*^*^*^*^*^ Pine Street Boardinghouse 16 September 12:30PM "Kimberly, I need to speak to Skinner." Mulder's long legs covered the short distance around his 'apartment' while on hold. Looking up at the non-descript gray painted walls with the white framed doors and window, he nearly slipped on the few oval braided area rugs. He carried the handset, trailing the extra long cord around the room, the receiver tucked between his ear and his shoulder. He moved from the small entryway, which was nothing more than the only door to the apartment with a few wall pegs for jackets or coats, to the seating area. Set in the middle of the area was a 60s modern plywood and laminate coffee table with a plastic arrangement of yellow roses and orange mums, bracketed by a brown upholstered couch and chair with ottoman, the once visible fabric design now just so much fuzz. An end table and lamp were located to the right of the over-stuffed chair. It was not a place he'd be entertaining guests. Kimberly came back on the line to tell him that the A.D. was trying to end his other call, but it was taking longer than expected. She suggested that Skinner would call him back when he concluded his business. Mulder headed for his walk-up kitchen; a white porcelain enamel counter top filled in the space between a miniature stove top and oven, a half-size sink and a waist high refrigerator. He reached into the overhead cabinets to find a juice glass. Bending down, he grasped the horizontal chrome door handle pulling the refrigerator open. He realized he'd actually have to do some food shopping if he expected to stay here for a while. The sum contents included a carton of juice, a half-eaten block of cheddar cheese, a wrapped sandwich of dubious origins and a few bottles of beer. Even counting the few trays of ice in the small freezer compartment, no one would accuse him of gourmet tastes. He poured himself some juice and gulped it. It wouldn't replace lunch, but right now, he had few other options. Besides, he'd always gotten by on less and knew he'd make up for it at dinner. Toeing off his Bostonian Kiltie loafers, he walked stocking-footed to the 'sleeping area'. He plopped down on the queen-sized bed, sliding into the center of the white, colonial design, chenille bedspread, crossing his legs in front of him. He reached into the single drawer of the nightstand and grabbed the material he had on his case. He had no sooner propped the pillows up against the white wrought iron headboard when the phone rang. "Mulder" No preamble was needed. Mulder could tell that his boss wasn't happy. He sunk down into the pillows a bit more, his long legs stretching out on the bed. He looked toward the ceiling; possibly hoping a clever, but not sarcastic, response was waiting for him there. When he didn't find his answer, he decided that honesty could work in his favor. "Sir, Agent Scully had been hospitalized last night. I was just making sure she was all right." He let out a sigh, knowing the questions were sure to come. Mulder tried to explain his partner's theory about a viral infection. He could almost hear Skinner shaking his head, disagreeing with her assessment. Both men knew that she often claimed she was 'fine' when she was far from it. "She's back at the hotel, attending conference sessions. I plan on keeping an eye on her, Sir." As soon as the words left his mouth, Mulder could hear the indecision, the weak conviction in them. He knew that Skinner was worried about her; he was, too. But he also knew that there was no way his boss could justify either the time or expense of traveling to Vermont because he was worried about one of his Agents experiencing some dizziness. As for sending back up, the same might apply. Unless they were actually to assist either Scully or him on a case, it could not be finessed. "With all due respect, Sir, I think I can handle the case and keeping an eye on her, although if she knows that's what I'm doing..." Mulder sat up, his legs hanging over the side of the bed. The *besides* that trailed off caught his attention. He knew it referred to the fact that their personal relationship had not exactly been 'harmonious' when he had left for the case and when Scully had left for her conference. He also knew that this was Skinner's way of inquiring without actually doing so. "Look, we're working things out. And I didn't have much luck this morning. She saw right through my showing up at the conference site. I'll keep you informed. I've got to place a call to my contact. I sort of missed our first appointment." He wanted to hang up as soon as that sentence was out of his mouth, sure he was about to be admonished. He wasn't even sure why he'd let it slip. Possibly the beginning of the headache that was threatening to take up residence behind his eyes was to blame. He padded into the cramped bathroom, opening his black leather shaving kit that was perched precariously on top of the sink. He listened to the warnings and scoldings as he carefully rummaged through the contents of the kit, trying to locate the aspirin. He mumbled the requisite, 'mmm,hmms' and 'uh huhs' as he cupped one hand under the running faucet, trying to hold the phone to his ear and swallow the caplets. Mulder told him he would do his best and hung up. He found the scrap of paper with his contact's phone number and placed the call. "It's me; we need to set the meeting time and place." The short round man hung up before Mulder could say anything more. He grabbed his corduroy jacket and headed to his meeting. *^*^*^*^*^ Home of Kimberley and Bryan O'Connor 24 Church Street 16 September 1:00PM Since Scully didn't have any sessions of interest for the afternoon and she was reluctant to contact Mulder after their earlier meeting, she took Kimberley up on her offer for lunch at her house. Bryan was out ridding the great lawns of Burlington of their growing mounds of fallen and scattered leaves. Kimberley had been meaning to contact Scully all day, but had been kept busy with some new information regarding the case she had been assigned. She had called the Radisson, but figured Scully was already out and about at conference programs. The day was clear and September-warm, so Scully decided to walk the few blocks from the hotel to Kimberley's. Twice she took her cellphone from her pocket and twice she replaced it. She couldn't stop thinking about her partner's impromptu and *very Mulder-like* visit to the Radisson. She mused over the way he could still surprise her after so many years. In some ways, he was very predictable, although she would never reveal that information to him. In others, the whimsical side of Fox William Mulder brought such sheer joy to her rather orderly life that she sometimes thought she'd explode with the intensity of it. While she'd known others who were either very intelligent or witty and clever, he was the only one she knew for whom the combination worked so well. When he had called her, interrupting her conversation with the Academy's newly-minted finest, she hadn't really been surprised to hear from him. She had been hospitalized and he had been worried. Even before their more personal relationship had developed, they had always looked out for each other, had always been by the other's side when some danger or the other threatened their safety. But, as he somehow always managed to do, he had thrown her off by actually appearing without her knowledge. 