous impulse. Bound and 
helpless as you are, the expression on your face tells me 
you'd find some way to get in a few good licks. I value the 
various parts of my anatomy that would come within your 
reach enough to want them all in working order, thank you 
very much

You struggle upright and sit there with your left arm 
hanging limply at your side, right hand pushing your hair 
away from your face then gravitating towards the photo's 
scattered about on the bed, as if you need them to draw 
strength from.

Without a word, I turn towards the living room and grab a 
notebook and a pen from my briefcase. When I return 
you're clutching your shoulder and gingerly trying to rotate 
your elbow and I catch you wincing -- hard -- before you 
notice my presence and the impassive mask I've started to 
hate closes over your features again.

"Get out," you say.

"Not before you help me out," I counter.

"No way."

I throw the notebook and pen on the bed beside you. "You 
don't have a fucking choice Dana." 

You snort derisively and anger courses through me again. 
Jesus you have a knack for pissing me off. I point my gun 
at you to underscore how serious I am.

"I'm not helping you." There's an absolute edge to the 
statement that's utterly convincing and it has me 
scrambling for a means to persuade you to rethink it.

When I observe the way you're carefully not using your left 
arm as you scoot back on the bed until your shoulders are 
pressed against the headboard, a cruel idea pops 
unbidden into my brain.

"I suggest you do Dana dear," I say as I approach you. 

I reach for the handcuffs and dangle them in your face. 

"If you don't, I'm going to handcuff you to this here bed in 
the most uncomfortable position I can think of." I prod your 
bad shoulder with my gun and you cringe and clench your 
jaw. "How long do you think it'll be before you start begging 
me for mercy huh?" I increase the pressure a bit and see 
the muscles in your jaw bunch as you bite back a whimper.

It's the only reaction I get though, which leads me to think it 
might be a good long while before you do give in to me, if 
you do at all. Just as I start to contemplate how far I'm 
willing to take this, you surprise me again by suddenly 
yielding to my request.

"What do you want?"

I withdraw my gun and prompt you to pick up the pen. Your 
fingers clench around it and I see my gun has caused a 
rapidly darkening bruise to form on the back of your hand.

"Something to throw Skinner for a loop while we hash out 
our differences, you and I."

My eyes are riveted to the perfect circular imprint I left on 
your flesh and the way it ripples with the movement of the 
veins and muscles under your skin as you write out the 
message I dictate. A message that will, hopefully, send 
Skinner scurrying back into his office, calling off the task 
team he's so diligently put together in shame, freeing us to 
take this to its conclusion.

I'm no longer sure about what that conclusion is going to 
be though. You don't even recognize how far you've fallen 
down the ladder of success and you're obviously not going 
to be easily persuaded to start climbing it again. Let alone 
allow me to join forces with you when you do succeed in 
clambering out of the hole Mulder -- with your own help I 
might add -- has dug for your.

I'm not beaten yet though and when you finish writing I 
gather my pen and notebook and wish you goodnight. 

Tomorrow will be another day and after I get Skinner off 
the case, I'm hoping that maybe I'll be able to take a few 
days off. I'm certain I'll be able to make you come around if 
only we can spend more time together.

As I take my leave I watch you sitting there on the bed and 
notice for the first time how deep the lines of pain are 
etched in your face.

"Do you need something for your arm?" I ask, stopping in 
the doorway. 

"A doctor would be nice," you say with that deadpan 
expression that bothers the shit out of me since it I can 
never tell whether you're joking or not because of it.

"Yeah right." I decide you must be joking because you 
know I could never allow you your request. "I have some 
extra strength Tylenol in my briefcase."

I bring you the pills and you swallow them down then turn 
away from me and lie down on the bed without thanking 
me.

"You're welcome," I say and when you ungraciously don't 
even bother to reply I walk out and leave you to stew in 
your own juices for a while.

~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~

Before I go to work the next morning I prepare you an 
extensive breakfast and I remember to provide a snack for 
lunch too. I know you normally take only a light lunch so I 
don't overdo it, yogurt and some fruit should be okay, I 
think. 

I enter your room to find you're still fast asleep. You're 
moving restlessly beneath the covers and murmuring 
unintelligibly and don't wake up when I put your breakfast 
tray on your bedside table. When I put my hand to your 
forehead, you feel a little warm to my touch. Worried you 
might actually have caught a cold, I put out some Tylenol 
just in case you might need it, then leave for work.

I show up at the office early enough to drop the letter in 
Skinner's in tray without anyone noticing and quickly make 
my way back to my desk to wait until I can show up again 
for our early morning meeting.

I've been careful not to actually handle the letter myself so 
any forensic investigation will reveal only your fingerprints. 
I'm thinking that that, and the message written out in you 
bold hand, will be convincing enough for Skinner to call off 
the troops.

Curious to see if my scheme will indeed pan out I shove 
papers to and fro on my desk, waiting for him to show up 
and wondering how much time I should let elapse before I 
show up in his office. 

