JUST THE TWO OF US: Book I Richard and Sheila (and Fox) 3/3
By Windsinger

Chapter 10

Tuccon Air Park Terminal, Colorado
November 20, 1993

With an odd feeling of regret Mulder watched Richard Charles
pull away from Tuccon's tiny terminal. Despite the fact that
Richard was privy to the one piece of information Fox definitely
did not want generally known, that he was possibly, potentially in
love with Dana Scully - <Fox Mulder, you are a coward> - he wished
Richard worked in Washington. It would be a pleasant change to have
a friend, a male friend he was comfortable with, someone with whom
he could drink the occasional beer, shoot the shit, go jogging with
and shoot some hoops, get drunk when he needed to, and rate women
as they slinked into the smokey bars on their nightly prowls. Oh,
Scully was great company, and he had done most of those things with
her. She just tolerated his juvenile antics with bemused
resignation and threw him the aspirin bottle in the morning, but
that was not the same thing as having a male friend to carouse
with.

Hefting his luggage, Fox looked on the snow capped Rockies for
half a dozen heartbeats before heading into the terminal. The
starkly glistening, majestic mountains he had seen on his run the
day before were slumbering now, hazed over by low clouds and mist.
The weather was no longer mild and he was grateful for the warmth
of the terminal after the damp, moist bite of the mountain air.

Suitcase and garment bag checked for Washington D.C.- the name
of that town never sounded so beautiful - Fox flexed his shoulders,
and took a one minute spin around the small facility, but he found
nothing interesting to occupy his restlessness except for an
ancient Hand of Doom arcade game. At least the chairs in the
terminal's single boarding lounge were reasonably comfortable. It
had felt odd not to have to show the permit that allowed him to
take his weapon on board. Fox hoped that they would give him his
gun back when he returned to D.C. He felt naked without it. He had
made an appointment with Dr. Adams for the next morning, before he
was even due at the office. He thought the young resident would be
pleased - Scully, too - that he had put on a little weight and,
better yet, that the weight was in muscle mass not fat. Hopefully,
she would also take him off the nightly sedatives.

Yes, Scully, I've been a good boy. Good until this evening
anyway, he thought with a rueful smile.

Still twenty minutes before boarding and Fox fidgeted,
regretting not buying more reading material. He had finished all
the SciFi novels and thrillers Dana had bought for him before he
left and the terminal's one small shop did not open until nine.
Casually, Fox picked up the local paper and, in about a minute and
a half, had scanned all the even mildly interesting articles,
marveling at how small town papers slanted the news to their
audience. The rezoning of the school systems was hot news, the
breakout of hostilities in Bosnia was a bullet item under 'In the
World Today'.

Fox even read the marriage announcements in the society
section, shaking his head at the fifties style description of dress
and attendants, destination of the honeymoon, 'the couple will be
residing at', et cetera. He had once thought that he would never
see his name in such a place, now even the distant possibility
touched his heart as soft as a cat's paw. <Watch it, Fox. Keep
thinking that way and you'll have the stewardess in your lap the
whole trip.> What had Richard said about the silly grin he got on
his face when he was caught daydreaming about Scully? 'That there
was nothing like romance to attract women, like moths to a flame?'
At this rate it was going to be a long, long day.

Sixteen minutes now until boarding, another ten to take off.
Fox sighed, pulled out his pen and started on the crossword puzzle
in the local paper. Two minutes, not his record but they referred
to a lot of names of characters in soap operas he never watched.
Despite that handicap, he got most of it through a process of
elimination.

About the time he was trying to pulling up out of his mind
whether Erika on 'All My Children' spelled her name with a 'K' or
a 'C', Fox began to feel a tingling in the back of his mind. He
tried to dismiss it at first. He had not felt the warning pressure
of his sixth sense since, well, since he had been entertained by
Angela, and he saw no reason he should be getting warning messages
here.

With the ease of long practice he scanned the room without
seeming to. What was incongruous, out of place? The answer was not
long coming. There were four men, in identical dark suits, inside
the terminal. They were conspicuous in that they all wore dark
glasses, hats pulled low over their eyes and all were doing
absolutely nothing; one by the pay phones, one by the
electronically activated front doors, one by the ticket counter,
one by the hallway which, the signs said, led to the rest rooms.
They had cheap Secret Service written all over them. Some VIP's
quartet of fourth rate bodyguards, who watched too many gangster
shows.

Fox's eyes strayed to his briefcase, where he kept the copy of
the case file he had been working on with Richard. These guys were
not the type to be hired by whatever white collar criminal was
orchestrating the extortion ring. No class and too scary for such
a vanilla bland operation. More likely, they were bodyguards for
some drug cartel kingpin or some third world country dictator's
son, who had come to try out the skiing. Not a concern of his, but
still...

Casually standing to stretch and then walking like a man who
had business to take care of, Fox headed towards the rest room,
only glancing peripherally at the dark suited man standing by the
entrance to the hallway. The man eyed Fox, but not suspiciously.
Coldly. That rang a little warning bell. Fox had taken his
briefcase and Scully's computer, but left his coat, planting the
impression that he would be returning. To his relief the hallway
continued past the rest rooms and led to a small door. Fox headed
for that, checking first to be sure he could not be seen by the
quartet. The door led outside to the business side of the terminal
where there were no windows. Just as well, Fox thought, for he
needed a place to think where there were none of the dark-suited
goons around.

He shook his head to clear it. Damn his sixth sense. It warned
him of danger often enough but never was very forthcoming about
what he should do about it.

Across the drive, a Hispanic man was working, tilling a flower
bed. Before his idea had even formed completely, Mulder was heading
towards him. In the space of ten minute, he managed to communicate
his request, in broken Spanish. At least he hoped that what he
actually said was what he meant to say. He left his copy of the
file, some addresses, thirty dollars and a hastily written note
with the gardener with instructions to send it on to Scully by 'Fed
Ex'.

<Acting a little spookier than usual, aren't you, Fox?> he
asked himself. After finding that the side door he had used earlier
had locked behind him, Mulder headed across the lawn, around to the
front of the terminal, shivering. <Now you don't have a report for
Denver and you are going to sound like a damn fool asking Richard
to FAX you his copy.> Of course, he could always pull the copy from
his brain and read it word for word at the meeting, but Fox had
learned at home and later at school, even before Sam's
disappearance, that he made no friends with THAT particular trick.

Mulder tensed as he approached the front doors. Before, one of
the dark-suited goons had been standing in front of the bank of pay
public phones, otherwise, Fox would have called Richard. As the
doors slid opened, warm air rushed out to meet him. Wishing for his
gun and his cellular phone, Fox stepped cautiously inside.

The four men were gone. Never very busy, the terminal was
nearly empty now. Anxiously, Fox checked his watch. Three minutes
to go till take off, everyone else had boarded. He sighed, grabbed
his coat where it had sat undisturbed and trotted quickly to the
boarding exit, his body feeling light, strong, healthy. The
stewardess and the woman on the ground crew staff both gave him big
smiles as he displayed his boarding pass. He found himself smiling
back. Okay, he was paranoid. He would most likely find the four
guys on board together with whoever they were guarding. And whoever
they were guarding was not his problem. Getting back to Washington
was.

Fox hit his head on the upper lip of the doorway to the main
cabin of the small commuter jet, not stooping low enough as he made
his way down the aisle to his seat. The last to board, he was
relieved to see he still had two seats to himself so he could sit
mostly sideways and save his knees. He threw briefcase, computer,
and coat in the storage bin and settled down, fastening his seat
belt as the stewardess spoke the all important words regarding
oxygen and ditching in the ocean. <Ocean?> Automatically, he
checked out the other passengers, which was when Fox first noticed
that the four men were not on board. Odd. Oh, well, he thought, as
the plane began to taxi, he could settle back and think up a good
story to tell Richard about how he had managed to arrive in Denver
without his report.

Tuned out, Fox didn't pay attention when the plane stopped
taxiing. Planes did that. There was some discussion between the
pilots and the flight attendant. He ignored it, though his eyes did
stray that way. With a plane of this size, he could see directly
into the cockpit. Maybe if he asked nicely they would show him
around. Piloting a small plane was something he had always wanted
to do, but like so many things in life, had never quite found the
time to pursue. Now the crew was cranking down the manual steps.
Probably just a late passenger. Fox rested his head back against
the seat and allowed his mind to drift, indulging itself upon
images of Scully, her smile, her eyes, her compact, perfect little
body. <Just let yourself go, Fox. Don't be afraid. She wants this,
too. She's as much as told you so.> Simple.

Suddenly, life was not so simple.

Cries, commotion, a scream, a man's gruff voice shouting, "No
one move!" from the front of the plane drove Mulder out of his
daydream.

To see the end of a pistol pointed at his head.

Cold ice plunged into the pit of his belly as the adrenaline
pumped in. There were actually three guns he could see now. Besides
the one pointed at him, one was pointed at the pilot, and one
rested against the skull of a middle aged woman seated near the
door. She was crying softly in terror. The gunmen were all too
familiar, easily identifiable as the men from the terminal.

"So here you are," one of the gunmen said gruffly to Mulder.
"When you disappeared, we thought you had caught wind of our
intentions and took a hike. You should have kept walking." His
voice changed when he noticed Fox had not moved. "Out! You think
we're here to say 'Bon Voyage'? Off the plane! And if you don't
cause any trouble, no one will get hurt."

Fox slowly raised his hands. The other passengers were
terrified. He could hear their silence punctuated by the occasional
harsh breath and muffled whimper. This was no place for a fight.
Warily, he unwound himself from his seat and, stooping, began
moving with careful deliberation down the aisle, totally aware of
every twitch of every muscle, every blink of every eye - and almost
every eye was on him. No, no resistance here.

