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

Subject: Corpse 2/9
Date: 16 Jun 1995

Corpse 5/?

Mulder, Scully and the X-Files property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen and
Fox Broadcasting. Emma and her town and everyone in it property of the
Goo. Story copyright livengoo@tiac.net. I love mail, I make no profit,
and don't reprint it without my permission.

It's come to my attention that I neglected one more warning. I
occasionally forget who does and doesn't know my writing. Sorry. I write
what a friend calls gunzenbombzenpsych. In other words, a fair amount of
profanity and violence. I learned to race sailboats on the Annapolis
docks and picked up some truly pungent language there, and I write with
it. If this disturbs you, please go read somebody else's work as I dislike
truly offending people. Hard to believe, but true. As to the rest of
you, thank you for writing to me! I hope I continue to hear from you, and
the person who threatened me with Ford Pintos, you and the Ebola guy are
still way up there but alt.barney and alt.judge.ito still beat you out.
Goo

___________
A long, boring afternoon at the police station managed to bury the
eeriness of lunch in a mountain of paper and procedure. The fax
machine sent a steady stream of absolutely useless negative
information. Purple-blue fluorescent lights strobed just beyond the
range of visibility, leaving my eyes tired and fuzzy. Scully had
handed me a stack of FBI paperwork, asking me to cross reference
names. She and Mulder both said this had already been done. And
all three of us were doing it over again anyway, in spite of his
complaints that local police did their jobs very well and he saw no
reason to reinvent the wheel. Scully just grabbed his shoulder,
pushed him into a chair, and told him that maybe the wheel was
missing some spokes. She took the car keys away from him and
dumped a stack of folders in front of him. He and I shared a
commiserating look, and started cross-referencing names while she
went back over fifteen years of autopsy reports.

The afternoon wore on in a boredom-doped haze of bad, instant
coffee, papercuts, fax-machine buzz and busy, talking, cursing,
laughing cops. Fluorescents and the banging and smell of an old
heating system that had been on summer sabbatical, smells of old
sweat, gun-oil, vomit and bad coffee. Stale donuts on a paper plate
on the desk were serving as a paperweight for the cop whose chair
I'd snagged. I poked one with a pen. I think you could have used it
for a hockey puck.

Mulder, across the room, had draped his jacket over the chair and
was in shirt-sleeves, with his tie loosened. The red silk with little
yellow UFOs made a splash of color that caught my eye every time I
glanced around that dreary office with its dirty, industrial putty
walls and linoleum floors. The windows struggled to deliver enough
sunlight through dusty venetian blinds, but were losing the war.
Safety posters on the walls were the only concession to decoration
in here. No wonder they all wanted to be out on beat. I didn't want
to be there, either. The only one who seemed at ease was Scully. I
supposed that long hours in morgues must have left her immune to
lousy working conditions.

Around five, when the shift change was beginning and Mulder
looked on the edge of going comatose from boredom, I wandered
over to lean over his shoulder. "I think there'll be a treat tonight."
I grinned at him. This close, I could smell a faint hint of after shave
and see the stubble on his jaw. He looked tired, and ready to
get out of there. The look he gave me was somewhere between
hopeful and suspicious. I smiled at him.

"Good weather conditions, Mulder. I'm going to pack a picnic
dinner. I hope you two have warm clothes because we're going to
see if there's a light-show tonight." His pupils dilated. I could hear
his breathing catch, and I grinned, patted him on the shoulder, and
wandered off to pack up my papers and go home. Looked back to see
him watching me. "See you two tonight at 7:00?"

"We wouldn't miss it for the world."

________________________

I specifically avoided my office when I got home. If my computer
had taken messages, collected e-mail, or been engaged in
illicit relations with my fax machine, I did not want to know about
it. I'd answer all those matters later. For now, I had a rare date with
my kitchen and I was going to enjoy it.

Bags of groceries yielded stuffed grape leaves, chicken, hummus,
fruit, Pimm's liqueur and an assortment of all my other favorite
goodies. I grinned at the memory of the happy expression on the
face of my favorite Lebanese grocer as I dropped loads-o-bucks on
his counter. He'd been asking me about my dates for ages, and
clearly interpreted my largesse to indicate a new romance. I let
him savor the illusion. The quick trip by the standard American
market provided more traditional foods, in case the FBI only hired
people with bland taste in foods in order to avoid potential middle-
eastern terrorists.

I started the chicken baking, and cut fruit and cucumbers to make a
white Pimm's cup that an English friend and introduced me to. I
fussed and sipped at it until I got that perfect blend of liquor and
seltzer and fruit that made such a crisp, tasty drink. If Mulder had
spent all that time in England he might like this in particular.
Vegetables for dipping, pita, shawarma, my favorite picnic foods. I
had to pull a chair over to my cabinets and stand there fishing
around until I could excavate my picnic basket, and then I had to
wash the dust off it, but it was really in pretty good shape. Plates,
cups, napkins, oil cloth to sit on, blanket, every other thing I could
think of that would fit. Oh yes, a candle.

Somewhere in the middle of dicing fruit I started snickering over
the idea of all this time and effort spent for a picnic dinner to watch
UFOs with two (not one, two!) FBI agents. God, my standards for a
date had dropped. The last time I'd done this much had been for a
hot weekend with a moot court partner. I doubted very much that
dinner with Mulder and Scully would offer the same satisfactions,
and started giggling all over again at the notion. If I'd had a
roommate they would have thought I'd finally cracked. Helluvan
endorsement for the single life style.

Between cooking and my little levity breaks I was barely done in
time. I knotted my sweater around my neck and grabbed a couple
extras in case Nancy Drew and the Federal Hardy boy hadn't packed
any, and dashed out with my picnic basket in my arms. Mulder had
the trunk open for me, and was watching with both trepidation and
anticipation as I slung my big basket in. He looked. . .hot. Blue
jeans and a plain henley sweater. When you work around balding,
pudgy, infinitely ordinary guys every day you forget that there are
people who don't look that way and who are bigger than your TV
screen. Somehow he looked more real now, without the armor of
that FBI suit to hide behind. Scully, in the front passenger seat, was
equally comfortable. I think she'd caught the look I'd given her
partner, because the look she gave me was an interesting mix of
warning, amusement and exasperation. She shook her head just
slightly at me, as he was getting in and getting his seatbelt back on.

I hadn't made a pass, I probably wouldn't, but I knew when
territorial boundaries were being laid out for me. I grinned back
and decided to let her know I wasn't that stupid.

"Gee, I didn't know you guys were allowed to own clothes that
weren't suits. Don't they confiscate your wardrobes when they hire
you?"

Scully grinned and Mulder snorted. "They give us this dress code,
we have to wear clothes our uncle would approve of on the job, but
they give us this little allowance on evenings and weekends so the
casual wear industry can't claim restraint of trade and interference."

"So you do go on civilian standing sometimes?"

"Oh absolutely. We just have to be careful to not let enemies of our
country catch us out of mufti, so they can't blackmail us with
evidence of being off-duty." Scully smiled, enjoying his gift for
spinning conspiracy theories. I hadn't really heard him in full
flight, but I imagined based on what I was hearing that he could give
Oliver Stone a run for his money.

I leaned forward over the back of the seat to give directions. It took
a little while, but it was a lovely evening for a drive, clear and cool,
and the sky had the delicate blue-to-indigo that fall skies got in that
pause between weather and seasons. The hillside that was the local
bughunt favorite was already crowded and a buzz of conversation
floated in the crisp evening air, while we searched around for the
perfect picnic spot. We got one comfortably far from the hippies
downslope so that Mulder and Scully could pretend they were just
smoking tobacco in good conscience. The trees behind us cut off
the last of the sun, and a crescent moon hung pale and translucent
in the coming night sky. Planets winked, it was still just barely too
light for stars.

The oil cloth and blankets kept us cozy from the chilly, wet ground.
I poured Pimm's and passed cups around as faint strains of slightly
out-of-tune guitar floated down from someone singing something
about "pulling down data on the xerox line" to the tune of some old
folk song. Mulder's eyes sparkled as he tasted his drink, and he
toasted us happily. I was serving out dinner while he told us an
outrageous story about getting trashed during a punting race or
something on the Thames. If half of what he was saying was true it
was a miracle he hadn't drowned, or been arrested for balancing on
bridge railings, blindfolded by cucumber slices over his eyes while
his friends bet on whether he could make it from one side of the
bridge to the other.

"So, was all this in your background check for the FBI?" My voice
was probably not as dry as I would have thought.

"Of course. They said the incident proved I wasn't as accident prone
as my records hinted. If I'd been as bad as all that I'd never have
lived past Oxford."

Scully buried her nose in her drink to cover a snicker. I was sure
she had a few adventures of her own. I'd ante up first. "I don't
know, that's not so bad. I had one that's never going to get in any
records, but my parents have never forgiven me. This one time," I
looked to fix my audience in place. "We were going to go on a trip,
right? So I loved root beer and,like any four year old, was sure that
they didn't have it where we were going. I snuck out that night and
put sodas in all our luggage to make sure we'd have enough. Well, it
was my first ever plane ride, down to Florida? You know those
unpressurized cargo holds?" They both winced, they could see this
one coming. "The things froze on the way up. Froze and cracked.
Bad enough. But the explosive decompression on the way down . .
.BLOOEY! Root beer, glass bottles, blecch, all over EVERYTHING all of
us owned. And coming back we found out that those water-bug
roach buggy things do exactly the same thing in luggage! Those bugs
freeze and blow up. They'd swarmed for the sugar from the root beer that
we couldn't get out of the luggage, and it was disgusting! Bleccchhh! My
parents can still get me to do almost anything with the guilt trip off
that one."

Scully was curled over on her side by now, hiccuping as she
giggled, coming up to sip her Pimm's every so often. Either she
didn't get a good laugh often enough, or else that drink was hitting
her pretty hard. Mulder gave her a big, indulgent grin and patted
her on the head. He looked up to me and smiled evilly. "According
to her Mom, Scully did some goodies, too, as a kid." Scully tried to
pull herself up and lunge at him, but he fended her off when she
tried to cover his mouth.