'You have an excessive desire for control, Scully.' She could hear his voice in her head as she walked along, a rather large smile plastered to her face. As her pace quickened, she felt the warmth of the day and unbuttoned her deep purple jacket. She rolled her sleeves up a few turns and then tucked her long hair behind her ears. '...an excessive need for control...' She was enjoying the memory of that day that seemed oh so long ago. *** Winter Apartment of Dana Scully She had invited him; no, actually he had invited himself, to her place on a snowy Saturday about a week after they returned from Connecticut. Her mother had a friend of the family's drop off a rather large oak chest of drawers, but the friend hadn't had time to stay and place it where she wanted it. She was used to living alone and tended to do almost everything herself, including moving her furniture. Aside from the fact that she worked out regularly and was in fine physical health, she knew how to lift and move, using her legs and hips. Besides, she knew women had a lower center of gravity and were bio-mechanically much stronger in their lower bodies than men were. She had thrown on a pair of fleecy pale blue leggings and one of Mulder's almost threadbare long-sleeved tees, rolling the sleeves up above her elbows. A navy blue and white bandanna had been rolled and used as a headband to hold her hair back from her face. She had forgone the shoes for a pair of oversized workout socks. The chest of drawers sat in her living room and needed to be moved to the bedroom. Squatting down with her back against the side of the three-quarter height bureau, she started using her legs to push backwards. And that had been when she heard the knock on the door. Followed shortly by Mulder calling her name. She had grunted out a quick, 'come in', under the exertion of trying to get the large piece of furniture moving. She was sure he was smiling at her scrunched closed eyes and clenched jaw, her elbows bent with her triceps pressed against the heavy wood. She had looked up to find she was right and had let out the breath she hadn't realized she had been holding, the laughter threatening to burst from her. His offer to help her had met with rather solid resistance as she had none too gently explained that she was quite capable of doing it by herself, thank you very much, Mulder. Why she hadn't thought more clearly about the lack of friction between sock-covered feet and highly polished bare wood floors, she hadn't known... She had continued to try to gain purchase with her slipping feet while using her quads and glutes to push the furniture. Meanwhile, she had glanced up once to see her partner, her lover and her friend standing in front of her, his arms crossed at this chest, a lock of hair in his eyes and a smirk so large it had made her want to leave her task and wipe it off his gorgeous face. However, she had ignored him, even more eager to show him what she was capable of. Approximately five very long minutes later, her feet had quickly scampered out from under her, depositing her on her ass unceremoniously. The oak chest of drawers had moved more slowly... about half a foot from its original location in the process. Looking up at the man in front of her, she had heard him laugh as he had stated that she had an excessive need for control. He had squatted down in front of her, grabbing her by her upper arms, sliding her toward him. Sitting down in front of her, he had kissed her red-with-furniture-mover's-strain face. She had blushed an even deeper shade, although it hadn't prevented her from attempting to suck the smirk from his face. *^*^*^*^*^ As Scully rounded the corner of Church and Pine, she took in the 'Leave it to Beaver' look of the neighborhood. Although this was obviously an old section of town, there was an interesting mix of Dutch Colonials and semi-ornate Victorians. Homes from an old and much older time and lifestyle. The Dutch Colonials had a Donna Reed or June Cleaver air about them, most with whitewashed trellises climbing their sides as support for the winding rosebushes. The canti-levered and overhanging roofs sat in strange contrast to their taller and more ornate 19th century neighbors. Tall and proud in their gingerbread-trimmed facades, the Victorians were clustered on one end of Church Street where it joined with Union. Most had wrap-around porches, the wicker rocking chairs set about casually for lazy summer and early fall days. The street itself was not overly wide, but there was a strip of well-manicured emerald green grass between the sidewalk and the road. Scully idly wondered whether Bryan and his crew were responsible for the impossibly perfect green carpets which surrounded the fine homes. Almost as if by mutual agreement, each driveway was framed by fall-colorful, potted mums. The deep rusts, bright marigolds, blushing fuschias and lusty magentas created a cascade of autumn rainbows. The only difference was the actual arrangement of the flowers at each site. Tall maples and grand oak trees created an over-grown and over-hanging canopy, shading the roadway as well as the lawns, allowing only dappled sunlight to filter through. Scully wondered if the picture perfect view matched the lifestyles of the inhabitants. The requisite tail-wagging dogs, scampering kittens and good-natured rag-tag children dotted the landscape. A runaway red wagon clanked down the driveway to her left; two blue sneakered toddler feet following. Stopping just before said wagon wheels rolled over her pumps, Scully squatted down halting the rumbling vehicle. "Is this yours?" She smiled at the mop-haired tyke, watching his saucer brown eyes light up as he grinned at her. "Me 'gah-gon', me ride. You go too?" He tugged at the long handle, pointing at Scully and lifting his foot up, evidently demonstrating how she should get into the wagon. She chuckled at his obvious inability to see that she was not only much bigger than him, but also just a tad too big to fit inside the toy. "I'm sorry, I can't get in there and go for a ride with you." She held his hand, loving the feel of his warm, plump little hand in hers. "What's your name, little man?" "This is Trevor." Scully looked up to see a woman with eyes exactly like her son's and the blondest hair she thought she'd ever seen. The woman smiled and Scully noticed a good-sized butterscotch cat weaving in and out between her legs. "He seems quite taken with you. Although he's an easy-going kid," she knelt down behind her son, holding him to her. "He doesn't usually warm up quite this fast. I think it must have been your approach." Scully instantly stood, hating to admit she was embarrassed for some odd reason as well as worried that she'd somehow concerned Trevor's mother. "I'm really sorry; I know how children are taught not to talk to strangers and here I come right up to him and--" Trevor's mother stood lifting her child up with her, her arm around his middle, his little feet happily kicking back against her thighs. "Oh, no, don't worry about it! You're right, we do teach that to him, but this is a friendly place to live. We've been untouched by a lot of what goes on out there," she gestured around her with her chin, her arms securing the increasing tot-movements, seeming to indicate a larger place outside of Burlington proper. "And the children have learned to emulate that friendliness, that is, when they're not trying to run visitors over with their wagons." Scully introduced herself, learning in the process that Trevor's mom's name was Sally. Sally invited her in for lemonade, which she politely declined. "Actually, I'm on my way to meet a friend of mine." Sally nodded as she tried to hold onto the suddenly very heavy child who wanted 'down'. "Trevor, I'm talking to the lady right now." Her words were met with a renewed burst of energy, forcing her to relinquish her hold on him. The full force of his forty-pound body hit the ground literally running. "He really is a cute child." Scully looked after him as he walked toward the cat; his eyes alight with mischief. She mused that the real reason they referred to this age group as 'toddler' was because they walked as if they were always on tumultuous earthquake grounds. "Thank you; we like him and think we'll keep him. He's our first." She tilted her head to one side, looking more closely at Scully. "Are you sure you don't want to come inside?" she thought. Half wishing she could just drop out of her other life for a while; she almost accepted the kind invitation. "I really do need to get going, but thanks for the invitation." At that moment, they both jumped. The cat's screeching wail drew their attention. Their surprise turned to laughter as they watched Trevor attempt to drag the cat by his tail to the wagon. Although human outweighed animal, crafty animal won out over clumsy human. Watching Trevor run toward his mother, reaching for her, Scully bid them farewell. She called out a special 'good-bye' to the boy as he clung to his mother's leg. Kimberley's house was farther down the road and across the street. Although somewhat more modest than its more art-carved Victorian neighbor, it was nonetheless impressive. Set back from the road on approximately one acre, the 2,500 square foot colonial was surrounded on three sides by oaks and maples. The front yard was predominantly open with the exception of two stands of young birches bracketing the slightly curved driveway, allowing the sun to bathe the shingled façade. The requisite potted mums circled the birches providing a very interesting and eye-catching counterpoint to the stark white-with-black-streaked slim trees. As Scully turned into the driveway, she mused that Bryan's business had surely done well in town. So well that he wasn't able to tend to his own fine green carpet strewn with fallen leaves. No matter how many times she and Mulder had traveled to parts of the country where the changing seasons included the passage of autumn, it was too infrequent for her