Near the door, the gunman which had been several rows more
towards the front of the plane than Mulder's seat had been, was now
beside Fox and the gun suddenly dug, cold and hard, into the back
of his neck. "That's right, pretty boy. Down the steps now, nice
and easy."

The suit holding the passenger released her, and headed down
the access steps first. Slowly Mulder followed, turning around to
descend as he would a ladder. His feet were on the second step when
he heard the leader growl to the pilot, "We've got more of our
friends in the tower, listening, so we don't want any communication
about this incident, if you know what I mean. Just fly out of here
and not a word for at least thirty minutes or someone up there is
going to die."

The pilot nodded numbly. For a second his eyes met Mulder's
and they were full of fear and apology. Mulder had seen the small
pictures of wife and kids clipped to the sun visor in the cockpit
and knew at that moment that the pilot would do exactly as the
gunman demanded. There would certainly be no call to the police.
Certainly no call that would be in time to do him any good.

No backup either, Mulder realized, as his feet touched the
tarmac and he faced the fourth man who had remained below, who now
stood with his gun trained on the center of Mulder's chest. The
third man had his weapon pressed against Mulder's back and waved
him away from the steps so that the final two from the plane could
descend.

Fox knew he was all alone here. No one even suspected. Now was
the best and only chance he was going to get. He was pretty certain
they wanted him alive and two against one had to be better odds
than four against one. The last two in the plane would have to
reholster their guns to descend the ladder.

Mulder moved, dropped, spun, hoped his self defense training
was going to work this time.

He caught gunman number three, the one who had been holding
the muzzle of the gun at his back, in the knee as he spun, long leg
reaching out. For the moment suit four's view was blocked by the
ladder. Mulder had immediately noted the large, black car parked in
front of the plane's front wheel, engine idling, driver's door
open. A split second glance told him that trying to get the gun
from gunman four would be impossible. Instead Fox relied upon his
track and field days and sprinted for the car, vaulting over the
hood to roll on the ground on the other side near the open driver's
door. Luckily, they had parked so that the car's body provided some
protection from the quartet as he picked himself up and launched
his body low at the open door.

Two shots rang out, whizzing too close above his head. A harsh
guttural voice barked orders to "put that damn thing away!"

He almost made it. Mulder was half in, reaching for the gear
shift with his hand and the accelerator with his foot when a huge
hand reached in, grabbed his arm in an iron grip and tore him from
the driver's seat, spinning his body and slamming it up against the
car. Fox felt all the air expel from his lungs. His chin hit the
car's roof as a fist jabbed with agonizing force into his right
kidney. <Damn!> A corner of his mind told him Dr. Adams was not
going to be happy about that! Fox was not so pleased about it
himself, as he fought the blast of pain and tried to remain
conscious.

In less than the space of a half dozen heartbeats, he was
manhandled again, thrown and pinned up against the trunk so they
could open the back door. The black specks dancing around the edges
of his vision began to coalesce. Doors opened. On the opposite side
of the car, large black forms ducked into the car. Doors slammed.
Iron Hands threw him into the back seat, up against one of the man
who was already seated. Somehow Fox found room for his legs. Iron
hands squeezed in after him and the final door thundered shut.

The car leaped forward. Hemmed in on all sides by black suits,
there was no room to fight so Fox concentrated on dispelling the
gathering dark, maintaining control of a body that mindlessly just
wanted to attack, on quieting his gasping breath. A figure in the
front, the leader, turned around and handed something to Iron
Hands. The big man reached out and Fox felt a prick, like the sting
of a bee, on the side of his neck. All the feeling went out of his
muscles, and his body sagged, as his head fell back against the
seat.

The last thing Dana Scully's partner saw, as the car and his
consciousness sped away, was a view of the plane which would have
taken him home to her.

********

Mulder found that if he concentrated, he could still flex his
fingers, though they were almost entirely numb. Could be worse,
after having been tied to a chair with his arms bound behind his
back for at least twenty-four hours. Could be worse but not much.
His toes felt like they belonged to someone else, as did his butt,
from sitting so long in the hard metal chair. He took the cold air
into his lungs, trying to dispel the cobwebs. Smelled mildew and
tobacco and sweat. Had to try to stay awake. Since he had awakened
here, they had let him have little enough sleep but he could hear
them in the next room again and he wanted to be alert, in case some
opportunity for escape, no matter how small, presented itself.
Agent Mulder was becoming impatient. Dangerous that. To himself
mostly.

They would be coming to see him again, of this he had no
doubt. They had a singleness of purpose, an incredibly boring
singleness of purpose. What did he know about White Hall
Industries? What did the FBI have on file about White Hall
Industries? Where were the files? How many copies were there? Fox
could not remember when he had been interrogated by a more
unimaginative group. They could bore a man to death.

Up till now Mulder had remained cool and collected, an
attitude which really ticked these guys off. He had gotten out of
worse fixes. These people did not even really want to kill him.

They had kept him blindfolded since he had awakened in this
place, apparently believing that the low slung hats and dark
glasses had provided a sufficient disguise earlier. They wouldn't
have bothered with the blindfold or the disguises if they intended
to kill him. Good thing they didn't know about the eight-by-ten
glossies he had in his mind. He had even linked up each voice with
its mental photograph. Noses, mouths, jaws and chins could be as
distinctive as eyes and hair.

His deepest regret was the missed dinner with Scully. His
growling stomach told him it definitely missed the dinner, and he
missed Scully. His heart and his body felt the emptiness of his
disappointment. His life had been concentrated towards that
meeting, nothing beyond. What he thought the two of them would
have done, Fox was not sure but the ache in his loins and the
remembered velvet of her voice gave him a pretty good idea. The
missed rendezvous had one plus side though. Even if everyone at the
airport and on the plane was too frightened to come forward, Dana
would know when he failed to show. She would dig into it. She would
trace back each flight and heaven help the airport staff when
Special Agent Dana Scully descended on them.

There were advantages to having a tigress care what happened
to you. <Sorry, Dana. Just come get me, okay? You are so awfully
good at pulling my ass out of the fire.>

At first Fox had hoped that some hero at the airport would
come to his rescue, hoped some civic-minded soul had seen the
confrontation, noted the license plate number, called the local
police. Waking up in this dark, cold room only a few hours after
his kidnapping, Fox had found himself listening to every little odd
sound, hoping for the local cavalry to come bursting in, maybe with
Richard at their head. Perhaps, he had envisioned, he could even
take a later flight, skip the briefing in Denver, blaming it on his
traumatic experience, and still make it home to Scully on time for
dinner.

No such luck. Just the four wise guys in the suits and their
droning, monotonous voices. Fox was beginning to become concerned.
He could stall even theses amateurs only so long and the pain of
inactivity in his limbs was getting worse. The dryness in his mouth
was beginning to burn. The long, long hours of boredom were
beginning to get to him and he was seeing Scully's concerned and
anxious face more and more in his half-waking dreams. The pressure
in his bladder was also becoming seriously painful. If he wet
himself that would not help his case. Hard to intimidate anyone
when you smelled that way.

A door opened. Under the edges of his blindfold a grey light
peeked in. Footsteps. Light footsteps. None of the goons walked
like that.

"Hi, handsome," a woman's voice purred. Fox's mind snapped to
attention. He did not profess to be as good with voices as he was
with faces but, besides being obviously female, he thought this one
sounded familiar.

"Morning." A raspy whisper was all he could manage. "Or is it
afternoon?"

"Evening, actually. If you're good they are going you give you
something to eat and drink. Nothing fancy."

Fox nodded wearily, trying to look more weak and disoriented
than he felt, but realized he was not going to have to work very
hard at that role. He heard two of the goons come in and they began
loosening him from the chair. He tried not to groan audibly as his
arms came forward but the blood rushing in hurt like hell. He tried
to stand, ended up holding onto the chair back for support while he
tried to get his legs to unbend and bear his weight reliably. He
realized he was not going to be able to stand straight, in any
case, for a while.

"Bathroom?" he asked hopefully, and trying to keep the
plaintive tone out of his voice. She might have made a motion with
her head. He thought he heard her hair swish against her shoulders.
Blindfolded, he could not tell.

"Over there. There's a bucket in the corner." Then realizing
'over there' didn't mean much to a blind man. "Straight ahead and
to your right."

Mulder nodded, moved slowly forward, arms outstretched, and
finally found the corner and then the bucket. He fumbled with his
fly, because he could barely feel his fingers, kept his face to the
wall, actually rested his aching forehead against the cold, damp
concrete wall and did what he had to do. The relief went a long way
towards easing his all around tension.

When he was finished, the young woman came up softly and took
his arm. "I would have helped you, Handsome," she said, in a voice
husky with obvious sexual overtones. "Any time. You only needed to
ask."

"I'll keep that in mind," he croaked.

The prisoner was led to the outer room which was at least
warmer than where he had been held. As he eased his stiff, aching
body and his numb rear into yet another metal chair, Fox could
sense that one of the black suits was melodramatically holding a
gun near his head. Fox could smell the oil. There seemed to be a
table in front of him and he could smell food. They cuffed his
right wrist to the arm of the chair and tied his ankles to the
chair legs, leaving his left hand free. Obviously, they did not
want to be bothered with having to feed him and they must have
figured he would be less dangerous with his left hand than his
right.

