Author's Note:  Gather round the campfire, another chapter in the
on-the-road saga is about to begin!   This installment follows GOIN'
NOWHERE and PASSING THROUGH, both of which can be found on Vincent's
archive at Ohio State -- you might want to read those first.  Bear with me
a moment before we start...heaps of love to the amazing Kat for her
tireless, beyond-the-call-of-duty editing services and her endless
patience with my constant questions "What if..." and "Do you think..."   A
debt of gratitude also goes to my fellow Sensei Survivor (what did you say
I could earn, 475 against 1.2?) for her encouragement and advice, and to
my midwest pen pal who planted the seed that took root and finally
flowered in this installment.  I honored both of you this time around in a
special way -- the only way I know how.... ;-)  And, as always, *many
many* thanks to all of you who took the time to write -- it's absolutely
=incredible= to get feedback!   Correspondence designed to placate or
enrage the anxious writer (me) can be addressed to [email protected].
Enough already...

Spoiler Warning:  This story has taken on a life of its own;  in a
roundabout way it deals with the mystery of
what-the-hell-happened-to-Scully-when-she-was-missing-for-three-months.
To do that, I'm riffing off of information provided in the Duane Barry
trilogy, "Anasazi", and the six related mythic episodes we've been
privileged to view so far this season.  Just a general warning to any
overseas readers. <g>

Additional Note:  While I don't actually think that this story needs a
rating, I feel that I should say that it is dark in tone and that it
includes some violent scenes.  But really nothing more than you find at
your local cineplex... put it this way -- if this were a movie, and you
were born after Jimmy Carter left office, they wouldn't let you in without
a parent or guardian!  ;-)  So bear that in mind...

Disclaimer:  Thanks as always to Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox for providing
me with a launching pad and allowing my creativity to take flight.  I
think everybody knows the folks from Mr. Carter's Neighborhood by now --
all the other characters are mine.  Special thanks to David and Gillian
for their continually inspired performances.  And, once again kudos to
Chris Isaak (amongst others) for the writing mood-music and especially for
the help with the title...
 
 

AT THE BLUE HOTEL (1/12)
by Nicole Perry
[email protected]
 
 

Scully sat on the couch, fingering the worn fabric and trying to remember
what color it was.  She could hear Mulder, banging around in the kitchen.
The spicy aroma coming from the stove was full of garlic and she guessed
he was making some kind of pasta dish.  Mulder had put the television on
to keep her company while he cooked, but she had turned the volume down
low, preferring to listen to the noises he made instead of inane sitcom
babble.

 "Is it time yet, Mulder?" she called to him.  Her scalp was starting to
itch and she couldn't shake the irrational fear that the dye was seeping
into her brain.

 "Another couple minutes," he answered. "Just be patient."

 "Easy for you to say," she muttered, but she actually didn't mind.  The
couch, while old, was comfortable, and this room with its small fireplace
was a lot warmer than the kitchen.

 This was their third night in the tiny furnished apartment in the French
Quarter of New Orleans.  Scully knew Mulder was nervous about the fact
that they had been in one place for so long, but she herself was actually
a little relieved.  Though she would never admit it to him, the constant
traveling was tremendously exhausting for her.  It was so difficult to get
acclimated to each new location -- just figuring out how to get from the
bed to the bathroom each day was a major challenge.

 At least this place, small as it was, had begun to feel familiar to her.
There were only four rooms:  bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and the main room
where she now sat.  The apartment was sparsely furnished, and smelled a
bit musty, but thanks to Mulder's efforts was now quite clean.

 "Time's up." Mulder's voice interrupted her reverie and she stood up from
the couch, pausing for a moment to orient herself before moving slowly in
the direction of the kitchen.

 He met her halfway and she allowed him to guide her towards the sink.
"Smells good, Mulder," she said. "I didn't realize you were such the
chef."

 "That's me," he chuckled. "Always something new up my sleeve."

 Scully leaned over the sink, pressing her hands against the tile counter
for balance, Mulder coming to stand directly behind her.  She heard him
turn on the water, and a few drops hit her face as he stuck his hand under
the spray to test it.  Seemingly satisfied, he gently moved her head
underneath the faucet.

 "Ow!" Scully cried out as wet heat hit her scalp.  She felt his hands
quickly pulling her back.

 "Too hot?" She heard concern in his voice.

 "A little," she admitted, and heard the squeak of the lever as he
adjusted the temperature.

 They tried again, and this time Scully was relieved to find the rush of
water over her head was pleasantly warm. "Better?" he asked, and she
nodded slightly in response.

 "Mmmm... much better."  His hands moved through her hair, lifting and
separating the strands to allow the water to wash away all of the dye.
His motions were smooth and efficient, firm and yet surprisingly tender.
Rivulets of water ran down her cheeks and she shut her eyes to keep the
dye from irritating them any further.

 Scully heard Mulder pick something up from the counter.  He squeezed it
and she caught a rush of air just before something cold fell on her head.
"Conditioner," he said, in response to her involuntary shiver.  He leaned
in closer, his fingers working the liquid into a bubbly lather.  The
circular strokes were incredibly soothing and Scully felt herself relaxing
under his touch.

 Before, Scully had never considered herself a particularly physical
person;  unlike her sister Melissa, she had always been very protective of
her personal space, never one for casual hugs or embraces, even with
members of her own family.  Now, like so much else, this had changed.  The
darkness was so overwhelming, so isolating that physical contact had
become a need for her, an imperative.  She realized how much she had come
to value Mulder's touch, the clasp of his hands on hers the anchor that
kept her moored to the fragile edge of sanity.

 She heard him humming softly as he worked and smiled. "I think you're
enjoying this too much," she chided him.  "Explain to me again why *I'm*
the one who has to go through this and not you?"

 "Because *I* was born with nondescript brown hair and not fiery red,"
came the response.

 "Clown hair." The phrase sprang to her lips, unbidden, a hurtful reminder
of playground teasing.

 "*Beautiful* hair," Mulder contradicted in a voice so like her father's
that the shock almost cost her his next soft words.  "I miss it."

 "You do?" she twisted in his grasp as though if she were quick enough she
would be able to see his face.

 "Yes," he admitted, "I do.  Now -- hold still," he ordered, and she felt
the water again as he angled her head back under the faucet and began to
rinse the conditioner from her hair. "We're almost through."

 They were both quiet as Mulder finished, wringing the last of the water
from her hair before handing her a towel.  Scully rubbed it over her head
awkwardly as he shut off the water.  He moved to help her but she waved
him away. "Got it," she said.  "But will you bring me my brush?  And maybe
a sweater?"

 "Sure," he answered, and she heard his steps head towards the bedroom.
Although she knew he was coming right back, she felt a sudden, surprising
ache at his absence.  Silly girl, she thought, shaking off the anxiety.
Carrying the towel, she began the cautious trek out of the kitchen and
back into the main room.
 
 

Mulder found the brush on the nightstand by the bed.  He crossed over to
the dresser and opened the middle drawer where he had dumped the few
things she could now call hers.  He'd made a quick trip to a thrift store
after they found this place, and had tried to replace what had been lost
in the crash.  Finding the two sweaters in the pile, he called out, "Do
you want the gray or the green?"

 The second the words were out of his mouth he winced, cursing himself for
his callous mistake.  Before he could rectify his error, she answered him.
"The pullover," she called, without a trace of rancor in her voice.  "Not
the one with the buttons."

 Blessing her again for her tireless patience, Mulder tossed the gray
cardigan back in the drawer and slammed it shut, carrying the green V-neck
and the brush in one clenched fist.  He made a quick stop in the kitchen
before returning to her, checking the activity on the stove.  The sauce
was almost done so he turned the heat down to low, stirring it once or
twice before putting the spoon aside.  In the other pot the water had
finally come to a boil, so he threw in three-quarters of the box of pasta
and left it to cook.

 Scully was sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, too close for his
liking.  The towel lay abandoned in her lap and her hair was a dark
tangled mess on her head.  It was a bit longer than he was used to seeing
it, falling easily to her shoulders.

 "Here," he said, handing her the sweater.