tastes. It always seemed, even to her science-grounded mind, that the hand of God was surely at work during this time of year. The infinite shades of brown; russet, sienna, chocolate, bronze and many more she was sure she'd find in a box of Crayolas, were beyond belief. While she knew intellectually that the precise color and the change from green to brown was due to the loss of chlorophyll, it filled her with wonder nonetheless. The way the sun touched the underside of the leaves that had landed upside down made the lawn appear like an artist's canvass. She noted Kimberley's Bronco parked in front of one of the two garages and close behind was a silver, BMW Z8 Convertible. She assumed that wasn't Bryan's vehicle since Kimberley had told her that they'd only had enough money for one new car this year. Having a private fascination with sports cars of the decidedly expensive bent. She knew she'd never see the day she could afford a car that had to cost at least $100,000.00. Whoever the owner, she or he did quite well. The voices caught her attention immediately and she stopped in her tracks. She recognized the woman's voice as her friend's, but the male voice was unfamiliar. And it was loud and growing angrier by the minute. She was not able to make out complete sentences, but the bits and pieces she did hear left her quite concerned. Quickly slipping her hand underneath her jacket, she palmed her holstered service weapon and moved out of the direct line of vision to the front three-quarter length windows. The sound of glass smashing, followed by a rather robust and bawdy expletive from the unidentified man, hastened Scully's movements toward the sculpted greenery that bordered the front and left sides of the house. Crouching low in the shrubs, she caught the wonderfully crisp and clean scent of the evergreens. Although whatever was going on was escalating, neither party seemed to be gaining the advantage. The words were much clearer from this vantage point. "Damn it, Bishop, I've told you not to come here. You don't think anyone's going to recognize your car? You're just lucky Bryan's working right now." Scully could hear the exasperation and slight anger in Kimberley's tone. "I'm getting the information one way or the other and you don't seem to be holding up your end of this bargain." The articulation was flawless, regardless of the heat behind the words. Although frustration was clearly evident, threat did not seem to be present. "Put up or shut up; I don't particularly care, but you're either in or you're out." Scully could hear his footfalls on what sounded like hardwood floors as he delivered his ultimatum. Kimberley seemed to be holding her own even though it didn't sound as if she were about to give him whatever it was he thought he was due. "You'll get it when I've got it. I've told you that the last two times. Besides, you'd have better luck getting it from him yourself. He's smooth; he'll get his hands on it. Now, get the hell out of my house and don't you ever set foot in here again. Do I make myself clear enough for you, eh?" There was no mistaking who was now in control of this conversation, although the sound of yet another glass object shattering also indicated that control or not, the man was leaving with reluctance. She heard the front door swing open, the doorknob loudly banging against the interior wall behind it. Fast, clacking shoes on the slate stone step and walkway caused Scully to duck even further into the bushes. Entirely missing the fact that the blazing red of her hair did not escape the searching eyes of the short round man, Bishop. Kimberley was on his heels, but stood on the step, her hand on the doorframe. From where she stood, Scully could see the mixture of relief and, although she wasn't completely sure, anticipation, on the blonde woman's face. Wrinkling her own brow, she wondered, not for the first time, what the heck was going on. What she had stumbled upon. The purring sound of the 348 horsepower engine revved slightly as it backed down the driveway. Even with the black leather top down, once on the road, the silver speedster literally flew, every one of his dark hairs held firmly in place despite the wind the speed created. Scully tried to get a better glimpse, but he had moved too quickly for her as he got into the car and she would have risked discovery earlier had she strained to see him from the bushes. Kimberley was about to close the door when Scully emerged from her hideout in the bushes, smoothing her jacket and brushing various bits of greenery from her pant legs. Quickly striding to the step, she called out to the woman. She noted the look of surprise on her face when she saw Scully. "Sorry it took me so long to get here." Without prior thought, Scully had decided to keep her impromptu surveillance to herself. omething about this situation wasn't sitting right with her and she automatically dropped into her full investigative mode. "I didn't mean to interrupt, send your company away." Scully tried to read her friend's face. Not betraying any of the tone Scully had detected earlier, Kimberley smiled, dismissing the situation? Bishop? Scully's knowledge that he had been there? She wasn't sure which, but intended on finding out. A current of vague discomfort flirted just beneath the surface; she didn't like the questions that this clandestine scene evoked in her. She attempted to push those thoughts away, chalking them up to Mulder's cloak and dagger activities and her natural skepticism. She vowed to let things go for now and enjoy the visit. After all, a friend of Missy's was a friend of hers. And the doubts re-surfaced. It had been a long time since she had seen Kimberley. People changed. Then her common sense fought with the doubts. Wasn't she basically the same person now as she was ten or even fifteen years ago? Of course she had grown and matured, but weren't her core values intact? Besides, she reasoned, she knew Kimberley was in law enforcement. She knew very well that that often meant that the outside observer might not be privy to the inner machinations of her job by necessity and by untrained eye. Tamping down her natural inquisitiveness enough to allow her to enjoy her visit, she followed Kimberley inside. She was immediately struck by the open, airy look and feel of the home. Natural hardwood floors flowed from the entryway into the living room, dining room and down the small hallway. The same wood made its way up to the second level, disappearing from her view. The walls were painted a very pale eggshell, opening the space even more. Kimberley explained how she and Bryan had had the interior custom-designed to accommodate their mutual love of the homey quality of the colonial with the modernity of the newer design concepts. Scully eyed the sweep and sleek lines of the mocha leather couch, ergonomic lounger and side chair, all framed in light teakwood. No coffee table marred the beauty of the pastel wool rug, the hazy flower border adding a delicate touch to the otherwise monochromatically neutral color scheme. Kimberley asked her to follow her into the kitchen, the flooring an earthy buttery, soft-toned, tumbled marble that felt smooth underfoot, but provided a subtle texture. The light gold Jerusalem stone countertops ringed the entire space catching the light from the south window wall. Scully placed her hands on the rim of the stainless steel sinks and gazed outside. The yard stretched back into a heavily wooded area that was breath-taking in its expansiveness, the boughs of the trees seeming to bow inward creating a canopy. "This place is beautiful, Kimberley. I don't know how you ever leave it!" Turning around, Scully unbuttoned and shrugged off her jacket placing it over the high ladder back chair in the dining room. "We like it... a lot. Here, let's sit over here." She motioned Scully to the small pantry area with the floral ceramic tile floor. Scully was sure she had just stepped into Architectural Design Magazine's model home. She toed off her shoes and crossing one leg under her, sank into the chintz covered deep sofa. Kimberly sat across from her in the extra-wide club chair. Not looking directly at the FBI Agent, she asked her what was on her mind. Scully continued to look through the windows, watching the squirrels and chipmunks scurry in fits and starts, knowing she was biding her time, unsure how to respond to Kimberley's query. When an answer wasn't forthcoming, Kimberley smiled and shrugged rising from the chair and moving to block Scully's view. "You're curious about the man you saw dashing away, aren't you?" Pulling both legs underneath her, Scully nodded, looking directly at the other woman. "Who is he, Kimberley?" "His