Fox ate slowly, savoring the time available to gather more
information on his situation. Afraid of spilling the glass of water
they had given him because he was afraid there may not be more.
They had given him no silverware so he had to use his fingers. The
food was cheap macaroni and cheese prepared from a box. Not real
food, but better than nothing. He ignored the sound of the
television which everyone else in the room seemed to be watching.
Some soap opera.

Another figure entered the room. "Hey, Joe, Pretty Boy
behaving himself?"

"Good as gold so far."

"Just make sure he stays that way. Whatcha watchin'?"

"Ah, this is a tape of the 'Young and the Restless' we made
the day we picked up the FBI cover boy. We haven't had a chance to
watch it yet." Suddenly, the sound coming from the TV changed tone.
"Jeeze, I hate special reports," the one called Joe grumbled.

"Well, fast forward through it then," one of the other men
said irritably.

"Hey, no. Wait," said the first man who had spoken. Placing
the voice, Fox knew this man was the leader, the one who made
decisions. His name was Vince. "I want to see this."

"...continuing investigation of the crash of Wagner Airlines
Denver bound flight 134 out of Tuccon, Colorado this morning..."

Vince began. "Joe, you said this was taped the day we made the
pickup at the airport? Hey, FBI, what do you think about that? Your
plane crashed. Of all the dumb luck. If we hadn't pulled you off,
why, you'd be dead now. Now aren't you going to say thank you?"

Mulder's ears had tuned to the report as soon as the content
wormed into his consciousness. He felt an odd terror, like being
enfolded in chill, dangerous waters. Without thinking, he tore the
blind fold off with his cheese-greasy fingers and stared at the
set. None in the room seemed to notice, they were all staring at
the screen, too.

And there was Richard. The cameras showed him and others,
buried in their winter coats, moving about, searching a burned and
debris strewn slope. Richard looked old and grey.

"... and this is Special Inspector Richard Charles. Have they
found evidence of the cause of this disaster, Inspector?"

Mulder's chest ached. The man who reluctantly faced the
reporter was pushing through his obvious exhaustion with barely-
leashed anger.

"No gruesome conspiracy this time, folks. No foreign terrorist
furious over a trade agreement. Guess you'll have to report on
those who died here. The children they left behind, the loved ones
who are grieving, the unfinished lives. PEOPLE died here, Mr. News
Reporter. Write about them." And then Mulder watched as his friend
just walked out of camera range, hands deep in the pockets of his
big coat, head bowed.

Something inside Fox tore. Richard's face, his anger. This was
personal. <He thinks I was on that plane. He thinks I'm dead. Oh,
God. He's called Skinner, I'm sure, and Scully, oh, Scully....>
Mulder felt at that moment as he knew he would if he thought she
was dead. But more than that. A connection Fox had taken for
granted between himself and Dana, suddenly snapped, turned to just
so many ashes in his hands. There was nothing. NOTHING! If Scully
knew he had been taken off the plane, someone would have been here
by now. Richard thought him dead and, by now, Dana did too. There
would be no rescue.

"Guys, lookie here! We finally got a rise out of Mister 'you-
all-are-scum-and-you-don't-frighten-me'," Joe taunted.

"Hey, he looks like he's going to faint -"

"Or throw up," someone laughed.

"Come on, Joe, the food's not that bad -"

"Dim wits!" Vince shouted. "Look up! FBI's taken his blindfold
off!" There was the sound of many chairs being pulled back, bodies
leaped to their feet. They descended.

Something snapped in Fox. All control. When he should have
been careful not to let them know the real extent of his remaining
strength, he exploded. With just his ankles and one wrist secured
to the chair he had considerable mobility. Not very effective but
enough to stand and lash out, to claw and scratch, bite and whip
his body and the rear legs of the chair around. Cause a little hurt
in repayment for the agony he was feeling, for the anguish they
were causing Scully. More than one male voice was raised in pain as
the whipping chair hit ankle and knee. But three sets of thick,
strong and furious hands were too much. Someone grabbed his free
arm and pulled it behind his back, but the tearing pain he felt in
his shoulder was nothing compared to the despair he felt in his
mind. Another took a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back,
while he wrapped his arm under Mulder's jaw. The last thing Mulder
saw before they pulled the blindfold back on was a young woman, a
very beautiful woman, pressed up against the wall of the dingy room
and her eyes were fixed on his face with both fear and - something
else.

They were rough and careful now, where before they had just
been careful. They unfastened him from the chair and bound him
very, very tightly. While they worked, Fox heard the one called
Sid, musing, "Hey, he's really pretty. What was that you said,
Stacie? You said you thought he had someone? Maybe a girl friend?
Maybe a wife and kiddies? They are going to be pretty torn up right
now, thinking you're dead. Ready to talk now, Mr. Cool? You start
talking and maybe we'll leak a little information."

Fox kept his silence. It wasn't hard. He hurt so badly and his
mind was sufficiently confused and stunned that whatever he could
say would not be understandable. Despair was laughing as it taunted
him, asking how much good he thought his little outburst had done.
They literally threw him into the room where he had been held
before. With his arms bound, unmoving, to his sides he could not
catch himself as he fell. Blindfolded again, he could not even see
the hard, damp floor rushing up to meet him.

They closed the door and bolted it and he was alone in the
cold and the dark.

End of Book I, Chapter 10

===========================================================================

JUST THE TWO OF US: Book I Richard and Sheila (and Fox)

Somewhere near Denver
November 24, 1993

Chapter 11

"Agent Mulder..."

The breath of the soft voice tickled his ear. A groan, his
own, as he emerged painfully from a fitful sleep. Cramped neck
muscles complained bitterly as he raised his chin, but then
sleeping tied upright in a chair had never been comfortable.
Becoming fully awake brought no improvement. Turning his head
towards the sound of the voice made the dark world spin. Groggily,
he tried to remember how he had gotten here. He opened his eyes or
thought he did. Eyes opened or closed there was little difference.
Still blindfolded. Still cold. Still without any hope of release.

The woman had woken him from the few hours of real sleep he
seemed to recall being able to get. "You look a little better," she
said. "Do you remember last night? You had a fever." Vaguely Fox
remembered violent shivering that seemed to go on and on through
hour after hour of torturous waking dreams. Spending a night and a
day lying on the bone-chilling damp of the cement floor must have
made him ill. "You were begging for them to tell your girl you
weren't dead, but you really weren't very coherent."

Close around him was the smell of old urine and stale vomit.
The night had been bad. Was that his voice he could still hear
pleading into the darkness? <Call her, just call her! For mercy's
sake...> And there had been swearing when they kept asking about
the documents. <Documents?... Damn, who cares.> He felt the burning
in his eyes. He must have some fever still.

Her voice came again. "Do you want some water?" asked the
whispered, frightened voice.

He nodded and felt her place a paper cup to his dry lips. The
water felt so good in his mouth, for a moment he did not even want
to swallow, actually was afraid he might not remember how. Since
the night of the macaroni and cheese he had been given nothing to
eat or drink except for the little water the woman had managed to
get between his clenched jaws.

"Not too fast, Agent Mulder," she told him, easing back on the
cup. "Let's see if that stays down." He licked his lips. Realized
he felt like hell. Disoriented from the darkness and the fever,
weak from no food and dehydration, and then the white aching agony
in his shoulders and neck and legs and butt and - well, everywhere.
"I tried to give you some last night," came her voice, "but you
wouldn't drink it. For some reason you were afraid it would be
poisoned or drugged."

He shook his head, trying to clear the fog from between the
synapses. Not too surprising about that. Some fevered memory of
Angela drugging his food and water.

"Why do you call me, 'Agent Mulder'?" he asked, keeping his
voice low to match hers, not only because helping him was obviously
forbidden, but because his throat hurt less that way. "That's
pretty formal. On the whole my guards have been less polite."

"I wouldn't complain if I were you. I'm only trying to show a
little respect." He sensed her head turning anxiously to her right,
in the direction of the door to the outer room. Obviously, she was
concerned about being found out.

More of the sweet water flowed like silk down his throat.
"Your name is Stacie? isn't it. I've heard them call you that."

"Yeah, that's me. You're pretty observant."

"I'm blind, not deaf."

He decided to risk some new waters. He sensed she was
frightened and when he had gone ballistic, as he was losing his
hopeless battle with the 'suits', he had seen sympathy in her
horrified eyes. "How's your ankle? You do jog, don't you? " He
heard her gasp softly. "I saw your face for a moment when we were
in the room out there," he explained, gesturing with his head in
the general direction of the door. "It took me a while to place
where I had seen you before, but then I haven't had much of
anything else to do."

Her words were delivered sharply, in warning. "Don't let them
hear you say that. The only reason you are still alive is that they
think you can't identify us." Her voice softened. "Why didn't you
take me up on my offer? If you had let me come back to your room we
could have had a little fun," her voice purred. "Afterwards, I
would have given you a little something to make you sleep and then
I would have been off with the file and all of this could have been
prevented. The first good-looking man they've asked me to seduce in
who knows how long and he has to be one of a half dozen men I've
met in my life who's monogamous."

'Monogamous'? If only that much were true. Fox let his head
drop limply. "Story of my life. Damned if I do and damned if I
don't." Unconsciously he tried to look at her, his instincts still
not persuaded that he couldn't see. "Look, since I already know who
you are, can't you remove this blindfold for just a little while."

"I don't think -"

"Please, I'm getting awfully tired of being in the dark."
There was no role playing involved here. He was. He hoped the room
would quit spinning if he could just tell up from down for a little
while.

She sighed and began to work loose the binding at the back of
his head. "All right, but be prepared for me to have to put it back
suddenly.

Coolness hit his closed eyes. He opened them and met a dim
greyness that gradually focused. The room was dark. He could barely
make out the woman's features but partial vision was far better
than the nothing he had been staring at.