 "Thanks," she replied, favoring the empty air above his left shoulder
with a warm smile.  Mulder watched as she pulled the sweater over her tee
shirt.  It was too big for her, but it was well-worn and comfortable and
he could understand why she liked it.

 "Well, don't keep me in suspense."  Her smile was more on target this
time and he noticed the gash across her cheek was finally beginning to
heal.  "How does it look?"

 He reached out and grabbed her hand gently, glad for the excuse to move
her away from the fireplace.  "Good, I think -- let me see."   He took a
seat on the couch and she scooted over to sit near him, her back resting
against the couch, his long legs on either side of her body.  Mulder took
the brush and began to pull it through her hair, careful to ease it past
the tangles without tearing the delicate strands.  She sat up straighter
at his touch, resting an elbow on each of his knees, her head swaying
slightly at each stroke.

 "Yeah -- I think we got it all," he said.  "No more red."  Having made
that discovery, Mulder knew he could stop what he was doing, but something
kept his hand moving the brush through her hair.
 
 She gave a little sigh that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. "I don't
know, Mulder -- I think we may have found a new career for you as a
hairdresser, if all else fails."

 He laughed a little in response and kept brushing, grateful for her mood.
 She seemed more relaxed than he could remember seeing her since they had
left D.C., and he made a silent vow to do whatever he could to keep her
this calm, make her feel this safe.

 Mulder himself was very uneasy about the fact that they were stuck in
Louisiana, even for a little while.  While New Orleans had seemed like the
perfect place to hide when the Lone Gunmen had suggested it, their
near-fatal crash the other day had convinced him otherwise.  But it was
precisely that crash that now made it all the more essential to lay low --
to see if by some slim chance the Shadow People might believe they died in
that car.

 Emerging from the forest near a curve in the road, they had been lucky
enough to find a family of tourists returning from a sightseeing jaunt
willing to stop and pick them up.  Mulder had helped Scully into the back
of the Jeep Cherokee and fabricated a story reasonable enough to explain
their disheveled presence.  A brief smile crossed his face at the memory
of the wife fussing over them with her first aid kit.  It had been a risk
that had paid off, bringing them safely into the nearest town, where he
bought two bus tickets to New Orleans, fairly satisfied that they hadn't
been followed.

  Darkness had fallen by the time they arrived, and they had both been
exhausted.  They had taken a cab into the French Quarter and, without the
time or energy to launch a thorough search, Mulder had selected one of the
first places he saw.  The faded script on the sign out front read "L'Hotel
Azur, Pensionne de Famille", and he had been pleased to note that the card
beneath announced there was a room available.  It was a small, rundown
guest house, consisting of four apartments, two above and two beneath.
The landlord had given Mulder the key to the vacant unit in exchange for a
week's rent paid in cash, no questions asked.  It was the upper apartment
in the back, and although it was rather dingy, it was secluded and
relatively private, for which Mulder was thankful.

 "Mulder..." Scully's voice interrupted his thoughts.  She sounded serious
now, and he stopped brushing to listen.

 "Yes?"

 "I was just thinking... about my mom."  She paused a moment, and shifted
her arms so that her palms were now flat on his denim-clad knees.  "Do you
think -- do you think she's okay?"

 "Of course," he quickly responded.  "I mean, I'm sure she's worried about
you, but..."

 "No, that's not what I mean."  Her words came out in a rush.  "Do you
think they're bothering her?  Harassing her, trying to use her to track us
down?"

 Mulder hesitated, not sure what to say.  He slid down off the couch to
sit directly behind her, enveloping her in the cocoon of his arms and
legs. "Scully," he answered slowly, "I don't know for sure.  But your mom
-- she's a very strong woman.  She can handle herself -- you know that.
And we're helping her do that... if only by staying away from her, not
giving her anything that they could use against her."

 She nodded, and he felt her relax even further into his embrace. "I
know..." She sounded sad now, and he realized that somehow he'd already
broken his recent vow. "I know you're right.  It's hard though... isn't
it."

 Her statement didn't seem to require confirmation so he said nothing,
just continued to hold her, until he heard the sound of the pasta boiling
over and he had to get up and fix their dinner.
 
 

Walter Skinner closed his eyes and placed his fingers on the bridge of his
nose, massaging the perch owned by his wire frame glasses.  He was an
Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation not by choice so
much as consequence.  He had risen through the ranks at the Bureau thanks
to his keen intellect and mastery of internal politics, and had been
rewarded for his years of tireless service with this often thankless
position.  There were times that he knew he was doing the work he had been
born to do;  there were others when he cursed his fate and wished that he
had chosen another path.

 He opened his eyes and fixed them again on the page in front of him.  The
meticulously typed report informed him that there was a thirty percent
chance that Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully had perished in the
Louisiana automobile crash.  Of course, Skinner realized that particular
statistic could change at any moment;  investigative work was still being
done.  However, the explosion and resulting fire had done a substantial
job of obliterating the evidence, greatly hampering further analysis.

 Thirty percent.  Skinner tried to keep his mind focused on the other
seventy.

 The whistling sound of a match being struck drew Skinner's attention back
to the man standing before him.  Skinner glanced pointedly at the "No
Smoking" sign on his desk, but the man ignored the silent request.  With a
barely audible sigh, Skinner carefully phrased his next words.  "It seems
premature to scale back on the search based on this report."

 The man inhaled before giving his reply.  "I should think, " he said,
"that you would be relieved to have some of your manpower returned to
their normal investigative duties."

 Skinner met the man's eyes, but said nothing.

 "The search for Mulder and Scully will continue," the man finished,
"under different auspices."

 "On whose authority?"

 It was the man's turn to be silent, and Skinner felt his jaw tighten with
frustration.  He was tired of the games, of the half-truths.  Tired of
being a paper tiger with a title and an office.   And, he admitted to
himself, tired of the guilt.

 On some level Skinner blamed himself for Mulder and Scully's predicament.
 He had long been aware of their unauthorized investigations and had
allowed them to continue despite his own better judgement.  When
circumstances had dictated that he do so, he had called them on the carpet
for policy violations, berating them for their failure to adhere to Bureau
protocol.  He had, on numerous occasions, warned them against prying
further into areas that were none of their concern.  He had advised them
to call off their search, to stop looking for the truths they sought.
Skinner had built a career on knowing when to turn a blind eye, well aware
that there were some answers he was better off not having.

 But Skinner had never had a sister vanish before his eyes, never to
return.  He had never had three months of his life stolen from him,
without explanation.  For these reasons, he gave them as much support as
he was able, protecting them as best he could.

 This time, however, he had failed.  Failed to give credence to the
evidence they had brought him, to the accusations that they made.   A
pained expression crossed his face as he remembered the last time that
Scully was in his office, asking for his assistance with an urgency that
made her request almost a plea.  A plea that he had denied.

 Realizing that his question was not going to be answered, Skinner tried
another approach.  "I still expect to be kept informed as to the status of
the search."

 "But of course," the man replied, ashing the cigarette on the carpet
below.  "I wouldn't have it any other way."

 With that, the man turned and left, and Skinner couldn't help but feel a
twinge of relief at his exit.  The man made him uneasy, and it was caused
by more than the mere fact that Skinner had no real idea whose interests
the man represented.  There was something about him that laced his every
word, his every action, with evil intent.

 Skinner closed the report, wondering as he did so what would happen if
Mulder and Scully were still alive, what would happen to them if they were
found.  The thought crossed his mind that with such damning evidence
against them, perhaps it might be easier for them to have died in that
crash.  With a shake of his head, he banished the thought and returned to
his work.
 

X-1            X-1
 

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

From: [email protected] (NVRGRIM)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* - AT THE BLUE HOTEL (2/12) - Nicole Perry
Date: 14 Mar 1996 17:14:35 -0500
 

This is part two of a twelve-part post.  Author's Note, Spoiler Warning,
and Disclaimer can be found at the beginning of part 1.  If there are
problems with the posting (or comments on the story!) I'm at
[email protected].
 
 

AT THE BLUE HOTEL (2/12)
by Nicole Perry
[email protected]
 
 

Charlie looked at his watch as he pulled his bike from the rack.  It
always took him an extra minute or two to decipher the position of the
hands on the face;  for some reason, the numbers, large as they were,
confused him.  After a moment of contemplation, he figured out that he had
at least an hour, maybe more, before his father came home.  That would be
plenty of time to see if the angel was there.

