~~~~~>~~~~>~~~>~~>~> X <~<~~<~~~<~~~~<~~~~~

You are fighting for life. Every fiber of your 
being intent on beating back death, on cheating the 
odds, your iron will focused solely on survival, 
muscle, blood and bone and wiry strength and heart 
and soul channeled into battling the inevitable. 
And I can do nothing but look on.

I ache to go to you, to comfort you and tell you of 
my love, tell you how you are the most important 
thing in the world to me, divulge to you my pride 
at being your partner, tell you to stop your heroic 
struggle, tell you to let it go, that there is no 
shame in giving in. 

I would, but the handcuffs looped around my wrists 
and threaded through the radiator forbid it.

Unable to physically help you, I steel myself and 
keep my eyes riveted on your struggling form, 
mutely standing witness to a battle fought bravely, 
a defeat, valiantly postponed, but still creeping 
inevitably closer with every heartbeat. Literally.

There is so much blood, more than I ever thought a 
body could hold. An artery was hit, I'm sure of it. 
You try desperately to staunch the flow, to keep 
the precious liquid from spilling out, but it oozes 
around your fingers anyway. You are covered in the 
stuff, kneeling in a crimson lake that grows wider 
by the second. 

No one could lose this much blood and live, I know 
this, just as surely as I know you know. 

I blink and your eyes are on me, regret and anguish 
written plainly in their depths. Your strong arms 
shudder under the strain of holding on, holding out 
against death, the white-knuckled grip of your 
hands slackens as exhaustion wins out. I nod once 
and -- so fleetingly I almost miss it -- a small, 
tired smile moves across your strained features.

I blink again, and the smile is gone. With impotent 
rage churning in my gut, I look on as you visibly 
let go, fatigue evident in the slump of your 
shoulders, the way you hang your head in defeat. 

When you crumple to the floor, I know the 
inevitable end has come. 

I yank at the handcuffs trapping my wrists in 
frustration; the radiator gives a little but not 
enough to let me get to you. Your body lies 
sprawled on the cold tile floor not 5 feet from me, 
and I cannot reach out to even touch you. I cannot 
let loose the rage and anguish I feel at the 
tableau before me. 

Lives depend on our captor not knowing who we are, 
not realizing our connection and our purpose in 
being here. We came unannounced and he spoke to us, 
believing us to be merely pathologist and 
psychologist, and we let him. Identifying ourselves 
as FBI Agents would have been the appropriate thing 
to do, but by tacit agreement we both left our 
badges in our pocket, instinctively knowing that 
confronting him with such signs of authority would 
make him clam up. The ensuing interview soon proved 
us right, and provided us with our first suspect, 
and the only one we needed, as it turns out. 

Revealing ourselves now, would only further incense 
his rabid hatred for any and all authority figures. 
I know this, but it still takes all I have to not 
say a word to give us away. All I want to do is to 
lie down next to your still form, wrap my arms 
around you, close my eyes, and just stay like that 
forever. 

There are more lives at stake here than ours, 
though, and with almost super human effort I pull 
myself together and surreptitiously cast a glance 
at our captor. Harry LeFoe III is standing over 
your insensate body, breathing hard - mesmerized, 
it seems, by the shadow of death hovering over the 
scene. You'd think he would be used to it, having 
caused so many deaths already, but perhaps he 
recognizes the struggle that took place here, and 
relishes this kill all the more for it. 

There is a thoughtful look on his face as he squats 
down and dips his ring finger in the blood pooled 
at his feet, and then brings it up to his mouth. 
His tongue snakes out and he licks the vital fluid 
from his stained digits, smiling as he does so.

Gathering more of the red liquid, he leans forward 
and you are hidden from sight. He's a big man, 
tall, with broad shoulders and arms the size and 
girth of tree trunks. His shoulders bunch and his 
arm moves with frightening purpose. I strain to see 
what he is doing, simultaneously curious and 
horrified at the though of him desecrating your 
body. When he sits back on his haunches, I see he 
has drawn an intricate pattern on your forehead, an 
ornate cross, sketched in blood.

~~~~~>~~~~>~~~>~~>~> X <~<~~<~~~<~~~~<~~~~~

"Skinner just handed us a case that looks pretty 
promising."

"Promising as in...?" 

"Picture this. A Summer Camp, three supervisors 
dead, found hanging in the dormitory, one nurse 
narrowly escaping the same fate."

"And where's the X-File?"

