Keywords: None. XxXxXxXxXxXxX Chapter Two XxXxXxXxXxXxX Fear made her open her eyes like a jungle cat sensing a predator. She clawed the edge of the mattress and did not breathe. Her heart thundered wildly as the room came into focus, full of gray light and the sound of rain slapping against the windows. Her room. It was okay. She relaxed one centimeter at a time, squeezing her eyes closed again. Her body hurt in places she didn't want to name, and her head was heavy with an odd combination of terror and drug-induced fuzz, an iron spike wrapped in cotton. She didn't remember falling asleep. She turned with a jerk and found Mulder dead to the world on the other side of the bed, his jaw slack and his porcupine hair spread out on her pillow. The noise inside her hadn't woken him. She gave him a sad half-smile and reached out to touch the hard slope of his cheekbone and the scratchy Braille covering his chin. He rubbed his face against her fingers but did not awake. Scully withdrew and slipped out of bed into her robe. The bright bathroom light flickered on and Scully stared at her wan reflection in the mirror. Her hair had flattened overnight, making her face seem pale and puffy. She drew her hair back into a tight ponytail at the base of her neck. Turning, she fingered the bandage on her throat. One quick yank revealed pink skin and an angry scab shaped like a knifepoint. Scully made herself look. Next she tugged open her robe and regarded the wide bruise darkening on her ribcage where his left elbow had pinned her down. Inch by inch, she catalogued her new body. Prognosis: she would live. She sighed and swallowed her pills one by one before hiding the bottles in the medicine cabinet again. The metal shower rings clattered along the rod as she drew back the curtain. She turned the water on to heat and let her robe fall to the ground. Her sore muscles protested as she climbed into the high tub. A bath would have been better to ease them, but she wanted the feel of rushing water on her skin. She stood under the bracing hot spray, steam rising, and scrubbed the exfoliating cloth over her arms, her breasts, her belly. She turned slowly, rinsing the soap clean, and watched the layers of herself swirl away down the drain. When she emerged many minutes later, Mulder wasn't in bed. She heard the TV going in the living room. Hand on the door, she hesitated about whether to go greet him, but decided she wasn't ready to face him just yet. She sealed herself inside her room and began a careful dressing procedure that featured soft knit pants and long sleeves that hid the finger marks on her arm. Her hand shook when she tried to put on mascara so she left that step out. She rubbed her palms over her hips and contemplated the door again. It's just Mulder, she told herself. With a deep breath, she turned the knob and went down the hall to find him. The earthy smell of strong coffee tickled her nose before she reached the kitchen, where Mulder stood - -completely dressed save for his shoes -- leaning against her counter. She stopped in the doorway. Mulder had a sheaf of papers in his hand that he shoved aside at her entrance, as though she'd caught him sneaking treats from the cookie jar. She recognized the pamphlet on top as the one that Dr. Lehne had given her. "It's okay," she told him, moving into the room. "You can look. It's not anything you haven't seen before, I'm sure." "Actually," he said, and cleared his throat, "actually, I've never read one all the way through before." She nodded. "I guess you wouldn't have had reason to." "I didn't mean to pry." "You weren't." They held themselves away from each other, stiff like strangers. "I made some coffee," he said, "if you want." She let him pour her a mug, which she wrapped in her cold fingers instead of drinking. He sipped his coffee and studied a crayon drawing from Matthew that she had taped to her fridge. "A cow?" he asked eventually. "A Dalmatian. Matthew saw the movie last month, and he says if he doesn't get a dog right away, he will die." He nodded sagely. "Death by lack of canine ­ it's a silent but vicious killer. That's how I lost my best friend Kenny in third grade." "Mulder," she said. But she shook her head, amused, and he smiled, really looking at her for the first time since she'd entered the room. He held out an arm in invitation, and she pressed against his side, cheek resting on his soft T-shirt. Mulder squeezed her lightly around the shoulders. "Feeling any better?" he asked. She closed her eyes and took inventory. The truth was she didn't feel much of anything. Maybe it was the drugs. "I'm all right." They lapsed into silence, Mulder drinking his coffee over her head and Scully listening to it slide down inside him. A TV commercial sang in the other room. "I was thinking," he said, just as the TV switched back to news. "Maybe I could--" She didn't hear what he could do because the morning anchor started recapping last night's big stories in a