"Seems she was really popular at ballroom dancing lessons as a kid." He
had hold of her wrists to keep her away from his face. She wrestled him
back over onto his back, squealing with outrage.

"She told *you* about that? I can't believe it!"

"It was Melissa. . ." He was laughing too hard to defend himself but
he kept trying to tell the story. Scully finally told it to me, in self
defense, according to her.

"Mom made me take ballroom dancing when I was little, with the
nuns. She said it would be fun for me and teach me a good skill. So
she sent me off in that stupid little dress I had to wear. . ."

"With puffy sleeves and crinolines. . ." Mulder's voice was choked
with laughter as he had to get that in.

"God, she must have shown you the picture." Scully had him down
flat and kept an elbow in his chest. "And all of it was polyester and
staticky as hell. And I was dancing with Brian Leary, and we were
trying to redefine arms-length. . ." she let Mulder roll onto his side
laughing as she pantomimed dancing with her arms stretched all
the way out. "And all of a sudden I feel this thing on my leg! I
knew it wasn't Brian's hand, but I couldn't reach down to get it and
it kept sliding down and down and down until it was on my patent
leather shoes. We both looked down, and one of Melissa's frilly,
nylon briefs had gotten stuck to my petticoats in the dryer and the
static had worn off and it was s-s-sitting on my s-s-shoe." She had
tears on her face and could barely get her breath. Mulder was
sobbing he was laughing so hard. I was sure he'd turn blue in a
minute if he couldn't breathe, but I was almost as bad.

"And I kicked it off, and Sister Mary Elizabeth . . . oh god, Sister
Mary Eliz-z-zabeth picked it up and dangled it there and asked who
it belonged to. . . and that little shit Brian. . . he said it was - said it
was mine, and he didn't know how I'd got it off to begin with
because he sure hadn't helped. . ." She caved at that point,
whuffling helplessly into the blanket.

I just flopped on my back and kicked my heels and sipped my drink
and laughed at the idea of the FBI in giggle fits and nylon briefs. It
took a little while to calm down and get dinner back together, we
were lucky we hadn't rolled right through the shawarma. We were
mainly quiet by now, but the occasional chuckle made the evening
feel warmer than it was. We passed around the food and wondered
where Hotpants Leary might be now.

Somewhere on my third glass, and the fourth or fifth for each of
them, with dinner done and dessert a promise for when we felt
ready, we saw the first of them. Mulder, of course, saw them first.
His gasp of delight caught our attention. He was kneeling up, eyes
fixed above the treeline, watching intently. A low moan of welcome
rolled from several other of the watchers who now crowded this
hillside. The saucer-freaks started to wave the signs they'd brought
that asked the visitors to take them along. A couple people
screeched with fake dread, but most of us were quiet, waiting.

The lights came over us low and fast, and then broke into incredible
spirals that nothing built on earth could ever do. Mulder's eyes
gleamed in the light of them. Scully watched with no expression,
eyes flickering from the lights to his face and back.

The things spun in intricate patterns, whirling around each other
in some kind of dance. There was no sound now, we waited in
silence, barely breathing as they captivated us. The things rolled at
the top of a climb and dropped in this heartbreaking dive, throwing
themselves out of it as they seemed ready to run right through us.
Mulder moaned. Gasps and cries rippled from others out there that
night.

It went on and on. No one could even think to try to film it. The
old-timers who'd seen it before knew it would just fog the film
anyway. The only bit of this wonder you could take was behind
your eyes. It was enough. The lights just spun and whirled and
danced. I knew where myths of fairies and fey came from in those
moments. These things were a dream of flight. My heart broke
when they spilled away at last, leaving us in the dark, warm and
small and earthbound. Scully gasped as she drew in a breath.
Mulder made a sound that could have been a sob. In the dark it was
hard to tell. We sat silent or close to it, everyone out there did. None
of us could move.

It was a long time before the cold made us stir. I drew a breath that
felt like the first one in my life. I could hear people at other
blankets, other places on the hills. There were a few flashlights,
but not many. Most of us didn't want to break the dark. I felt my
companions there, Scully sitting still, Mulder kneeling and letting
his hands trail up and down his arms as if he were cold. I could
hear the slow, quiet sound of the fabric against his palms.

Someone, somewhere, began to sing. Nobody took it up, thank god,
but it broke us loose from the mood. I shifted, got my tail off the
cold spot where I'd been sitting. Mulder slowly rolled up on to
his feet and brushed himself off.

"Excuse me a minute." He wandered off up the hill, not so very far,
until he was in the trees. We could hear a couple other men up
there. They seemed to have an instinct for where they should go
out here. Scully, next to me, drew audible breath and touched my
shoulder.

"You grew up knowing about those?"

"Yeah. I've seem 'em before. But nothing like this, Scully. This was.
. ." I didn't have words. I spent my life having words, and now I
didn't have words.

"It's okay." She seemed to understand.

"It was. . . maybe that's how Mulder feels all time. He believed in
these things before."

"Maybe that's how he feels." She sounded guarded, sad. "Maybe."

We were silent after that a while. I finally shook myself loose, and
started to pick up my plates and silver. The warmth of the evening
still surged in me and I smiled in the dark. Scully heard, and began
feeling around the blanket and handing things to me. I don't know
how long it was, but Scully and I heard Mulder come back after a
while. His steps were clumsy in the dark.

He settled on the blanket and just rested a moment. I heard a rustle
and thought Scully put her hand on his arm. The cool wind finally
drove us up, us and everyone else there. It whistled and winter's
promise was on its edge. I gathered the blanket and oilcloth,
holding them out to Mulder. He completely ignored them, the lazy
baggage. Scully finally grabbed them and we headed back to where
we'd left the car without a word.

It wasn't until we opened the trunk that we found enough light to
see each other. No one had the heart to turn on a flashlight. But
when I lifted the trunk I suddenly regretted that, and could see the
same thought on Scully's face.

Mulder was pale in the sudden shock of light. His eyes were open
wide and dark, like they'd been at lunch. He looked up and around,
like he was looking for a focus he couldn't find. He glanced at me,
turned to her.

"He asked if I ever saw my sister. He was here. He said I needed to keep
looking for Sam. His voice was too flat and soft to read.

Mulder closed the trunk then. Scully grabbed his arm, gently pried
the keys out of his hand and walked him to the passenger side. The
dome light was off just like before and I couldn't see his face. I
heard Scully's low voice, Mulder's, and I leaned against the trunk,
suddenly weak with nightmares I'd forgotten for just that long.

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

We were quiet on the ride home, but not with the peace or joy of the
evening, with the lost silence of night. I stifled my questions as long
as I could, but finally leaned forward over the back seat to stare at
Mulder.

He still looked pale, and out of focus in the passing ripples of cold
visibility as we passed under streetlights . Scully had that worried
look on her face in the greenish lights of the dashboard. Mulder
had turned to watch the houses in the dark around us, arms crossed
and fingers digging into his biceps. For a long, long time he
watched the passing lights, and we sat in a tense silence. He
finally looked at us, really saw us at last.

"This one's going to be different. It's going to be worse." I'd
thought his voice was flat before. He sounded worn out, exhausted.

"He told you that?" Scully's voice was low and worried. I could see
her fear for him held tightly in check. The dashlights lit her jaw,
brake lights ahead put a red flare across her eyes. "Mulder, what
did he say? What makes you think it's him?"

"Who else would have said anything to me up there? And who here would
know about Sam?" I think they were questions. His voice didn't have
enough tone to really tell. "He said I needed to keep looking for Sam.
He said that and walked off. No, I know this one's going to be
different. He wants it to be different, because of us."

"How." I didn't even make it a question. I leaned on the back of his
seat, where he couldn't hide from me, and asked him again. "How?
And if he talked to you, why the hell did you let him get away?"

He opened his mouth and stared at me, lost. he licked his lips and
hesitated. "I. . . I was standing there at the top of the hill, and he just
walked up to me. I knew it was him and he just walked up to me. He
stood just out of reach. He was whispering. He sounded . . . like he'd
been waiting for me. I couldn't see. He just told me that and walked
away. I couldn't see him I couldn't catch him I couldn't move . . ."
No pauses in his words, they just rushed out of him, urgent and
nervous now. I gritted my teeth and wanted to slap him. My
fingers dug into his shoulder until I could feel his collarbone shift.

"You let him go. You let him go and he's gonna kill somebody, and
you let him go." I could hear the low, angry whine of my voice like
it was somebody else's. Scully glared at me in the mirror and
yanked the car over to the side. She wrenched open the door in the
back, grabbed my wrist and yanked it off his shoulder. She hauled
me out of there, a thumb against my wrist that hurt like hell when I
tried to twist away.

"Emma, so help me god, if you ever talk like that to him again I'll
wring your neck." Her voice was as low and angry as mine, and she
had me shoved against the cold side of the car. I could feel the blood
buzzing in my ears, see the lights that flashed from passing traffic
like I was a million miles away and watching someone else.

"He let the bastard go."

"He didn't. He couldn't stop him. Emma, think." Her voice tried to
cut through my rage. I knew she wanted to leave me there, but
couldn't. "You know how dark it was, you couldn't see me four feet
away. Mulder was up there, in the woods, without even starlight.
You saw his eyes. Mulder couldn't see him and I think he could
barely move by then. He knew who it was, Emma. He knew it was
the killer when he walked up. How scared would you be? Could you
have grabbed that man? And he knew about Mulder's sister. You
have no idea what that means."