She gave him more of the water. "What do you think you are
doing by the way? What do you hope to gain by stalling?"

He smiled grimly and licked his dry lips, looking intently
into her face. She WAS sympathetic and clearly attracted to him.
How far was he willing to go to get out of this? He might have to
change her mind about this monogamy business. <Richard, let's hope
this female radar thing is for real.> "If you've figured that out,
you're smarter than they are."

"I'm lots smarter than they are and smarter than you, if you
think anyone is coming. And stalling is only making them angry.
They smell success. As an arm of the great FBI you had protection,
but you've let them see you as a person, as someone who can be
hurt." She added warningly as if she knew, "And they enjoy that
sort of thing."

"You don't."

"That is not what I signed up for. I don't know why I should
care, but I won't leave you alone with them." Oh, yes, fear was in
her voice.

"Stacie, what are they going to do?"

"It's not going to be good. Agent Mulder, you have to deal.

Your friends think you are dead. No one is looking for you."

He swallowed. "Call someone for me? Please? She's really torn
up about this."

After an obvious pause, he could see her shake her head in the
dark. "Your girl friend? Your wife? They'd have my skin. They are
afraid the call could be traced."

There was a part of Mulder that wanted to correct this woman's
preconception, to deny his relationship with Scully the way he
always did. <No, she's just my partner.> But in addition to the
deep, newly awakened part of him that had come to recognize that
she was much more than 'just' a partner, there was the part that
knew this Stacie would never call Scully if she knew his
'girlfriend' was FBI. "Send a letter then, a telegram. Hell, an e-
mail."

"And then what? Once they know, on the outside, they'll start
looking, won't they? And we're the most logical suspects."

A man's voice came suddenly from the far side of the room.
"You tell him, Stacie."

Mulder started at the sound. He must be really out of it if he
had missed hearing one of that crowd sneaking up.

The leader, Vince, weaved in and out of the shadows, coming
nearer. Stacie frantically pulled the blindfold back over Mulder's
eyes, then snatched up the still half full cup. Maybe if Vince saw
that he would think she was only offering the prisoner water, that
the transgression was only hers.

With a roar, Vince grabbed her by the shoulder, and pulling
her away from Mulder, sent her sprawling to the floor.

Mulder did not need his eyes to envision the scene. "Let her
alone," he snarled warningly, with more bravado than he felt.

Vince turned to the prisoner, standing so close Mulder could
feel the heat of his stinking breath on the part of his face not
covered by the blindfold. A huge hand took a grip on his collar and
began to shake Mulder's head back and forth on his neck as a dog
worries an old rug. This not only rattled Mulder's brains but made
his vertigo worse. He had to fight to keep down the little bit of
water in his stomach.

"And YOU!" Vince screamed menacingly, "I'm getting damned sick
and tired of YOU, Mister FBI. Who do you think you are? James Bond?
Bruce Willis? Do you think that everything is going to be just fine
after the next commercial? Well, it's been a long time between
commercials, friend, and you don't seem to understand that you
could die. And you are fooling yourself if you think we won't kill
you. We have nothing to lose. The only reason we've taken this much
time is because we feel pretty safe since no one's looking for you.
Well, our patience is at an end. No more... Joe!" he shouted. "Get
in here and bring your toy."

Fox felt fear begin as tenseness in his shoulders, then
shudders down the length of his numb and aching body. This was not
going well. Joe was the biggest and dumbest of the lot. With his
heightened senses Mulder could hear when the big man entered the
room, could feel the weight of his presence, hear the low, deep
rumble of his breathing like the breath of an ox. Even though it
made little difference one way or the other Mulder closed his eyes
tightly. Tensed, he waited for what he knew would not be good even
while he mind worked furiously trying to come up with a plan on how
he could defuse this situation before it got worse.

The air whistled near Mulder's ear. Unconsciously, he
flinched. Some solid object had been aimed at his head. Probably
had missed on purpose at this stage. Could not be expected to miss
later. Later came more quickly than Mulder expected. Something
moving fast hit him solidly on the back of his head, driving his
chin into his chest. It had hurt but it would have been worse if
the cloth from the blindfold had not padded the blow. The next
caught him in the jaw, not too hard but it stung and brought tears
to his eyes.

Vince spoke languidly from what must have been about six feet
away. "Joe likes to play. He's accurate with that. He's an artist.
What he can do with fingers is impressive, though yours are not
exactly accessible to him right now. Maybe later. In the meantime,
you have a pretty face."

The club clipped a cheek bone just under the blindfold. Mulder
found himself jerking his head at each impact, instinctively and
always too late for he could not see the blows coming.

"How would that pretty face look with the bones all crushed?
Would your girl be so happy to see you then?"

No time to think about the fear that gripped his belly.
Another blow to the jaw came from the other side, harder. Mulder's
head rolled and he tasted blood. "What do you want?" he asked,
trying to sound frightened, knowing it was not entirely an act.

"What we've always wanted. The file you've been working on.
Where is it?"

Mulder took a shuddering breath, again, not only for effect.
He could not, would not, tell them about the gardener he had given
the file to. He would not endanger an innocent man, nor tell them
about sending it to Scully. He would not lead them to her door. "It
was sent to the Denver office. I don't know who has it."

"Not good enough, FBI," Vince said. "We know you were working
on it the day before you tried to fly out so how could it have
gotten there? I'll let Joe play a while and then we'll see if you
can think of a better story."

Vince began to walk away, but as he went he must have give
some signal, because Joe suddenly let loose with a series of blows
to Mulder's arms, shoulders, chest and another one to the back of
his head that made bright stars come out of the darkness. And all
these were frightening more in that they were unexpected than
because they were excruciating. But the blows could become
stronger, could easily be aimed at more sensitive areas like ears
or throat or eyes.

"Stop it, damn you! Stop it!" Stacie shrieked angrily, rising
from the floor where she had been thrown and trying to stay Joe's
hand. Her body was thrown against his, almost into his lap. He
heard her scream in his ears and felt her body recoil when the
vicious club hit her in the ribs.

Mulder's own frantic command of "Stacie, don't!" was way too
late. He felt her groaning body slide off his lap to crumble to the
floor on his feet, sensed Joe leaning down to toss the woman aside.
Anger flared in Fox, exploded. He willed his numb feet to support
his weight, to rise. Forced his body to strain against the bonds
just far enough to thrust upwards. With every bit of strength and
energy left in him, he butted his head in the direction where he
sensed Joe was. His head impacted with something which was both
hard and soft. The ox wailed and swore.

Falling back, the legs of the chair tipped backwards and
Mulder fought to keep the chair upright. Not down, he could not go
down. That would be a position of weakness even worse than the one
he was in. A plan was suddenly there before his blind eyes. A voice
of caution that sounded like Scully shouted in his ear that this
was too dangerous. He knew, without the warning voice, that this
was too dangerous.

"Oh, BIG man, Joe," Mulder began derisively. "Jerk around a
woman and a helpless man. Where's the challenge, Joe. Let me loose.
Let me loose and let's go at this like real men." Mulder wished his
stomach and his shaking limbs felt up to the challenge, wished he
had remembered not to make plans when he was angry. He got hurt
that way, but then he was getting hurt anyway. The man was huge,
Mulder remembered, with biceps, that strained the seams of his
cheap suit. But maybe he would be slow. Mulder hoped so. It was the
only chance he had, the only plan he could think of.

"And what do you think I am? Stupid!" Joe roared back.

Mulder let his face show contempt. "Yes, I do, Joe. You're
stupid. You are all stupid," he shouted in his hoarse dry voice,
trying to get through to Joe and hoping Vince would hear as well.
"You keep asking for something that no longer exists. Incompetents!
Fools! Idiots! Did you ever once think that I might have had it
with me? You pulled me off the plane but not my luggage. Not even
my carry on stuff. The file was in the overhead compartment the
whole time. All you got was me. Just me. You cretins! I can't
believe you were that stupid unless someone else was supposed to
pick up my stuff on the other end. Ah, that's it, isn't it? You and
your buddies were never intended to get it all? Not the good stuff.
You just got the dangerous duty. The man with the gun."
<Supposedly.> "They trusted you so little your job was just to take
me down to make it easier for the brains on the other end. But the
plan didn't work, did it? The plane crashed. Fucking crashed,
burned your precious file to a crisp days ago. And now you have
nothing to show for your time but to beat up on a woman and a man
who can't fight back. Your masters have given you a fool's errand.
They want you to get information from me that doesn't exist because
the plane crashed and they failed at their end." Mulder spat or
tried to with his dry mouth. "You didn't even know I only had a one
way ticket, did you? I wasn't coming back. I was going to hand the
file over to the Denver office and then return to Washington. Done.
You would never have seen me again. Gawd, but your whole operation
is pathetic..."

A huge hand grabbed Mulder's throat cutting off sound and air
like a vice and lifted him until the legs of the chair were off the
floor. Fox had not seen Joe's face turning purple so had gone on
overlong, had not seen Joe's hand reaching for him either.
Struggling with no hope against the iron hand, Mulder fought
frantically just for breath when his plan had been to talk Joe into
fighting him man to man. The blindfold, loosened by Stacie and
Joe's previous abuse of Mulder's skull, slipped down as a result of
the agent's furious struggles. And Mulder found himself staring
Mister Ugly in the face, a face whose expression went from
surprise, to fear of being identified, to a blind rage. In a
murderous fury, Joe heaved the man he held away from him. For
Mulder there was no keeping balance on the chair this time.