name is Bishop Stillman. He's tied to the case I'm here to assist your government to solve. It's as simple as that." Scully stood and walked toward the much taller woman, her hands on her hips. "It doesn't sound simple to me at all. How is he tied to this case? What do you actually know about him?" "I can't tell you anymore than that and I'm sure you understand why." "The only thing I understand, Kimberley, is that something's not quite right. I heard..." She stopped herself, realizing too late that she had divulged more than she had intended. Looking around, she noticed that there was no broken glass lying around. She was sure of what she had heard and didn't think there had been time to clean it up. "What are you looking for, Dana?" "Uh, um, nothing. Maybe I should be going. I should be at sessions this afternoon." Turning, she bent to right her shoes and then stepped in to them. As she walked past Kimberley toward the chair holding her jacket, the woman stopped her with a hand to her upper arm. "Dana? Don't push this. It wouldn't be good for...any of us, ok?" The mixed message wasn't lost on Scully as she gently shook her arm free, gathered her jacket and headed to the front door. Opening it, she walked through the threshold, not looking back. "Thanks for the visit, Kimberley, it was *enlightening*." Scully didn't stop when the woman called after her. As she walked briskly back toward the hotel, something was niggling at her, something having to do with the man who she'd seen at Kimberley's. Pushing aside her larger questions regarding her supposed friend, she focused again on what had been said about him. Almost everything had sounded suspicious, but that wasn't what was bothering her. No. It was something else. Her face scrunched in concentration, she never even realized she had somehow managed to make it back to the hotel. She couldn't even remember leaving Church Street. But she had remembered what bothered her about the man. She had heard the name, Ben Stillman, back in D.C. Cooincidence? As she entered the lobby and strode to the bank of elevators, it hit her. His name had been on one of the autopsy cases for the Hapskah woman. *^*^*^*^*^ Redstone Park Saturday, 16 September 1:30PM Mulder was early, intentionally so. At the last minute, he had stripped out of his clothing, deciding that he could add a run to the scheduled meeting. Leaving his trousers and sweater strewn on the chenille bedspread, he pulled on his dark blue running shorts and his Knicks tee and cap. Socks, sneakers and shades completed his look. Tying his key into his laces, he set out the door. His mind already focused on his meeting; he hardly noticed the bright, clear warmth that settled over him. He started out slow, giving his blood a chance to flow to the muscles, the oxygen to move through his lungs and his joints to be sufficiently lubricated. Working through a few kinks in his hips and knees, he hit an easy stride. As he left the residential neighborhoods behind, the need to zig-zag around haphazardly-placed toys or the occasionally illegally parked kiddie coupe ended, allowing him to move with more speed. He needed to clear his mind of extraneous matters and move into his roll as Chris Arsenault. He pushed himself harder, lifting up through his ribs, pulling his abs in, slamming his heels back and down each time his foot struck the pavement, giving his glutes a good workout. Knowing he was too early, he ran past the park, hugging the lake shoreline now, driving himself to a yet undetermined limit. Then, his breathing ragged, he began to sprint. The path before him was blissfully clear of people and other obstacles, allowing him to change his pace yet again, running quickly but with much longer strides. His quads pumped furiously, his bent arms and fists hugging the sides of his body with increased speed. His breathing was coming in short panting whooshes, his hair dripping in his eyes. He absent-mindedly reached up to push the hair aside. As he switched back to sprint mode, aiming to make this an interval training run, he felt the sweat running in rivulets down his back, the cotton of his tee plastered to his skin. His shorts legs no longer billowing, they, too were hugging his pistoning legs, defining his lower body. He reached the end of the Lake trail but was not ready to end his workout. Having slowed some, he felt the heat of the sun against his hair, further plastering it to his head. Overall, the intense sweat of his exertion was a good feeling; cathartic and mind-clearing. But he wasn't finished, having only managed to free his mind, but not having worked out his strategy. He jogged in place, watching the sun rays glinting on the water, the sparkling effect dazzling and dancing against the lens of his Maui Jims. He turned then and followed an outcropping of rocks as they marched out over the water. Their broad, flat surfaces allowed him to continue running, albeit much more slowly. While the water looked inviting, he didn't have time for a swim and he knew the water would most likely be exceedingly cold at this time of year. At this point, he was close enough to make out the shoreline of the state of New York, although he could not see any distinct landmarks. He drew in a few breaths and then headed back. By the time he reached the southern edge of Redstone Park, he was truly exhausted and feeling at the top of his game mentally. His senses were on alert; finely tuned to all that was around him, and his mind was running through the bits and pieces of information he had at his disposal thus far. Although it wasn't much, he had learned more about the D.C. to Vermont connection and was almost sure that Ben Stillman from the 34th Precinct was somehow involved. Aside from the vague references Frohike had been able to pull together, his network had drawn lines between Stillman and several well-placed prison guards throughout the mid-Atlantic states, on up to and including New England. His information had grown cold once it hit the Canadian border. He planned to warm it a bit at this meeting. From there, his mind somehow wandered...again... *^*^* He had been disappointed that he'd missed the initial contact at the Metronome, but it couldn't be helped. He smiled wistfully and ruefully. Once again, he had reacted on sheer gut instinct--and had been wrong. While his track record for relying on those instincts usually brought forth solid results professionally, in his personal life, those instincts sometimes proved his undoing. He had taken in the scene, but failed to assess it accurately. Hell, if he admitted it to himself, he had acted out of blind jealousy. He'd had no idea who the man with Scully had been, yet he'd assumed they were together. While just seeing them talking had unnerved him, seeing his hands on her had rattled him more than he cared to admit. He'd seen red. His rational mind knew that while their relationship was still far from being on solid ground, they had been making slow but steady strides toward each other once again. He knew there was no way Scully would simply jump into another relationship. Even in those sometimes-insecure corners of his mind when self-doubts plagued him, he knew she still loved him deeply. That was something that wouldn't change between them no matter what. That understanding hadn't helped and he had given up his appointment, possibly risking the case, and charged onto the dancefloor. The warning glare in her eyes had done nothing to slow him down. He had grabbed her; no questions asked, no explanations sought. The feel of her arm under his hand had been warm and he had grasped her more tightly, ignoring the wariness in her eyes and the hard set of her lips. The man she was with had shoved him, hard. Mulder hadn't known whether to get angry or feel humiliated. So he had dropped Scully's arm and walked away. He had realized, again and belatedly, that he shouldn't have had any contact with her in the first place. And he'd also had the feeling she'd follow him. He had been correct. His feelings over seeing her again after several months had made him act rashly and he'd tried to pull away, walk away, but she was having none of it. In her own insistent manner, she had refused to leave him alone. And then, when he'd seemed to have gotten through to her and she'd agreed to leave, he hadn't been able to let her go. He was a good Agent; clearly knew the possible consequences to his actions, but he was also an expert at throwing away the rulebook when the rules cramped his style. And this was one of those situations. He'd known instinctively that she wouldn't betray his whereabouts, that she'd understand why he couldn't be with her, as long as he had the time to explain 'just