 Charlie checked his backpack once again, just to be sure that his
notebook was tucked safely away amongst his schoolbooks.  It was there,
tattered and worn, containing all of his notes and lists.  Relieved, he
began to pedal his way through the crowded streets towards home.

 He had always had the habit of writing things down, things that he knew
he needed to remember.  His grandmother had taught him when he was little
the importance of keeping a record, and that lesson had been one he had
learned well.  Lists of his favorite streets in New Orleans.  Notes about
the times the stores he liked opened and closed.  Recollections of events
he considered significant, like the first time he had caught a fish all by
himself.  Sightings of angels.  That, he reflected as he rode, was a very
short list.  His grandmother used to tell him bedtime stories about angels
who walked the earth, disguised in human form, watching over people and
doing good works that were rarely observed.  God's little miracles, she
had called them, and in her memory Charlie had dedicated his life to
finding them and recording their presence.

 He rounded the corner, careful as always to check for oncoming traffic
before he did so.  He pedaled faster, anxious to get home, thinking about
the fact that he had at last succeeded in his goal.

 Charlie had known that she was an angel the first time that he saw her.
He kept a close eye on all the things that happened on his block, and had
known before anyone else that the vacant apartment in the guest house next
door had finally been rented.  It had been available for almost a month,
and that fact alone had indicated to Charlie that something important was
happening when tenants had finally arrived.  It was apartment number 3,
which made it special.  Three was Charlie's lucky number -- he did
everything in series of threes.  Brushed his teeth three times a day.
Drank his milk at dinner in three big gulps.  Turned down the covers on
his bed three times, folding the sheets back with a silent prayer to keep
monsters from coming out of the closet when the lights went out.

 He should have realized that something big was about to occur.  After
all, it was almost three years to the day that his grandmother had died.
And this was a magic year for Charlie anyway.  He was nine, and he knew
that nine was really just three threes added together.  He wasn't at all
excited about the fact that his tenth birthday was around the corner.
Ten, after all, couldn't be divided equally by three.

 Arriving home, Charlie stashed his bike in the shed out back and made his
way into the house, careful to wipe his shoes on the mat before entering
the kitchen.  There was a note from his mother on the counter, reminding
him to take out the trash and rake the leaves before dinner.  Charlie
ignored the note, knowing that he could get the chores done before she got
back if he rushed.

 Taking his notebook out of his backpack, he climbed the stairs to his
grandmother's old room and pushed open the door.  Charlie knew that this
room was off-limits to him, but with no one around he felt fairly safe.
The room still smelled like the lilac perfume she had worn;  little had
been touched since her death.  His mother even came in to dust from time
to time, keeping the room extremely clean, even by his own standards.

 Charlie opened the window and climbed out onto the balcony, grabbing the
branch of the tree that brushed the side of the house.   Carefully, he
shimmied out to the trunk then made his way to a higher branch that
extended nearly to the faded paint of the old guest house.  He crouched
near its end, his breath coming in short gasps as he realized that she was
there.

 Silently, he pulled the notebook from where he had tucked it inside his
shirt and grabbed the pencil from his pocket.  Balancing himself with one
elbow, his legs straddling the branch, he opened to the appropriate page
and began reviewing his notes.

 He knew she was an angel because she was so quiet, like she was hearing
the voice of God himself.  This was the second day he had seen her out on
the roof, sitting on the tar-papered surface with a serene expression on
her face.  She had arrived late in the evening four days ago, with the
tall, bearded man, but when she came out here she was alone.  She looked
just like the picture on the stained glass window in the right corner of
the church Charlie attended faithfully every Sunday.  Dark hair, and fair
skin, and blue eyes that Charlie could see clearly from his perch.

 He sat and watched her, amazed by the calmness of her beauty.

 Time passed, and Charlie knew he needed to get to his chores, but he
didn't want to leave.  Then she stood up and began making her way back
towards the door that led to the interior stairs.  Her movements were
tentative, and she kept her hands extended before her as she walked.
Charlie knew, had known from the first time that he'd seen her, that she
was blind, just like old Mr. Coleman who so often sat on the stoop outside
of his school.   He wasn't sure why God would send a blind angel down to
earth, but he had made notes and had decided that maybe it was because she
was such a good listener.

 Suddenly, she stumbled and fell to the ground, and Charlie heard a loud
clink.  He tensed, afraid that she was hurt, and was relieved to see her
rise to her knees.  A stricken expression had come over her face, and she
felt around her with frantic hands, searching for something.  A minute
passed, and then two, and her movements became more panicked.  Charlie
glanced at his watch.   It was late, and he knew he should be getting to
his chores.  But he was unable to ignore her growing anxiety.  He backed
down the branch as quickly as he could, slipping into his grandmother's
old room.  Shutting the door carefully behind him, he raced back down the
stairs and out the side door.
 
 

Scully ran her hands across the rough surface again, drawing a deep breath
and trying to stave off the tears she felt gathering in her eyes.  It has
to be here, she thought determinedly, searching for the smooth metal of
the key.

 This was the second time that she had ventured out to the roof of the old
guest house.  Their first full day there they had spent together, sleeping
in late, recovering from the crash and planning their next move.  The
second, Mulder had gone out to do research, trying to piece together the
puzzle they so desperately needed to solve.  She had quickly become bored
of exploring the small apartment, and, unwilling to succumb to the
boundaries of her blindness, had taken the key he'd left for her on the
table and had gone out to investigate the building.  She told herself that
it was important to know her way around, to find the landlord's unit and
the exit to the street.  With careful measured steps she had wandered
every inch, finally finding the small door that led to a hidden set of
stairs and the rooftop beyond.

 To Scully, the rooftop was beautiful.  The air was filled with a
multitude of wonderful smells, fragrant aromas wafting upward from the
restaurants below, the scent of rich coffee beans mixing with freshly
baked bread and spicy gumbo in a heady combination.  She could hear the
sounds of passing traffic, and conversations from pedestrians as they
crossed the streets, and the distant horns of the riverboats as they
traveled along the water.  From time to time, she heard the bells of St.
Louis Cathedral, chiming in fifteen minute intervals that helped her keep
track of the hour.  The wind blew fresh and cool across her face, and she
was content just to sit and imagine the flurry of activity that  comprised
the city of New Orleans.  She had never really visited the city beyond a
quick pass in the course of a routine case, and at that time had been
unable to take in any of the tourist attractions that drew hundreds of
travelers each year.  But now she could almost envision what it was like,
piecing together a picture based on the various sensations that assaulted
her.  It was a way to pass the time until Mulder returned.

 She had come back again today and been equally pleased with the result of
her trek, until now.  She had lost her balance and fallen, dropping the
key to their apartment in the process.  Without it, her secret would be
out, and she knew that Mulder would be angry that she had left the
apartment, fearing for her safety.

 Scully redoubled her efforts, sure that he would be returning soon.  A
loud crashing sound stopped her in her tracks and she froze, paralyzed by
the sound of metal against metal.  A series of clanging noises ensued, and
then she heard soft footsteps on the roof.

 "Lady?" The voice was quiet, almost a whisper.  "You okay?"

 Scully hesitated, unsure, before deciding she wasn't in any immediate
danger.  "Yes," she answered slowly, "I just can't seem to find my key."

 The footsteps approached and she tensed, then heard a light scraping
against the tar of the roof.  "Here it is," said the voice, and she felt
the key being pressed into her hand.

 "Thank you," she said, curious as to the identity of her rescuer.  "Do
you live here?"

 "Nah," came the answer. "I live next door to y'all.  In a regular house."

 It was a child's voice, she realized as the fear finally left her, rich
with a smooth and distinctive southern cadence.  Scully gave a little
smile and asked, "What's your name?"

 "Charles," said the boy, "but most folks call me Charlie."

 "Ah," she replied, rising slowly to her feet.  "Well, Charlie, I'm glad
you were around today."   A question hit her, and she asked, "How did you
get up here, anyway?"

 "Fire escape, ma'am, " was his response.  "It's easy enough.  I've been
up here lots."