loud, clear voice: "Police are continuing their search for a serial rapist after another woman was attacked last night in Alexandria. This is the fourth attack in the city inside of three months, and police are saying they believe they are looking for one man. WRC reporter Sabrina Kimbrough is live in Alexandria with the story." Scully pulled away, drawn to the sound. Mulder caught her hand. "Scully..." She kept walking until footage of Ming's parking lot stopped her dead in her tracks. A woman in a dark raincoat and red umbrella stood not three feet from where Scully had been forced down into the dirt. "...believed to be at least the fourth in a series of related attacks that have occurred in the area over the last few months. All of the attacks have followed the same basic pattern, a pattern that repeated itself here last night. The woman had just been to order takeout from Ming's Chinese Restaurant and was returning to her car when a man came out from these bushes." The camera zoomed in on the thick, wet leaves. "He held a knife to her throat and forcibly raped her while dozens of people were just a few yards away. So far, no witnesses have come forward." The story cut to a tape of Jun's mournful face. "I talk to her, yes. She come in before many times, very nice. I didn't see or hear anything after she leave." Sabrina, still in the parking lot, continued the tale. "As in the other attacks, the man wore a stocking mask that has made it difficult to get a physical description. This morning I spoke to Detective Savioshy about what is being done to stop these brutal crimes." On tape, Savioshy looked gray and wan. "We're still exploring a number of angles right now. Each new attack, terrible as it is, brings new evidence and new possible witnesses. We've got men and women working round the clock, and we will find this guy. In the meantime, the Chief has stepped up patrol to try to minimize the chances of this happening again." "Four women in two months," Sabrina's voice said from off camera, "and you still have no suspects." "No lead suspects," Savioshy said. "As I mentioned, we're interviewing a number of people who might have information pertinent to this case." "WRC news has learned that you have linked attacks from last year to this same man. Can you comment on that, Detective?" "We have looked at older open cases, yes. That's all that I am prepared to say at this time." "What would you say to the women out there? How can they protect themselves?" "Avoid walking alone in isolated areas when you can, especially at night. Be vigilant. If you see or hear anyone behaving in a suspicious manner, call the police right away." It wasn't meant as a slap, but Scully flinched. She had failed to protect herself. She stood frozen two feet from the TV, devastated. And Sabrina wasn't done. "I carry mace and pepper spray," said one woman she interviewed. A second woman looked defiantly at the camera. "I've got a gun and I know how to use it. He tries anything with me, and I'll shoot his off." Sabrina closed from Ming's parking lot: "Indeed, the rapist may have caught a fortunate break last night. A source close to the investigation informs me that the latest victim is a trained FBI agent, a fact the rapist probably wasn't aware of when he attacked her. The source says, and I quote, 'Too bad she wasn't carrying last night, or it could have all been over right here.'" The news switched over to a possible bacteria outbreak in a YMCA swimming pool, but Scully remained transfixed, awash in flickering light. Tears smeared the images in front of her. When she still hadn't moved as the breakfast commercial blared into song, Mulder touched her shoulder. She shook him off. "Scully, please." "Don't." She swiped at her eyes and hurried out of the room. Behind her, his footsteps fell hard on her bare floor. She kept going until she could put a door between them. Mulder knocked as she made up the bed with quick, furious movements. "I don't want to talk about it," she yelled through the door. His voice came back hollow and muffled. "I won't make you. I just... I just want to make sure you're okay." Her face crumpled again, pillow hanging from one limp arm as she tried to hold in the sobs so he wouldn't hear. "I'm okay," she called when she could get her breath again. The watery words sounded completely unconvincing. "Scully?" She dragged the pillow with her to the door. Sniffing hard, she opened it and looked him the eyes. He looked scared and sad, the way he always did when she cried, no matter how many doors she tried to put between them. "I'm okay," she repeated. She went back to work on the bed, and Mulder followed her into the room, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He watched her go back and forth from her side to his side until the bedspread was smooth again. He was waiting, she knew, for her to give him some further cues, but perversely she withheld any. A basket of laundry sat by the chair, from before, so