Unable to wait any longer I enter Skinner's offices again 
some thirty minutes behind him and Kimberly announces 
my presence and then shows me in when Skinner's voice 
comes over the speaker.

He's at his desk, eyes riveted to the letter we wrote and he 
doesn't acknowledge me at first. I don't dare sit down just 
like that and remain standing in front of his desk. 

While he continues to ignore me I take the opportunity to 
let my eyes roam his office and I like what I see. It's 
spacious, with heavy oak furniture -- distinguished. A 
conference table big enough to comfortably seat half a 
dozen people dominates one quarter of the room and a 
big, comfortable looking, leather couch takes up much of 
the space against one wall. 

I picture myself behind the stately oak desk in Skinner's 
stead and like that even better.

When he finally looks up his eyes are hidden behind the 
refraction of his wire rims and his expression is inscrutable.

"It seems your presence is no longer required Agent," he 
says, gesturing for me to take a seat.

His words are brusque enough to give me a scare despite 
myself and I sink down gratefully in one of the chairs 
opposite him, sitting back and crossing my right leg over 
the left, trying to look at ease. 

"Sir?" I manage not to choke on the word and to succeed 
in just sounding confused. 

Truth be told I am -- more than a little bit -- by his words 
and manner and I find myself fidgeting. Afraid of giving 
myself away, I make a conscious effort to control the 
restless up and down movement of my right leg and plant 
both feet firmly on the ground instead.

Sizing me up, Skinner thrusts the letter at me and I pretend 
to read it, using the time it affords me to get a hold of 
myself. I know the words by hart already, having read over 
the letter many times between you writing it and me 
dropping it off.

   "Sir -- it says --

   I realize my not showing up for work yesterday must have 
   caused something of a stir and I'm sorry. I should have 
   called and let you know I'd be taking a few days off but 
   I feared you would want to have someone following me -- 
   "just for my own protection" I can hear you say it now -- 
   and I assure you I don't need that.

   What I need is to get out of my own head for a bit and let 
   what happened sink in.

   I need to start dealing with the fact that I might never see 
   Fox Mulder again and I need to figure out where to go from 
   there.

   I will contact you when I can.

                  Dana"

I carefully wait long enough to convince him I've read 
through the entire thing before I raise my head and look at 
him, feigning confusion.

"Sir?"

"This showed up in my inbox this morning."

"You're sure it's her Sir?" I say, handing back the letter as 
he extends his hand.

He takes it and sighs. "Yeah. Yes I am. I had the lab dust it 
for fingerprints but I suspect that won't yield anything." He 
shrugs and leans back in his chair, twiddling with his pen. 
"Besides, I recognize her handwriting. It's her alright."

"So she's 'getting out of her own head for a bit' huh?" I 
manage to sound as if I'm seriously contemplating the 
issue. Getting better and better at this duplicitous bit my 
man, I meanwhile congratulate myself. "Where do you 
think she is then Sir"?

"I have no idea Agent."

"Perhaps she went to Oregon again to look for him?" I 
suggest. I look him in the eye, daring him to tell me if he 
figures your leave of absence is not voluntary.

"She wouldn't, not without alerting me." His words are 
much more confident than the tone with which they're 
delivered.

He gets up from behind his desk and turns towards the 
window, one hand on his back, the other holding on to the 
letter so tightly it crumples a bit in his grasp. His shoulders 
are slumped and I allow myself a tiny victorious smile.

"So you think Agent Scully's okay?" I ask for good 
measure.

"It would appear so yes," he says and turns towards me, 
giving me a piercing look. His hands fiddle with the piece of 
paper clutched in them.

"But...?" I prompt.

"There's something in this whole business that doesn't sit 
right with me."  He turns back towards the window and his 
back gives nothing more away. "I just can't put my finger 
on it.

"You suspect foul play?"

"I don't know," He rolls his shoulders and I can hear the 
bones move against each other. His voice is so soft I can 
barely make out what he's saying but it grows stronger as 
he continues, speaking as if to himself, as if I weren't there. 
"It's just a gut feeling, hardly enough to justify further 
expenditure of manpower and resources, so I'm 
dissembling the task team."

"You're not going to look for her then?"

"I doubt I'd be able to find her if she's decided she doesn't 
want me to."

"Too true Sir."

"You're dismissed Agent," he says without turning around 
and I'm out of my seat as if shot from the barrel of a gun. 

I make for the door, eager to escape his scrutiny and 
contemplate my next move but pause with the doorknob in 
my hand, struck by sudden inspiration. "If there's anything 
you need Sir," I say, "unofficially, without going through 
proper channels and needing to justify expenditure, I'm 
available."

He swivels his face towards me and there's a look of 
surprise on his face. "I appreciate your offer Agent, I'll keep 
it in mind."

Chalk up a few more points on the career path score card.