Mulder lay sprawled at an awkward angle on the floor, able to
ignore all the other hurt in the relief of just being able to draw
breath over his bruised larynx and into his lungs. He was lying on
his side, still tied to the unforgiving chair, gasping and
straining to see through the dark red mist which obscured his
vision. The mist cleared a little but there was still so little
light, only a greyness from the open door. Yet there was more than
enough for Mulder to suddenly make out the image of Joe. Joe in his
unthinking fury was standing over him, his bloody nose dripping.
The huge arm was raising the black club high, the bestial grimace
on his face a nightmare. Stacie shrieked for Joe to stop, cried
hysterically for Vince, began to pull herself off the floor to
struggle towards him. Fox saw the club descending. Fear screamed at
him to move. But hampered by the chair he could not move.... COULD
NOT MOVE... though every muscle and tendon cried against the bonds
that held him. In another second his head was going to be caught
between the concrete floor and the blur that was the black club
coming down upon him like a freight train screaming in the night...

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

Arlington Cemetery, Virginia
Saturday, 1pm
December 15, 1993

Mulder burst out of the trance as though trying to escape from
the blow that was bearing down upon him. He could not see, the
light was too bright after the interminable darkness of that room,
but it was just as cold, even colder. He did not immediately
remember where he was. A man's face hung before his eyes. Fox
cringed. Only after his eyes adjusted to the light, did he
recognize this man as, not Joe or Vince, but a bearded face, full
of grey, wearing a sad, troubled expression. Richard.

Gasping still, bringing in the cold air to clear the memory of
the exploding agony, Fox felt warm arms holding him, rocking him
gently, willing the tremors attacking him to pass. <Scully, have
you come back?> he thought immediately. <No,> he answered himself
with a disappointment which was nearly as painful as his remembered
bludgeoning. Even as he fought to arrange all the pieces of his
recent life back in their proper order, he knew the arms were not
Scully's but Sheila's. Scully was gone and he was the only one to
be blamed for that.

Richard was crouched in front of him and, Fox realized, that
he was sitting on the ground. Where? He raised his eyes squinting
in the sunlight. Saw the monument, the headstones. <Right,
Arlington. Such a pleasant experience, how could I forget?>

"You all right, Mulder?" Richard asked.

Fox tried to nod, but was not convinced that the movement
could be distinguished from the shudders that had latched onto his
bones and muscles and were only slowly releasing their grip. He
forced his breathing to slow, took a deep shaking breath, held it,
then let it go. "I think so. I guess I got them mad one time too
many." Gingerly, he touched the spot on his head which was still
sore. "I always knew my temper would be the death of me."

Richard looked down and saw the one fist tightly closed.
Slowly he helped Fox to loosen the fingers which were wrapped like
iron bands around the stone. His nails, not as well trimmed of late
as they should have been, had actually drawn small crescent moons
of blood on the palm.

Richard closed the fingers again, but softly as the spasms
subsided, leaving the younger agent weak and quivering. "I know
you're tired, Mulder, but this is the best time. Can you think back
now to before the trip to the airport? What happened before that?"

The lean, pale face went rigid, fear battling with exhaustion
and intense concentration as he tried to remember what he felt he
could not. <Here we go again,> Richard thought with alarm. Trying
to find the good times.

The hazel eyes were open but they were staring, lost and sad.
His body was slumped, mirroring his disappointment. But suddenly
the jaw tightened and Mulder's expression was transformed into an
intense inward turning which Richard realized as the younger man
reaching out in his desperation and taking control. Mulder had put
himself into the trance this time. The senior agent was fascinated
and wondered if Mulder went after everything in his life with such
a singleness of purpose.

The minutes passed and none of the three moved except to
breathe. Sheila watched her husband from her position behind
Mulder, afraid, at first, to move and thus disturb him. Finally,
with Richard's help she got to her feet. Her own body still warm
from holding Fox, she put her arms around her husband, this man she
loved, this man who was, at this moment, as discouraged, as low in
spirit as Mulder. Fox had gotten to them both and his struggles
were painful to watch. Her eyes full of understanding and support,
Sheila raised her face to be kissed. Richard readily accepted her
offer and bent down and touched her familiar lips. That was when
they heard the intake of breath and, looking up, caught hazel eyes
focused on their embrace.

The eyes were wide, no longer hooded. The crease from his brow
was gone, as was the stoop from his shoulders and all in all he
seemed in awe.

"There's my Fox," Sheila whispered in amazement, speaking
softly, as if afraid he would disappear, like his namesake, if she
spoke too loudly.

"I remember that," Mulder said, a little dreamily, still in
his trance.

"What?" Richard asked not moving.

"Your kissing."

"Well, that's not so surprising, we do that a lot," Richard
admitted, playfully giving Sheila an extra hug as he felt his own
tension drain out.

"No," Mulder protested, as if there was fog clearing
somewhere, "I remember a particular kiss. In a confined area. A
closet?"

"A hallway?" Richard prompted.

"In your... house," and Fox Mulder smiled, losing focus again,
searching.

Eager with anticipation Richard released Sheila and dropped to
a crouch beside Mulder, slipping easily into his accustomed role.
"What else do you remember?"

"A room? My room." Fox smiled. "I had to stoop." Pause,
listening, reviewing the tape. "Sheila hates my tie."

Sheila smiled and then asked, unable to wait for Richard to
speak. "After that what?"

"Dinner, lots of noise. Kids. I have a headache." Richard
caught Sheila's amusement. Suddenly, Fox seemed distracted. He
wrapped his arms around his chest. "I'm cold." His voice had taken
on a tone, almost that of a scared child.

"No retreats," Sheila warned and settled down to her place at
his back and put her arms around him. Richard knew that through
both of their heavy coats, her warmth would be barely noticeable,
but he suspected that the cold was as much cold feet, and a
reluctance to face some memory, than an actual chill. Her presence
provided more emotional security than anything else.

"Better?" she asked. Fox's slow but gradual relaxation
answered that. "Then what happened after dinner?" Sheila asked from
behind him.

Mulder looked around blindly, disoriented for a moment.
"That's when I saw you in the hallway. And then I asked if I could
-" And there it was, the memory he had been looking for all these
days. Completely oblivious to her and time and place, he lay back
in Sheila's arms and looked up and to the left as if seeing someone
there. He listened. "Dana," he told them wistfully, "I talked to
her over the phone." Slowly he put a hand to his chest as if
feeling it for the first time.

Richard had been patient, waiting. He knew something momentous
was happening behind those eyes. "What did she say?"

Mulder looked right at Richard. He had come out of the trance
on his own, the emotion had been that intense. There was an odd
look on his face. "I won't tell you."

Richard grinned. "But you remember."

Mulder smiled at that moment very much the way a fox does,
with sly intelligence. "Oh, yes, I remember."

End of Book I, chapter 11

===========================================================================

JUST THE TWO OF US: End of Book I Richard and Sheila (and Fox)

Alexandria, Virginia
Saturday, 3:30pm
December 15, 1993

Chapter 12

Richard stopped at a Chinese restaurant and picked up carry
out before driving all three of them back to Mulder's apartment.
Everyone was feeling some effect from the cold, but Fox was still
shivering when they sat down to eat. He seemed at peace, but the
emotional extremes of the previous days had eaten away at his
energy reserves. A large bowl of hot and sour soup and Sheila's
sugared and - as she clearly informed him with a wink -
'decaffeinated' tea not only brought up his blood sugar, but went
a long way towards warming his insides.

Back at the cemetery, after Sheila and Richard had each taken
an arm and helped him to his feet, Mulder had moved his stiff,
chilled body and retrieved the plaque from where he had hurled it
against the stone wall. With detachment, he sat examining it now.

"For my collection," he quipped. "Anyway, someday they may
really need it and I could save the taxpayers some money. All
they'd have to do is change the date."

Richard raised his eyebrows over his tea. "I'm certain the
taxpayers will appreciate that." Mulder had been quiet since they
had walked from the FBI memorial, but very busy in his head and
neither Richard nor Sheila had bothered him with questions. "How's
the grey matter?" Richard now asked, nearly bursting with the need
to know.

Mulder tapped his skull twice. "Seamless, as far as I can tell
and everything in its accustomed place, odd as that may be. Now the
time at Ravensworth, when I couldn't remember anything, seems like
the dream, like a book I read. For a time it was the only part of
my life that seemed real."

"I'd like to write up what you remember about those four
gunman and where you were held," Richard remarked, once again, as
he had been during their first meeting, all FBI.

Fox nearly smiled. The normality of Richard's suggestion
seemed almost comical under the circumstances. "You never do go on
vacation, do you?."

"And you do? That's not what I hear from Walt. I just think
that between the two of us we can move on this case again. I'd like
to find some way of sticking those creeps with the airline crash.
Accessory to murder at the very least. That would be an unexpected
bonus. The woman sounds distinctive enough. In a small town like
ours she would be easy to locate and through her, them."

Frowning, Fox fished a piece of mushroom out of his soup with
his chopsticks. "Go easy. She tried to help me. It was obvious she
disagreed with the escalation of violence. She may have been
instrumental in seeing that I ended up on the side of that road,
only damaged, not dead."

"I'd say that's a good guess," Sheila agreed. If she had been
in that woman's position she would have hated to have seen this
particular example of the male of the species lost to the gene
pool.

Even before lunch was over, Richard began taking notes as he
debriefed Mulder in excruciating and, for Fox, clearly painful
detail about his captivity. Around three o'clock in the afternoon
Sheila tapped on the top of Richard's head when she noticed Mulder
was beginning to nod.

"Richard, let it go for a while. Fox has had a rough couple of
days."