she set about putting it away while Mulder started a slow patrol of her bedroom. "I can stay as long as you like," he said at last, "but I need to get some things." She poked her head out from the closet. "That won't be necessary." He stumbled over his words, surprised; she'd made a hit. "Not to move in, not permanently. I was just thinking a couple of days, the weekend at least, Scully--" She returned to her closet, snatching hangers along the rail. Mulder kept talking. "All right. All right, if that's what you want I won't argue with you. I just thought after last night--" Scully froze. Her face flushed hot remembering how she'd washed him in tears. How long before she could look at him again not remember? Outside, she heard him heave a sigh. "Okay. Should I just go now, then? Would that be better?" He didn't sound angry, just resigned, as if he'd been waiting for this eventuality. The weight of his disappointment bowed her head, but she didn't come out of the closet. "I have to leave soon anyway," she said. "I have to go down to the station and make a formal statement. They also want me to look at some pictures." He appeared behind her, blocking out the light. "They have a suspect?" "No." She glanced over her shoulder. "I got the feeling this is just procedure, covering the bases. It will be the usual lineup of local sex-offenders, and I won't recognize any of them because it was dark and the guy had a stocking over his head, but I have to go look anyway so that Savioshy can tell the reporters that he is doing everything he can." She emphasized her last words with a jerk of the hanger. Mulder went still. "You have other channels available to you," he said, low and serious. "If you want." She turned so fast the hangers clattered. "What's that supposed to mean?" "The FBI has resources Savioshy only dreams about, Scully. Maybe the others have to rely on him for information, but you don't." Her skin tingled with possibility. In the slanted light, the narrow alley of her closet, he was one of their shadow men offering a way around the law. "Mulder... no." She sounded horrified and breathless and tempted. "Scully," he protested, and she shook her head. "No." She pushed past him into the open air, glad it was over, relieved he'd been the one to say the words. What Mulder argued, she argued the opposite. She could say "no" now with a clear conscience. "No one would have to know," Mulder said as she sat on the bed to put on her shoes. "I'd know." She looked up at him. "And you'd know, and if we did what you're suggesting, maybe we'd catch the guy, Mulder. Maybe we would. But maybe we wouldn't. And either way, it would always be between us." Mulder turned his head away. "Savioshy is out of his league." "Maybe," she conceded. "But it's not our call." When he didn't say anything, she reached out and grabbed his hand. "Mulder... promise me you'll leave this alone." He sighed. "Promise me." "Of course I promise." She looked at him, skeptical, and he sighed again as he squeezed her hand. "I think you're wrong, Scully -- it is your call. But you've made it, and I respect that." Will you, she wondered? She imagined him in front of the camera with Sabrina: "It's too bad Scully wouldn't investigate this guy, or it could have all been over right here." There was safety in numbers. She was one of many, the burden somehow lessened. You're not like the others, Mulder had said, but it wasn't true. He was ready to crusade with the weight of her and nine other women on his back; she could barely stand on her own two feet. "I have to go," she said, pulling her hand from his. He went for his shoes. "I'll give you a lift." "Mulder--" "Scully, you're going two blocks from my apartment, which coincidentally happens to be my destination. Besides," he said, and broke off. "What?" "Your car. It's, um, still there." Scully closed her eyes. She'd forgotten that her car was still parked in Ming's lot. "I'll pick it up if you want," he offered, "while you're talking to Savioshy." "No." She set her jaw and stood up. "Just drop me off there and I'll drive it over." They set out in the rain, fat tears streaking down the windows of Mulder's car as he drove the same streets that she had the night before. She watched the passing familiar landmarks -- old buildings and tall trees, the river bouncing raindrops, the long stretch of bridge that took her to the other side. The memory began in her stomach, and viciously she shoved it back down. Mulder fiddled with the radio -- no news this time -- while she forced herself to look at the shops outside. He drove slowly, to ease the way, but the steady, inexorable progress was somehow worse. She knew what was waiting at the end. Mulder kept glancing at her. She couldn't look back. "Okay?" he asked. "Yes." They had reached the street where it happened. The vibrations from the car engine threatened to make her sick. Her fingers bit into the edge of the plush seat as Mulder made the hard right into