enough'. He'd finally made her see without too many words that being around him was not a good idea. Then his need for her had kicked in, on overdrive. He'd needed to feel her intensely, feel her intensity, wrap her up in his arms, smother her face and every visible inch of skin with kisses and nips and tongue baths. He'd dragged her across the street to the park under the watchful eyes of her friends and he'd held onto her so tightly he had been afraid he'd bruise her delicate skin. He'd managed to stop short of throwing her against a tree and pawing their clothes away just enough to imbed himself in her. Fast, hot, hard. She'd looked like she might be amenable. Strike that; she'd looked as if she wanted to do the same to him, but he couldn't risk it. Too much was at stake. She'd actually been the saner partner and pulled away. Just as he'd grabbed her perfect ass, kneading for all he was worth. The feel of her muscles beneath his hands had been doing nothing to tamp down his own raging fire. She'd pulled away, taking his hands in hers, her eyes telling him that she'd understood. He hadn't been sure if he did. He'd just known that he would have to find other ways to be with her -- and still deal with his assignment to the best of his abilities. *^*^* Having slowed to a fast walk, his breathing more under control, Mulder reached up to grasp the brim of his cap, pulling it off his drenched head. He slicked his hair back and put the cap back on with the brim now in front. He took a deep breath and then hinged forward from his hips; his hands tugging on the hems of his shorts as he rested them on his thighs. He felt the stretch in his hamstrings. Now rounding his back into a cat-like position, he felt a deep stretch in his lower and mid-back. He straightened up, shaking his feet one at a time and then his hands. He located the bench area where he was to meet the still-unnamed man. There was no one there. It didn't bother him; he hadn't expected to find the man waiting for him. Chances were good that he was somewhere close by keeping an eye out to see what Mulder would do. As soon as he approached the bench, he took a minute to glance out over the lake. Although he could see to the other side at this point, he knew that it traveled much farther both north and south. Lake Champlain was much larger than most bodies of water he'd been around since childhood other than the ocean. He caught sight of a few sailboats and the lone speedboat hauling a skier over the choppy wake created by the craft's rotors. Slouching back on the bench, his legs wide, large sneakers firmly planted on the tamped down earth, he draped his arms behind him over the bench back. He removed his shades, hooking the frames into the neck of his tee, causing him to squint. "Don't turn around, Mr. Arsenault." Muttered almost under his breath, Mulder snapped back, "God, I love cloak and dagger." "If you'd move your body so that I might join you, we can meet." Mulder drew up his various long limbs scooting over to give his contact more space. He said nothing, waiting for the next pearl of wisdom. The man extended his hand to Mulder, a little surprised at the FBI Agent's firm grasp. He'd tried to size him up at the Metronome, but had only had a few brief minutes before he'd charged off like a caveman. Although, when he'd noted who the woman was...well, he figured he'd probably have done the same thing. "I'm Bishop Stillman, Mr. Arsenault." Had Scully been with him, she would have noticed the barely imperceptible shift in Mulder's demeanor as he let his contact's name register. The slightest shift in his hips on the bench, his chin tilting just so toward Bishop Stillman and the mere scrunching of his eyes as he puzzled with the new information. His first thought had to do with the length that some parents went to follow some bizarre naming scheme for their children; Ben and Bishop Stillman. How very...cliched. Twins they definitely were not. "Call me Chris." Mulder turned to Bishop, clearly and openly scrutinizing him now. Although Bishop had now turned to face the lake, it was clear that his attention was on Mulder. The man missed little. He took in the clearly athletic build, the well-toned muscles just shy of body builder's physique and the unkempt, disheveled look. He knew that Chris was not one of the privileged class. Sure, he had a few nice pieces of jewelry, but Bishop pegged him for a manual laborer who'd come by some money on the side; numbers maybe. He'd been told that Chris could be very helpful to the transport of their valuable merchandise. Well, he'd just see about that. Mulder took in the expensive, finely tailored suit, the spotless shoes. He hadn't missed the Beamer as it throttled, all those ponies under the hood carefully restrained, into the Park's sandy lot. The other B. Stillman was doing quite well for himself and Mulder had an idea why. "So, how do you like our fair city so far, Chris?" "It's fair enough." "I hear you're relatively new here. Got any work lined up?" Mulder could smell the not so well disguised fishing expedition and, if Bishop were any good at his game, he probably felt the way Mulder was dispersing information. "Yeah, construction over on the Essex Junction Community Center. They hired me in right away." Mulder shifted, starting to feel chilled now that he had totally come down and was still sitting in sweat soaked clothing. "So, make some good money then, huh? You a foreman or something?" The question sounded casual enough, but Mulder knew Bishop was trying to ascertain how well connected he was. "Well, I'm working my way up, so to speak. Right now, they've got me on the high scaffolding working on the surfacing at the summit. The view's great." He delivered his lines with practiced aloofness, the frost in his voice telling his contact that getting in his way might prove harmful. And Bishop noted the unspoken warning. This day was going from bad to butt ugly. First the supervisor called him on the carpet, then that Kimberley bitch had tried to take him down a peg and now Chris was playing it cool as a cucumber. "Look, a few of us are meeting over at the Metronome on Tuesday after work. Why don't you join us? In the meantime, I'll drop by and check out the site. I love it when they add new buildings downtown. Makes us look so 'citified', you know?" Mulder mentally planted his index finger in his open mouth miming the sign for gagging. Bishop Stillman dripped cliched hit man, drug trafficker, big boss. And he was Mulder's ticket into the workings of this group. Between the information from the guys and what he'd gleaned, he needed to get in on the ground floor of this operation and soon. But first, he had to prepare for his first day on the job. He stood, thinking he'd walk home along the shore when Bishop spoke again. "You check out any of the babes around here?" The fishing expedition was still in full swing and Mulder sat back down for a moment, sure Bishop wanted to badly reel him in...hook, line and sinker. "What? You're also representing the local singles club? Or is it the Chamber of Commerce?" "Just want to make sure you enjoy your stay. The longer you feel comfortable, the longer we do business." Mr. B. Stillman was sure the fiery haired woman figured into Chris's life and could therefore prove very useful. No one joined this group without a little bit of an initiation, a fact-finding mission. Find those facts that could really bring out the truth in one's character. Yes, 'Red' would probably be the truth for Chris. *^*^*^*^*^ Office of Sargent Ben Stillman 34th Precinct Washington, D.C. Saturday, 16 September Life could be so good. And then it just sucked. One day he was planning a trip out of the country to someplace warm, sunny and free of uniforms. And the next day he was up to his goddamn eyeballs in a case that stunk to high heaven. His officers were being pulled out from under him and he was still responsible for handling the ever-increasing caseload. The home front was faring no better. Ben and his partner had recently bought a home together. While their initial weeks sharing *their* space were somewhat bumpy, they rode it out well and had seemed to settle into their new way of life quite nicely. Then her 'other lover' had stopped by to check out her new digs. And Ben had nearly skewered the man with the fireplace poker, the very hot fireplace poker. She tried to explain that it was just a mix-up, but he wanted to hear none of it. He'd moved out the next morning. She'd offered to buy him out on his half of the house and he'd told her to 'just keep the damn thing'. His side business was doing well; he could afford some magnanimity. He moved himself into his old apartment above the