 Scully reached out with one hand, and after a moment the boy grasped it,
and she gave the small hand a firm shake.  "Thanks again, Charlie," she
said.  "I'm going in now."

 "You okay by yourself?"  She nodded in answer to his diffident question,
but before she could say anything, she heard a shout from the street
below.

 "Charles!"  The voice was angry, demanding.  It was a man's voice, and
there was something in the sound that chilled her.  "Where are you, boy?"

 "Okay, then, ma'am.  I'd best be going."  Scully heard a tremor in the
boy's voice, a stutter that hadn't been there a moment ago.  The boy said
nothing more, but she heard the scrambling of his feet across the rooftop
followed by the clanging metallic sound she now knew to be the result of
his descent down the fire escape.

 Scully listened a little more, and after a moment, heard the boy's voice,
now dimmed by distance.

 "Sorry, Pa.  Didn't realize the time."

 The stinging sound of the slap was loud enough to reach her up on the
roof.  "Dumb fool," she heard the man's voice drawl.  "What'd I give you a
watch for, then?"

 "Dunno, Pa.  I'm sorry."  Those were the last words Scully could hear,
though she waited a beat or so, feeling a shudder pass through her as she
did.   Then she found her footing and headed slowly back to the door that
led downstairs to their apartment.
 
 

Mulder turned the key in the lock and stepped into the apartment.  It was
late, and it was completely dark inside except for the small bit of
moonlight coming in through the window.  He found the switch with his hand
and turned on the lights in the main room.  It was empty, and totally
quiet.

 He shut the door behind him and then called for her softly.  "Scully?"
There was no response and his heart began to race.  He flipped on the
kitchen light as well, checking for her, before heading for the bedroom.

 It took a minute before Mulder found the switch and then the ceiling bulb
illuminated the room, revealing her lying on the bed, curled on her side,
her arms wrapped tightly around the pillow she had pressed to her cheek.
She was fully dressed, in her jeans and tennis shoes and that baggy green
sweater, as though she hadn't intended to doze off.  Her eyes were closed
and her chest rose and fell with deep, even breaths.  He crossed to her
side, hesitant to wake her, knowing how much she needed the rest.  After a
moment, he sat down beside her, and the weight of his body on the mattress
was enough to rouse her.

 Scully shifted restlessly and then her eyes fluttered open.  For just an
instant, her expression was anxious, then she took a deep breath and gave
a little smile.  "Mulder," she said in a voice heavy with sleep, "you're
late."

 "I know," he admitted, running a gentle hand over her hair.  "I lost
track of time."  He moved closer to her and she reached out and rested her
hand on his leg.  "You hungry?"

 "A little," she answered, the words nearly swallowed by a yawn.  "Any
luck?"

 Mulder sighed.  "Not much.  There's a lot of information to go through."

 He had again spent most of the day at the Tulane University library,
poring over medical texts and journals in the hope of coming across
mention of a drug that in some way might be a part of the compound that
Scully had seen in the lab.  They had given the name of the compound
itself to the Lone Gunmen, who had run the information through every
computer search directory at their disposal, only to come up empty.
Undeterred, Scully had broken down the name that she had glimpsed on the
row of bottles into as many possible combinations as she could, calling
upon long-remembered information from medical school.  Armed with the list
she had dictated, he had gone to the library to conduct the tedious
search.

 His words pulled Scully the final distance towards wakefulness and she
sat up, punctuating her movements with another big yawn.  "Did you bring
back any possibles?" she asked.

 "A few.  We can talk about them over dinner."
 
 

Scully heard Mulder get up from the bed and after a moment she followed
him, finding the floor with her feet before she stood.   She used the
sound of his steps for guidance and stopped when he did, reaching out to
feel the frame of the bathroom door beneath her hand.

 She heard the door to the medicine cabinet swinging open followed by a
low scraping sound.  "Mulder..."  her voice trailed off, knowing the
answer to her question before it was asked.  "It's still there."

 "I know," came the reply.  "I'm just making sure."

 Scully listened to the sound of metal against glass and knew he was again
prying the back of the mirrored cabinet away from the frame.   "Well?" she
asked.   He didn't reply, and she moved further into the bathroom until
her back rested against the edge of the sink.  Closer to him now, she
repeated, "Well?"

 "It's still here."

 "Give it to me a minute."  Scully put both hands out, palms up, and a
moment later felt the cool, pebbled metal against her skin.  She traced a
fingertip across the circumference of the object, careful not to damage
any of the delicate grooves.

 Although she could no longer see it with her eyes, she remembered it
clearly in her mind.  It was some type of circuit board, a flat circle
half the size of a compact disc.  She knew the multiple grooves on its
surface were color coded, though she could no longer picture the specific
design.  The raised ridges left by the grooves were also marked to
indicate a particular significance, but it was the grooves themselves that
were more important to Scully.  They were small and deliberately spaced
across the disk, and each was notched on one end as though to hold a tiny
object in place.

 An object precisely the size of the chip that had been implanted in her
neck.

 Vague, half-remembered words flitted through her head.  A
microprocessor... with extremely complex and extensive microlithography.
Capable of operating computers using brainwaves through direct electro
chemical interface with the cerebral cortex...

 Somehow, she knew that this object was the key.  The key.... to the kind
of neural network capable of not only collecting information but of
artificially replicating a person's mental processes...

 It seemed so long ago that she had been in the FBI lab, dissecting the
small chip that  had been removed from her body.  A chip that was so
fragile that the technician's investigation had effectively destroyed it.
 But perhaps that loss had been worthwhile -- after all, she reflected, it
had brought her this far.

 Scully held onto it a moment longer before wordlessly passing it back to
Mulder.  It didn't feel like much, she thought, certainly not the
lifeline, the talisman it had become.  She listened to the noises he made
as he placed it back into its temporary hiding place.  Mulder usually
carried it in his pocket at all times, and it was this safeguard that had
allowed the precious disk to survive the car crash.  However, the metal
detectors at the library prevented him from bringing either the disk or
his gun inside, forcing him to leave it in the apartment.  She took a step
back and her arm brushed against the edge of the sink, knocking something
to the floor and causing a variety of items to scatter across the tile.

 "Oh!"   She cursed silently under her breath, despising her clumsiness.

 "Scully?"  His voice held momentary concern and then relaxed.  "No big
deal," he said.  "Just my shaving stuff."

 She heard him pick the objects off the floor one by one and place them
back on the counter. "Shaving stuff?  Not as though you've been using that
lately."

 There was a smile in his voice as he answered.  "Now, now... have to keep
this beard in fighting form, don't I?"

 "Whatever..." she grinned in response.  "Mulder, let's eat."
 

X-2            X-2
 

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

From: [email protected] (NVRGRIM)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* - AT THE BLUE HOTEL (3/12) - Nicole Perry
Date: 14 Mar 1996 17:24:02 -0500
 

This is part three of a twelve-part post.  Author's Note, Spoiler Warning,
and Disclaimer can be found at the beginning of part 1.  If there are
problems with the posting (or comments on the story!) I'm at
[email protected].
 
 

AT THE BLUE HOTEL (3/12)
by Nicole Perry
[email protected]
 

The noise of the restaurant was dim from this distance, the heavy door to
the room providing relative silence.  The man pulled his pack of Morleys
from the inner pocket of his coat, shaking one out as he reached for the
matchbox.  He was about to strike the match when the cool voice
interrupted him.

 "Please."

 That one word was enough to make him put the cigarette away with the
rest.   He nodded in acquiescence and took the offered chair, studying the
man who sat in the leather armchair across from him.

 He was fairly tall, and well-built, with a strong, well-defined jaw.  His
hair was dark, framing olive skin with a vaguely Mediterranean cast.  His
eyes were black and almond shaped, almost Asian in their appearance.  He
was dressed in a black suit with a black shirt beneath, and his hands,
surprisingly slender, extended from the sleeves of the jacket.   There was
a stillness to him that was frightening in its intensity, a calmness in
his motions that was both severe and deliberate.

 He was known by only one name, Christophe, and subjected to his gaze, the
man suddenly wished that he had lit the cigarette.

 "Everything is in order," said Christophe in that same cool tone.  "I
should have an answer for you soon."