"A rough couple of months," Mulder corrected, yawning. He was

beginning to wonder if his body wanted to make up for all of its
lost sleep in two days.

Sheila pushed her husband's coat into his arms. "Let's go do
a little sight seeing and let Fox take a nap."

"Only if you want to," Fox yawned again. "I'm tired but I
don't think I can sleep. It's the middle of the afternoon."

"That's what you said yesterday," she remarked, then studied
him. She could tell there was something still on his mind which
would keep him from getting any sleep soon. In response to the
furrows in the forehead and the tension lines at the corner of his
eyes, Sheila announced in a commanding voice, "Okay then, Mister...
If you aren't going to sleep, then at least I can get to those
shoulders properly. Drop. Face down on the floor."

Mulder's eyes widened noticeably. That tone would have sparked
his temper the day before. Now that he knew her better he just felt
a vague annoyance. At least, that was all he thought he felt. He
had learned to largely disassociate himself from her touch when he
was not under hypnosis. What happened under hypnosis - well, his
subconscious could deal with that any way it wanted. Besides, his
body did ache with a deep but vague anxiety that he couldn't place.
For much of the time while he was reliving his kidnapping, he must
have been tense and the prolonged shivering had taken its own toll.
Added to that, he felt he owed these two, and for some reason this
was something Sheila really wanted to do.

Yielding reluctantly, Fox slowly slipped from the couch onto
his knees. Seeing the surrender, Richard, who had gone to get his
coat, rehung it, and, chuckling, picked up one of Mulder's books on
alien abductions as he settled himself back onto the couch. "Go
with it while you can, Mulder. Sheila's massages are not to be
missed."

A cramping began in his belly as Fox slowly, and with some
chagrin, peeled off the sweat shirt and lay on his stomach. When
Sheila straddled him, a roaring began in his ears and the cramp in
his stomach became a twisting pain. As she pressed the palms of her
hands down under his lower ribs, beginning what she called a proper
massage, the panic built into dizzying waves of sickness.

<Damn, Damn, no!>

Mulder clamped his eyes tightly shut and concentrated on
containing what he recognized as a full blown anxiety attack. How
he wanted to throw this woman off, to scream, to do something,
anything physical. Something to stop this panic - but he took hold
of his raging emotions instead and thrust them all inside.

Richard, catching the first subtle change in Mulder's
breathing, raised his head with a jerk from his book. Mulder's face
was turned away from him, but the fingers on the nap of the carpet
were like claws and the sweat glistened on the skin of his back.

Sheila could not help but be aware of the direction of
Richard's worried glance and the sudden slickness under her hands.
She was even more alarmed by the muscles she felt convulsing under
the smooth skin.

"Mulder, what's wrong?" she asked. Not playing now, but
serious, and therefore, no use of the despised first name.

"Nothing," came the slow reply, though the voice was as tight
as the lean body.

"You don't have to do this -"

<But I should be able to!> Mulder screamed to himself, feeling
the muscles of his legs and arms, stomach and shoulders spasming
against the floor. <It's only a damned massage! Hell, Sheila's as
safe as any woman could be.> Her husband was sitting just four feet
away. If he could not bear for her to touch him, then who ever
could.

"I'm fine!" came out, more like a snarl than he had intended.

"Well, you don't seem very FINE to me," Sheila retorted, her
lip curled a little churlishly. "I don't like to have dissatisfied
customers and you're not finding this very enjoyable."

"That's the understatement of the year," Mulder grumbled below
her hearing, though she got the idea. As a cramp developed in his
neck, Mulder restlessly moved his head, turning partially to
Richard now. Richard could see pain lines about his eyes and a deep
crease in that forehead.

Mulder took in air, hissing between his clenched teeth. "I'm
sorry." His voice came out harshly. "It's not your fault. I had a
bad experience the last time I was in this position, so just get it
over with!"

"Do you want to talk about it?" Richard asked, in that voice
all psychologists use.

"No!" The response was quick and emphatic.

After looking to Richard for confirmation, and getting only a
shrug, Sheila set her jaw, took a deep breath and started in in
earnest. If the man was bound and determined to be a martyr, she
was going to make sure he did not have a single pleasant memory
from the experience.

On the couch, Richard squirmed. When Mulder wasn't looking in
his direction, he winced. He had played victim to Sheila's
unleashed temper more than once. Poor Mulder was going to be black
and blue in the morning, or feel like it, but he seemed to want the
torture. He certainly was working something out of his system with
single-minded stoicism, for except for the rare times when his
breath came out in a whoosh or when his mouth opened in a small
involuntary cry, he made no sound. There were times Richard
fervently wished that his wife would take up rug beating or
chopping wood to work off the stress.

A trickle of sweat rolled down Sheila's forehead, down her
cheek, off her chin and onto Mulder's bare back. Disappointment and
frustration fueled her body. So little time! Why was he still so
closed? Now that he had what he wanted, his memories back and in
their proper order, why was he locking the world out again? He had
opened up to them for such a short time. He had allowed them to see
him vulnerable as so few ever had. He had accepted Richard, at the
very least, as a friend. They knew more about his feelings for
Scully than anyone. Probably more than Scully did. Was that too
scary for him, to have people who knew that much?

After long minutes she eased up, exhausted. His breath was as
loud in her ears as her own, but no longer seemed to be coming
through nearly panic-paralyzed lungs. "You're one complex person,
Fox Mulder."

She felt his diaphragm contract with what must have been a
rare silent chuckle. "Thank you. Keeps Skinner guessing."

Richard noted that though the younger man's eyes were still
shut and still shadowed, they were not closed as tightly as before
and the long hands lay splayed out, relaxed upon the carpet.

"Better?" he asked.

"Better," was Mulder's only reply.

"You ARE obsessive, aren't you?"

"Scully says so."

Richard put down the book he could barely remember reading.
"This is the end of part one, you know."

An eyebrow raised questioningly. Sheila continued to work as
they talked, to knead the muscles, but with less force, and was
gratified to feel that the tension had lessened.

"By part one," Richard explained, "I mean, between the three
of us, we've accomplished what we set out to do. In part two you'll
have to deal with Scully and for that you're on your own." For one
of the few times in his life Richard wished he smoked a pipe. At
times like this it would set the right kind of mood. "Can I offer
a little advice?" he asked.

Having shut again, Mulder's eyes opened a little, revealing
slits of shining green and brown. "I have a feeling I'm going to
hear it whether I want to or not."

The older man allowed himself a slight, warm smile. Oh, he
liked Mulder very much. "You've just admitted you're obsessive.
Walt's told us you certainly are about your work, but I could have
figured that out just from looking at your office," Richard raised
the book he was reading, "and from your choice of reading material.
But you're also obsessive about your relationships, aren't you?.
All or nothing. Scully's just about your only friend, isn't she?
And I haven't heard mention of your parents in all this." In
answer, the hazel eyes darkened, the crease in the forehead
deepened. "I won't pry," Richard assured hastily, "not about that.
You've come to depend upon Scully to fulfill all your needs for
acceptance and happiness. She's your mother, your sister, your
confidant, your savior, your partner, your buddy, your conscience,
your friend... Maybe you want to make her your lover, too. That's
a lot to ask of one person. That's not good for her. Not fair,
especially because, as we've seen, when you're blue you are REALLY
blue. And when you're happy - well - we've seen that, too. You'll
drive any long term companion crazy with mood swings like that. You
need to fight that. To persist is selfish."

Fox had forced himself to listen to the sermon, something he
would not ordinarily have stood for, but his body was so battered
at the moment he barely had the strength to breathe, much less get
up and stalk out the way he had the day before. But the subject of
Scully and getting her back, in any capacity, had been much on his
mind. "If I'm such a selfish bastard then she SHOULD run," he
muttered bitterly.

"Now's not the time to feel sorry for yourself," Sheila told
him. "Richard's just trying to warn you to respect her. If you do
that, she'll stay. She's been though a lot for you, far more than,
I suspect, most women would be willing to put up with, but she has
stuck through it. That means a lot about her character and the
depth of her feelings. But as Richard says she has to get something
out of this, too. She has been doing the giving lately. She has to
get a little in return."

Sheila leaned over to work on the neck muscles, tickling the
small hairs on the back of his neck in the process. Mulder wondered
if she knew what that particular action and the discussion of the
depth of Scully's 'feelings' were doing to his insides. No, no
panic any longer. An anxiety of an entirely different sort.

"Very soon we're going to be out of your life, well, most of
the time anyway," Sheila was saying and he thought he detected a
note of sadness in that voice. "I hope we can still be friends, but
she is with you day in, day out, and hopefully will be there for a
long, long time. That is scary. Though I suspect she knows most of
them already, she'll get to know all your warts." Sheila brought
her mouth down close to his ear. "ALL of them," she repeated. "You
have every reason to be scared."

Richard nodded to his wife. "Don't forget the pecs, dear."

She grinned up at him. "I never forget the pecs," she said as
she mercilessly dug in under Fox's right shoulder blade, an action
which made him jump and groan.

"You take these kind of vacations often?" Fox asked, his voice
still tight but, he realized with surprise, only from the pain and
pleasure of her iron fingers. The panic, like the specter of
Angela, had subsided until it was just an echo. As they had talked
the woman above him had become Sheila - not just Richard's wife,
but a person in her own right. A friend.

"Vacation? Oh, saving relationships is our favorite kind," she
smirked. "And this time there's three people we'll be helping.
Hmmm, actually four. You, Dana, AND the relationship you have
together, that's three. Relationships, like what I understand you
two have, are so special they are like another person."

"And the fourth?"