garage at his parents' home. Private entrance or not, he knew he'd have to leave here fast. While he certainly loved his parents, living back (almost) under their roof did nothing for his sense of independence. It also necessitated having his 'guests' visit him at rather late or early, depending on your outlook, hours. And when the shit hit the fan, it hit big. Shortly after ensconcing himself in the small, but comfortable apartment, he'd received a phone call that sent shivers through him. Ben Stillman did not 'shiver', not even in the brutal winter cold, but this call had succeeded in producing that effect quite nicely. He'd recognized the voice immediately; the dark quality to the very demanding and exacting words, the clipped tone and the ever-present threatening undertow. Proteus. Greek God. Idiot, manipulator and...the man pulling the strings and calling the shots. Just like the ancient sea-god and the herdsman of Poseidon's seals, the real life Proteus also seemed to have the gift of prophecy and the ability to change his shape at will. Ben had never formally met the man/god and he wasn't all that sure he wanted to. There was sometimes safety in the mirage. He had learned that lesson well in his formative years in law enforcement. You couldn't be asked to testify on what you didn't know, couldn't identify he who you'd never seen. Given the stakes in his sideline business, Ben was just fine with the fact that Proteus had never 'requested Ben's appearance'. The only thing worse than the phone call would have been the command appearance. It had started out innocuously enough. A seemingly off-handed inquiry about his new address, a feigned compassionate word or two about the demise of his relationship and a not-so-casual casual question about how many new connections Ben had managed to recruit. When Proteus didn't get his answer quick enough, he'd reminded Ben about the nature of metamorphosis. Ben knew he should be worried; the boss didn't throw out big words to impress. However, he needed more to go on to quell his raging fear. What exactly did 'metamorphosis' have to do with Proteus? In a rare burst of knowledge thirst, Ben had done a bit of research on Proteus and learned that he was supposedly capable of changing his shape, metamorphasizing. Now, Ben wasn't sure he believed any of it. Gods were mythical characters and no one he knew of could changes shapes. But, when he applied a little bit of 'outside the box' thinking, he conjectured that Proteus could take on any identity. And he, the lowly D.C. connection, might never know who he was dealing with. Not good. Not good at all. Ben's day actually made a turn for the better when it appeared that the big boss wasn't going to hold him accountable or chastise him for his lack of new recruits. Instead, Proteus explained that he and Bishop had someone new in town and the man held promise, if he passed his initiation phase. A long breath he hadn't realized he was holding was released in a loud whoosh. But he also knew he was not necessarily off the hook. He was told he had 48 hours to produce one more connection in the penal system. Ben hung up, noticing he suddenly had a raging headache. *^*^*^*^*^ Pine Street Boardinghouse Sunday, 17 September 5:00AM It was a truly rare and glorious feeling, sleeping in with nothing pressing awaiting him. Mulder tried to burrow deeper into pillow and blankets, but the distinct draft was making it impossible. It wouldn't have been a problem had he slept on the couch as he was usually wont to do, but that wouldn't work here. The smaller five-foot, two-seater would not adequately accommodate his six-foot frame for an entire night. He realized with a start that the blanket and top sheet were intertwined between his legs, exposing the skin on his thighs and his boxer-briefed butt to the chill in the building. Without lifting his face from the cushion beneath it, he reached down and back, hoping to snag the blanket and sheet with minimal effort. To no avail. His long slender feet did their best to sort out the bedding from the body, but were still as asleep as their owner and therefore, having no luck. Laying half on his right hip, his left leg now bent at the knee, he shoved one arm under the pillow. As comfortable as he was, the chill in the room stole the extra shut-eye he craved. A sigh of frustration escaping him, he pushed himself up and reached forward and down, untangling the cotton from around his ankles and calves. Satisfied, he pulled the covering up and over his shoulders as he plopped back down on his stomach, left leg bent once again. His hips shifted beneath him, moving to the images forming in his early dawn sleep fogged mind. He could feel the curtain of her hair on the side of his face, just teasing, lightly tickling, and tempting. His lashes sweeping his cheek, a small smile flitted across his lips. She was pealing the blankets back with excruciating slowness, one small warm hand applying pressure to his shoulder, indicating that he shouldn't turn over. He wanted to turn over. Needed to capture her to him. Wanted to sear her flesh with his. Squirming and shifting, his hips lifting and settling back into the semi-softness of the mattress below him, the images reeled forward although this was not a movie he'd recently seen. She readjusts her weight as her thighs frame his hips forcing him to lie prone, his legs together between and beneath her smaller limbs. He is aware that she isn't wearing any clothing and can feel every molecule of her firmly on his backside. His dream self swiftly reaches back, one hand grabbing her thigh as he twists and flips himself onto his back. She is now straddling him where he most wants her to be and he... ...is torn away from his soon-to-be connection with the woman he loved and had spent much too little time with of late. The shrill sound of his cellphone roused him from what he thought was reality. The insistent chirping was enough to jolt his sleep and lust-filled reverie as he palmed his pillow followed by the nightstand -- coming up empty. Attempting to shake off some of his cotton filled head; he was all arms and legs, trying to unsuccessfully extricate himself from the blankets that seemed destined to remain entwined between his ankles and calves. Giving one last kick with his heel, he rolled onto his back, his arm out-stretched. It made contact wit the other nightstand -- and his cellphone. As he flipped it open, he slid himself up to a seated position, wincing at the cold wrought iron headboard against his bare-skinned back. "Mulder" His voice would need some work if he was going to be required to actually carry on a conversation. The scowl on Mulder's face would have singed the rest of the little man's remaining hair. "You wanna play tourist, get yourself--" At the rate the conversation was proceeding, it would take at least an hour for either of them to get a full sentence out. Mulder took the opportunity to get more comfortable. Although the sleep visions had been pure imagination, the physical sensations had been pure reality. Making a few minor adjustments, he settled his butt firmly up against the pillows, adding a third between his back and the spindles of the headboard. "So you thought you'd get me up?" Not missing a beat, Frohike continued, Running his hand down his face in a futile attempt to stifle some of his frustration, Mulder let out an exasperated sigh, willing the height-challenged Gunman to continue. And he didn't disappoint. He stopped suddenly wondering if his friend was still listening or had questions. When no response was forthcoming, he plunged on. Pausing again, he thought he detected snoring. Sitting up wasn't working. With no meetings scheduled, his job not beginning until tomorrow morning and no pressing plans, all Mulder wanted to do was become one with his bed and his ScullyVisions. While he meant well, Frohike was only succeeding in interrupting a few moments of blissful content. Now, what would make the moments even more blissful would be Scully here in the flesh. Preferable her warm, supple, naked flesh. Laying beneath him, her small, exploring, adventurous fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers or across the front of them or... Snapped yet again into the present, Mulder's patience was wearing extremely thin. But he knew that he'd been called as he'd requested. Still... "You were saying? Something about a 'back door'? Skip the technology talk and tell me if this means she's alive." He was moving now; all thoughts of further musing pushed aside reluctantly. Undercover work by its nature was difficult due to the secrecy shrouding the operative's activities, but at this point in time it was competing with his