"Oh, I have some. So the bastard used the magic word and froze your
partner in his tracks. Any baddie in the world says 'Sam' and
Mulder just freezes in his tracks? He should be in a nuthouse if
that's the case." I could feel the words bitten off in my mouth, and
bitter as bile. Scully slapped me before I ever saw it coming. I
stared at the roof of the car, where my head wound up looking,
touching my lips and tasting blood. I looked back to see Scully
shaking her hand with pain, and watching me with wary, narrowed
eyes. I took a deep breath of cold night air, and weighed what I'd
just said and why. And felt the truth that maybe I deserved that hit.
Breathe the night in again and count to ten.

Scully started before I could say a word. "I know you did some
homework. You ask too many questions too close to the bone. You
didn't seem surprised that Sam is Mulder's sister. Well, Emma, maybe
you'd better do a little more. Sam was abducted when Mulder was
twelve. She's never been found. He believes aliens abducted her.
Put it together, Emma, then tell me you'd have been able to move."
Her voice was controlled again, sad and deep-down angry with me. I
let my anger roll away, and thought about how that must have felt.

"Was there any sign of any other reason?"

"For Sam? No." She was looking out at the street now, and past the
trunk of the car and the traffic, like looking at me was more than
she should have to do.

"I know about Sam. Some of it at least." I paused a moment and
thought about it. "Does he know for sure it was the killer? Not just
somebody pulling his strings?"

Scully looked back to me now, recognizing my effort, maybe not so
ready to toss me out of this if I could bend this much, this soon. I
hoped so.

"Leaving aside why anyone else would want to pull his strings, I
believe him. If he says it was the killer, I believe him."

She gave her bruised hand another squeeze, then grabbed my arm
and shoved me back towards the car. Her hand on my arm gripped
hard enough to leave bruises, angry. Mulder sat in his seat with his
head in his hands and never looked up when we got in. Scully
looked at me in the rear view mirror. "Put ice on that that lip when
you get home. Sorry if you have a bruise." She looked neutral at
that, not sorry at all. But maybe not going to carry it any further
tonight, either.

I took a couple breaths, and turned. "Mulder, I owe you an apology.
You were rattled. You had a right to be. I couldn't have done any
better, nobody could. I'm sorry I ragged your ass. I just got. . .
.angry. You were so close. But he had to have known that when he
walked up to you. He had to have known how to walk away. He
might have killed you if he hadn't." That new thought slipped
before I even knew I knew it. New to me, but I could see it in
Scully's eyes and the set of her jaw before I even said it. The ice
pack wouldn't be any colder than the chills along my spine. The
seat under me felt colder than it should have. The heat was on, but
it didn't reach me.

Mulder looked around at me then, looked at us both. His eyes were
back in the here and now. "No. You were right. I could have
stopped this right here. He's going to kill somebody tonight, and I
don't know who. But I know he isn't finished yet. He isn't ready to
leave." His voice was flat, lost. He wasn't nervous about this, he
didn't sound like there was enough hope to leave room for nervous.

We sat there in the dark silence of the car, hearing each other
breathe. Scully stopped too fast at lights, took off too quickly.
Mulder was contained in a shell of crossed arms and distraction. I
was sorry my sweater was in the trunk. It felt like I'd brought the
chill of the ground with me. When Scully pulled up in front of my
house, the tires abraded against the curb. She waited only for me to
get my things, then squealed off away from the curb. She hadn't
even let me reach my porch. I let myself in as fast as I could. The
light in my kitchen then felt cold, and small, and weak.

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: 6/ at the very least 15
Date: 17 Jun 1995 06:19:32 GMT

Corpse 6/?
Fair warning: I write with profanity, violence, and I'm really not very
PC. To those who are interested, there are probably going to be well over
15 pieces, I don't know exactly how many, but at least that, and no. I
can't post it all at once. It's in edit. Not to mention it takes a while
for me to post, and I'd feel like such a hog if I did. Bad enough as it
is!

Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and the X-Files are property Chris Carter and
Ten-Thirteen and Fox Broadcasting. Emma and her house and her town and
Jerry Rigg, a.k.a. Gerald Riggins, man most likely to fix a jury, are all
mine!

Send me mail, people. And to those of you planning to wait and ask me to
email it, no can do. Sucker's big, and we have a LONG way to go, so let's
all do this ride right the first time around. Hope you have at least as
much fun reading it as I had writing it!
Goo
___________________

FROM: IN%"DRTLWR@TIAC.COM"
TO: IN%"JERRY_RIGG@TATTLER.TRIB"

Jerry, I owe and I'm going to owe you bigger. Yeah,
you're right. I've been hanging around with the Feds.
And I need to know more. No protection any more Jerry.
Mulder says the killer talked to him. And he froze. Then
he freaked. You hinted at some bad shit, hinted at
therapy and him haring out. You've gotta tell me now.
How often? When? He's talking about the killer changing
his patterns, talking about knowing what this guy will do.
I don't know, but his partner says he's right when he does this.
When has he done this before? Where? Is he right when
he tells us what will happen?

I stepped on some toes tonight, Jerry. Pissed her off. I need
to know what I'm looking for. I need to know what sets
this man off. What did he do that's so bad?

Emma

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

Dana Scully was major, all-time-high-scoring hacked off with me.
The third time she hung up on me I was pretty sure of it. When I
called Mulder and he only got as far as "Hi, Emma. What . . ." and it
disconnected I was certain. So, well, I did the logical thing. I went
to bed in the middle of the day with a sick headache and slept. And
dreamed. And woke up screaming, with vague memories of my
friends and neighbors on Scully's autopsy table, just like poor
Tommy. And blood on my hands.

I lay in bed, panting, letting my heart calm and listening to the
wind howl past my windows. The late afternoon sky was full of scudding.
grey clouds, the light left no shadows and offered no warmth. I forced
myself out of bed and broke my fast with ibuprofen and coffee. I ran
through my messages, answered the easy ones. I deleted all Jerry's
day-old pleas to go back to work and writing leases. I didn't have any
big answers yet. Stood looking at my machine,and finally reached out to
skim the dust off the screen. I. . . well, I wound up dusting the whole
table. I ran and got a rag, and started on everything, everything. I
dusted tables and knick-knacks and chairs and floors and found myself at
midnight, sobbing, cleaning the top of my refrigerator. I didn't
know why, either why I was sobbing or why I was cleaning up
there. I knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, I had never cleaned
there before. My laundry was done and neatly put away, my house
cleaner than it had been since I moved in. It felt like a stranger's
place. I'd aired it out, and it didn't even smell like me anymore. It
was cold, with the open windows, and I could hear trees scratching
against the back porch it was so still.

My throat and eyes hurt from . . . everything. My nose was still
stuffed and I snuffled into a wad of soaked tissues. My chest hurt
from what may have been hours of sobs. I curled back up in my bed, quilt
balled up around me, and all my upstairs lights on. I must have drifted
off. My clothes felt stale and grubby and my hair was stiff and rumpled
when I opened my eyes again. It was that early, difficult time of morning
when I would suddenly flash into the feverish stage that retrieved me from
the deep, still cold of night's sleep. My clock said a little after
four. I got up, stiff and achy, and wandered down the hall to my
bathroom.

My skin felt touchy, sensitive, as though I could feel things before I
touched them. I ran water so hot the mirror steamed before I could even
undress, and stepped under the jets. I stayed there, washing my
body clean of my sleep, as I could not wash my mind. It felt chill in
the house when I stepped out to wrap myself in a towel. I padded
back to my room to pull on my robe. I could hear my pulse in my
ears. A car several streets away pulled away from a stop too fast. The
neighbors' cats were fighting. The noises of my world washed
through me, as though my body could barely slow the waves of sound
passing through the air. Far, far away sirens rang through the
night.

I lay back in bed and collected myself. Sleep was slow, and I felt it
coming this time, courted its gentle approach. When the phone rang my
heart exploded and I nearly screamed from the shock. The phone
felt hard, almost painful in my hand.

"Who? . . ."

"Emma?" It was Scully, distracted, distant. She sounded tired.

I was frustrated and angry, hearing her voice, but curiosity drove
and forced my response. "What do you need, Scully?" My voice was. . .
soft. I didn't know how I sounded.

I heard her sigh. "Emma, I need a hand. I. . . look, this is hard to
explain, can we come over?" I could almost hear her choke on her
pride, and swallow her anger.

"All right." What was I doing? She'd hit me. Of course, I might
have deserved it. Pride tasted lousy going down. At least we had that
in common. Curiosity sweetened it a lot.

I got up and pulled out fresh clothes, blue jeans and a flannel shirt.
My hair was scrambled from damp and the short sleep. I pushed it
back with water. Then I went downstairs to wait.

The sky showed a faint grey out my window when my doorbell rang.
Both of them were standing there, Scully looking tired and worried,
Mulder just looking. . .I don't know. Almost too tired to stand? I felt
fresh and rested next to them. I stepped back to let them in. The
yellow light on my porch caught their hair and eyes as they came
in, slid off the dark of their coats, like it had that first night.
Tonight, though, they lacked the gleam they'd held that night they
came to question me.

I lead them to my kitchen, and turned to start coffee and tea. It gave
them a moment to gather themselves. I looked out the window over
my sink, draining the tea bag from my own cup. In the window I could see
ghost-reflections of them trying to decide what to do, where to sit. When
I finally turned back with the first, harsh cup of coffee Fox Mulder was
leaning back in a chair, his eyes closed, a look of patient annoyance on
his face. Scully took the cup. She had that controlled look that spoke
of more worry than she wanted to show. She hesitated,
looking around as though she were considering a plan, then
simply walked into my living room. He opened his eyes and
watched her go, let his mouth curve into a sardonic grin.

"You'd better go talk to her. She wants to talk to you about me
without having me eavesdropping on you." I couldn't read all the
currents loaded into that comment. I nodded and took him at his
word.

Scully was sipping the coffee and glancing around at my furniture
as though she had not seen it before. The worried look wasn't
hidden anymore, and it warred with annoyance on her face. She
looked up to stare at me from hollow, shadowed eyes, trying to hold
me and drive home what she wanted.