I nod and leave; pleased with myself and whistling softly as 
I make my way back to my desk. I'm curious as to why he's 
still unconvinced you're just taking a few days off but not 
overly worried. He's pulling the task team and I made sure 
he's going to be including me if he's going to take further 
action. All in all, I'd say I've got all the bases covered and I 
make for my desk and spend the rest of the day planning 
how our evening is going to go.

No more fancy dinners and wine and candles I think. I'm 
through trying to sweet talk you and I make a resolution 
right there and then that I'm going to put it to you straight. 

Remembering how you managed to anger me every time 
we started discussing things, I begin to wonder if maybe 
when I attempt once more to explain myself tonight, I 
should restrain you so you won't be able to distract me. 

The thought briefly revolts me but the more I think about it, 
the more I realize that perhaps it's not such a bad idea 
after all. Gagging you will afford me the opportunity to talk 
to you without you interrupting me all the time. It'll make 
our discussion that much easier, I think to myself with a 
whimsical grin.

I sit up straighter and think this plan through and feel sure 
that my new tactic is going to work where my attempts to 
coddle and cajole you into submission haven't.

The thought also makes me realize that I have other 
options open to me, if I don't succeed in getting through to 
you tonight after all.

I reflect long and hard on how the promise of violence 
yesterday, when I held up the handcuffs and told you I'd 
use them to hurt you, made you bow to my will. I realize if 
talking to you tonight as I'm planning to won't do the trick, 
following through on that threat might be the only way to 
convince you to see things my way. 

I don't want to do it you understand but we can't keep 
going back and forth like we have been, never arriving at 
the conclusion I want for us to reach. 

If I have to take matters into my own hands and hurt you a 
little to get through to you I will. I won't like it but I'll be 
strong for the both of us. 

You'll thank me for it later, when -- free of Mulder's 
influence at last -- you're once more on your predestined 
path, me following right along behind you.

>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<

Resolve still firmly in place I arrive at our cabin and after 
shedding my jacket, which got soaked through in the two 
seconds it took me to run from my car to the front porch, I 
make straight for your room. 

The thunderstorm that broke the night I brought you here 
hasn't let up since. I wonder if there's some cosmic 
significance to that and figure that if this were a movie, the 
rain will stop falling as soon as I persuaded you onto the 
right path again. The thought only serves to reinforce my 
purpose and I feel I'm close to winning this thing with the 
strength of my convictions alone as I get to your room and 
open the door.

What I find when I enter weakens my resolve until it's all 
but evaporated.

You're on the bed clad only in your panties and your 
undershirt and I'm instantly rock hard at the sight of your 
small but beautifully proportioned body, covered in what 
amount to tiny scraps of cloth when seen against the 
expanse of your naked flesh.

Your firm legs are longer than I would have thought and 
lead to full hips flaring out just right. The dip of your tiny 
waist makes me want to try and see if my two big hands 
will span it and they clench and unclench at my sides, 
impatient with want and need. Travelling up, my eyes feast 
on your still partially clad breasts -- black lace Dana? 
Flustered, I force myself to move on to your strong, well- 
muscled shoulders, ignoring the bruises there, and up the 
long smooth column of your neck towards your face.

Only then, as I see the sheen of sweat on your forehead 
and the way your hair is plastered to your flushed cheeks, 
does the fact that your shirt is soaked with perspiration 
register, as does the fact that the sheets twisted beneath 
you are drenched through.

Rushing to your side I notice that your breakfast tray has 
been left untouched except for the juice I poured you and 
wonder why my brain would pick up on something so 
seemingly insignificant just when it also registers that the 
Tylenol I put out for you is gone too.

"Dana?" I get no response and tap your cheeks lightly

"Dana wake up!"

You murmur something unintelligible and then a coughing 
fit racks you, making you wince violently at the spasms 
shuddering through your body. My eyes travel to the arm 
you injured yesterday. You're holding it against your side 
protectively, as if it's filled with shards of glass and every 
movement hurts and I guess it does. It's not just bruised a 
bit. Now that I look at it, make myself focus on it for the first 
time really, I see it's actually -- literally -- black and blue in 
places and stiff with disuse. 

I whisper your name again and your eyes flutter open, then 
fall closed again. I'm frightened by the glimpse I got of the 
entirely too vacant look in them. 

"Talk to me, Scully." In my encroaching panic, I forget all 
about my decision to call you only by your given name but I 
don't care since it makes your eyes stutter open again.

"Mul -- " Yep, it official, there's nobody home if you're 
confusing me for the bastard who put you here in the first 
place. It galls me that he's the first person you think to call 
out to when he's not even here and I am right beside you 
but I quench the thought. Concentrate on getting her better 
my man, I think to myself. Time enough to get angry later.

"Dana what's wrong?" Your eyes close again and your 
head moves restlessly on the pillow.

"Sick..." You arch off the bed coughing uncontrollably and 
when the fit is over you lie back exhausted. The wet rattle 
of your breath as it moves in and out of your lungs 
screams pneumonia to my untrained ears.

"Yeah, well I grasped that," I say as I put my hand on your 
forehead. Your fever burns my palm. "Shit you're burning 
up." 