"Getting to it. Check this out. No suspects, but 
wet footprints at each scene leading to and from a 
nearby lake, and plenty of tales doing the rounds 
of revenge from beyond the grave."

"Mulder, this case is not for us, and you know it."

"People are dead under suspicious circumstances, 
sounds like an X-File to me."

"Sounds like a case for the local PD to me."

"What about the fact that no-one in any of the 
dormitories where the victims were found hanged, 
saw or heard anything. This despite the fact that 
in each case there were about twenty boys present, 
none of whom show any signs of being drugged, and 
none of whom woke up while the victims struggled 
for life at the end of a rope?" 

"A conspiracy of silence, drawing closed the ranks 
to protect one of their own? Wouldn't be the first 
time."

"And what about the legends of a ghost rising from 
the lake to avenge a cruel and untimely death?"

"Classic horror movie stuff, take any Summer Camp 
near a lake and you'll have these stories 
circulating around the campfire. There's no mystery 
there."

"Touch‚. But still, it's a case needing 
investigation, so how about we each postpone 
judgment on whether or not this is an actual X-File 
until we get there."

"Mulder -- " 

"Come on, Scully. We don't have anything beyond 
mountains of paperwork to do at the moment, and we 
could both do with some fresh air and sunshine. Oh, 
did I happen to mention the fact that the Camp is 
down in Florida, where the weather's fine and 
there's nary a hurricane's in sight?"

"What about moth men, invisible water creatures 
hiding in the sewer, Fiji mermaids, tattooed 
conundrums..."

"Nope, none of those, except... "

"Except, what, Mulder?"

"You. But don't worry, you'll be the only tattooed 
conundrum for miles around."

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart."

"Then I guess this'll be pretty boring, but 
boring's good, boring's okay, I can stand boring 
for a bit."

"Okay then. Michael Meyers meet your match, the X-
Team is on your a--"

"Wrong movie, Mulder."

~~~~~>~~~~>~~~>~~>~> X <~<~~<~~~<~~~~<~~~~~

That's how it started, the inauspicious beginnings 
to what soon proved to be a case with deadly 
consequences, and it's all my fault. Too intent, as 
always, on proving you wrong, I proved you right 
instead.

LeFoe picks your limp body off of the floor, 
panting at your dead weight, heavy in his arms, and 
shoves you in my direction. You crash to the floor 
and your jacket falls open. Your gun, resting 
snugly in its leather holster, is revealed, shining 
dully in the gleam of the fluorescent lighting. For 
a moment everything goes silent, all background 
noises cease and all I can hear is my own sharp 
intake of breath bouncing around the room. LeFoe 
spits a curse, the sound harsh in the otherwise 
total silence. There is a sense of urgency to the 
hush that has fallen over the room, a sense of 
shocked anticipation of things to come. Then he 
snarls his rage and, quick as a rattlesnake, rips 
your weapon from its holster.

Before I can yell a warning, his booted foot thuds 
into your side. I imagine I can hear the snap of 
bone. Your moan reverberates around the room, 
echoing loud as a gunshot in the hollow spaces of 
my heart. Your body curls around the hurt in your 
gut, trying to protect itself. He kneels down 
beside you and presses the barrel of your gun 
against your throat. 

"Who are you?" he asks, his voice grates on my 
nerves like the scrape of chalk on a blackboard.

You don't answer, and he makes as if to hit you. I 
yell his name and he turns to me. Relieved, I watch 
him get up and stalk away from your heaving form, 
towards me.

He squats down beside me and waves your gun in your 
direction. "You two and item?"

"No," I tell him, and I see his eyes grow darker.

"What then?"

"Nothing. We just work together." From out of the 
corner of my eyes, I see you lift your head, 
panting still, face contorted in pain. I see in 
your eyes the deeper hurt my words have caused, and 
it's all I can do to ignore it and keep my gaze 
focused on LeFoe.

"You carrying a gun, too?"

His finger curls around the trigger and you're 
staring into the muzzle of your own gun, so all I 
can do is nod. He leans over, pats my sides and 
back, and relieves me of my gun.

"Who are you?"

"FBI."

Silent still, LeFoe gets up and goes to the window, 
walking towards it through the blood pooled on the 
floor around the broken body of Kenneth Morrison, 
Junior Camp Supervisor, and the latest victim. The 
man you so valiantly tried to save. Bloody boot 
prints trail their way after LeFoe as he approaches 
the window and looks out across the lake.

With him otherwise occupied, I manage to reach out 
my manacled hands and pull you closer. You're still 
out of it, unable to help, and almost heavier than 
I can manage in your insensate state, but finally 
you're near enough for me to be able to examine 
your injuries.

I lift your shirt a bit, and suck in a breath at 
the multi colored bruises already forming over your 
ribcage. As my hands tentatively palpate your 
flesh, trying to determine if anything is indeed 
broken, you awaken with a groan.

"Crap."

"That about covers it. How're you doing?"

"Just peachy."

"I'm sorry, dumb question under the circumstances, 
huh?"

"Pretty dumb."

"Your ribs feel alright."

"No, they don't."

"Alright, as in I think they're not broken."

"Alright, as in, thanks for the diagnosis but they 
hurt like hell anyway."

"In other words, 'shut up and leave me to my 
misery,' right?"

"Yeah."

"Alright."