 The man nodded again, pleased at the news if not the circumstance.  It
had not been his choice to approach Christophe, but he respected his
orders and knew, if nothing else, that Christophe was the best at what he
did.  And, more importantly, Christophe and his men could be controlled,
unlike the FBI.  Even if it was not the man's privilege to pull
Christophe's strings himself.

 "Good," he said.  "They will be pleased.  Time is growing short, and we
can no longer afford to play this game."

 "I understand," answered Christophe, his eyes still fixed on the man
across from him.  "Assure them that they will have what they need in due
course."

 The man rose to leave, but was stopped by a final question from
Christophe.  "Once the item has been retrieved, what then?"

 "Terminate them."  The man paused, his hand on the door of the small dark
room. "Find out if the information has been relayed to anyone else, and
then finish it.  Communion or confirmation, we don't care which.  Just
make it happen."

 "Consider it done."

 With Christophe's assurance ringing in his ears, the man left, reaching
for the pack of smokes as the door swung shut behind him.
 
 

Mulder sighed, massaging his temples with tired fingers.  The words were
beginning to spin before his eyes, an endless series of terms he had no
desire to learn nor understand.  Not for the first time he wished Scully
was with him.  This was the third day he had spent at the research
library, flipping pages and making lists.  The process was achingly time
consuming, but they had both deemed it too dangerous for her to accompany
him.  Alone, he stood a chance of not being spotted. Together, it was an
inevitable reality.

 He forced himself to focus on the page, picking up the pen again to make
a notation from time to time.  Dilocaine, dilomine, dilosyn, he read,
muttering the words under his breath.  Dobutamine, dolocene, dolophine...
The words ran together in a muddled clump.  He knew he was quickly losing
the perspective he so desperately needed to maintain.  Scully was positive
that the name on the carefully labeled bottles began with "d", but at this
point Mulder himself was not so sure.  His earlier searches had yielded
nothing relevant, but then he hadn't been looking with such wide criteria
at that point.  This time, Scully had insisted he begin with the basics
and merely make a list of all the appropriate "d" drugs that he could
find, hoping that a wider net might catch their fish.  Grimly, he gritted
his teeth and tried to concentrate, to no avail.

 Pushing the text aside, he reached for another, smaller volume, glancing
about him as he did so.  He flipped open the page that he had marked and
began reading where he had stopped.

 "Corneal opacity refers to the condition in which the clear tissue of the
eye has become scarred.  There are a number of factors that can contribute
to this condition, most notably when the tissue has been burned or damaged
due to exposure to intense light or heat.  In some rare cases, if the
damage is not too extensive, the tissue has exhibited the ability to
regenerate itself.   Generally, however, the tissue remains permanently
opaque.  Without the appropriate stimulation provided by the cornea, the
eye muscles themselves quickly begin to deteriorate."

 Mulder traced his finger across the paragraphs, skimming the words and
committing them instantly to memory.  Near the bottom of the column,
something caught his attention and he paused to make a note.

 "Some success has been achieved in situations where the muscles to the
eye have not been allowed to completely degenerate.  Corneal
transplantation is an operation in which the cornea is actually replaced
by donor tissue.   While this process is relatively new, it has been
accomplished many times to good result, most notably by Dr. Robert Bard, a
pioneer in this type of laser surgery."

 Mulder stopped reading and glanced at his watch.  It was almost time to
leave, and he knew he should put the last available minutes to good use
and finish reviewing the list of drugs in the reference text.   He
hesitated for a moment, then stood up from the table, clutching the scrap
of notepaper in his hand.
 
 

Suddenly, work study was starting to seem interesting.   Karen shoved the
pink highlighter into the crease in the center of her psychology text,
watching as he approached.  She took off her wire-rimmed glasses, placing
them on the counter beside her, and ran an absent hand through her auburn
hair, hoping her actions didn't seem as obvious as they felt.

 He was the most interesting man Karen had seen in the seven months she'd
had this job.  When she accepted the position, she had been excited by the
possibilities, figuring that a high-paying stint at the math-sciences
library would not only give her time to study but also the opportunity to
meet eligible men of the graduate persuasion.

 Met them she had, by the dozen.  Pencil-necked geeks, most of them,
wearing their pocket protectors like a badge of pride.  It was enough to
make her wish that she was studying English, or Law, or one of the more
romantic pursuits like Philosophy or Humanities.   Not that she hadn't
accepted her share of late-night coffee invitations;  a girl had to live,
after all.  But none of them had come close to catching her eye, until
now.

 There was something about him, Karen thought, that transcended his grad
school uniform of Oxford shirt and jeans.  His beard was a shade darker
than his brown hair, and she had noticed that he squinted from time to
time as he read.  It amused her that he was too vain to put on the glasses
he so obviously needed.  Although, she reflected, on a grad student's
salary perhaps he just couldn't afford them.

 He walked directly up to her with a sense of purpose in his stride.
"Hello," he said with a polite smile.  "I was wondering if you could pull
an article for me."

 "Sure," she answered, tucking a wayward strand of copper hair behind her
ear.  She noticed him staring as she did so and felt a warm flush rising
to her cheeks.  "You have the reference number?"

 He didn't answer at first, just kept staring, then caught himself
abruptly.  "Right here," he said, handing her the slip of paper.

 Karen was never so happy to disappear into the back room as she was at
that moment, acutely aware of how attracted she was to him.  This was
ridiculous -- she had developed a huge crush on a man she had seen in the
library only three times.  She didn't even know his name.  She shook her
head ruefully and called up the article he wanted on the microfilm
machine.

 A few short minutes later she returned, clutching the printed sheets in
her hand.  He was standing by the counter, waiting for her, leaning on his
elbows to glance at her open textbook.

 "Psych major?" he asked as she approached.

 "Yeah," she answered, surprised by the diffidence in her voice.  "Third
year."

 "Looks like a good course," he replied, and she nodded.

  For some reason, Karen was reluctant to end their short conversation and
she took a closer look at the papers she held in her hand.   "
'Innovations in Corneal Transplantation' ," she read. "Based on research
conducted by Dr. Robert Bard, Jules Stein Eye Institute, UCLA."

 He shifted uncomfortably and reached out for the papers, but said
nothing.

 "I don't get it," she said, trying for a playful tone. "What's your
thesis, anyway?"

 "Excuse me?"  There was confusion in his hazel eyes.

 "Your thesis," she explained, suddenly wishing she had never asked the
question, knowing it revealed how closely she'd been eyeing him.  "I
mean... you've spent all your time studying these drug reference texts...
and now this.   I don't get the connection."

 He stared at her again, and there was something dark and sad in that
stare that Karen couldn't quite identify.  He blinked, and the darkness
vanished, replaced by something that seemed more like calm acceptance.

 "Just two different projects," he said, pulling the sheets from her
grasp.  "Thanks for the help."

 "No problem," she responded, watching as he returned to the table he had
so recently abandoned.

 Karen picked up her psych book again, pretending that she was actually
reviewing the terms for the following morning's test instead of observing
him, immersed in the article he had requested.

 He left shortly thereafter, a full three hours before the end of her
shift.  She sighed as his lean form exited the building, wishing she could
follow him and hoping that he would return.
 
 

The old couple in the unit across the hall were just leaving as Mulder
returned, and he gave them a brief nod as he passed, careful to avoid eye
contact.  He put the key in the lock and as the door swung open he was
surprised to smell a rich, fragrant aroma emanating from within.

 Closing the door behind him, he flipped on the lights and called to her.
"Scully?"

 "In here," came the response, and he headed for the kitchen.  Although
the lights were off, the setting sun through the window cast a rosy glow
that lit the room fairly well, and what he saw stopped him in his tracks.

 Scully was standing near the small table, a glass in either hand
obviously intended to join the plates she had placed on its surface.   She
was smiling in his direction, but he barely noticed, his eyes locked on
the stove behind her.   There was a pot on the burner, and the gas flames
beneath it were dangerously high, flickering alarmingly close to a
dishtowel lying nearby.

 Mulder was across the room in an instant, pushing the towel aside and
turning down the burner in one quick move.   "Scully --"  The tone in his
voice was deliberately sharp as he spun back around to face her.  "What
are you doing?"