I get a towel from the other room, soak it thoroughly and 
wipe you down with it. Under different circumstances, it 
would be wildly exciting being allowed to touch your flesh 
like this but all I feel is panic at how hot you are under my 
touch.

I sigh in relief when, after another pass with the towel you 
revive somewhat and your eyes open. They're gray with 
the extent of your illness but at least you're looking at me 
with awareness dawning in them.

"I need a doctor," you say and underneath the weakness, 
there's the sharp familiar edge of command in your voice.

"No can do," I say, "but I can get you whatever you need. 
You're a doctor yourself, tell me what to do for you."

"Antibiotics...painkillers." 

"Not a problem, what else?"

The effort it takes to string a sentence together makes your 
breath rasps in and out of your lungs, making it difficult to 
figure out what you're saying. I lean in closer and get the 
gist of it though. "Shoulder's dislocated...tried to put it 
back in...need your help."

"Okay." I had a dislocated shoulder once and I know it 
hurts like a son of a bitch. As much as this is going to hurt 
though, trying to put it back in by yourself must have been 
nothing short of agonizing. My respect for you ratchets up 
another notch.

I'm unsure how to go about this but move towards you and 
put my hand on your shoulder tentatively, propelled to try 
anyway by the urgency of the discomfort you're in. 

You jerk back with a yelp.

"Painkillers first." Your breath comes in short pants now 
and your eyes are becoming unfocused again. 

I nod my head in understanding. Whispering, "Okay." when 
I realize your lids are now tightly closed, I brush your sweat 
soaked hair off your burning cheeks. Putting the wet towel 
on your forehead to cool down the fever burning you up, I 
turn on my heels and race towards the door. 

I'm halfway through the doorway when your voice makes 
me look back, startled. It's stronger somehow, steadier. 
Your head is up off your pillow -- something I didn't think 
you'd have the strength for -- and you're squinting at me.

"Mulder?" In your fevered brain, my back lit figure must 
resemble his in some way and I suddenly know it's where 
you get your unexpected strength from.

When you manage to focus enough for you to see it's me 
not Mulder standing in the doorway, your head falls back 
onto the pillow and you close your eyes with a weary sigh.

I remain where I am a moment longer, observing the way 
your eyes move back and forth underneath your tightly 
closed lids. It looks like you're searching for him even in 
your fever induced dreams. The bastard obviously has an 
even stronger hold on you than I already imagined if the 
mere mention of his name fortifies you like that and I'm at a 
loss as to how to proceed from there.

I shake my head to clear it from any but the most pressing 
concerns -- getting you the medicine you need -- and 
without bothering to lock the door, I dash to my car through 
the pouring rain. I curse myself all the way for having 
treated you too roughly, curse you for not alerting me to 
your predicament earlier, I curse the lousy weather too, 
just on general principal. 

Most of all I curse Mulder for bewitching you and having 
had a hand in making you so strong and so weak at the 
same time.

I'm soaked to the skin before I realize I forgot my jacket 
and shrug off the discomfort, no sense getting it now, I 
think as I slide behind the steering wheel. I'm dripping 
water all over the upholstery and my wet hair is in my eyes. 
I swipe it back and start the car. Looking out the front 
window I can hardly see our cabin through the rain 
sheeting down and for a moment I consider going back 
inside and waiting out the storm. It's foolishness going out 
in this weather really.

Recognizing the need to get you some help, I turn the key 
in the ignition instead, carefully step on the gas and turn 
the car around, pointing it back the way I came scant 
minutes ago.

The rain makes navigating the dirt road difficult and I curse 
the weather some more, needing to vent my frustration. 
Walking would be faster but the nearest drugstore is a 
couple of miles down the secondary road the trail leads to. 
As soon as I hit it I'll be able to make up for lost time.

I panic at the thought of you, alone and sick and caught out 
here in the middle of all this violence. What if you wake 
from your restless sleep and there's no one there to cool 
down your fever? What if I crash the car and no one knows 
to get help to you?

Shaking my head in rueful acceptance of the turn my 
thoughts have taken, I find I have enough sense to laugh 
at myself for my earlier bravura, thinking I could 
deliberately hurt you.

If the accidental injuries you suffered while you struggled 
against me could leave me feeling like a heel and 
scrambling to undo some of the damage, how am I going 
to feel when you're hurt because of a premeditated act of 
cruelty on my part? It's just not going to happen, my man, I 
tell myself. You could no sooner hurt her on purpose than 
cut off one of your own limbs.

That leaves me in somewhat of a quandary, as it closes off 
the last avenue I thought I had of getting you to listen and 
agree with me, but then with a flash of insight, I realize 
your immediate need gives me a new handhold. 

If I get you the help you need and get you well again, we'll 
have a basis from which to proceed, won't we? I'll have 
saved you and you'll be in my debt. The thought infuses 
me with purpose and I step on the gas as much as I dare.