"They found another one." Her voice was clinical. I shuddered, and
suddenly wished.there were more lights in here.

"Mulder said he'd kill last night. Was this the older man? The one
you were waiting for?" She looked away, rubbed her eyes and drew
the heel of her hand down her face. It couldn't wipe away the
exhaustion I saw there.

"It was. . . it was a child. A little girl, about eight." She swallowed.
"The police aren't sure it's our killer yet. Mulder's sure." She
looked at me then, gave me that long, challenging look, loaded with
all the anger she'd carried last night, and more. Maybe anger that
had nothing to do with me anymore. "He killed her
because she was like Samantha. Killed her to get to Mulder."

"He knew there'd be a murder." I felt my knees go to cold jelly. My
stomach was an icy knot. I looked up at her from where I'd dropped
to my couch. "How can he be sure, Scully? Could this
be a coincidence?" My voice didn't hold the hope my words wanted.

Her laugh was that only in name. It was a bitter, sharp sound.
"Mulder can smell these things. No. It's not a coincidence He's sure of
this one. He saw the little girl and she looked like Sam. I've seen
Sam's pictures. She really, really looked a lot like her." Her eyes
looked at the faintly growing light out the window, but they weren't
seeing what was there.

"I . . ." How much did I want to give up? I was past the point of
bargaining now. I had to build alliances instead of deals. "I
understand there was some indication before that this man might
be aware of your partner. Something about flyers, maybe it was
just a prank." She was staring at me now. She didn't look happy, but she
sighed and nodded.

"He doesn't think it was a prank. Neither do I. If you knew where
to find those flyers, you'd know where to find a lot of other
information." She was fidgeting with the empty cup now. She
looked back up to me. "Mulder was right, he did this one because
we're here."

"What do you want, Agent Scully. What do you want here?"

She didn't answer right away. When she finally spoke, I wasn't sure
she was answering me. She ran her hand along my mantle piece,
speaking in absent tones. "Mulder never got over his sister's
abduction. He joined the FBI to look for her, for answers." She
turned around and stared at me. "I need to go back and autopsy
that child. And I can't let him go there. It's bad enough to just deal
with this kind of case. The serial killers. . . he's so good at catching
them. He learns to think like them. That hurts, knowing them so
well. And this one . . ."

I nodded at that. Her words had put a chill up my spine. I
remembered him sitting there in the car, like he was trying to draw
away from himself.

"This case is bad enough. I don't want him under any more strain
than necessary. He nearly had a panic attack at the crime scene."
She looked at her hands. I could imagine it, the crowd of police and
reporters and gawkers, and Mulder in the middle of it seeing his
sister in a dead child, and sure he was the reason she was dead.
There was a queasy feeling in my throat when I swallowed. No
wonder she hadn't wanted to talk in front of him. No wonder she
felt mad.

"I want him someplace normal today." Her smile was very small and
very ironic. "As normal as possible. I guess you're the closest I've
got to normal right now. About right for me and Mulder. I don't
want to leave him alone, Emma. Can I leave him here with you?" I
nodded. I didn't want my voice to show everything I was thinking.

"But you have to promise me, Emma." She stepped up close. I
flinched at a memory of a blow. "You promise me here and now,
and you keep that promise. No interrogations. No games. You don't
pull anything like that show you put on the other night. I'd rather
have him at the autopsy than that. If you can't keep your damn
mouth shut, we'll drink our coffee and leave." She was searching
my face, her jaw tight with worry and fear and anger. After what
she'd said. . .

. . . my imagination painted what it might have been like to spend the
day with him. She was making no threats. She didn't need to.

I took a long, deep breath. "All right. I promise. I mean, I swear on
a stack of whatever books you want. I'll lay off. He can sit here and
listen to my CDs and play DOOM on my computer, I won't say a word.
I swear." I looked into her eyes. I meant it. I didn't really want him
to teach me how a man who killed children to scare the cops
thought. I had my own nightmares now, I didn't need his, too.
Whatever kept him from dealing with his job, it was his to know.

Scully stared back into my eyes, judging not just whether I meant to
do this, but whether she thought I could. I could see the doubts in
her eyes. She looked more drawn now than when they'd come in. A
sound from my kitchen broke the stare, stopped anything else she
might have said to me. I followed her back in, poured out the cold
tea I hadn't sipped and washed my cup. Mulder was sitting at the
table, drinking coffee I hadn't poured for him and flipping through
my Victoria's Secret catalogue. Scully smiled at him ruefully. I
finished and settled across from him.

"I've finished that one, Mulder. You want it?"

He smiled at both of us, calm and wary. "That's okay. Scully gives
me hers when she's done. I read somewhere they've got twice as
many men on their mailing list as women."

I snorted. "I know men buy more clothes there than women. All
those dinky things?" I dropped it, not really wanting to mention I
was on their mailing list for buying flannel nightgowns.

Scully had poured, and shot-gunned, a second cup of coffee. Now she
leaned against my glossy, white door jamb and pushed her hair back from
her face. "Mulder, I have to go. They're waiting for me by now."

He looked up at her, dropped the catalogue. "I really don't need this,
Scully. There are files . . ." He tapped nervously on the maple of the
table top.

"There's no reason for you to be there. You took most of the files
you need with you yesterday." She shook her head, looked at me
like she profoundly wished I'd go water my cacti or something.
Forget that, this was my house and I wanted to know what was going
on. "Mulder, the press is going to be all over down there. And . . .
you already know what she looks like. You probably know almost
everything I'm going to find. Let yourself off the hook, just this
once." She watched him swallow, I could see her trying to tell him
whole silent conversations that would go right past me. He wasn't
listening this morning, but he didn't argue with her, either.

She put her cup down and walked out to the car. I could see her
through the glass in the front door, lit by pale, pre-dawn light. She
had the trunk open and was hauling out a huge, battered briefcase.
It looked like mine. I grinned at the common tools of law
enforcement. Behind me, I heard Mulder pouring the dregs of the
coffee into his cup. I went to help Scully with the case.

She dropped it in my living room and turned to me, hands on her
hips. "Okay, he's got the police files on Dalbert, a lot of DMV files,
all kinds of stuff." She pulled a flip phone out of the case and held it
where I could see it. "The first speed dial number is mine. If
anything happens, I mean anything, I want to hear from you." She
was looking at me with that worried expression again. This close I
could see the smudges under her eyes, how bloodshot they were, a
tiny crease between her eyebrows from frowning. "He's going to
bitch and moan about babysitting, Emma. I don't care. This is a
tough case and even the Book would consider that contact the other
night to be a threat." The capital-letter Book had to be some point of
contention between them, to judge from her tone. "Under those
conditions it's advised not to stay alone."

"Got it, Scully."

She sighed and put the phone down. "Look, my name is Dana.
Mulder calls me Scully, but that's Mulder."

"You people *are* strange. I'm sorry, but I think of you as Scully. I
mean, that's how I met you. Agent Scully. Not Agent Dana. And I
already call him Mulder. Unless it really gets on your nerves, I'd
just as soon stick with the simple method."

"I don't care." Right. Sure. But it didn't seem to be worth it to her,
either.

"What can I expect? You aren't dropping him off here just so he
can nap."

"No, I'm not. He'll likely jog. You don't need to call unless he's gone
over an hour or so." She smiled faintly at that. "He has nightmares,
that's usual. Mainly, I expect he'll work. Try to avoid the press,
umm, call if you start getting crank calls or anything. Emma, he's
really. . . " She started over. "I didn't bring him by because he
needs anyone hovering over him. He just doesn't need to be in on
that autopsy and he doesn't need to be sitting by himself in a hotel
thinking about it. Or wandering off trying to find this guy on his
own." That last had an aggravated tone that told me he'd done just
exactly that in the past. I had to grin. Scully finally relaxed a little,
nodded and got her coat. She walked back to my kitchen. I couldn't
hear them clearly, but she seemed relieved when she left.

___________________
Cont. heh heh heh, is it ever continued!
BTW, the Corpse Playlist is available from Goo if you want to know about
this music. Additional disclaimers as needed will go on the end,whenever
we all get there together.

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Corpse 7/?
Date: 18 Jun 1995 04:56:36 GMT

Corpse 7/?
That's Corpse 7 of lots and lots. Oh yeah, violence, profanity, and all
that Goo stuff included. Just warning you, don't want anyone to be
shocked. At least who isn't looking for it.

Scully and Mulder and suchlike, property Chris Carter, etc. Emma and
Jerry and suchlike, property Livengoo. Do you need all the details?
Good, didn't think so, you're a smart bunch. Send any comments to
Livengoo@tiac.net. Anybody want to flame me because it's too long? Go
right ahead.

__________________________________________
"You answer questions like a natural disaster,
Voices in the wind . . "

Mulder had come back from his run, showered, shaved and loaded
my multi-CD player up to maximum capacity, on repeat. Now he was
stretched out in blue jeans and a sweater, making my couch look
short. John Hiatt was blaring from under the headphones, and files
of traffic incidents were cradled against his bent legs. All very
nice and domestic. I considered taking a picture to send to Jerry
and some girlfriends, just to make them drool from envy.

I could watch him easily enough from where I was squirreled away
behind my computer. I'd just logged on and was bringing my e-
mail up. Okay, directory gave me a batch of mail, ah, there!

FROM: IN%"JERRY_RIGG@TATTLER.TRIB"
TO: IN%"DRTLWR@TIAC.COM"
SUBJ:

Thank god thank god thank god. So they dumped
you. Thank god you pissed them off. Your guardian angel
must be on overtime, can I borrow it when you don't need
it?

Please, please, please do the smart thing and stay out
of their way now that they don't love you anymore. Don't
try to get into this one, this is one club you don't need to
belong to.

On your questions: has Fox Mulder flaked out before?
Oooooh yes. It's not "has," it's "how often."