 "Making dinner," she answered, carefully setting the glasses down.
"What's wrong?"

 "You almost started a *fire*, Scully."  He took a deep breath, trying to
regain his composure.  "What in the hell were you thinking?"

 She didn't answer at first, and when she did her words were tight.  "I
was thinking that I was capable of heating some soup and making some
sandwiches."

 Mulder paused a moment and glanced around the kitchen.  There were an
assortment of cans and jars strewn across the counter, and he saw the
sandwiches, balanced in a slightly lopsided pile on a tray by the sink.
But his attention was focused on other things.

 The can opener she had used for the soup.

 The knife she had used to cut the bread.

 The flames still burning low on the stove.

 His mind was filled with a thousand near calamities, but he forced his
voice to be calm.  "Of course you are, Scully, but --"

 She cut him off abruptly.  "Don't patronize me, Mulder.  I'm not a
child."

 He stopped and really looked at her then.  She was wearing a long
flowered skirt and one of his shirts, white broadcloth sleeves rolled up
to her elbows, with a spattering of what looked like mustard down one
side.  Her hands were clenched, and he could measure the intensity of her
anger in the set of her jaw.

 He began again, more cautiously this time.  "I know --"

 "No, you don't."  Her words were cold, dripping like ice into the sudden
stillness of the room.  "You *don't* know."

 "Scully, please."  He took a step towards her, hoping to soothe her.
"Listen to me, please, I --"

 "Stop it -- stop it -- shut up!"  Scully waved her arms at him as though
to ward him away.  "I don't want to hear it anymore from you, Mulder!  You
have *no* idea what this is like.  You have *no* idea what I'm going
through."

 He stood, frozen in place by her words.

 "Do you *know*, Mulder, what it's like not to be able to see where you
are going when you walk down the street?  Do you *know* what it is like to
be helpless, to have to depend on someone else for all the things you used
to do yourself?"  She backed away from him and in doing so bumped into the
table, causing one of the glasses to fall and shatter on the ground.

 The sound startled her and he saw the question in her face as she sought
to identify the source of the noise.  She uttered a low cry of anguish and
Mulder could see that she was close to the edge of hysteria.  "I hate it,
Mulder.  Do you hear me?  I hate it!"

 He moved towards her, trying to catch her by the arm, but Scully pulled
away, her voice rising to a scream.  "I hate the darkness, I hate it!"
She reached the counter and wildly ran her hands across it.   Finding the
tray of sandwiches, she grabbed it and threw it to the floor.  "I *hate*
feeling weak!"  She continued her frenzied sweep of the counter, knocking
every object her hands encountered to the ground.  "I *hate* feeling
vulnerable!  I *hate* being afraid all the time!"

 Scully reached the end of the counter and before Mulder could stop her
she knocked the pot of soup off of the stove with one savage swing of her
arm.  Her palm smacked against the hot metal surface and she screamed as
the scalding liquid cascaded to the floor around her.

 "Scully!"  He shouted at her, trying to break through her panic.  He
grabbed her but held her for only a moment before she wrenched away from
him, stumbling towards the main room.
 
 

Somehow she made it out of the kitchen before the tears overcame her
completely.  Scully sank to the floor, bringing her knees to her chest and
wrapping her arms around them.   Her sobs sounded loud to her ears and she
buried her face against her knees, trying to muffle the noise.  Her right
hand was throbbing but she welcomed the focus that the pain brought her as
she fought to regain her composure.

 She heard him enter the room but she didn't move.  His steps moved closer
until she knew he was beside her, and then she felt his hand on her
shoulder.

 "Scully, please," he began, but the concern in his voice roused her anger
again and she shrugged him off.

 "Get the hell away from me!"

 He said nothing, and she half-hoped that her shrill tone had worked.  She
sensed him sit down next to her on the carpet, but he didn't try to touch
her again.

 "Scully... I think you may have burned your hand," he said softly.
"Please... let me take a look at it."

 His words were gentle and there was something reassuring about his
presence that made her want to respond to his request, but her rage had
not yet subsided.  "I don't want you to," she answered, choking the words
out between her sobs.  "I don't want you to do anything anymore."

 "Scully...."

 "I mean it, Mulder."  She sat up straighter, pulling the sleeve of her
shirt across her face in a vain attempt to dry her tears.  "I don't want
you to cook my food... or pick out my clothes... or do any of it.  I
don't.... I don't..."

 Despite her best efforts, Scully couldn't seem to stop crying, and her
fury was quickly giving way to embarrassment.  She felt his hand on her
wrist and this time she allowed the touch.  His fingers grazed her palm
and she winced.   Then she felt something cold and wet against her hand,
and realized from the texture of the cloth that it was the dishtowel from
the kitchen.

 "I think it's okay," she heard him say as he fashioned the makeshift
bandage, "but this should make it feel better."

 She nodded and pulled her hand back into her lap.  "Thanks."  After a
moment, she added softly, "I'm sorry."

 She heard him sigh, and he was so close to her that she could almost feel
the whistling rush of air.  "No, Scully," he said.  "I'm the one who
should be sorry."

 "For what?"

 "For everything," he answered, and she was struck by the depth of sorrow
in his voice.  "I failed you, Scully, and I've been trying to make up for
that.  I -- I guess it's my fear of failing you again that makes me so --
so controlling.  I just don't want anything else to happen."

 She only heard part of what he said, one particular phrase echoing in her
mind, a phrase that finally dried her tears.  She turned a little to face
him and asked, "What do you mean -- you failed me?"

 He said nothing, so she found his hand with her uninjured one and
squeezed it.  "Mulder?  Talk to me."

 "The lab," he said quietly.   "I knew it was a trap -- you never should
have been there.  I promised to protect you, and I -- I failed."

 "Oh, Mulder."  She hesitated, looking for the words she needed to make
herself clear.  "It's never been your responsibility to protect me.
Besides, you tried -- you warned me, you even followed me there.  I
just...." her voice trailed off and she gave a rueful shrug.  "I was
possessed, Mulder, so positive that I was right.  I wasn't in the state of
mind to listen to you or anyone else.  There wasn't anything you could
have done."

 "But if I had only been with you, I could --"

 "You could have *what*?"  She listened, but he gave no response, so she
continued.  "There is nothing that you could have done.  I brought this on
myself."  Scully stopped again, afraid to voice the thought that she had
kept inside for so long, but it was as though a wall had broken down
between them and she wanted him to know everything.

 "Mulder," she confessed, "people died in that explosion.  Innocent people
-- and I -- I was responsible for it.  Maybe this...maybe this is what I
deserve."

 "No!"  The sound was explosive against her ear.  "You didn't do anything
to *deserve* this, Scully!  Don't even *think* that."  His words were
strong but she could hear the trembling beneath.  "No one deserves this,
Scully.... least of all you."

 "Oh, Mulder."  She brought her hand to his face and the dampness on his
cheek shocked her with the realization that he was crying.

 "Don't you know..."  His voice was a hoarse, broken whisper. "If I
could... I would *do* anything... I would *give* anything...if it would
bring your sight back...if it would make you whole again."

 The grief and pain behind his muted words overwhelmed her and she leaned
into him, putting her arms around his neck and pulling him close.  His
arms encircled her, and she felt his body shake with the force of the
tears that he shed.  She was crying again herself as she pressed her
forehead to his, the skin warm and soft against her own.  Suddenly the
urge to be near him, to comfort him, consumed her and she brushed her lips
against his.
 
 

Stop the bus!!!  There are a bunch of angry anti-relationshippers at the
back who want to get off...
Sorry guys -- I know I should have put a warning at the beginning of this
installment, but I was reluctant to tip my dramatic hand.  ;-)   Besides,
I think I cut the scene early enough for even the most die-hard
Carterites, don't you?  At any rate, please accept my apologies if I've
let you down -- the story has a life of its own!  If you're still
interested in continuing, parts 4-12 have been posted simultaneously.

I also need to take a moment to say a special thank you here to Brian, for
loaning me his medical textbooks and taking the time out of his busy
residency schedule to answer my questions.  You're the best!  :-)    And
now, on with the show....
 