~~~~~>~~~~>~~~>~~>~> X <~<~~<~~~<~~~~<~~~~~

"How are the kids doing?"

"They seem okay, which is a wonder after what just 
happened. He's got them driven back into the far 
corner, well away from the windows. They're not 
going to be much help."

"The rest of the staff?"

"Every one else is outside. One look at all the 
blood, and half this mess hall was deserted before 
LeFoe could slam the door closed."

"I seem to have missed most of that."

"You were otherwise occupied."

"How long do you think before the authorities get 
here?"

"I'd guess about thirty minutes more."

"Doesn't leave us much time to try and resolve 
this."

"No, it doesn't, and I have a feeling it didn't 
help his disposition any to find out he's holding a 
couple of FBI Agents."

"Seems strange that he'd let himself be caught red-
handed like this, finishing off Morrison right 
around the time he knew reveille would be blown and 
hungry kids and teachers would start to pour in."

"Strange yeah."

"Any brilliant ideas?"

"Nope, other than that maybe he wanted to get 
caught."

"I don't know if that qualifies as brilliant."

"Why the hell not?"

"Seems pretty damn obvious to me."

"Yeah well, don't ask then."

"Any other insights that might prove helpful?"

"Some, but now I don't know if I should share."

"Do."

"I'm wondering why he picked on Morrison. Out of 
all the staff available, he hangs the three senior 
supervisors, tries to do the same to a nurse who's 
as old as the hills, and stabs Morrison. The first 
four have been here since before time, whereas 
Morrison is a recent arrival. Why them, and why 
hang the first four and stab Morrison? It doesn't 
make sense."

"Must've something to do with his hatred for 
authority figures, though where Morrison fits in is 
a puzzle."

"Yeah, and why didn't he succeed with the nurse, 
where he was able to hang three grown men, and 
without them putting up enough of a struggle to 
wake the bunkhouse he strung them up in?"

"Maybe they died elsewhere?"

"And he just hung them from the ceiling in the 
bunkhouses to make a point?"

"But what point?"

"Maybe something in the way he hung the bodies, or 
the progression through the bunkhouses."

"Huh?"

"I'm thinking that's it, he was here as a kid, 
something must have happened then, something to do 
with the victims."

"I don't follow."

"The first victim was found in the bunkhouse where 
the youngest campers stay, the second where you 
would stay if you stayed for the second year and so 
forth." 

"How do you know all that?"

"Didn't you go to camp as a kid?"

"I did, so?"

"I'm thinking they must be the dormitories he 
stayed in as a kid.

"Say what your saying is right, then where does 
Morrison fit in?"

"Oh but he does, trust me. Mind clueing me in on 
what the hell you two are talking about?"

"You. The why and wherefore of this."

"You really want to know?"

"Yes, we do."

"Why?"

"It seems you have issues about this camp and the 
people who run it. Perhaps talking about it will 
help."

"I have issues with nosy FBI Agents pretending to 
be what they're not."

"We didn't pretend anything. We are what we said we 
are, it's just that we're FBI Agents too."

"You tried to trick me!"

"We didn't. We just want to help."

"Fuck you."

"Just undo these cuffs and come with us, and we can 
work this out peacefully. Please."

"Shut up."

"We want to help."