need to continue moving his relationship with his partner forward again. Work was definitely cramping his style. "Fro?" One syllable that carried enough weight to move Melvin along. Mulder allowed a small smile to play across his lips at the man's obvious enthusiasm. "But what does it do exactly? And is she alive?" Mulder pushed the 'on' button for the small coffee maker and grabbed a large mug out of the overhead cabinet, setting it down on the porcelain countertop. Frohike was on a tangent about the 'delectable Agent Scully' as he bent over to open the half-size refrigerator. He sighed disgustedly as he realized the milk carton was empty. Realizing he had no one to blame for the lack of coffee lightener, he tossed the wax-covered container in the trash step can. "You're doing it again, little man. Can we make this marathon more of a sprint to the finish line?" The coffee percolated and gurgled as Mulder eyed it impatiently. Starting to feel the chill in his small apartment, he reached for his Knicks tee and walked toward the street-side window, his one view on life outside the boardinghouse. A few street lamps stood sentinel in the still blackness of very early morning. Knowing somehow that the one-sided conversation would still be in progress, he didn't bother to tell Frohike to hold on while he put the phone down to throw his shirt over his head. When he put the phone back to his ear, his assumption had been correct; the conversation had continued in his absence. "Where else would I be?" Mulder had to laugh. As exasperating as his trio of unlikely friends could be, they meant well. Overzealous, yes, quirky, definitely, but also one hundred percent willing to uncover a conspiracy with him with just one word. So, he figured he should be able to deal with Frohike's sometimes odd style of delivering information. Mulder moved away from the window as the first dove gray light appeared in the sky. An overcast day seemed suited for his thoughts, he ruminated--he had the answer he'd been seeking, but did he want that answer? It only unraveled more threads, threatening to fray the gossamer strands of the intricate pattern of his newly re-woven relationship. Once Scully knew... He really didn't want to go down that road. She already knew he was looking, but they'd never really discussed the issue since he had blurted it out so casually at the Deli. It had not gone well then and would probably be worse now. He had tried to convince her that he wanted to ensure that they would not be bothered by Diana again, but now what? He honestly wasn't sure whether he wished her dead or alive. While it wasn't in his nature to truly think ill of anyone, he could think of a few people he'd occasionally wished were 'elsewhere'. After all they'd been through because of this woman, he had truly considered just how much better life could be for them without the prospect of her in it. Life had just become much more complicated. ^*^*^*^*^ The Radisson Hotel Battery Street Burlington, Vermont Sunday, 17 September 8:00AM Her titian hair covered the cream-colored satin pillowcase in a swirl of muted flame, making any connection between the usually well-coifed Agent and the just awakening woman a mysterious enigma. Turning her face to one side, one eyelid opened slowly, taking in the muted light through the venetian blinds and heavy brocade window treatments. The comforter was tugged up a bit higher under her chin as she rolled onto her back and pushed her hair from her face. She stared at the ceiling, debating whether to get out of bed...or roll back over for another hour of uninterrupted slumber. The shroud of the early morning silence was comforting and absolute. A faint pattering of rain against the double thick glass of the floor to ceiling windows provided the only sound other than the hum of the older style clock radio that sat on the small table to the right of the bed. Stretching out her 5'2" frame, she luxuriated in the vastness of the king-size bed. At least three other bodies would fit easily. But the one body she didn't even realize her mind had already settled on was her partner's. How long had it been since she'd known the feeling of his very hot early morning skin against hers, threatening to set off major fire alarms? Or the sound of his muffled and gravelly voice in her ear and the feel of his not quite yet firm lips against her ear as he muttered, 'morning, sunshine'? Or the way his arm would come down over the blankets, only serving to draw them completely off her when he rolled away from her like a huge redwood log? Although the room was cool at this hour, she felt a decided flush on her chest and neck as she recalled some of the other things about sleeping with Mulder that she'd been missing. Still... The ache was enough to drive her to distraction... But not the cellular kind. Giving up her prized spot in the middle of her king-sized island, Scully rolled toward the phone, lying once again on her back. "Hello?" Empty air space greeted her for what seemed like so long that she had already rolled back toward the table to replace the phone. That voice. Just a little bit too awake and alert for her earlier musings, but smile evoking nonetheless. "Usually, Mulder, when you call someone and they answer with 'hello', you reply in a timely fashion. Weren't you ever taught any phone manners?" She tried unsuccessfully to keep the slightly amused tone from her voice. "Merely giving you a refresher course in the basics, partner." She snuggled down into the blankets a little more, letting the sound of his words settle into all her nooks and crannies. A full wattage smile was forming on her entire face; god she'd missed him so. "It's Sunday, Mulder, school's not in session. Unless you're doing some remedial work?" She enjoyed tossing the innuendo back at him, felt especially safe doing so with the physical distance between them because, in all honesty, she wasn't quite sure exactly how far she'd let things progress face to face. Although, remembering back a mere two days ago, she knew that if either one of them had shown just a little less restraint, she would have found herself riding him on the late night/early morning dewy grass, the movements of her thighs against his sides driving his firm ass into the ground, covering him in green stains that would be very hard to explain. A highly intensified and extremely warm flush covered her cheeks in response to the picture her mind created. "You, Agent Mulder, would need rather lengthy schooling, so I'd probably have to recommend you to a long-term program. Unfortunately, I won't be here much longer." She reached for the blanket and top sheet, attempting to toss them back as she moved toward the edge of the mattress. The slip and slide of her silk nightshirt against the satin of the sheets made rising from the warm cocoon just a little difficult and she was sure Mulder could hear her small grunts of exertion. And she was right. She laughed as she finally managed to sit up, tugging the shirt down over her thighs. "Mulder, I was just getting out of bed. Now, as for me leaving, my conference is just about over. I have to go back to Quantico." She dragged the base set along with her as she padded over to the coffee maker, jabbing a finger at the 'on' button. He still had not responded to her statement about heading back to D.C. and she found herself wishing that she would be able to stay and work on his case with him. Her thought only served to remind her that she had no idea what it was that he was working on and that he wouldn't be able to share it with her. Maybe it would be better if she were back in D.C.; it would be much too hard to be in the same city and not be able to be with each other. And she knew that wasn't true, either. But she'd have no reason to remain here if she weren't also assigned to his case. He hoped she didn't hear the sadness in his voice, the wish that they could spend even a little more time together. How far they'd both come together and apart and back together...only to be split again. But, wasn't that the story of their years together already? Why would now be any different? @@@@9 Mulder found himself longing for a few uncluttered days without undercover work, conferences, truth searches. A few days with nothing but him and the one woman he cared more for than his next breath. However, knowing that was not about to happen, he adapted. He was nothing if not clever and resourceful. Before she could answer, he suggested they spend the day together out of town. The sound of running water from his bathroom sink nearly obliterated her gasp of surprise. She tried to remind him that they couldn't be seen together, that his cover was at stake and that besides