>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<

I cannot believe my eyes when I finally make it back and 
skid to a halt by your bedside, medicine and bandages and 
enough painkillers to knock out a horse stuffed in various 
pockets.

The manacle that enclosed your ankle is on the bed. 
There's a bit of blood on it, more on the sheets beneath it. 
The broken corkscrew you must have appropriated during 
our aborted candlelit dinner and used to free yourself, is 
lying next to it. 

The meager evidence is all that's left of your presence in 
the room.

When I touch the metal bracelet, it still retains traces of 
your body heat, and I know it means you're not far off. You 
can't be moving too fast either. Though I now realize you 
were faking some of your earlier weakness, the fever I felt 
in you was real, as was the injury to your arm.

"God dammit!" I curse, swerving around and dashing 
outside into the pouring rain again.

I stop on the porch and try to figure out which way you're 
headed. I saw no sign of you when I approached just now, 
but figure your best bet would be to follow the dirt path 
back to the road and that's probably my best bet at 
recapturing you as well. Going any other way would get 
you lost in the woods. I'm sure you're clear headed enough 
to understand that, if you were lucid enough to get me out 
of the cabin and get yourself free. You probably saw me 
coming by the shine of the headlights and hid in the 
bushes until I passed you on my way to the cabin huh?

I start jogging back up the way I came. You're never going 
to make it as far as the main road in your condition but I'm 
not taking any chances slowing myself down taking the 
car. It can only travel the dirt road at a snail's pace now, 
what with the puddles and the mud and the rain still 
coming down in sheets. 

When after a few minutes I trip over your trench coat, lying 
abandoned by the side of the road I know I'm going in the 
right direction and I pick up my pace.

I'm concerned that you would dispose of your coat like 
that. No doubt the heavy waterlogged material was slowing 
you down, but at least it would have kept you somewhat 
warm. The foolish action, I feel, speaks to your fevered 
state of mind. I fear that, if I don't get you out of this 
freezing downpour, your temperature will skyrocket and 
add to your illness. The thought adds to my urgency. If I 
don't get you warm soon, I know we're going to need a 
doctor and then the game will be up.

Wet branches slap me in the face and mud is churning 
along the dirt road, which is actually a dry river bed, I now 
remember. The bad weather makes keeping up any sort of 
pace increasingly difficult. I'm starting to get out of breath 
and wonder how you managed to get so far.

When lightning splices the sky in two, I can make out your 
tiny figure stumbling along the trail in the distance and I 
breathe a sigh of relief, tuck my chin into my chest and 
force a renewed burst of speed from my tired muscles, 
running heedlessly after you.

"Jesus Scully," I suddenly hear a heavy voice call out and 
looking up, I throw on the brakes, bringing myself to a halt 
behind an oak tree big enough to comfortably hide me from 
sight. Just in time too.

Up ahead, a car is parked diagonally across the dirt road. 
The lights are off which tells me whoever it is, was hoping 
to come down the trail undetected, probably after you and 
therefore after me. 

When the headlights come on, I squint into the glare and 
see you come skidding to a halt, catching yourself on the 
hood when you slip in the mud and start to topple over. 
The driver's door is already open and a shadowy figure 
unfolds itself from behind the steering wheel and comes to 
stand towering above you.

"Sir?" You look up and then your legs buckle and you start 
to fall to the ground. He catches you and, hanging limply in 
those massive arms, you seem even tinier than you did 
fleeing ahead of me moments earlier.

I'm close enough to make out the relieved expression on 
your face and hear the way his breath explodes from him 
when you curl into his warmth.

"Yeah, it's me Scully," Skinner says as he takes off his coat 
and wraps you in it, then slides his arms around you 
gently, as if you might shatter if he touches you too 
roughly.

For all the care he displays, you moan as he starts to pick 
you up. Startled he lets go, intending to set you down but 
when your feet touch the ground, your legs fold, refusing to 
carry you any longer. He kneels down with you when you 
start to slide down his body and his big hands flutter over 
your face.

"What is it?"

"Hurts."

"I figured," he says, "but where?" He whips out his cell 
phone and with his other hand peels the coat from you and 
tries to assess your injuries. He touches your damaged 
arm, talking urgently into the phone and meanwhile 
handling you with more gentle concern than I ever thought 
he would be capable of. You shudder as his fingers trail 
over your bruises and he shudders with you. Cursing under 
his breath, his hand moves lower and comes to rest on 
your stomach.

"I'm okay." You lift your good arm and put your hand over 
his big fist. The way those two hands lie on your belly, 
fingers intertwined, his big hand swallowing your much 
smaller one, seems very intimate, much more so than 
would be appropriate for a special agent and her superior 
officer.

A tight grimace stretches his cheeks as he flips the cell 
phone shut and pockets it. "Scully where is he?"

"Don't know," you whisper and then you dissolve into a 
coughing fit that leaves you breathless and leaves him 
shaken. He wraps his coat tightly around your shivering 
body again, all the while looking around intently, peering 
into the bushes, eyes drilling holes through the trees.