the claustrophobic parking lot. Her car, beaded in rain, was the only one in sight. Mulder pulled up close next to the driver's side. She would only have to hop out one door and into another. "So," he said as they idled with the windshield wipers still running. They were parked right on top of where it happened. She looked at her lap. Even so, she could see the dark maw of the bushes waiting outside. "So," she said. "Thanks for the ride, Mulder. And everything else. You've been a big help." He said nothing for a moment, and then reached over and rested one hand on the top of her head. "You did everything right, Scully. You lived. Anyone can come back here with a camera crew and make up a story about what should have happened." She nodded and his thumb slid behind her ear. "Yeah." "I'll be home watching the Yankees make the Twins squeal like schoolgirls," he said, "if you need anything. Call, okay?" She looked up and out at the bushes. "I should go. I'll call you later." His hand fell away as she opened the car door into the windy rain. Two steps later she was safe in her own car. She gripped the wheel, breathing hard. The heavy, waving branches reached out and slapped her hood. Scully swallowed and started her engine. Mulder watched, blurry through two panes of rain-mottled glass, waiting to see that she was all right. XxXxX Even after all her years on the job, some part of Scully always registered the fact that walking into a law- enforcement building meant walking into a room full of men. She was used to the approach. She slipped around them in hallways -- small spaces they couldn't occupy -- and surprised them with her serious presence over and over until they stopped being surprised and grudgingly accepted that she was there to stay. So she took her badge and gun and entered the Alexandria Police Department to see what she could do to help Savioshy with his case. They had the AC off and the old windows open, muggy summer air mixing with the close scent of human bodies that had just come in from the rain. Scully shook the water from her umbrella and eyed the desk sergeant, whom she thankfully did not recognize. He pointed her to the back, where Savioshy was working rape cases from a battered desk piled high with his children's photographs. His glasses had worn deep red marks on the sides of his nose, and he had paper cups stained with coffee lined up in front of him. At Scully's appearance, he smoothed his tie over his paunch and pulled a stack of files off the nearest chair. "Agent Scully, thanks for coming in," he said as she sat. "Sorry about this god-awful mess." She took in the faxes, the folders, and the mess of memos he had taped to every viable surface. The one stuck on his desk lamp was from the Mayor and marked "urgent." "I saw you on the news this morning," she said. Savioshy stopped shuffling papers. They stared at one another for a moment, and then he shook his head. "You want my advice? Don't watch that crap. I wouldn't watch it myself except that the brass hauls me in for regular quizzes so I have to know every word they're saying." "They said this man has been attacking women for over a year now. Is that true?" Savioshy's chair creaked as he leaned back. "Yeah. I hate to say it, but yeah. It took us a while to pick up on the pattern because we're talking at least three different counties involved now. There's a detective in Metro and another one in Fairfax with a desk that looks just like mine." "But no leads," Scully said. The top folder on his pile had a fresh tab with her name on it. She assumed the stack under her represented all the others. Nine, she counted. Hers was the skinniest. Savioshy caught her looking and cleared his throat. "Tell you what," he said. "Come with me. You want anything? A coffee or a soda?" Caffeine sounded perfect, but with the humid air, coffee was out. "A soda would be great, thanks." He stopped and pulled a Coke out of the fridge. Scully popped the top and followed him down a hall into a windowless room, which featured a large map of the city and surrounding area tacked on the wall. Nearby, a dry-erase board listed the dates and locations of the attack, which were marked on the map with orange pushpins. To Scully, the pattern formed a snake through the cities. She was the belly. "I have a theory," Savioshy said as they stood next to the map. The soda can sweat in Scully's palms. "See the dates of the attacks?" Scully looked. The first one was just over a year ago, near the end of May, and the second took place five weeks after that. They occurred more frequently as the summer progressed -- two more in July, three in August -- but in September, they stopped cold for eight months, only to start again in May. "I think he's in college," Savioshy said, "and not in the area or he would have kept at it during the school year." DC had a lot of college-age kids walking the streets. Occasionally she would pass an intern in the Hoover building and wonder if she had