I glanced up to look at him, tucked up against one arm of the couch. The
sun from my window shone through yellow and red creeper leaves and put a
glow on his hair, leaving his face in soft shadows. He looked like he was
drifting off over reports of fender benders and missing headlights. He
didn't look like he had snakes in his head. I went back to Jerry.

Has he been in therapy? I think the shrinks at
FBI choose their furniture with him in mind, if half of
what my friend there says is true. She's a receptionist, says she
went on a date with him. He's cute and he pays for dinner,
but he's gone by morning and doesn't call back. But she
got a look at his files. This is top secret confidential girl!
She gets fired if it gets out, she was just curious, and when
I called . . .

There have been two biggies. Oklahoma. That was
before he teamed up with Dr. Scully. He ., xj, sorry, christ.
They had this kid killer. Bad one. Liked to eviscerate
kids and I won't tell you what he did after that. And
old Spooky goes in there and starts telling them what he'll
do before he does it. Starts jumping two moves ahead. And
catches the killer who can't be caught.

This guy I know, friend of a lover, was there (YOU
know everyone in the country is no more than seven
degrees separated, well they're only two or three for
journalists!) So this guy was there and talked to me cause
Hal told him I was good people. Seems Spooky wrote the
profile nobody could write. Knew stuff nobody could know.
And he finished it and curled up in the bathroom and
blanked out until they tried to get him out. They tried to
sedate him and it took four cops holding him down to do it.
24 hour guard and all that, they'd let him come up every
few hours, ask him where their killer was - and he'd TELL
them. He KNEW. Not where he was, but where he'd be.
And they'd drug him down again until they needed to ask
him some more questions. Madman as oracle.

I felt my skin go chilled. Goosebumps were running up and down
my arms. I could hear Sentimental Hygiene on the stereo. Mulder
was flipping through his files, though his eyes didn't look like he
was really seeing them. He never looked up at me.

Spooky went back to the District of Corruption and
just disappeared for a while after that. Maybe on rest leave,
it's vacation time in his files. I don't think anybody wanted
to touch the guy who'd just nailed the Oklahoma Baby Butcher.
Not too long after that he took over the X-Files and starts
solving closed out and abandoned cases. Solves stuff nobody
could figure out. There's not a lot on this, nobody gave me
anything straight on it. I know he cracked a lot of
disappearance cases, and multiple murders, but nobody told
me anything I could believe. They all talked like it was some
kind of joke from the Twilight Zone, but those cases still got
solved.

There's some strange, strange stuff on disappearance
cases. Missing bodies and kids who disappear and show up
catatonic and crap like that. But he still came up with
answers and I guess they worked because those kids got
found.

Next hard stuff I could get was his partner disappeared.
I told you Spooky nearly shot some guy, and they still don't
know if he killed the bastard who took his partner. That's
just considered closed. They just don't know. And she
showed up at a hospital a couple months later and now
everything's hunky dory if you listen to the party line.

Then there's Louisiana. Get this, Spooky goes in and
uses this little kid psychic to try and catch another kid-killer.
Sick bastards. And then the cops use the kids, too?

And Spooky freaked again. It took, like, six cops to
hold him down. They pumped him full of enough joy-juice
to sedate East St. Louis. Voluntary commitment to a country
club nut-house in Virginia. And he does it again. Knows
just where and when the killer's going to be, and cuts and
runs for his home town in Massachusetts.

Mulder was looking up now, staring out the front window. The sun
behind him picked a glow from his sweater. It must have felt warm across
his shoulders. Zevon was singing over Neil Young's driving bass lines,
the sound was tinny from where I sat.

NOBODY knows what tipped him off. The guy was under,
like, house arrest in this place, no phone calls, he just knows
and then he cuts and heads for Chilmark. His partner was
still on stake-out in Texas where they figured the killer was
headed. She got them to call in the cops in Massachusetts.
When they got there Spooky was just a ball of duct tape
and these bastards were ready to off this kid. Twelve of
them, playing satanist. I guess they were planning to
murder the kid and Spooky both, knew he'd be coming just
like he knew they'd be there. Don't ask me, Emma. It's all
in the trial record, just like that. You'd think they were
all crazy, except they were all right, too.

I guess he's like those witches with water dousing
rods. He just finds these sickos, he's got this sixth sense
for them, he really does. How long can you tap into that
kind of shit before it gets you? I feel sorry for the guy,
but I'm glad you're out of there. Just stay clear, the shit's
going to hit the fan.

I looked back up. Mulder was asleep, head tipped back against the
couch. I didn't realize I was chewing on my lower lip until the little
sharp spot, where I'd chipped a tooth playing pool, caught and
stung on my lip. I debated turning off the stereo, and finally
decided to leave him plugged in. He seemed quiet enough, although
he kept murmuring something about Sam under his breath. The
files were about to tumble to the floor when I rescued them and put
them on the table, finally deciding I should get something for both
of us to eat. Yesterday's dinner had been ibuprofen and Mulder had
probably not eaten much more than stale police station donuts if
Scully's mood had been anything to judge by.

He was inaudible from the kitchen and it was easy to ignore him
and get the left-over chicken sliced for chicken, tomato and cheese
melts. I settled down with a cup of herb tea, relaxing in the bright
atumn sun that lit the room. It made a glowing mist of the steam from the
cup. I watched the curls of it a moment, thinking, then opened one of
Mulder's folders, trying to figure what he was looking for.

No wonder he was asleep. He could have slept eight hours every night for
a week and still gone to sleep reading this stuff, stacks of reports of
fender benders and minor accidents. There was a list on the inside front,
in his handwriting, noting that the victims in previous cases had several
times been abducted from their cars. If I deciphered his note correctly,
the killer had run them off the road. They'd found Tommy's old,
second-hand Dodge in a ditch, so that trick was still working for the
bastard. No wonder Scully had been nervous that night the truck
was following Mulder. All the other papers in the folder were
police reports of minor fender benders and tickets for violations
like broken headlights. It was a wonder I wasn't mistaking half the
cars on the road at night for motorcycles, considering how many of
the things only had one headlight working.

God, how did he expect to make anything of this? That folder must
have been a half inch thick or more, and each one was some dinky
violation some cop had used to get his ticket quota. Oh yeah, eidetic
memory. Poor guy, imagine being stuck with a permanent memory
of every busted headlight in some hick county. He'd probably be
spouting license plate numbers on his death bed. That made me
think about the other things he probably had tucked into corners
of that photographic memory, and a chill ran up and down my
spine in spite of the warmth of the room. I walked back out to check on him.

He was still sleeping but he didn't look so peaceful anymore, which
might have been due to the Pogues playing background music to his
dreams. I shut the CD player off and carefully removed the
headphones from his head. My computer was still on and I settled
down to re-read Jerry's letter. I had just about decided to actually
print this one before deleting it, since I didn't think I could
remember it all, when I revised my opinion about whether Mulder
had snakes in his head.

I nearly knocked my keyboard off my lap when he came upright like the
zombie from a fifties horror flick and screamed. This wasn't any tidy,
little, you-startled-me shriek either. This was a full-fledged,
soul-in-hell scream. I fell back on some of humanity's oldest instincts
and froze in place, hoping whatever predator must be overhead would pass
me by.

Fox Mulder was curled tight over on my couch, and the sunlight
didn't look warm and cozy anymore. His face was white as a sheet
and he had his arms wrapped tight around his ribs, panting for air
like he'd just run a marathon. I was only starting to think my heart
might still be beating when he bolted off my couch and threw
himself out of the living room.

I heard the front door slam open, and stop on the chain lock, and then his
steps running back down the hall. His breathing was still so panicky I
could hear it, although at first I'd mistaken it for my own. I curled
forward over my keyboard, with my forehead against the cool surface of the
desk, when I heard the bathroom door slam and heard the water running. I
think I heard him throwing up everything he'd eaten since his tenth
birthday, but it was hard to tell over the thunder of my own pulse in my
ears.

I slowly, slowly walked out to the front door. My feet still felt far
away from the effects of all that adrenaline. The water was
running full blast back there, and I could see how the chain had
dug into the solid oak of my door. He must have been too panicky to
even think about how to take the chain off. God, what had he
dreamed about? I shut the door carefully, needing the solid, sturdy
feel of the wood for a moment, gathered myself and walked back
down the hall to my downstairs bathroom. It sounded like the sink
and the shower were both on. He wasn't heaving anymore if I heard
right.

I knocked on the door and called his name, but only got a soft
sound that might have been a sob back. When I tried the door it was
locked. I knocked again, and that was when I heard the mirror go.
Not "go" as in he slammed the cabinet and the little mirror on the
side cracked, but "go" as in he must have punched out the big, big
heavy, glass slab on the wall. Shattering and clattering and crash
go. My heart went right back up to my brain and slammed the
thoughts out of my head and I found myself pounding on that damn,
locked door and screaming for him.

"Mulder, Mulder! God dammit, Mulder! Open this fucking door right
now! Listen to me, you open this door!" Oh god, oh god, oh god, I ran
for the phone in the kitchen and grabbed the handset and
scrabbled at the buttons but I couldn't recall the number she gave
me and I could still hear all that glass in there, oh god. I raced back
and tried the knob again and I don't know why I was surprised
when it was still locked.

Oh god, where was that fucking flip phone she'd shown me? I
skidded down the hall and grabbed the door jamb and slung myself
around the corner and into the room. The briefcase, where was that
briefcase she put it by the table but where was it now? Right
*now*? I fucking could not find it where was it oh GOD! I ran back
to the bathroom door, panting with panic and I could hear him just
barely in there and it sounded like sobbing but I couldn't be sure. I
pounded my hands on the door so hard it hurt, and screamed at him
again.

"Mulder! God damn it you OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW! I'm calling
the fucking cops I'm calling 911 I'm calling the firemen if you don't
open the door NOW!" Oh lord, I ran back to the kitchen and grabbed
my phone, but I knew 911. I'd get pizza faster than I'd get them.