"Walter. If you two don't get back together, he'll lose a good
team. His best, he tells me, though don't tell him I told you so."

Skinner's involvement would take some thinking on, but Mulder
was not eager to do that just now. Pleasantly, he felt his over-
burdened brain beginning to turn off. Certainly melt down was
coming at a convenient time; all the relationship talk was getting
too close. The massage had pushed him over the edge of exhaustion
and the warmth was finally pulling him towards sleep.

Richard could see the hazel eyes fluttering and caught
Sheila's eye. "I think he's about under," he told her.

Sheila expelled a tired sigh. "About time. I know I'm ready to
stop."

She offered Richard her hand and he helped her up. Fox opened
one sleepy eye in acknowledgement as she slipped the afghan from
the couch over him and dropped a pillow gently by his head.

"If you don't mind," he said to Mulder, his hand resting
lightly on his wife's shoulder, "we're going to take over your
bedroom for an hour or so." The single eye opened wider,
questioning.

"Before my fantasies get out of hand," Sheila explained. Her
hand was curled in her husband's hand, but her eyes, for the
moment, were still on Mulder's body." The second eye opened. "Don't
be so shocked. I can look can't I? I'm married, not dead. Besides
we're on vacation."

"Some vacation," Fox commented, dryly.

"Hey, no kids," Richard defended as they headed for the
bedroom, "so that qualifies as a vacation. And don't start thinking
this is going to get kinky. I don't share. Letting Sheila give
other men back rubs, however, does do wonders for her libido." And
Richard smiled, wickedly.

Fox stared at the bedroom door as it closed. No doubt about
it; these two were definitely an X-File unto themselves, perhaps
that was why Fox found himself liking them. However, when the
sounds began to issue from behind that closed door, Fox decided
that the situation was just too weird, even for him. Crawling to
his feet, he got his coat and went for a walk around several
blocks. By the time he returned his legs were more than a little
shaky, the bedroom was quiet, and the couch looked very inviting
indeed.

Late that afternoon Sheila came into the living room from the
kitchen to find Fox still sacked out on the couch. He had been
asleep when they emerged from the bedroom after their 'nap', though
his well-honed reflexes and general high level of paranoia woke him
long enough to confirm that the invaders of his apartment were
friends, not foes. Then he had dropped back to sleep again. Since
then the only moving he had done was to turn over.

Supper was nearly ready - some simple but real cooking this
time - when Sheila thought that their host would probably
appreciate having time to wash up. He was lying on his stomach, his
face pressed into the simulated leather.

"Fox," she said, leaning down near his ear, "it's almost
dinner time. I think you ought to get up."

Not a sound. Searching around to be certain Mulder's Glock was
nowhere in evidence - Sheila, after all, was married to a law
enforcement officer and was well aware what they could do when
startled - she debated on how best to wake him. Dumping cold water
down his back would be extreme, but simply shaking his arm seemed
so unimaginative. The success of their time here so far was so
heartening that she was in a fey mood. Then she saw that perfect
ass, covered by those tight jeans, to all intents and purposes,
unprotected. She could not help herself and gave the fine male butt
a smart slap. "Dinner, Fox."

That got him, but not immediately. He groaned and shifted, his
eyes did not open, still in a dream, tied up in the story he had
told himself the day before. "In a minute, Mom," he grumbled
sleepily in that weight-of-the-world tone the parents of
adolescents learn to know so well.

Sheila froze next to the couch, her face going pale. Richard,
standing at the entrance to the kitchen had seen the exchange and
stepped towards her, his arms beginning to raise to her. With a
brusque shake of her head, indicating she did not need help, Sheila
retreated to the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.

Richard sat down in the thinking chair next to the couch,
assumed his professorial mien, fingertips steepled together under
his chin, and waited. "Anyone ever mention you were a seer,
Mulder?"

The question was so odd, Fox found himself waking more quickly
than he expected. "Uh?"

"Have you ever been told that you speak truths in twilight
sleep?"

"Possibly," Fox admitted hesitantly, working a kink out of his
neck. Amazingly, his body was far less sore than he had expected it
to be. "Scully accuses me of a lot of things." Fox contemplated the
idea further and admitted he could remember an occasion or two,
particularly something mentioned to Scully two nights before he
left for Colorado when he was falling asleep. The memory suddenly
came back to him, not what he said - even at the time he could not
remember that - but he did recall that Scully had looked at him
with bright doe eyes all the next morning. A gentle touch brushed
his heart. This is what he had been missing, this touch and that
look. He remembered, too, that that expression had been replaced
with sadness and loss and disappointment, and, yes, understanding,
when she learned he had accepted Skinner's Colorado assignment.

Reality suddenly flipped back. Richard was leaning back in his
chair smiling gently at the younger man.

Fox let a small self-conscious smile come to his lips. "Zoned
out again, didn't I?"

"Uh huh. The nice way, though, and good to see. You turn that
kind of charm on Scully and you'll be back in her good graces in a
heartbeat. Better learn some tricks for keeping that stuff under
wraps during work time, though."

"I haven't had time to consider that."

"You'll think of something.

Fox sniffed. Dinner. Then he recalled hearing Sheila's voice.
Fox scanned the room. "Where's Sheila? I said something, didn't I?"
Fox frowned. "Something terrible?"

"Don't be so quick to put yourself down," Richard admonished
but his kindly expression relieved Fox's uneasiness. "No, you said
something sweet. She was waking you up for supper and you said 'In
a minute, Mom'."

Confusion wrinkled Mulder's brow. "I'm sorry, I was half
asleep. Guess I thought I was back home for a little while. That
upset Sheila? Did it make her feel old or miss her kids?"

Richard answered that question with a question. "Did you ever
wonder how we happened to be in D.C., " he raised his arms
indicating Mulder's apartment, "doing this?"

Fox smiled ruefully. "Fairy godparents?"

Richard laughed, a deep, rolling laugh. "Oh, that's good, I'll
have to tell Sheila." More serious, "when I brought you home for
dinner that night I didn't realize... and she didn't realize until
the next morning... that you reminded her of someone, someone very
dear whom she lost. Not your face she says, but your manner, your
'soul', as she calls it."

Fox looked at Richard uncomfortably. "Is that bad?"

"No, no, good for her if you don't mind indulging her.
Indulging yourself, too. Sheila makes one hell of a mother."

Fox shook his head. "I'm confused here."

"I'm not surprised, I didn't explain that well. When Sheila
was very young, fifteen," Richard explained, "she got in with a
crowd and - well, she lost her head. Luckily, she was taken under
the wing of an older brother of one of the gang. He was no saint,
but he loved her. The day he was eighteen he enlisted in the army.
He wanted out of that town, hoped to turn his life around and come
out with a skill. He went to Vietnam, one of the very first. To
make a long, sad story short, Sheila got pregnant and Chris was
killed. Sheila loved Chris, but her parents didn't even allow her
to attend his funeral or let his parents know about the baby."

"This was how long ago? Twenty-five, thirty years ago? They
put her in some home for unwed mothers didn't they?" Fox seemed
very disturbed by that.

"Twenty-nine, and, yes, they did, and took the baby, a boy,
and put it up for adoption."

Fox started. "She doesn't think -"

"No, no," Richard assured him. "The ages are off by at least
four years. She knows this but somehow she sees Chris in you.
Little mannerisms, she says, and considering your age and sex she
can't help but think about Christopher. That is what she called her
little boy."

Fox felt the years fall away to his own childhood, to a home
with one child lost. "You looked, I assume."

"For years. We've gotten court orders and opened archives but
records weren't kept very well and the trail is stone cold. But
she's never abandoned hope. Giving up Christopher was never her
choice."

"And I called her 'Mom'," Fox said sadly.

"That touched her. Touched her deeply."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt her."

"She knows that. She's fighting her maternal instincts. She
has the girls, they are our great joy, but she misses her son
desperately. Not knowing what has happened to him is hard."

Fox touched the empty spot within himself. The dead zone where
Samantha should be, the sadness he constantly carried within him.
He had discussed Samantha a little with Richard, with them both,
but he had a feeling Richard had read his file and knew more. He
had read part of that abduction book, too. "I know how she feels."

"I thought you might," Richard said with a knowing expression.
"More than anyone."

Their eyes met and held, both acknowledging in the other a
soul that had seen too much. And there was more. Even though
Richard surely knew about what Mulder claimed had happened to
Samantha, he did dismiss the idea as insane. He accepted. For that
more than anything, Mulder was grateful.

The moment passed and Fox stood up rubbing the back of his
neck. He wanted a shower before supper, but first, after a nod to
Richard, he went to his closed bedroom door and knocked softly.

Sheila was sitting on the bed, her purse in front of her,
staring at one of those small plastic wallet albums of photos. She
tried to put it away as he came in.

"No, don't." Fox stood in the doorway, trying to read in her
posture if she preferred to be alone. "Sheila, Richard told me. I'm
sorry about Christopher. And his father, too."

Sheila looked back at the photos, held an old, much worn
picture out for Fox to see. He came fully into the room and took
the album from her. The young man in the picture was dressed in
jeans and a cutoff sweatshirt. His arms were folded and he was
leaning against a well-worn car. He was tall and lean with a shock
of very dark hair which fell over his eyes and a big infectious
grin. There seemed to be a little Italian in his ancestry. "That's
Chris," she said. "This was taken two weeks before he went to 'Nam
though at that time most of the country didn't even know where the
country was. That's a sixty-six mustang. He loved that car." Her
voice softened. "Christopher came to be in that car." She laughed
a little. "Considering Chris was six foot-two I guess you could say
we were pretty desperate."