"Shut up, and you -- get up."

~~~~~>~~~~>~~~>~~>~> X <~<~~<~~~<~~~~<~~~~~

LeFoe stands over us, steel-toed boots wide apart, 
arms akimbo, gun dangling loosely from his fingers, 
eyes trained on you. At his command, you climb to 
your feet with some effort, and he pokes the gun 
into your side and forces you to walk towards the 
middle of the room.

"Don't. Whatever you mean to do, don't."

"Shut up."

"Or take me instead."

"Shut up."

This time, his boot lashes out and finds *my* side 
and I bend double in agony. When I straighten up, 
there's a noose around your neck and he's tying off 
the other end, leaving you just enough rope to 
breathe -- as long as you stay upright.

"LeFoe, don't."

"You really wanna know why I'm doing this?"

"I want you to let my partner down from there."

"Shut up, or I pull this here rope a might 
tighter."

"Alright, alright, calm down."

"I am calm."

"Please, let my partner down."

"Nope, gotta have me some insurance when your 
cronies come busting in here."

"They'll not come busting in here."

"Yes, they will."

"Not if you give yourself up first. Let it go, let 
us help you."

"You can't help me."

"Yes we can. Something happened here, didn't it, 
Harry, something happened to you when you stayed 
here as a kid."

His face crumples. "Morrison's dad was running this 
camp when Suze and I came here the first time."

"Suze?"

"Susana, my sister."

"Oh." My attention is elsewhere. From out of the 
corner of my eye I can see you concentrating on our 
conversation, willing questions my way, while your 
breath gets shorter and shorter and pain and 
fatigue mark your face.

"She was so very pretty, special. There wasn't 
anything in the world that I wouldn't do for her. I 
never told her that, that I'd do anything and 
everything for her, and then I never could."

"What happened?"

"They used her. She was an innocent and they used 
her." 

"The three supervisors?"

"Yeah."

"Then where do Morrison and the Nurse fit in?"

"Morrison's dad knew about it, Suze went to him and 
he didn't do a thing but tell her not to talk to 
anyone about it, that they would think her a little 
whore if she told."

"Same with the nurse?"

"Same message, different specifics."

"I'm sorry."

"They knew about it and they just let it happen, 
year after year, until I finally found out. It had 
been going on for three years by then."

"How did you find out?"

"She tried to hang herself."

"Tried?"

"I found her in time and she told me what had been 
happening. I went to Morrison but I was only twelve 
and no match for him. I tried to stab him but he 
just laughed me out of his office. When I came 
back, Suze had walked into the lake until she 
couldn't walk no more. They dragged the lake for 
hours and finally brought up her tiny bloated body 
the next day. 

"I never did get to tell her I'd do everything for 
her, and in the end I wasn't able to do anything 
for her."

"I truly am sorry, I know what it's like to lose a 
sister, we both do." 

"Fuck you."

"Let us help, please."

"Like your colleagues did when I went and told them 
what had been going on?"

"You went to the FBI?"

"After the cops and the doctors and everyone told 
me to drop it, that there was no evidence and I 
should just put it behind me and get on with my 
life and all that happy horseshit. They were my 
last resort. They didn't do anything either."

"Jesus."

"Yeah, well, there you have it, end of story."

"Not quite. Why hang them in the dormitories like 
that, why not quietly dispose of the bodies?"

"I did. I hung them till they croaked, and dumped 
them in the lake."

"But -- "

~~~~~>~~~~>~~~>~~>~> X <~<~~<~~~<~~~~<~~~~~

The sound of sirens puts an end to our 
conversation. LeFoe looks up in sudden shock at 
having run out of time. As he gets up, I chance a 
glance at you and my concern ratchets up a notch as 
I notice the trouble you're having. 

The noose around your neck is being pulled tighter 
and tighter, the effort of staying upright wearing 
you down. Your throat is bruised and abraded, 
bleeding in places where the rope burn is 
particularly severe. 

LeFoe shoves against you as he rushes towards the 
window and you loose your footing. In slow motion I 
watch you pitch forward, watch as the weight of 
your body pulls the rope so tight that you can't 
breathe. I yank at the radiator again. It gives a 
little more, but still my strength is no match for 
so much unforgiving metal.

"LeFoe don't," I yell. "Don't let this end in 
another tragedy. All the rest were killings out of 
revenge; there are extenuating circumstances there. 
Killing an FBI Agent in cold blood is not going to 
go down so well."

Your face is turning cyanotic and your hands are 
desperately clawing at the noose encircling your 
neck as you struggle to regain your footing. Just 
as I think I'm about to lose you for good, you 
finally succeed in finding your feet and manage to 
loosen the rope a fraction. You breathe in a huge 
gulp of air, which immediately starts a spate of 
coughing that has tears rolling down your cheeks. 
Tears of sympathy and relief course over mine as 
well, as slowly the morbidity leaves your face.

"You're out of time, game's over LeFoe, you won."

"No, I didn't."