And he was in there with all that glass. Who needed razor blades
when you had glass. God, I needed Scully. One more pass through
the living room and I was never loaning my guardian angel to
Jerry because there it was, back by the side of the couch, and I just
grabbed that briefcase and dumped it and scattered files and papers
and pens and everything else until I got that fucking phone and
slammed my thumb over that quick dial and rocked on my knees
and prayed until I heard her voice.

"Scully here."

"Oh god, Scully, oh god, he's locked in there and there's all that glass
and he won't open the door and how do I get him out of there?"

"What? Wait, Emma, where . . . ?"

"Scully, he's locked in my downstairs bathroom and I can hear him
but he broke the mirror and it's all that glass and big and I'm scared
and I can't get him to open the door and it's locked and. . ." and she
cut me off. I sat there sobbing and rocking and all I could see was
that stupid scene from "Ordinary People" when that kid cut his
wrists and blood on the ceiling. Oh god. I wanted to throw up.

I dropped the phone sometime, and scrambled for the front door and
tore off that chain lock so Scully could get in, and went back to the
locked bathroom door and leaned my head against it and listened, just
listened, to him sobbing in there. Sometimes I'd hit the door a little
and beg him to open it, but mostly just stood there. And hands on my
shoulders pulled me away, and Scully stepped past me and leaned up
to the door and started talking to him in this tight,nervous voice
that tried to be calm, but I was too scared to see and I went out to my
porch and sat on the steps and hid my face in my hands and waited.
Waited forever.

And then I could hear his voice. It was muffled and choked, but I
could hear it. And she was talking to him and he was answering.
And some forever after that the sound of that fucking door lock
clicked so loud I could have heard it across the street, and I felt
something big, and scary and lonesome unwind in my gut and let
go. This long, shuddering breath left me leaning against the porch
rail, with my ears ringing from relief, and I could hear him talking
to her, and his voice sounded half choked but I could hear him. She
wasn't calling 911 or trying to get an ambulance out here, she
wasn't screaming for me to get in there and help her with him. She
was talking with him. And then she came out and settled down next
to me for a moment, sitting on her haunches like she was only resting
and was going to get back up soon.

"Emma? Emma, you okay?"

I nodded, but the nod really felt silly, and my mouth was pulled tight
across my face, and I could feel this lump in my throat that hurt.
And my face screwed itself up into a ball even though I didn't want
it to and this sound broke out of me and I couldn't stop it, I was so
scared. Scully got an arm around me tight and kind of pulled me up
to my feet.

She was asking me something about antihistamines or
motion sick pills. I told her something, but wasn't really thinking
about it. She tugged me along with her, back into the house, and
into the kitchen where Mulder was sitting, very pale and still, with
my kitchen towels wrapped around his hands, and them resting on
ice in a bowl. I could still see the tear stains on his face, and I knew
how he felt. I avoided looking at his hands, which were staining
my towels a vivid red. It was splattered halfway up his arms, but
nowhere near enough red to be anything like his wrists cut. I
swallowed and looked away.

I could hear Scully looking through my bathroom cabinets, the
sound of glass crunching under her shoes. Mulder sighed and
focused on me with a slightly rueful smile.

"Sorry for the mess. I'll take care of the bill, of course." His voice
sounded hoarse. Scully breezed past me, her brusque air totally at
odds with the two of us. She put two pills down in front of him. They
looked like the Dramamine I'd bought when I'd been marooned at
the library the other day. Her high heels clicked on the tile floor,
and her hospital-green scrubs clashed badly with the blue-and-gold
decor of my kitchen. The combination must have struck Mulder at
the same time it struck me. We both watched her, rather
quizzically, as she found my bottle of scotch and poured one scotch,
and another glass of water. Water to him, scotch to me,and she settled
down in a chair.

"Nice fashion statement, Scully." I was sure he'd managed better
lines in the past, but it was a good try. He was giving his water and
pills a distinctly disapproving look. He finally pushed the pills
away. "I don't need those."

"Humor me. Take them anyway. So, do you two want to tell me what
happened?" We looked at each other. *I* didn't know what to tell
her, and I could tell that if he knew what to tell her he didn't have
any pressing desire to do so. Scully looked back and forth between
us, irritated. "So, you were reviewing files and decided to wreck
Emma's bathroom for fun? And you," I wasn't getting off easily.
"You just happened to notice? No warning, nothing unusual this
morning?" She shook her head, snapping her hair back and forth,
and pushed herself back onto her feet. "I'm going to go get those
files. You two can coordinate your stories, but I expect some
answers." She sounded like my pediatrician ordering me to lay off
the chocolates. We watched until she was around the corner and
then looked back at each other.

"So, what are you going to tell her?" He sounded genuinely curious.
I could see him regaining color and focus just sitting there.
Whatever had happened, he was getting himself back under control
faster than than a paid witness after a fit in court.

"You had a nightmare, and you flipped. You were talking about
Sam." I suppose my voice might have sounded a little accusing.

He was pulling at the dishtowel on one hand, checking his hand and
pointedly avoiding meeting my eyes. He scowled at the cuts across
his knuckles and sighed. "My health plan is going to cancel me."
He looked back up at me. "I suppose damage control is out of the
question?"

My eyebrows definitely climbed. Damage control? He wanted me to
play spin doctor? "Mulder, you'd need Johnny Cochran and the
Dream Team for that and I don't think they'll consider
moonlighting for you."

He finally managed a full grin. "I don't know, maybe she
mishandled the evidence?" His eyes flicked to the door
automatically. I suddenly realized I wasn't hearing files getting
shuffled. I wasn't hearing anything. She should have been done
by now, I'd only dumped. . . but the brief case wasn't the only thing
in there. Mulder was watching me like he expected me to keel over
in a moment. I gulped. "Look, I'll split their fees with you. Tell you
what, you and I put on a coordinated front for Marcia Clark." I
nodded towards the door where Scully'd gone. His eyes flicked there
again, and narrowed.

"I know I didn't trash your stereo. I didn't touch anything in
there." He was unwrapping the other hand, flexing it, but not
looking at it. He was too busy watching me.

"Um, well, I was doing a little research."

"You want to tell me about it? You have something that would help,
Emma?" His voice had that tone he'd used when he thought I was
holding out, I could almost see him running through possibilities. I
didn't get a chance to help my case because I suddenly heard those
heels behind me.

"Mulder, I think you'd like to see this." The shoes walked away
again. I hadn't heard such disapproving high heel taps since I'd
put a snake in Martin Hesletine's lunch box. Mulder was looking
curious and totally in focus now, and I was wishing I'd cooperated
when I'd had the chance.

I followed him into the living room, where I was sadly unsurprised
to see Scully bent over my computer desk. Mulder joined her, and I
hovered in the doorway with my arms crossed and remembered
being five and out of line. I could see the what little color he had
slowly drain from his face as he scrolled down the lines. Scully was
watching me and him about equally. It must have been easier to keep that
same
expressionless look on her face than to shift back and forth
between what I suspected were her feelings. Mulder finally
finished, and stood there, carefully tapping a finger tip on my desk
and no doubt leaving bloody fingerprints. I now knew how OJ felt
about that glove.

I'd never liked football, but I knew a good tip when I heard it so I
went on the offense. "Good, now maybe we can get some secrets out
in the open and get on with things." Scully looked at bit startled.
Mulder looked like he was taking notes to catch me with later. "So I
know you," I pointed at him, "have nightmares. Real humdinger
nightmares. And you hallucinate serial killer vibes." He looked
distinctly sour. "And you know I have a friend who knows how to
ask good questions in good places."

Mulder reached over and hit the Print key, and I heard that
familiar buzzing of my printer. Scully was re-reading the mail and
had a tight, unhappy look on her face.

"Remind me to talk to you about your taste in women some time." Her voice
was entirely too neutral.She glanced back up to me, clearly trying to
decide how far she wanted to kick my ass. Mulder forestalled that when he
pulled the chair out and sat down, moving the keyboard to where he wanted
it. Scully put a hand on his shoulder, and looked about as baffled as I
felt until he started typing. I couldn't help myself, I drifted over to
them, and all of a sudden understood the startled look on her face.All of
a sudden, the deep pile of the oriental rug on the floor felt miles away
and I grabbed onto the back of his chair. You couldn't
have got me away from there with wild horses.

_____________
Cont.

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Corpse 8/?
Date: 19 Jun 1995 04:02:43 GMT

Corpse 8/?

All the regular disclaimers. Chris Carter, blah blah, livengoo blah
blah. Here's the story. . .

MAIL> reply
TO: IN%"JERRY_RIGG@TATTLER.TRIB"
FROM: IN%"DRTLWR@TIAC.COM"
SUBJ: nice to meet you.

Hello, Mr. Rigg. I believe you have the advantage of
me. You seem to know a great deal about me, but I
haven't had the pleasure. I'm sure I'll get to know a
great deal more about you in the near future.

I understand you're a good friend of Emma Courtland's.
I'm glad to hear it. I do think you should take a little
more care before distributing confidential information
over unsecured lines, I'm surprised someone such as
yourself would make that kind of mistake. Perhaps
next time you feel like sharing information you'd
like to send it to ghost_wrtr@lepvx5.FBI.gov. I always
say, if it's worth having, it's worth sharing.
^z

He sat back and waited. Scully had hold of his shoulder, leaning
down near him.

"Mulder, are you out of your mind?" Her voice was almost frantic, a
hiss. "You don't know who this is, what are you doing?"

"Playing hide and seek."

MAIL>
TO: IN%"DRTLWR@TIAC.COM"
FROM: IN%"JERRY_RIGG@TATTLER.TRIB"
SUBJ: Spooky feeling.

. . .Did somebody just walk over my grave?
Spooky, that you?
^z

Scully drew her breath through her teeth. I knew how she felt.
The room was still sunny and bright and all my stuff was where I
liked it, and I could barely see it. The whole world was that nice,
color monitor of mine, and the white words and flashing cursor. We
both jumped when the machine beeped.