Opposite the young man's picture was an equally old one of a
very little baby. "Is that Christopher?" Fox asked.

Sheila shook her head. "As close as I'll ever come. They
wouldn't let me have a picture. A year later a neighbor had a baby
and he was so much like how I remembered Christopher looking that
I asked her for a picture of hers."

Fox handed the photographs back. "Sheila," he said softly,
"I'm not your son. I'm not Christopher."

Sheila laughed suddenly and not easily. "Mulder, I know that."

"But you had me checked out," he said simply.

The woman flushed. "Don't tell, Richard. He's been an anchor,
but I've lived with this decades longer than he has. If there's
even the slightest chance, I have to try." She put the photos back
in her purse. "I help Richard on his cases now and again. I have
clearance. I only needed to see your service record. Ten years with
the Bureau." She shook her head, amazed. "You don't look it. To be
Chris you would have had to have been recruited out of high
school."

Mulder took a straight chair and sat down backwards in it,
facing her. She wanted to talk. He could listen. It was the least
he could do.

"The morning after the night you spent at our house, you
probably didn't notice how closely I was watching you at breakfast
just before Richard took you to the airport. You were floating on
air. Completely oblivious. Chris used to do that when he was
excited about something. Couldn't tie him down." She picked up an
envelope from the bed.

"When you weren't looking I took this." She handed him a
picture of Fox Mulder sitting on what he remembered now was
Sheila's couch, buried under two little girls and a dog. The smile
on his face was a little uncomfortable, but gentle and tolerant.

<I can't ever let Scully see this,> Mulder thought, feeling
oddly shy and exposed.

"This is pretty damning. I guess I have to admit that it all
really happened now. You should have showed me this a lot earlier."

"Remember what Richard said... better for you to remember on
your own? And I don't think it's damning at all. I think it's
rather nice."

Fox had to admit it was a good picture, he looked so happy and
relaxed it was almost painful to look at. Over the past week it had
gotten so bad he had almost been afraid to look in the mirror when
he shaved.

"You keep it to remember us by," she told him. "Anyway, that
morning I let myself daydream for a little. I had this fantasy for
a few hours that you were my Christopher come back, happy,
successful. All grown up. With only happiness before him." She
looked towards the bedroom window and not at him. "When I heard
about the crash, something inside me died. It was like losing

2E.. Chris all over again."

As her voice broke, Fox found himself moving to sit down
beside her on the bed. He sat as close as he dared. Except when the
situation demanded it, when Scully was being clinical and patching
him up or when they had to stay close under shelter when danger was
near, the times were seldom that he even let Scully get this near.
Few of his memories of touching and being touched were pleasant
ones.

Sheila could sense the tension in him. His gift - that of
trying to comfort her in a way which she knew was hard for him -
wiped all comparisons to Chris and Christopher from her mind.
Sheila leaned into him, but as lightly as a bird, and let their
nearness last until she felt, by the change in the movement of the
very molecules of the air around him, that he was preparing to
break and run. Only then did she reach for the tissue box beside
the bed. A casual excuse to move a few inches away.

"So you see, when I heard you had been found, I had to come
and see for myself. I had to touch you, just to believe that YOU at
least lived. So," she brightened, "'Voila', here we are. Like bad
pennies." She patted him briskly on the thigh. "I wish I could
adopt you," she laughed.

Fox shrank back a little, uncomfortable and not entirely
certain she was joking. This whole situation was 'creepy' and too
personal. But here these two were, making themselves at home in his
apartment and in his head.... and in his life. "That's a
compliment, Sheila... I think." He smiled and tried to say this
gently, "but in addition to the fact that I'm thirty-two years old
-"

"We all need people who care about us, Fox. The more the
better."

"True. But I do have parents, Sheila." <Enough said on that
subject,> Fox thought, clamping down on his mind's attempt to make
comparisons between his own parents and all this woman and Richard
had done for him.

"Anyway I'm a stranger. You don't know me. Not really. Three
quarters of the people who do know me think I'm crazy."

Unfazed, Sheila asked, "Are you?"

"I don't know. Depends on your definition. And I have this
temper, which you saw -"

Sheila pressed her lips together and nodded. "I saw." She
stood up and put her hands on his broad shoulders. "Fox, love
doesn't need reasons. Dana knows this. She knows you better than
anyone and she loves you. Accept that and you will go far into
getting her back. Having her love rejected, that's how you hurt
her, even though you think you are unselfishly saving her from
someone you think is unworthy." Brusquely, she patted him on the
head before she moved away heading for the door. "Now, go take your
shower. I'll finish dinner."

And Sheila left the room, leaving Fox sitting on the bed with
his thoughts.

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

At ten the next morning as Mulder entered his apartment from
a long run, he nearly tripped over two suitcases sitting just
inside his apartment door. He was out of shape and a drop of cold
sweat plopped onto the floor as he stood and stared. Without
thinking he pulled off the wool cap he wore when he ran in such
damp, chill weather, leaving his hair wet, matted and disheveled.

Sheila emerged from the bedroom, her coat over her arm.
"There, sheets are all washed and changed."

Mulder gestured towards the luggage. "What's this?"

Sheila smiled with bright energy. "Why we have two other
children, who need us more than you do now, my dear." She winked at
him to let him know she was joking.

"I knew you had a flight today, I just didn't think you'd be
leaving so soon."

Richard entered from the kitchen. "We hate long good-byes."

Mulder was momentarily taken aback. His apartment, which at
times during the last two days had felt small and crowded, now
seemed large and empty. While they had been with him, he had wanted
nothing more than for them to be gone so that he could have his
place and his life to himself again. Now that they were actually
leaving, part of him did feel a kind of relief, but another part
was uncharacteristically reluctant to see them go.

Sheila was at his side. Her gaiety, he saw now, had been
false, and, as it dropped away, he made note of the sad droop to
her shoulders. "Hey, Mulder - see I can remember to use your
preferred name when I want to - you'll do fine. As far as Ms.
Scully goes, much as you'd like to, don't sit on her doorstep
waiting for her to come home. You'll frighten her and, if you
happen to see this Evan, you might lose your temper. But keep
calling, starting at about three this afternoon. Supposedly, she
has to work tomorrow, so she won't come home too late. ASK to see
her but don't take 'no' for an answer. And when you do see her, get
down on both knees and beg her forgiveness. Then just be yourself."

Mulder awarded Richard's wife his patented off-center smile.
"Getting down on my knees and begging is not being myself."

"Then whatever position you use when you apologize to her." A
pulling of his eyes away from her face made her wonder. "You DO
apologize to her, don't you? You're not that perfect, Fox. You know
how, don't you?"

Fox's expression looked sheepish. "I'm reported to be pretty
smart. I guess I could learn." He saw Richard leaning against the
doorway, arms crossed, enjoying watching the two of them. "Thanks
for keeping me from losing my mind, the part I had left anyway."

Richard came forward and shook his hand. "All part of the
service. The FBI takes care of its own. Just don't expect too much
of yourself. You've been through hell.Take it easy and watch those
mood swings."

Mulder stood there feeling the beginnings of a chill, not sure
if it was from the effects of the run or an emotional reaction.
"Hold a minute." He went to the bookcase in the living room and
came back with the picture Sheila had given him of their daughters
and him when he was at their home. "You keep this," he said,
placing it in her hands, "and remember ME sometimes." He touched
his temple with one long index finger. "I've got the original up
here now and I'm not likely to forget it this time."

Sheila threw back her head and gave him a wicked smile. "You
sound like we would walk out of here today and out of your life
forever. You can't get rid of us that easily. Unless, that is, you
WANT us to stay away. We did rather inflict ourselves on you."

"No, inflict yourselves whenever you want. Though next time
maybe you'd better call first." He stared at the floor, a part of
him still that twenty year old, young and yet old enough to have
learned that the world is a large and scary place sometimes. He
wished he could let them know how much it meant to him, to have
people who cared. People who cared but who weren't TOO close.

Mulder looked down at this woman and then over at Richard and
was suddenly warmed by a deep and pleasant emotion that was not the
special bond he had with Scully and yet supported him, only
supported him in a different way. As Richard said, maybe this was
what Scully needed, too. Not to feel like she had to be everything
for him.

The two made little leaving motions while Mulder still stood
stupidly dripping sweat and wracking his brain for some way of
expressing his gratitude. His hand brushed the damp hair from his
forehead, which brought to mind the much-loved picture Sheila had
shown him of the dark-haired young man and his car and a solution
suggested itself. "How much time do you have before your plane
leaves?" he asked.

"Sheila shrugged. Couple of hours. We thought we'd check out
the Smithsonian first."

"If you give me five minutes to shower and change I can take
you down to the Vietnam Memorial. Have you ever looked for Chris's
name?"

Sheila stared at Mulder. Such a tall, fine, man's body, such
a handsome face but, oh, those ancient eyes which had seen too many
terrible things. Even with his core of sorrow, and maybe because of
it, which was so much like Richard's, this person standing before
her was all she could ever, ever wish for in a son. She hoped his
own mother appreciated him. "No, I never did," she said unsteadily.

"There's a directory which can help you find it, if that's
something you want to do."

Richard had come up and put his arm around his wife. He spoke
for them both at that moment because he doubted Sheila could. "We
would like that."

Mulder turned towards the bathroom. "Five minutes, then, I
promise."

Behind the closed door as the water ran, steam beginning to
billow, Mulder stripped off his damp clothes. His hand tested the
water and lowered the temperature. He needed the shower only
because he was sweaty. He didn't feel cold any longer.

End of chapter 12 and end of Book I

===========================================================================