X-3            X-3
 

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

From: [email protected] (NVRGRIM)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* - AT THE BLUE HOTEL (4/12) - Nicole Perry
Date: 14 Mar 1996 17:24:14 -0500
 

This is part four of a twelve-part post.  Author's Note, Spoiler Warning,
and Disclaimer can be found at the beginning of part 1.  Starting here, a
Relationship Warning is being added...   ;-)  If there are problems with
the posting (or comments on the story!) I'm at [email protected].
 
 

AT THE BLUE HOTEL (4/12)
by Nicole Perry
[email protected]
 
 

Scully pulled away from him abruptly, frozen as he was by the reality of
what had just happened.  Mulder looked at her, through eyes blurred with
tears, and was suddenly reminded of the china doll that had been a gift to
Samantha on her seventh birthday.  The dark, silken hair.  The smooth,
porcelain skin.  The eyes, clear blue glass that only reflected one's own
image, without a glimmer of what lay beneath.

 Then Scully moved in his arms, a crimson stain flushing her cheeks, and
he was acutely aware that what drew him to her had less to do with her
pristine beauty and more to do with what was inside.  Her vibrancy, her
courage, her strength.  The things that made her human, and real, and
alive.

 She pressed her hands against his chest, shaking her head in disbelief.
"Mulder, I -- I..."

 Unable and unwilling to allow her to deny what she had done, Mulder
leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, savoring their warm and
pliable softness.  Without giving thought to his actions, he pulled her
closer to him, wrapping his arms around her with all his strength.
 
 

Scully felt his lips on hers and shuddered at the sensation that passed
through her body.  Her first instinct was to pull away from him, her mind
shouting to her that this was wrong, that this was against every code that
was so clearly detailed in the Bureau's book of ethics.  But she was no
longer the same woman who had memorized that code.  That woman, Agent Dana
Scully, had in large measure been left behind in D.C. six weeks ago.  Now,
she wasn't sure who she was, but the part of her that had become Lisa
Wilder suddenly felt as though she had found shelter from the terror that
had marked each of the last forty-two days.  It was that part of her that
returned his kiss, twining her fingers into the short hairs at the back of
his neck, giving herself over to his gentle touch.

 Mulder's kisses were deep and long and tender, and matched the soothing
stroke of his hands across her neck, her shoulders, her back.  His beard
tickled her skin as his mouth moved gently over hers.  All of her
insecurities, all of her fears, were momentarily suspended by the reality
of his nearness and she completely succumbed to his caresses, moaning
softly as he pressed his body closer to hers.

 She felt his fingers dance across her collarbone and shifted in his
grasp, the electric sensation his hands engendered lighting a fire deep
inside her.  The soft strokes moved lower, tracing the deep vee of her
shirt, toying with the buttons that clasped the cotton across her chest.
 She felt as though she was supported only by his strength, by the arms
that held her upright and trapped her against him.

 He began to unfasten the uppermost button and she suddenly tensed, afraid
to allow him to proceed further, afraid of what might happen if he did.
She removed her hands from his neck and placed them atop his, hoping that
the silent signal would be enough to arrest his progress.

 He seemed to understand, pulling back from her slightly, allowing her
head to rest on his shoulder.  She could feel his breath against her ear,
shallow rapid gasps that warmed her from head to toe.  She snuggled closer
to him, acutely aware of the flush in her cheeks, thankful for the moment
that she was unable to see his eyes, unable to know his thoughts.
 
 

Mulder held her until she fell asleep, still cradled in his arms.  He ran
his fingers through her hair and laid a tender kiss on her cheek, but she
did not stir.  When he felt his own eyes beginning to close he struggled
to his feet, unwilling to release her even for a moment.  He carried her
into the bedroom, the fabric of her skirt trailing across his arms.  He
laid her gently down on the bed and removed her shoes before pulling the
covers up over her.

 He hesitated for a moment, looking down at her face, peaceful in slumber.
 He considered the mess in the kitchen and then shrugged, realizing that
some things were better left for morning.  He removed his own shoes and
then climbed in beside her, reaching out to her with tentative hands.
Even in sleep, something drew her to him and she rolled into his embrace,
her head nestled against his shoulder, her breathing deep and even.  It
was that lullaby that finally soothed him to a dreamless sleep.
 
 

Scully awoke and her first conscious thought was that she was alone in the
bed.  She ran her hands across the covers, checking for him, feeling a
quick rush of panic at his absence.  Then she heard noises from the front
of the apartment and relaxed at the sound.  She listened for a long moment
before calling to him.

 "Mulder?"

 She heard the approach of his footsteps and then the squeak of the door
hinges as he pushed it fully open.  "Scully?  You okay?"

 "Yes," she answered, relieved to hear his voice.  "What are you doing?"

 "Cleaning up the kitchen," came the response, and she flushed at the
memory of the previous night.

 "Oh," was all she said.  Then the question, "What time is it?"

 "Just after eight."

 "In the morning?" she asked, surprised.

 "Yes," he replied.  "You slept straight through, this time."

 She said nothing, merely nodded, knowing he was looking.

 "Want some coffee?"  She nodded again, and heard his footsteps retreat.
She lay there, her mind filled with confused thoughts.  She felt
refreshed, truly rested for the first time in weeks, but that pleasant
sensation was tempered with a strange awkwardness that she was hard
pressed to name.
 
 

 When he returned, she was sitting up, her back resting against the
headboard of the bed.  Her hair was tousled from sleep and fell in messy
waves across her shoulders.  He approached, carrying the cup of coffee in
one hand, and sat down next to her.  He carefully placed the cup into her
outstretched hands and watched silently as she took a sip.

 "Okay?" he asked, and was pleased to see her smile.

 "Perfect," she answered.  "Just what I needed."

 "Good."  Further words failed him and he just sat where he was.

 They were both quiet as she took a few more cautious sips before reaching
out to place the cup on the nightstand beside her.   It was very near the
edge, and he moved it further towards the center, acutely aware of the
frown that crossed her face as he did.   "Mulder," she began, and then
hesitated before continuing.  "About last night..."

 "You don't have to say anything," he interrupted, but she shook her head
and he fell silent.

 "I want to."  She began picking at the comforter, running her fingers
along its worn edge.  "I'm sorry... about what happened.   About the
mess... and..."

 "I'm not."  Mulder was surprised at the assertiveness in his own voice.

 "Well, *I* am."  A blush stole across her cheeks, and she turned her head
away from him.  "That... that never should have happened.   And... I
apologize."

 "Scully..." He placed his hands lightly atop hers, anxious to stop their
nervous motion.  "I wanted to... I wanted to kiss you."

 She sighed, and her face was filled with a strange melancholy that he had
never seen before.  "Mulder... I don't -- I don't want you to feel sorry
for me.  To have you... to have you pity me... I could never bear that."

 "Oh, Scully....no."  The pain in her words tore at him and he reached out
with one hand to caress her cheek.  She flinched at his touch but he
managed to turn her face towards him.  "Don't you know... this has nothing
to do with that."  She said nothing, and he took her silence as an
indication to continue.  "I was committed to you long before this, long
before we ever left D.C.   In so many ways... more than I ever realized.
Until -- until now."
 
 

Scully remained absolutely still, acutely aware of the warmth of his hand
against her skin.  She listened to his words, but their soothing tone did
nothing to assuage the hollow emptiness inside her.

 He paused, as though he was waiting for a response, but still she said
nothing.  After a moment, she heard him draw a deep breath as he moved his
hand away from her face to clasp both of her hands in his.  "Scully... you
have to believe me.  I can't imagine my life without you in it.  I had to,
once.  And I could never -- I could never survive that again."

 Suddenly an image arose in her memory, a picture of him the way that he
used to be.  The way that he had looked, standing beside her bed in the
hospital, awkward in his blue windbreaker.  His hands, nervously clutching
the gold chain of the necklace that bore her cross.  His eyes, an
anguished hazel mixture of pain and relief.

 "Scully," he said in a voice that was no more than a whisper, "I'm here
with you because I choose to be."

 A sudden tightness seized her throat and she felt her eyes begin to
water.  "Mulder..."