MAIL> reply
TO: IN%"JERRY_RIGG@TATTLER.TRIB"
FROM: IN%"DRTLWR@TIAC.COM"
SUBJ:

In the ectoplasm. Nice return code you have there.
How do you like working for Hiram Wilson and Meg
Loftus?

Interesting conversation you've been having with
Emma. You should be careful who you listen to.
Things are not always what they seem. Trust no one.
I'll look forward to meeting you in person.
^z

Scully was shaking her head. "I don't think this is a good idea,
Mulder. You don't know this man, I don't like this at all."

"Relax, Scully. He already knows who we are, and Emma was going
to tell him all about us anyway. Weren't you, Emma?"

I definitely felt small.

MAIL>
TO: IN%"DRTLWR@TIAC.COM"
FROM: IN%"JERRY_RIGG@TATTLER.TRIB"
SUBJ:

I'm sure you will. Hiram and Meg are cool, although
they are real fashion victims. Speaking of which,
someone should speak to you about your ties. I could
do wonderful things for you.

Obviously if you're on Emma's account something's
gone wrong. Up front, Spooky, is Emma okay? She's
a good friend. I would be very unhappy if something
happened to her because she was associating with the
wrong kind of people.
^z

God, I felt strange, watching this happen. Poor Jerry, he must have
thought I was dead. Mulder was setting up his reply. His fingers
left little bloody spots on the keys, I was probably going to buy a
new keyboard after this.

MAIL> reply
TO: IN%"JERRY_RIGG@TATTLER.TRIB"
FROM: IN%"DRTLWR@TIAC.COM"
SUBJ:

Relax, she's fine. If she dies right now it'll be from
mortification. If she'd needed to know any of this we
would have told her. I'd like to discuss your professional
ethics with you. And your source.
^z

MAIL>
TO: IN%"DRTLWR@TIAC.COM"
FROM: IN%"JERRY_RIGG@TATTLER.TRIB"
SUBJ:

Ever hear of the 5th Amendment, Spooky? Or the 1st?
Hands off my source and my friend. FBI has kept you
under wraps so far. Let's keep it that way, shall we?
^z

I could hear Scully's teeth grit next to me. Right then, I didn't
blame her much. Mulder had paused, fingers hovering above the
keys while he considered that last. I couldn't read anything from
the little I could see of his face, but I knew Scully, beside me was not
happy.

MAIL>
TO: IN%"JERRY_RIGG@TATTLER.TRIB"
FROM: IN%"DRTLWR@TIAC.COM"
SUBJ:

I'm not sure I want to dignify that with an answer.
Threats? In poor taste, wouldn't you agree?

I'm sure you already know that Emma's hard to
discourage. I'm not sure why you think we could
succeed where your horror stories have failed.
She is persistent. I will suggest that your records
are inaccurate and that it might not be good to have
them in your possession. We are not the only people
involved in this debate. You may want to drop your
current line of inquiry.

In future a little discretion might go a long way
to help your professional advancement. I'm sure,
from what you've written, that you can appreciate
that advice.
^z

He sat back then. I was pretty sure he wasn't expecting any
response to that last. After several minutes I had to agree. He
carefully logged out, shut down and turned the thing off.

I was leaning over the back of his chair, just trying to imagine
what Jerry was thinking. And then I took a good look at Mulder,
who was sitting there looking smug and pleased with himself while
he bled on my keyboard and I really wanted to strangle him.

"Mulder!" I reached and grabbed his right wrist and he looked up at
me, startled. "What the hell is the idea of threatening my friends?
You're pissed off, you can take it up with me, but . . ." I broke off
when Scully leaned in and grabbed his other wrist and locked eyes
with me.

"Can you two take this up in a little bit? We've got some more
immediate concerns and questions." He must have felt like he was
under arrest with the two of us hauling his ass out of that chair. I
bit my tongue and decided to hold my questions just a little, since I
didn't think they were going anywhere and I had plenty to ask.
Mulder was still pale, despite the gleam in his eyes from playing
games with Jerry's head, and his blood was running down his wrist
now, and felt nasty and hot and sticky under my hand. I think I may
have been relieved when Scully guided us back into the kitchen.

Scully ran the water and shoved the hand she had under the tap.
Mulder hissed when the water hit the cuts. I let go and trusted he'd
get the idea. I got the feeling he'd been through this kind of thing
before.

"Another afternoon in the emergency room?" He sounded resigned.

"Not unless you want to go through the cordon of television cameras
around it." Scully was making sure his hands were very clean. I
backed up, swallowing hard and trying to ignore the feeling of my
fingers, and headed towards the bathroom.

How I could have forgotten was beyond me, but I'd managed to do
just that. The sight of all that glass scattered over my counter, my
floor, piled in a silver-and-white-and-red jagged glitter in the sink
made my stomach flip-flop. I was about to race for the stairs when
Scully called me back.

"Emma." They were at the table and she was ruining a couple more
of my dishtowels. "I've got a case in the front seat. Could you get it?
It's full of medical supplies." She glanced up at me. Mulder was
sitting there with that look of practiced trepidation that announced
in banner-size type that he'd rather be anywhere, even Milwaukee,
than sitting at my kitchen table right then. Scully tossed me her
keys and went back to doing whatever was making him miserable. I didn't
want to look closely enough to figure it out.

My front door was still ajar, and I hopped down the stairs, with all
sorts of unsavory questions buzzing in my head All of which I
planned to ask before I let either one of the crypto-cops out of my
house. I had just unlocked the front door and picked up this kit that
was the size of my huge brief case when the implications of the
thing hit me. I mean, this was no little kit like mine, about the size
of a laptop. This thing weighed about twenty pounds and was in this
big case. They could have marketed it as hospital-in-a-box, complete
with everything but the nurse and accountants . So, did she carry
this thing all the time? Was this a regular part of her luggage?

I can't say I was looking forward to walking back into my kitchen,
and Mulder looked like he shared my views on the matter. Scully
was doing those doctor things that happen to you whenever you
hurt yourself and they want to make sure you know about it. He was
sitting there, wincing as she poked at a few cuts that must have been
particularly nasty. I can't say for sure because I kept my eyes
carefully focused on the top of Mulder's head, where I didn't really
have to see the damage. Watching an autopsy had been bad enough. Seeing
a live person, a person I knew, with cuts and blood and all. . . There was
a sour taste in my mouth when I swallowed. Scully gave a satisfied look
to the doctor-in-a-drum thing I put down on the table.

"Good, can you help here, Emma?"

"Help?" My voice might not have squeaked, but I doubted it.

"Look, Scully, can't you just slap a few butterflies on and call it
quits? It's really not that bad . . ." Mulder was trying to pull back
from her, and she wasn't letting him. "Besides, you're a pathologist,
you don't have anything for this, we can go to the emergency room
when things calm down if it's really necessary . . . " He was most
definitely getting that slightly frantic note I recognized as someone
who did not want to get stitches.

"No we can't. The rumors are already fast and furious. If you show
up like this the press will go into a feeding frenzy. Don't be such a
baby. You only need stitches in a couple of them. Maybe if you
thought about these things you wouldn't hit mirrors." Her bedside
manner would have told me she was a pathologist if I hadn't already
known it. "Emma," she glanced up. "Mulder's a lousy patient. I'll
need you to hold his wrist still so I can get this right. Just let me get
some. . . ," she trailed off as she turned to her toy kit, rummaging
and coming up with a syringe and a bottle.. Mulder may have cringed. I
know I did. Scully had pulled out this funny headband with a magnifying
glass on it. She pulled her hair back and put it on and suddenly I
couldn't read her face anymore. She was that alien, goggle-eyed medical
face that looks at whatever has gone wrong, turning back to him with that
syringe and a probe and forceps. She'd already turned on every light in
the room, and the sun and lights made it formidably bright.

Mulder looked accusingly at her. "I think you enjoy this. You don't
get to do this for any of your other patients. This is kind of a treat,
isn't it." He looked at me. "None of her other patients ever gets any
better, so I'm how she keeps her hand in." Right on cue she nailed
him with the syringe and I saw what she meant. He tried to jump
like a scalded cat, and would have knocked the needle loose if she
hadn't been holding his arm tight. One in each finger, and more around
each cut. My stomach flopped every time she put the needle in, and I
began to wonder how he could have enough space on his hands to take that
many injections. And he jumped at every single one. I groaned, but I
leaned in to pin the his wrists so she could do her evil doctor thing. He
was pale and sweating, shivering, when she was done with the injections.
I thought he was going to pass out right there, and she hadn't even begun
to sew up the cuts yet. Hell, I thought I was going to pass out right
there.

"Okay, Mulder, that's xylocaine. Your hands should start feeling
numb any moment now." She was carefully injecting the slashes on his
other hand. She seemed relieved to be able to simply do her job. Given
the look on his face, it was probably a luxury to not have to fight him
over holding still. He certainly looked like he really wanted to shove
his hands in his pockets and keep them there. I tried very hard to avoid
looking at my hands or his. It felt awfully hot in there.

"Scully, is xylocaine a regular part of your luggage? I mean, is this
kit your version of a briefcase?" My voice sounded funny in my ears. I
concentrated and waited for her answer. She'd pulled that visor down, but
I could see her smile pull her face into deceptively cute lines.

"Actually, I was lucky. When you called I thought I might need a
kit. The ambulance crew that brought the body in was still there
and let me borrow theirs." She pulled out little silver things, held them
up to show him."These are forceps, I'll use them to hold the cuts closed
while I sew. It's going to take time, I don't want you to have scars."
Now she had something that looked like scissors, except it had a thin
needle and a long, long thread on the end of it. I felt this ringing
start in my ears. I hadn't thought Mulder could get any paler, but he
was. His wrist felt clammy and cool under my hand, and I could feel his
breathing fast and shaky through the shoulder that pressed against my
belly. I'd have stepped back a little, but that would take my weight off
his wrist and I could feel that he was going to jump when she started.