Where his cell phone was moments ago, I now see the dull 
shine of a gun.

Your hand sneaks from the folds of his coat and reaches 
up to touch his cheek. He looks down at the contact.

"Hospital." Your voice is so faint now I have to guess at 
what you're saying. Skinner nods once and when he does 
you sigh and your body goes slack in his arms.

As his arms go around you again, infinitely careful now, he 
bellows my name -- wrapped up in a curse -- and I 
suddenly realize he utters yours as often as Mulder does. 

I also realize he has yet to call you 'Dana' and at least part 
of the puzzle of his presence falls into place.

You're Scully to him. 

What you and Skinner share is a faint echo of what you 
and Mulder share, and one of its exponents is the use of 
your last names. I'd thought it one of Spooky's many 
idiosyncrasies but either Skinner has picked it up from him 
or there's something to the syllables of your name that 
make these men who protect and care for you want to 
speak it aloud as much as possible.

You knew signing your first name to that letter would get 
his radar up didn't you. 

Crafty, Agent Scully, very crafty, I praise you even as I 
curse you. 

As Skinner picks you up and walks back to his car, I start 
to wonder what brought him here. It can't have been the 
letter, other than that tiny oversight I was very thorough in 
erasing any trace evidence. I think back, trying to see 
where I went wrong the past couple of days, trying to figure 
out what gave me away, but nothing comes to mind.

I have a window of opportunity, when Skinner unlocks the 
backdoor and then bends over to gently put you down on 
the backseat, where I can still turn this whole thing back to 
my advantage. All I have to do is come up behind him and 
knock him out, and we're on our way, you and I, off to fight 
another day. 

I contemplate it for a moment but realize that somewhere 
along the line, I already grasped the fact that your 
conversion is just not going to happen while Mulder is still 
in the picture. I've also begun to comprehend that he 
always will be in there, whether he's actually physically 
with you or not.

When Skinner straightens up the moment is gone, I'm not 
sure I could have taken him anyway. The bastard is a hell 
of a lot bigger than I am, after all. 

I hear him say something to you and realize you're still 
conscious. Unable to make out what he's telling you, I creep 
closer in time to hear you laugh softly in reply. The sound 
is so startling I nearly give myself away gasping aloud.

"How did you...find me?" Your voice floats towards me 
from the backseat of the car, where Skinner is crouched 
down beside you in the open door. 

He frowns in obvious concern at the way your belabored 
breathing makes speaking difficult. "The stupid bastard 
fucked up telling me maybe you'd gone back to Oregon."

Damn.

Such a tiny slip up, and the bastard notices. 

But then, he personally saw to it that your little trip to 
Oregon was buried so deep nobody would be able to trace 
it, didn't he? 

So he would pick up on it, wouldn't he?

Stupid, stupid, stupid asshole, I scold myself, pounding my 
fist into the mud. My knuckle hits something sharp and 
hard, a rock or maybe the root of the tree I'm hiding 
behind, and pain surges through my hand. It clears my 
head enough that I can follow the thread of your 
conversation but what I hear only infuriates me further.

"He would mess up...trying to suck up." You're wheezing 
now and the harsh sound of your breath as it rattles in your 
chest provides a counterpoint to the cutting words spoken 
so softly.

Skinner lets out a startled guffaw. "He would wouldn't he?"

"Seems to be a pattern there..."

"Yeah."

"Maybe we should tell him?"

When you try to elaborate he shushes you and swipes 
your soggy hair away from your brow, tucking it behind 
your ear. The tendrils are so heavy with rain they 
immediately slip out from behind your ear again and he 
has to repeat the gesture, again and again.

"Yeah, maybe we should Scully. Just as soon as we find 
him" 

"Hmm..."

"But not before I kick the shit out of him okay?" 

"Deal."

The rain is letting up and through the absence of the 
steady drum of water pounding the ground I can hear 
sirens in the distance. I slink off into the woods, realizing 
just in time that if I don't get out of here in a hurry, I never 
will. From what I just heard, I've no doubt Skinner would 
make sure of that if he gets his hands on me now.

I throw one glance back over my shoulder and see him 
tucking his coat around your shoulders like it's a blanket 
and you're a wayward child up way past her bedtime. I'm 
instantly jealous at the easy rapport between the two of 
you. The sight of it makes me sick and I wonder why we 
weren't able to establish such familiarity. 

I know it wasn't for lack of trying on my part. 

I'll have to ask you later.

>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<

"Welcome back baby girl. You gave us all quit a scare." 

Your mother's voice drifts out into the hallway and it's too 
bright, with a note of forced cheerfulness to it that doesn't 
convince. I haven't had occasion to hear her speak before 
today, but I can guess she doesn't normally sound like this. 

I think she usually sounds more like you, or you sound like 
her -- whatever -- serious though and controlled. 