ever looked that young. "No prints?" she asked. "Actually, yes. In the third case, he got sloppy and put his hand down on the woman's car. But when we ran the prints, we came up with nothing. That's another reason I think this guy's got to be young: no adult record." The stocking face flashed in her memory, features half-human under the nylon, and her heartbeat doubled. Her attacker was just a kid. Scully sipped her soda to give her time to think. She knew very well that none of the others had been allowed to see the facts spelled out like this. Savioshy wanted her informed, professional opinion. Any hint of panic and he would have her back out front, looking through mug shots while a uniformed cop patted her hand. "You could contact schools," she said at last. "Find out which ones have a schedule that matches the timeline of the attacks. See if they have had any trouble with sexual assaults on campus." Savioshy nodded. "We're doing that, but it's a slow process. There are thousands of colleges to cover, and we don't have any way of narrowing the search at this point." She looked at the board again, the names written in messy block letters next to the dates: CHAMIAN, DESANTO, WEBER, and so on, until the very bottom, where it said "SCULLY." With no one else to pin it on, the victims got to own the cases. "Does he--does he follow a particular strike pattern?" Scully asked. "He's hit every day but Sunday. Who knows? Maybe he's too busy confessing his sins that day to go out and commit any new ones." Tomorrow was Sunday. She had not planned to go to church. Scully drew a long breath and swirled the last of the soda in her can. "There's your search factor then." Off his look, she explained, "Start with the religious universities." XxX Mulder sat with his recycling in front of the TV. Sure enough, when he looked for it, it was there in black and white: two articles within the last week about the search for the rapist. He could have known, if he'd bothered to look past the front page and the sports section. In Mulder's world, the important news always came to him. There were coded emails and files under the door, meetings in darkened cars and anonymous faxes in the night. When aliens were hatching in the Antarctic, the local police blotter seemed like a bunch of kindergarten cops. He fanned the large sheets like cloth and gathered what few facts he could. Head in hands, he bent over the news. No one told me, he thought, that it could happen like this. It was nearing two hours since he'd dropped Scully off at the station. He paced often to his thin, rattling windows, to see if her car might be pulling up. The streets and the gray sky looked suddenly threatening, danger lurking on the naked sidewalks. He checked his phone to make sure it was working and kept his cell in one hand. But Scully didn't call. XxX The flat, unsmiling faces in the mug books stared up at her - - class pictures from the school of hard knocks -- and Scully made herself look at each one for any glimmer of recognition. She braced anew at every page but no one seemed familiar. Her neck ached, her eyes dried around the rims, and her nerves grew increasingly jittery. Each menacing eye seemed equally familiar, equally possible. None of the men was her rapist, but they all could have been. Just as Scully declared defeat and closed the last book, there was a knock at the door and Christopher Clark poked his head in the room. "Hey," he greeted her with a smile. He was dressed in jeans and a faded T-shirt that read, "1998 Boston Marathon." His dark hair was curled over his forehead, either from a shower or the rain, and Scully blinked at the casual attire for a moment before she remembered it was Saturday. Her rape was less than twenty- four hours old. "Savioshy told me you were back here," Clark said. "How goes the search?" She shook her head and pushed the books away. "I didn't see his face well enough to make an ID." "Yeah." Clark took the seat next to her, flipping it around so he could rest his arms across the back like a little kid. "That's par for the course at this point, but thanks for trying. Every little bit of information we can get on this guy helps." "I wish I could be of more help." "You can be. That's part of why I'm here." He rapped his knuckles lightly on the table in front of her. "Listen, have you eaten? Because there is a great little bakery about two blocks from here that makes the best chicken salad sandwich you will ever eat." He was good, Scully realized as her frustration ebbed under his relaxed posture and conversational tone. He had guileless gray eyes she was sure played well with a jury. She had seen that look somewhere before... "I know you," she said suddenly. "That airline pilot who murdered his wife -- Aaron Henderson -- that was your case." "Guilty." He flashed her a grin. "And so was he. So what do you say? Can I buy you lunch?" "Why?" He patted his middle. "Because it's half past two and my stomach is threatening