I was right. He jumped. His hands might feel numb - might. I could
recall xylocaine and fillings, and those buggers still hurt enough to
have me arched off the chair and digging little finger holes in the
dentist's upholstery. He always claimed I had to be imagining it.
Mulder may or may not have been imagining how his hands felt,
but to judge from the tension in his arm I would bet he didn't like
this any more than I liked the dentist.

"All right, Mulder." Scully's voice sounded soft and slightly
distracted, all her attention on what her hands were doing. "We're
going to be at this a while. Do you want to tell me why you hit
Emma's mirror?"

"No, I really don't." His voice sounded somewhat strained. Scully
glanced up at him, then rather ostentatiously pulled the stitch
through with that horrible scissor-thingy. Mulder hissed and went
translucent. I shut my eyes. His wrist jumped under my hand and I could
actually hear him swallow, and I recalled seeing Alien all of a sudden.
After that first gross-out chest-burster scene I had closed my eyes so I
couldn't see another gross scene. I spent the rest of the film huddled
against my date with my eyes squeezed tight. Scariest movie I've ever
heard in my life. This not only had surround-sound, I could smell blood
and antiseptic and feel the pulse racing under his chilly skin. My
stomach flopped and my ears rang and I decided that it might be worse with
my eyes closed than open. So I opened them. I must
have had them closed forever. It felt that way, so why did Scully
only have two more stitches in? Oh god, I wished I hadn't looked.

Mulder was leaning into my hip, not looking at all healthy. He was
watching her work on his hands as though he were trying to
pretend they belonged to someone else. Scully was humming opera
arias or something. She pulled another stitch and wiped his hand
with a wet swab. Little forcep-things gleamed silver and liquid-red under
my kitchen lights.

"Anything that shook you up that much, I should know. You may
have put something together, seen something in the files and it
clicked. Now, do you want to tell me about that dream?" I could see
her shoulders hunched tight over his hand while she concentrated
on her work. They'd ache when she was done.

"Trust me. It won't help. I don't want to talk about it." His voice
sounded thready, and sweat was beading on his forehead.

She paused and looked up at him. "Are you all right? Do you feel
this, or do you want more xylocaine?" All right? Obviously doctors
defined 'all right' differently from the rest of us.

"It's okay, Scully. I can feel it some, but I don't like my hands numb.
I'd rather feel it." His words came in little, controlled bursts, with
swallows in between. He was a lousy liar.

"Mulder, there are autonomic nervous responses to pain. . . " She
sounded worried. He shook his head. She went back to her work,
and asked about his dream again, and he refused again.

"Okay, so Mulder doesn't want to tell me what happened." How could
she do that? Just talk while she was doing that to him? "Emma,
what happened?"

I swallowed and tried to think up a good lie, but my stomach was
taking all my attention. "Er, he had a dream."

"You were working at the computer?"

"Y-yes."

"You don't have to tell her this." Mulder's voice sounded like I felt,
and didn't make it through the ringing in my ears by much. I was
feeling very hot, and the room had contracted to a bright tunnel of
visibility surrounded by gray-purple fuzz. Scully was pinching
together a long gash by his thumb with another little silver forceps
thing. Stitches showed stark black where she had already finished sewing
some of the slices in his hand.

"And he had a nightmare?" Her voice was steady and gentle and she
worked steadily, pulling another stitch to close the gash I could not
look away from any more.

"Uh huh. And he sat up and screamed. I think I dropped my
keyboard." Was my voice always that squeaky? Mulder was
squeezing his eyes shut every time he blinked, like he was trying to
clear them. Sometimes he glanced at me, like he wished I'd sink
through the floor, or spontaneously combust, anything to stop me
from talking.

"And then what?" Such a nice, coaxing tone.

"He tried to open the door and he locked himself in the bathroom
and I think he . . . " Oh god. I could remember his choked heaves
through the door, and right then I just didn't need that. I sagged
against his side and tried to ignore my twitching stomach. Things
were feeling really hazy, and my head felt light and sick. "Look
Mulder," Lord, I was whining. "You know she'll hurry up if we tell
her. Spill."

I think he swallowed convulsively again, it sounded like that. His
wrist felt colder than ever. Oh god, and Scully still had another
hand to stitch. "Mulder, she's going to get it out of us, she's got a
whole 'nother hand on us." I think I was begging. This was pitiful.
I couldn't let this medical terrorism go on much longer. I caved.
"Scully, he was dreaming about Sam and then he dropped off and
then he screamed and that's all I know."

"Mm hmm." Another stitch. How long did xylocaine last? They had
to keep giving me shots during my fillings. Had his worn off?
Maybe he'd answer if it did. I could see the sweat on his forehead
now, beaded against gray-pale skin. His eyes looked glassy as hell
and were fixed on what she was doing. She drew another stitch
through and asked him again. I hadn't known medical schools
offered classes on interrogating people. She dropped her swab on
the pile she was collecting, with a move she must have intended
both of us to follow. I could see she was being gentle, but she was
taking entirely too long in doing this, as far as I was
concerned.

Moooore stitches. Another swab. If he'd ever been through this
before how on earth could he have hit that fucking mirror,
knowing that this would happen? Simple. When he hit it he didn't
know. We were both watching the blood rolling down onto my dish
towel and I could feel the sweat rolling off my face. The room was
wavering and my stomach was rolling. "Mulder, please just tell her
what she wants to know. . . " I could hear the pleading note in my
voice and I just didn't care. Maybe it got through, or maybe he was
as hazy as he was looking and just didn't have it in him to stonewall
anymore.

"I saw Sam, Scully. I saw him kill Sam." His wrist tensed against my
hand again, and I leaned in. Just as well, my weight wasn't so steady
on my feet alone anymore.

"Go on." Her voice was still calm and distracted, as though she
weren't paying attention to anything but what her hands were
doing. "And what did you see in the mirror?"

"I saw me, except her blood . . . " he trailed. He was looking at his
hands but I don't think it was his blood he was seeing on them. His
wrist was completely tensed under my hand now. Scully glanced up
at him and hesitated. I could see her decide to continue. "Was it
your face in the mirror?"

"No. Yes. Not at first, but then. . . " He sounded a long way away. I
still heard ringing in my ears, but didn't feel like closing my eyes
anymore. No wonder he'd flaked out. "I was looking in the mirror
and I saw a face and then I saw my face and her blood was on my
hands, and she was. . . was. . . ," he choked off. "Oh god." If I hadn't
had his wrists pinned I think he would have tried to put his face in
his hands.

Scully gently finished the first hand, taking knot, on knot, on knot in
the end of the line. She silently put butterfly bandages on the other
cuts, and stroked the back of his hand. He wasn't watching her anymore.
"Mulder, did you see his face?" She sounded, I don't know, half-lost.
Like asking him was betraying him. He swallowed, glassy eyed and weaving
as she took his left hand and swabbed it clean.

"I can't remember. I know I saw my face. I don't want to
remember." His voice sounded insubstantial, hollow. He weaved
again and I think his eyes may have rolled back a moment as his
weight slid against me. I almost let him slide from the chair before
I could catch him. He was heavier than I'd thought he could
possibly be, slumped against me so I had to lean into him with all
my weight to keep him there, until I could get him centered and
leaning back in the chair. I curled over his head then, holding his
hand still and hoping I wouldn't pass out myself. I had an arm
wrapped around his shoulders, holding his shoulders and head back
against my body. His hair felt soft under my hand.

Scully paused to look at the two of us, and pulled a small vial out of
her kit. I almost went when I saw the blood she'd left on it, but
finally took it. She told me to sniff it. I'd always thought smelling
salts were something made up to fill a spot in bad novels, but that
little vial of ammonia salts snapped my attention back to the present
very unpleasantly. I almost used them on Mulder, but Scully waved
me off.

"Let him stay out. I don't think he can remember anything else,
and this won't get any more pleasant." When she glanced up at me I
could have sworn her expression was apologetic. "I'm sorry I had to
put you through that. I didn't want to put either of you through
this." The look she gave Mulder was terribly sad. "I had to know
what he dreamed, and he wouldn't want to tell me. If you hadn't
been here, I think he'd have tried to convince me it never
happened." She turned back to his hand, as though it were a relief
to have a simple, straightforward task. "I really do need your help,
could you just hold him, so his hands stay still? And. . . and so he
knows someone's there?" She said that last so softly. I turned my
face away and pulled his weight against me.

He was just stirring again when her voice gave me the all-clear. I
turned back to watch her clean up the mess of swabs on my table
and wipe the. . . the blood away. I'd never really been bothered by
blood. Needles and cuts, yes, but not blood. All of a sudden I didn't
think I could ever see blood again without the queasy, choked
feeling I had now. Scully seemed relieved to be done. She checked
Mulder's pulse and eyes with a look that was gentle, concerned and.
. . slightly guilty? She turned the same guilty look on me. I guess
maybe the third degree over stitches wasn't considered a legitimate
and ethically above-board technique. I know it would have been
grounds for an appeal in any court of law.

"I don't know, Scully. I think you were born in the wrong century.
You would have been a hit in Queen Elizabeth's Star Chamber."
>From the way she flinched she must have known torture was
permitted in the Star Chamber. I felt like a heel. "Look, I'm sorry.
My temper's just a little short. Can I get you a cup of tea? Both of
you? Mulder looks like he's waking back up." He wasn't boneless
anymore. I could let go of him, and he just weaved a little instead of
going over.

She looked grateful. "Thanks, I'll take one. And do you have a
blanket? He'll be pretty chilled after that." I set the water on and
went upstairs to get her one. When I caught my reflection in the
mirror, I looked like a ghost. My face was pale and my eyes were
huge, slate-blue holes against whites that had a little less color than
my skin. My hair had never looked so dark. I pulled my sweater
closer around me and went carefully back downstairs.
__________________________

cont.