I'm just outside your room; have been hovering in the 
hallway for hours. Walking into the hospital and finding 
your room was absurdly easy but Skinner was standing 
guard outside your door until just a few minutes ago. He 
came in to relieve the three geeks and only went for some 
coffee when your mother arrived, but I know soon he'll be 
back to take root outside the room again and he's not 
going to allow anyone but your inner circle of five access to 
you. 

I know there's no getting to you now, no window of time 
sufficient for me to snatch you away and allow us to 
continue where we left off. 

I don't know that I want to either.

The past few days I spent with you have convinced me you 
are beyond help, I thought about it long and hard while 
struggling through the woods making my escape and came 
to the conclusion that I don't want any more to do with your 
pathetic obsession. Getting that idiot partner of yours back 
is all that matters to you and even though I care for you as 
much now as I did before we were thrown together, I don't 
want any part of this insanity between you two.

I'm here because what I do want, is for you to have one 
last reminder of our time together and of what you've given 
up on. I gave it to your mother just now, taking a chance 
knocking on your door and handing it to her. When she told 
me you were asleep but she'd be sure to mention I came 
by when you woke up, I smiled politely and left, taking up 
position outside your room again where I can keep one eye 
out for Skinner while listening for you. 

I want one last look at you, want to see your face flush with 
one last memory of you and me, before taking my leave 
and leaving you to it. Giving up on you doesn't mean I can 
let go of you without regrets.

"Hmm... 'm sorry." Your beautiful voice is barely a 
whisper but I perk up at the sound just the same while at 
the same time my heart clenches tight as a fist in my chest.

Your mother's voice is soft and I have to strain to make out 
what she's saying. "I thought that this time I'd lost you, lost 
both of you."

I'm disgusted at the fact that your mother too is obviously 
smitten with Mulder and is as concerned about his 
wellbeing as everyone else around you is.

"We're okay Mom," you say. I wonder how you can say it 
with such surety when you told me earlier that you have no 
clue where the hell the bastard is.

"I know." There's sadness in that soft voice and I think that 
even though she's infatuated with Mulder, she sees the 
damage he's done as well as I do. "And I know there was 
nothing you or I could have done to prevent this from 
happening."

"Don't feel bad, please?" You sound like a small child 
might sound trying to console a grown-up.

"I'll be okay. I just can't help wishing I could take you home 
with me and protect you and never let you out of my sight 
again." She injects some levity into her voice and this time 
it sounds less strained. "It's a mother thing, you'll recognize 
it."

I peek into the room and see you lying in a bed that makes 
you look even smaller than you are. You look tired and 
much too pale but thankfully, the swelling around your eye 
has gone down a bit and you seem to be breathing easier 
than when I last saw you. Your wrists are bandaged and 
your left arm is in a heavy cast and sling but otherwise you 
look okay and I'm relieved. You could have done yourself 
some serious damage going into the woods without your 
coat in the middle of a thunderstorm, running away from 
me as if I was going to hurt you.

Your mother is just getting up as I peek in. She has the 
shoebox full of photographs I handed her in her hands and 
has the one we fought over clutched in her fist, just you 
now, sans Mulder.

"Where did you get those?" you say and your voice is 
edged with caution, whetted with anger. Alarm colors your 
pale cheeks and makes your eyes flash with that blue 
flame that burns and blisters -- hot and cold. 

I smile. 

From now on, when you think of me it will be with a stir of 
this complex mix of feelings, it's enough to make me smile. 

No more callous disregard, no more disinterest and 
absence of emotion, I've left my mark on you and it will be 
with you forever, it's not what I envisaged when we started 
out on our journey -- you and I -- but it will have to do.

Your mother sounds alarmed at the agitation in your voice. 
"From a young man who came by earlier when you were 
still asleep," she says carefully. "I thought he was one of 
your colleagues? He said to tell you to get well soon and 
that you'd know what to do with them."

I see you reach out for the box with your good hand and 
rummage in it a bit. You come up with the first photograph I 
had up on the wall in your room, the one of you entering a 
classroom. You look at it for a full minute, lost in thought, 
and your mother sits back in her chair and observes you 
with a strange expression of uneasy patience on her face.

"Mom, do I look different to you?" you finally ask as you 
show the picture to her.

She looks at it but doesn't take it. "Sweetie," she says as 
she puts her hand to your cheek and forces you to look her 
in the eye, "you're still my curious little girl, fascinated with 
the world taking shape around you. Through everything 
that's happened to you throughout your life, I've never 
stopped seeing that precocious little girl in you."

"Do you think I will look different to Mulder when he gets 
back?"

She breathes a weary little sigh. "I don't know, maybe you 
will, or maybe he'll just look differently AT you, have you 
ever considered that?"

"How? How will he look at me?" The picture crumples in 
your tight grip and you don't even notice it you're so intent 
on hearing your mother's reply.

"We're different things to different people and different 
people see different things in us." Her hand strays to your 
clenched first and she enfolds your fingers in her own. "To 
me you'll always be my sweet baby girl. Even though 
you're older now and have experienced more than I ever 
will, that's who I see when I look at you."