 "Please, Dana," he pleaded, and the sound of her name was sweet to her
ears.  "Let me.  Be with you."

 He reached out to her then and she welcomed his touch, the feel of his
arms around her familiar and yet different, somehow new.  He buried his
face against her shoulder and she felt a soft kiss on her neck that sent a
warm rush through her entire body.
 
 

She said nothing, but he reveled in the clasp of her arms across his back.
 He turned his head slightly, savoring the softness of her hair as it
fluttered against his cheek.  Then he pulled back from her, to place his
lips against hers, to trace their delicate shape with his tongue.  She
responded to his gentle caress and the tender kiss quickly deepened into a
more ardent exploration.

 A few long moments passed before he released her.  His hands were still
twined in her hair and her face, flushed from the intense contact, was
mere inches from his.  He gazed at her longingly but her eyes remained
clouded, unable to meet his.   He brushed a gentle kiss across her
forehead, relieved at the faint smile it engendered.

 She shifted slightly, and patted the space next to her on the bed.  He
scooted up to sit beside her, draping his arm across her shoulders.  She
tucked her head into the space between his shoulder and his chin as though
it had been specifically designed for that purpose, and for a time they
sat quietly, enjoying the new closeness that had sprung up between them.

 It was the small growl from her stomach that finally interrupted the
peaceful silence.  The sound caused her to pull away from him with an
embarrassed giggle.

 "Mulder," she said, "I think maybe it's time for breakfast."

 "Sounds good to me," he answered.  He stood up and took her hand in his,
guiding her out of the bed and towards the kitchen.
 
 

The man sat in the darkened room, his eyes focused on the flickering
televised image before him, though little of the information reached his
brain.  He was consumed by other thoughts, all too aware of the rapid
passage of time.

 He took another glance at the clock as he fired up a cigarette, enjoying
the sensation of the nicotine as it filled his lungs.   He was beginning
to doubt the course of action that had been chosen, but he knew he was
unable to alter the sequence of events.  As much as he hated to admit it,
he was not in control of the situation, which irritated him immensely.  He
was a man who deeply despised feeling as though things were beyond his
grasp.

 It was at that moment that the phone rang, the loud jangle a welcome
distraction from his dark musings.  "Yes?"  His voice was sharp, brusque.

 The voice on the other end was unmistakable.  Christophe's smooth tone
filled his ears.  "We are very close to our goal.  I thought you should
know."

 "How close?" asked the man, taking another long drag.

 "I believe that the targets have been sighted.  It should not be long
now."

 "Good."  The man nodded in silent appreciation of the work that had been
accomplished.  "Let me know when it is done."

 "Of course."  The phone went dead immediately following Christophe's last
words.

 The man leaned back in the chair, blowing a small series of circles with
the smoke he'd inhaled.  He was relieved that progress had at last been
made, though a small part of him cursed the fact that it now seemed he
would be denied the privilege of being present for the finale of the drama
that had occupied him these last weeks.  But he knew better than to
interfere at this point.

 Stubbing the cigarette into the overflowing ashtray beside him, the man
switched the channel on the television and returned to his silent
thoughts.
 
 

Scully listened to the crashing footsteps ascending the metal fire escape
and smiled, recognizing the sounds and the person who made them.  She
could hear the boy approach despite the loud noises from the city streets
below.

 "Hello," she said, offering a smile in his general direction.

 "Hello, ma'am," came the polite response.  "Remember me?"

 She nodded.  "Charlie," she said.  "From next door."

 "Right," he answered, and she could hear the pleasure in his voice.
"Mind if I sit a spell?"

 She shook her head.  "Not at all."

 He sat down beside her and she heard him shifting on the tar-papered
surface as he sought a comfortable position.  He said nothing for a time,
and she was aware only of the sound of his breathing, the gasps slightly
labored.

 After a time, his voice took on a conversational tone.  "You know much
about fractions?"

 "A little," she admitted, trying to conceal her grin.

 "I hate them," said the boy.  "I like things to come out even."

 "Me too," she replied, and then all was quiet again.
 
 

Charlie looked at her closely.  There was something different about her
today, he thought, something that made her look more radiant than he
remembered.   He cursed the fact that he had missed a day in his
observations.  His mother had dragged him to the dentist despite his
protests, his insistence that he had more important things to do.  And now
he felt as though he had missed something significant, something that he
should have written down.

 He had spent the morning working up the courage to ask her the question,
but now that the time had come, he didn't know if he could.  He decided to
try something else first, something easier.  "What's your name?"

 She hesitated a moment before she answered. "Lisa," she said.

 "Lisa," he repeated, testing the word out on his tongue.  It seemed like
the right kind of name for an angel, although he didn't remember ever
hearing it in the Bible.   There was a girl named Lisa in his class at
school, but Charlie knew that she wasn't an angel, wasn't even close.
This Lisa was special.  "I like that name."

 "Thank you," she smiled, and Charlie was suddenly imbued with the
confidence he needed.

 "Lisa," he asked, "you're not from 'round here, are you?"

 She drew in her breath sharply, and he saw a flicker of concern cross her
face.  "No," she replied.  "I'm not.  Just.... passing through."

 Charlie sighed a deep sigh of relief.  He had been right, after all.
"That's good."  He checked his watch and then scrambled to his feet,
knowing that his father was due home any minute.  "Gotta go," he said,
then added, "I'm glad... I'm glad you passed through here."

 He reached out and grabbed her hand and she gave it an answering squeeze.
 "Bye, Charlie," she said.

 "Bye," he echoed, and ran back across the roof to the fire escape.  As he
descended the ladder he kept his eyes on her, wishing he could stay but
unable to take the risk.
 
 

Scully was sitting on the couch listening to the news on television when
she heard the key turn in the lock.  She listened as the door swung open,
recognizing his footsteps as he entered the room.  It felt as though she
had been waiting for him to return from the library for days, although she
knew that in reality he had only been gone a few short hours.  "Hey," she
called, anxious to hear his voice.

 "Hey yourself," he answered.  She heard the door shut behind him and was
suddenly aware of a strong, sweet fragrance that drowned out the musky
scent she associated with him.  She listened as his footsteps approached
and heard an unfamiliar crinkling sound that clashed with his movements.

 "Mulder?"  Her voice rose with curiosity.  "What's that smell?"

 She felt him sit down beside her, and the smell was closer now, wafting
over her in a powerful wave.  He reached out for her hands and she heard
the crinkling sound again as he pressed something into her grasp.  Paper,
smooth and cool to the touch, wrapped around long thin rods.  Another
breath and she realized that what was in her hands was a bouquet of the
most beautifully scented flowers she had ever held.

 "Mulder!" She repeated his name, this time with a smile, though the
question remained beneath.

 "They're gardenias," he answered, his voice soft as he continued.  "I
went to buy you roses... but these -- these smelled so much nicer."

 Her heart filled with a painful ache that stemmed not from the gesture
but from his diffident words, words that demonstrated his thoughtfulness
and consideration better than the flowers themselves ever could.
 
 

Mulder sat next to her, drinking in the beautiful sight of her face buried
in the copious blossoms, her hair draped like a dark curtain over the
white petals.   Her happiness warmed him and eased the uncertainty that he
had felt from the moment he had entered the flower shop, assuring him that
the silly impulse that had seized him had brought her pleasure.

 After a moment, she raised her head, and in a teasing tone, she asked,
"Does Rick always bring Lisa flowers when he comes home?"

 He followed her lead with his response.  "He does, if that's what Lisa
likes."

 She favored him with a small smile that was seductive in its shyness.
"Lisa," she answered, "likes Rick.  Very much."

 Her words sang inside him and he leaned over to capture her lips in a
kiss, heedless of the flowers that he crushed as he drew her into his
embrace.  She kissed him back, filling him with a warm quiet contentment
that erased all of the long boring hours he had spent in the library.
Hours that he had spent without her.

 "Let's go get some dinner," he said, when he finally stopped to catch his
breath.

 "Should we?" she questioned.

 He ran his hand down her face, over her shoulder and down her arm before
taking her hand.  "It's late, and the streets are crowded.  I think we can
take the risk."

 "Okay," she answered with another smile that he just had to kiss.
 

X-4            X-4
 

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