"You did what you had to do for your sister. Let 
her rest in peace now."

"I can't."

"Yes you can, it's over."

"Shut up." His face is red and I think he's 
actually about to cry, then it's as if granite 
takes possession of his features. "I told you, I 
can't."

"Why not?"

"What am I going to do now, huh? She's still dead, 
I still can't tell her anything."

"Give yourself up, please. You've had your revenge. 
Let it go."

For a moment, I think I have him, but then his eyes 
light up as he looks as you. "Not quit, the nurse 
survived, somebody needs to take her place."

With that, he yanks the rope tighter and your knees 
buckle. He looks on as you start to choke again, 
laughs strangely as your body slowly goes still, 
and then casts a startled eye in the direction of 
the door, which buckles under the weight of a 
battering ram. The cavalry has arrived. The kids 
must have told them we were in here with an unarmed 
man and LeFoe seems to have forgotten he no longer 
is. Both our guns are still sticking out of the 
waistband of his jeans. Instead of using them, he 
cuts the rope strangling you, heaves you over his 
shoulder, makes for the side entrance and flees in 
the direction of the lake.

All this passes me by, it's only later, looking 
back, that I realize the sequence of events; my 
eyes cannot seem to shake the image of your face 
and lips turning blue, your eyes bulging, your body 
slowly going limp. 

The door is sturdy and the battering ram is a long 
way from breaking through, no one seems to have 
noticed LeFoe has escaped and left the side door 
open. I realize it's all up to me, whether you live 
or die is in my hands. With adrenaline-induced 
strength, I give a mighty yank, and the radiator 
finally comes loose.

Not caring that I'm bleeding from where the cuffs 
have bitten deep into the flesh of my wrists, I 
rush out after LeFoe. He's already in the lake up 
to his thighs and I panic when I don't see you out 
there with him. I only start to breathe again, when 
I see you are laying on the shore, feet dangling in 
the water but otherwise high and dry. I'm sure he 
meant to baptize you as he did his first three 
victims but something held him back. As I dash 
towards you, I catch a glimpse of something in the 
water, brown hair floating around the round moon 
face of a small girl, eleven at most. She is 
smiling and beckoning and when I look at LeFoe, he 
has this rapturous expression on his face, as if 
he's just received absolution.

Then I'm next to you and your throat is bloody and 
raw, bruised black and blue and there's a strip of 
skin missing in an almost perfect circle and you 
aren't breathing. I fall down beside you and one 
hand goes behind your neck and instantly becomes 
soaked with your blood and the other pinches your 
nose shut and I breathe and I breathe and I breathe 
for you. Your chest rises and falls with my 
breaths, but you're not breathing on your own, and 
I do compressions and don't care that I'm further 
damaging your damaged ribs. And finally, finally, 
you cough, and it sounds awful and your face twists 
with the effort, and I find myself sending up a 
prayer of thanks when I hear you take a rasping 
breath.

~~~~~>~~~~>~~~>~~>~> X <~<~~<~~~<~~~~<~~~~~

You wear turtlenecks all the time now. 

They look good on you, but knowing what's hidden 
beneath makes me wince in sympathy every time. Your 
doctors assure me that the scars will heal, that 
they'll fade and will hardly be noticeable after a 
time. All that'll be left will be a thin white 
line, just a thin white line, only visible when the 
light hits it just so.

A thin white line, reminding me you nearly died.

You've been on sick leave and we've not seen each 
other for a bit. I've been at the office, mostly. 
We're inundated with paper work once again, medical 
bills and incident reports and background checks to 
fill in the gaps in our account, which is due to 
hit Skinner's inbox tomorrow. I gladly filled in 
form after form, grasping any excuse to stay away 
from you. 

You nearly died, again; a thin white line this time 
demarcates the occasion. 

How often is this going to happen before your luck 
runs out, before mine does?

The fact that you were bedridden for a while, under 
observation because of the danger of delayed onset 
of respiratory failure, and then unable to talk 
without causing yourself pain, spared me having to 
voice my fears to you. You've been home for a 
couple of days now, but unable to talk on the phone 
and I've stayed away like the coward I am. The few 
times I've seen you, your eyes screamed bloody 
murder at me as your hand furiously scribbled notes 
that I pocketed without reading.

You nearly died, again, this is the thing I keep 
getting back to -- you, dead, and where does that 
leave me?

A line, a line needs to be drawn, a thin white 
line. 

What is it going to be next time? We've both 
already been shot; poison, haven't had that yet, I 
don't think, and neither of us has been stabbed yet 
-- cut, yes -- but not stabbed, how about 
electrocution? We stood by while Darren Oswald 
worked his magic, but neither of us has been hit by 
lightning yet, have we?

You nearly died, and I nearly was left behind, and 
we need to draw a line, somewhere.

It's Sunday now. You'll be back at the office, on 
Monday. I received a terse e-mail this morning to 
inform me of the fact and I'm terrified, have been 
all day, while I contemplated death. You nearly 
died and a thin white scar delineates the occasion 
and you nearly left me alone.

The e-mail stated that your voice too is back, 
mostly, it's still hoarse and you shouldn't speak 
too much, or too long, or it goes out on you again. 
When you do speak, you sound like Marlon Brando. 

The fact that you hate the way you sound wasn't in 
the e-mail, it was in your inflection when you 
called just now and informed me you're coming over 
to talk. 

You nearly died, a thin white line and you nearly 
died.

A knock on the door and you're there, wearing jeans 
and a black turtleneck and a scowl like a thin 
white line bisecting your forehead, and all I can 
think is I almost lost you, I almost lost you and 
where does that leave me?