"How can you say that mom? This can hardly be where 
you'd always hoped I'd wind up." You're obviously 
surprised at your mother's statement and there's caution in 
your voice and in your face; you look and sound like you 
want to believe her but don't know how to.

"Perhaps not." Your mother gets up and straightens out the 
blankets covering you, fiddling with them a bit, trying to 
gather her thoughts perhaps. She looks up and meets your 
eyes and something in them makes her sigh. "Honey, from 
what I hear that awful man just saw you as an ideal of what 
you once were -- an abstraction of what you might have 
been and could have done for him. All he saw was how 
you diverged from that, and how in his deluded mind it hurt 
him. He refused to see that maybe where you are now is 
where you were destined to be all along, with memories 
both GOOD and bad shaping your decisions." She sits 
down with a small sigh and takes your good hand in hers 
again, swiping her thumb over the bruise on the back of it. 
"I'm not about to make that same mistake."

"Thank you mom." The look of relief on your face is 
unmistakable. 

"You're welcome honey."

Tenacious as ever you don't let it go at that though and 
after a moment you press on. "What about Mulder? Do you 
think that's how he sees it, how he sees me?" 

For some reason, your mother smiles at that. "Don't you 
know by now that Fox sees ALL of you and loves all of 
you. Stubbornness and pride included, fear and 
compassion, loyalty and pain. He loves all these things in 
you because the sum of them is YOU."  She pats your 
hand and then takes the crumpled picture from you. She 
carefully puts it in with the others, then gets up and 
unceremoniously dumps the shoebox in the dustbin 
standing in the corner of your room. Smiling she sits down 
beside you again and looks you in the eye with such love 
and pride. "When he comes back he'll see a new side of 
you and love it too, he'll love both of you."

I turn away from your room; revolted at the nonsense I just 
heard your mother spew and the wide smile with which you 
took in her words. 

I'm an awful man and Mulder's a saint, I'm deluded and 
he's the sane one.

That's rich, that's just wonderful. 

There's no saving you OR her. 

Then suddenly what she said -- what you both have been 
saying -- sinks in and I stop in my tracks, flabbergasted.

   "He'll love both of you."

      "We're fine Mom."

         "I thought I'd lost both of you."

Shit!Shit!Shit!

Fuck!

They weren't kidding at the water cooler; they weren't 
kidding, you're fucking pregnant, with Mulder's fucking 
baby.

No wonder there was no persuading you from his side.

I turn back towards your room, mouth gaping open in 
surprise and your mother's in the doorway. I realize I must 
have cursed aloud as I see you struggling to get out of 
your bed in the background, eyes huge in your pale face. 
There's a familiar determined set to your jaw and one 
handed as you are, you're still going for your gun on the 
bedside table rather than the call button that will bring the 
hospital staff to your side in three seconds flat.

I realize there's only one thing left for me, and start to 
sprint towards the stairwell.

"Stop right there!" you bellow and heads swivel as your 
voice thunders through the hallway -- clear and strong. 

I pay no heed to the command and keep running, certain 
for some reason that you won't shoot me. I reach the 
stairwell and throw open the door and I don't stop, even 
when you fire off a warning shot that drills into the door 
post with deadly accuracy and showers my face with tiny 
slivers of wood. 

I'm nearly through the door when something slams into my 
shoulder, searing a pathway across my nerves. I crash to 
the floor, clutching my shoulder in agony.

Tears blur my vision and when I blink them away Skinner 
is approaching, a predatory smile on his face. 

You are right behind him; gun still clutched in your good 
hand. The smile on your face is even more feral than the 
one Skinner is threatening me with. It's the last I see of you 
before Skinner kicks me onto my stomach and clicks his 
handcuffs around my wrists.

All that's left to me of you now, is your voice.

"Colton, you bastard." Your tone is filled with contempt. 
"You're under arrest!" 

No disinterest in your voice or words certainly, but none of 
the other emotions I'd banked on either, just a weary kind 
of disgust. 

I realize then that I've lost and I never stood a chance to 
begin with. You're so much stronger than I am, even 
without that Spooky fuck by your side -- pun intended, 
yeah. 

Perhaps next time I should find a more impressionable 
subject? Thoughts of the baby you carry fill my mind. Your 
child and Mulder's, it would certainly be fitting wouldn't it?

As Skinner jerks me to my feet and starts marching me 
down the hall away from you, it slowly dawns on me that 
it's never going to happen though. Not as long as you have 
people so faithfully looking out for you, and the thought of 
Mulder to sustain you. 

Not as long as you have all that, and have yourself to cling 
to too.

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End: Ignis Fatuus 

This and my other fic efforts can be found at:

http://www.angelfire.com/ga2/lydx/myfic.html

Remember, feedback is food for the soul. Comments, 
negative or positive as long as they're constructive, will be 
replied to. 
Mail me at: lydx@angelfire.com

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"There are only ten ideas...
What makes the difference is how you spice them."
Tori Amos

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