to secede from the union?" "You don't need me to eat." She was tired. She was hungry too, but this man was a stranger and she wasn't sure she could keep her game face on for another hour while he talked about chicken salad sandwiches. "No." He sobered. "But I will need you in court." She hesitated, and he nodded at the door. "Just hear me out, Agent Scully. Any time you want to leave, it's okay by me." Her stomach, empty since before the attack, gave a feeble growl as though it didn't expect her to listen. "One sandwich," she said finally. "I guess that would be all right." She spoke to Savioshy before leaving and set out with Christopher Clark towards the bakery. The rain had shifted to mist, which floated under her umbrella and curled her hair. Clark walked beside her, heedless of the elements. "So, Mr. Clark," she asked, "do you always invest this much time in cases you're not even trying?" He laughed. "Not trying *yet*. And call me Chris." "Chris," she said, "I think I picked the wrong career if you guys in the DA's office really have this much free time." He chuckled again and pulled a large wet leaf from a nearby tree. "My daddy was a southern trial lawyer, the kind that comes straight out of the pages of a Harper Lee novel. It didn't make any difference to him that we lived in New York. He learned his law in old time Alabama, and he preached it with a passion I didn't see anywhere else but church on Sunday. Mama let him thunder on at her while she did her cooking, but what he really wanted was someone to argue back. She gave him me, and her kitchen finally saw some peace. Daddy was the defense, and I--" He stopped and spread his arms. "I became the prosecution." "I see," she said. Scully understood about fathers who were larger than life. "So I don't really know any other way." He shrugged and tossed his leaf into the rain-soaked gutter. "Work is what I sleep, what I breathe, what I eat." "Except," Scully said as they reached the bakery door, "for the chicken salad sandwiches." "These sandwiches are always an exception." They ate at a small table near the window, plates piled high with thick sandwiches and crispy chips. Once Scully started eating she realized how starved she'd been, and she did her best not to wolf down the meal in front of ADA Clark. As her blood sugar rose, she felt almost human again. For five straight minutes she was just another patron in a sandwich shop and not the woman who had been shoved down in the dirt and raped. That changed as soon as Clark opened his mouth. "How are you holding up so far?" Scully put her sandwich down and looked at her plate. "Fine" would sound absurd. Anything else was too personal to share. "I'm sorry," he said, reading her silence. "I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. Forget I said anything." She took a deep breath. "No, it's okay. I'm managing." "I'm really glad to hear that." After an awkward pause, he continued, "Agent Scully, I know you must have seen these kinds of cases before, so I figure I can just be straight with you: the trial, if there is one, will be hard." "I realize that." "I'd love to tell you that we're all enlightened here in the twenty-first century, but the dirty truth is, when it comes to rape trials, we're not much better than my father's day. Blaming it on the victim might be not be PC, but it works often enough that some defense attorneys will still try it." Scully swallowed and looked out at the wet streets. Having her life ripped open for everyone to see was a kind of hell she didn't want to contemplate. She believes in aliens, they'd say. Perhaps little green men came down and probed her. She likes trouble; just look at her record. She's had sex with a married man. Maybe they could even get Ed released long enough to testify: "She certainly liked it rough with me!" If she'd fuck a psychotic killer, what else might she do? "Agent Scully?" She turned her head back and looked him in the eyes. "He held a knife to my throat, forced me down in the parking lot, and he raped me. Nothing I've done, ever, gives him the right to do that." "No, and given the chance, I will say that loud and often. I just want you to know what we're up against." "But there are others," Scully protested. "Surely that would work in our favor. One woman can be dismissed, but ten are harder to overlook." "That's assuming he stands trial for ten counts at once, and that all ten agree to testify. I can tell you right now that isn't looking too likely." "They won't testify?" "Well, things could change. We haven't even nailed the bastard yet, so any trial would be months off." "How many?" "How many?" Her hands clenched. "How many would testify?" "Right now?" He sighed. "You and one other. But I'm working on a third woman, and I think she'll come around. Others could change their minds when we have the guy in custody, and with forensics, I may be able to proceed in some cases without the victim's testimony." Scully stared at her