~~~~~>~~~~>~~~>~~>~> X <~<~~<~~~<~~~~<~~~~~

"How're the ribs?"

"Just hunky dory."

"Truth?"

"Hurting a bit but they're okay, what about yours?"

"They're fine."

"Good, that's good."

"Have they found LeFoe's body yet?"

"Yeah, right where twenty five years ago they found 
his sister's body."

"Think she really was haunting that lake?"

"I could swear I saw her in the water..."

"Me too, I think."

"And I think it might have been her placing the 
bodies in those cabins for the authorities to find, 
for us to find."

"Now you're reaching, Mulder."

"Who else could it have been?"

"LeFoe himself, for one, crying out for someone to 
stop him?"

"Or his sister, doing the same. He said he dumped 
the bodies in the lake."

"He could have gone back to get them, hung them in 
the dormitories, and never known he did it himself, 
there's a condition..."

"I know. Do you know that back then the camp wasn't 
co-ed? Boys and girls were strictly segregated 
then."

"So?"

"So I'm wondering how those three ever got to 
Susana."

"Hmm..."

"I spoke to the nurse and she told me LeFoe always 
had an unhealthy interest in his sister, and she in 
him."

"Think he might have been taking advantage of her 
himself?"

"It's a distinct possibility."

"Guess we'll never find out now, huh?"

"Guess not. But whatever was going on with LeFoe or 
his sister, I think they're both at peace now. The 
danger seems to have passed, and I'm just glad we 
both escaped with our lives."

"A truer word was never spoken."

"I'm so sorry I got us into this, Scully. Sorry you 
got hurt, sorry I keep dragging you into danger, 
sorry..."

"That is *such* crap."

"What?"

"You do not drag me into danger, you are not the 
one that hurts me, except when you get like this. 
I'm a grown woman, I make my own decisions."

"But I lured you with false promises, baited you 
until you couldn't say no."

"If that's what you think, you either give yourself 
too much credit, or me too little. I could have 
said no, I could have made a convincing argument 
for us not to accept the assignment, I chose not 
to, I chose to go."

"Scully -- "

"Stop it. I've been thinking on this all weekend 
and I'm drawing a line here. Cut the self 
flagellation, stop thinking the world revolves 
around you, I make my own decisions and I stand by 
them and if they turn out to be mistakes, then the 
mistake is still mine, not yours."

"But -- "

"Mulder, I'm warning you, this line is very thin 
and you're in danger of stepping over it."

"Scully, shut up for a moment and let me finish."

"Please do, but I'm warning you, tread carefully."

"I was going to say that, yes, I know and accept 
that we lead a dangerous life, either one of us 
could have been killed last week, I know this. But 
that's not going to stop me from worrying."

"Worrying is okay, worrying is good, I like it when 
you worry a little, just don't let it override 
everything else and for god's sake stop blaming 
yourself for every bad thing that happens to me, 
okay?"

"Okay."

"Promise?"

"I promise to try."

"That'll have to do, I guess. See you Monday, 
then."

"I'm glad we talked."

"Me too."

"As an apropos, do you know how sexy I find it, 
that you sound like my favorite movie star?"

"What?"

"The original Wild One, partner, the Godfather of 
Godfathers."

"God, you're so bent it's a wonder you can see 
straight."

"What did I ever do to deserve this disrespect?"

"Mulder, I will see you Monday."



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