half-eaten lunch. Suddenly it was clear why her participation was so necessary. "Hey," Clark said softly, and she jerked her attention back to him. "Savioshy finds this asshole, and I will nail him to the wall. You have my word. I just need to know that you're with me." Her phone chirped, and it took her a moment to recognize the foreign ring. She fished out her old cellular, now bulky and heavy in her hand. Mulder's number glowed at her from the tiny screen. Irritation flashed through her; she'd told him she would call later. "Hey, Scully," he said when she answered. "Are you still at the station?" "No, I'm having lunch. What do you need?" "Lunch? It's like three o'clock, Scully." "Mulder--" "I just wondered how you were doing." "I'm fine." Scully looked across the table at Clark. "Mulder, now's not really a good time. Can I call you back later?" Just then, the girl behind the counter dropped a china plate, startling everyone. Clark's knees bumped their small table and Scully reached out a hand to steady it. "You're not at home?" Mulder asked at all the noise. "No, I'm with ADA Clark." "Oh, okay." Mulder sounded the way he did whenever she got called into Kersh's office without him. "I'll let you go. I just wanted to say..." She half-turned, distracted by the scrape of broken china on the ceramic floor. A trio of laughing women walked past on their way out the door. "What?" she demanded, when Mulder didn't get to the point. "I thought, if you want, since you're still in the area, if you're not too tired or anything, that maybe you would want to get pizza and a video tonight. Something with no redeeming social value." Scully froze, suddenly choked, and the bakery noises faded to a dull buzz. She blinked furiously to keep the tears away. She wanted to find Mulder and wrap herself around him. Every so often, he said the exact right thing. "Scully?" "Yeah," she said, ducking her head so her face hid behind a curtain of hair. "That sounds good." "Yeah?" he repeated, brightening. "Just come over when you're done there. I've got to run out for a bit, so just let yourself in, okay? I'll be back in an hour." Scully hung up with Mulder and tucked her hair back behind her ear as she faced Clark again. "I'm sorry for the interruption," she said. "The answer is yes. Whatever I need to do, I'll do it." He nodded, and his gaze slid to her phone, which she had placed next to her plate. "I met Agent Mulder last night, and Savioshy says good things about him. How long have you two been together?" "We've been partners for over six years." She tucked the phone away. "And the other?" Scully narrowed her eyes at him and reached for her water. "Does it matter?" "Not to me." He leaned across the table. "But what I am saying, Dana, is the questions only get tougher from here on out." XxX Mulder's shadowed apartment was draped in thistledown quiet, the windows shut tight from the swishing cars outside. It smelled like dust and clean laundry. Scully slipped her off her shoes by the door and crossed the room without turning on the light. On the coffee table, she could just make out a note in Mulder's scrawl: Back soon -- M. Sore and tired, she took her gun out of its holster and sank into the sofa. The well-worn leather cradled her bones and she felt some of the day's tension ebb away. As an afterthought, she pulled the old Indian blanket around her, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. His fish tank burbled a gentle song near her head. Scully slept. XxX He crept in the door before knowing she was asleep, walking soft the way one did in the wake of tragedy, and squinted in the direction of his couch. Scully lay half-hidden by a cliff of blankets. The plastic bags rustled as he stepped closer, so he hushed them up in the kitchen before returning to where she slept. Her mouth slightly parted, one arm flung free of the blanket, Scully looked like she'd passed out hard. He stroked her hip and she snuggled deeper into his sofa. Mulder sat down in the nearest chair, feet on the table, and that's when he noticed the gun. He turned on a lamp. The revolver lay with its butt facing Scully, mere inches from her hand, close enough to dream it. He stretched for it slowly, stomach muscles clenching as he reached over his toes. The barrel glinted at his fingertips. Scully sat bolt upright, eyes wide with horror. Mulder froze. "Scully?" "They're coming again," she told him. "Who's coming?" In answer, she clawed the whole blanket into lap. He moved to the couch. "Scully? Who's coming?" She looked confused. He could see the pulse thrumming at her neck. "Mulder?" "It's me." He stroked the back of her head. "What happened? You okay?" "I don't remember," she said. "It was a dream." She was shaking so he drew her against him, smoothing his hand over the sharp planes of her back. "It's all right now, Scully." Her voice quivered into his neck. "It must have been a dream." XxXxXxX End Chapter Two. All feedback welcome at syn_tax6@yahoo.com