all that, she had plans for the day. Shutting off the taps and drying his hands clumsily as he tried to juggle the small cellphone, he was surprised. "How would you know the itinerary for the conference, Mulder?" As soon as the words left her mouth, she stopped. When would she learn that along with being a highly trained Agent, her partner had a natural curiosity that knew no bounds. Once he set his mind on the quest for answers, there was little that would stop him. That both pleased and infuriated her. "It is a free day, but I have other plans." She could hear the shower running and the sound of the plastic curtain being pushed aside, the metal rings over the curtain bar scraping loudly into the phone. "No, Mulder you won't." Was he going to take the phone into the shower, she wondered. "Mulder, I'm hanging up now so you can take your shower and I can take mine." "Good-bye, Mulder." She smiled as she replaced the handset and deposited the phone onto the large desk. *^*^*^*^*^ City of Burlington, Vermont Sunday, 17 September "Pick up the damn phone." Proteus was not known for his patience choosing instead to win popularity awards in the area of 'quick temper; long, slow burn'. He was just about to slam the phone down, grab his car keys and head out when his call was connected. "Look, you self-important toad, I'd have thought you'd have learned by now what happens to soldiers who mess up boot camp." His wrath barely contained, he paused for all of about ten seconds, hoping that Bishop said the proper words. He really hated to lose his newest recruit, but he also had standards to uphold. God, he hated the stupid fucking ritual, but knew that Proteus demanded it. Hell, he'd been in the service and understood the concept of group discipline and obedience to one master, but Proteus really pushed it sometimes. However, he'd discovered just how much this job meant to him and his lifestyle. He'd put up with a little ridiculous protocol from a man too big for his britches. "Very good, Bishop. I've looked at your field notes from your meeting with Chris Arsenault; went well, I'd say. I need some of your men to pay a little visit to a friend of his today. This visit should be cordial, but not overly so, just show the friend some 'attention'. And Bishop?" The short round man detested it most when Proteus became didactic. Sure, he did have a lot to learn, but he wasn't in fuckin' grade school; hell, he had his high school diploma and was one of those renaissance men. He had street smarts; his buddies told him that. However, he knew he'd never get to the assignment until he followed the script. "Much better, Bishop, much better. Just remember how well I treat those who perform well. Just remember to make sure that Mr. Arsenault is made aware of the 'attention' you show his friend." Usually at this point, Bishop knew that it was all right to simply disconnect the call. There was nothing more he needed to say. He was only too happy to end this conversation. He had plans to make. He enjoyed his career immensely. *^*^* "Okay, I'll meet you in the lobby in an hour. Yes, I have an umbrella. Is it supposed to rain all day? I haven't listened to the reports -- ok, yeah, casual. Got it." Scully finished towel drying her hair and headed back into the bathroom. Catching her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, she smiled wistfully. She didn't remember consciously choosing the powder blue satin bra and French-cut panties set when she had packed for the conference. She hadn't been much in the mood to make those choices. She had been throwing and tossing clothing, taking out her alternating anger at Mulder and self-disappointment on her trip preparations. She'd wanted to get as far away from him as she could, but her thoughts had been a hodge-podge, making her question exactly what she was 'getting away from'. By the time she'd been ready to leave, they'd already worked through some major obstacles; she'd put to rest some of her original fears. But she hadn't truly been able to forget. Distance was supposed to provide clarity. And her packing had provided very little in the way of beginning that... Snapping out of her daydream, she ran her hands over what little there was of the high-cut panties and grabbed her blow dryer. She turned toward the mirror behind the sink and directed the warm air over her hair, scrunching her damp locks having decided to leave it unstyled. Setting the dryer down, once again her eyes were drawn to the powder blue. Remembering the look on his face when he'd arrived with her 'surprise'. Back in very early June, before Diana had dared to upset the delicate balance of their relationship when even after five or six months everything felt very new and everything was very comfortable; yet very charged. He'd shown up straight from the airport after being out of town for a family legal matter. She'd been unable to join him due to a forensics consult. Being apart for three days had left her needy and wanting and he hadn't even called to say he'd landed. She'd wanted to meet his flight. Instead he'd made her very nearly jump out of her skin when he showed up at her door. Although they'd already had each other's keys, they still tended to knock on occasion, old habits dying hard. She'd rolled up the sleeves on one of his old oxford button downs that she'd also tied at the waist, baring her midriff just over her lightweight cotton sweats. She'd decided that a little cleaning might take care of her surge in adrenaline. She'd backhanded the hair from her face that had fallen from the comb clip as she opened the door. His lazy slow smile had lit up his face, producing the same effect on hers; she'd been able to feel it happening. She'd been able to tell right then and there that he'd missed her as much, maybe more, than she'd missed him. Oh, he'd told her each and every time he'd called her or she'd called him, but it was his eyes that *really* conveyed his message. Her first impulse had been to wrap her arms, heck; herself, around him and kiss him until their lips were bruised. However, when she'd attempted to do so, he'd gently taken her arm and placed it by her side, kissing the top of her head almost reverently. It was apparent that holding back had cost him, too. She'd tilted her head to one side, scrutinizing him, trying to figure out what was up his sleeve. And then she'd noticed his almost totally bare and very tanned arms in his olive drab short-sleeved polo and how it bunched a little at the waist of his Levis. He'd motioned her over to her couch, the curiosity level in her sending the meter reading off the scale. She'd plopped down, trying to crowd him, succeeding only in eliciting a chuckle and admonishment to 'be patient' from him. She'd wanted to, no, had to, see what he seemed to holding out of her line of vision. Rising onto her knees and attempting to pull him forward, she'd reached behind him. Although she'd had the better leverage, he'd caught her off-guard, pushing her backwards onto her butt. The small, pastel green bag with the silver handles and foiled lettering had been dangled in front of her, just out of her reach. She'd crossed her arms and given him her very best Scully glare until he had placed the parcel between her legs and asked her to open it. One part of her had wanted to put him off for taunting her, but the other part wanted nothing more than to rip the sparkling tissue paper from the bag and find her present. The other part had won and she was holding the powder blue satin bra and French-cut panties set, her lips parted in the most perfect little 'o'. Mulder had taken her gently by the shoulders, drawing her close and planted a warm, slow kiss to the tip of her nose and then to her lips. He'd whispered that she should model the set for him. And she'd only needed to be asked once. He'd waited impatiently; it had been much too long as far as he'd been concerned. But the wait had been worth every minute. She'd shaken out her hair and ditched the sandals. The high cut legs of the panties teasingly bared her to him and caressed her curves like a smooth second skin. The spaghetti straps of the low-cut bra insisted on falling from her shoulders…and she hadn't bothered pushing them back into place. He'd asked her to turn around and then had amended, 'slowly; very slowly, please'. And she'd complied, but she'd only made a quarter turn before he'd come up behind her. The pastel green silver handled bag and the powder blue French-cut panties and bra set had ended up on the couch. Mulder and she had ended up on the rug. She realized she was still standing at the sink…and that she was suddenly feeling very warm. She turned on the tap and splashed some tepid water on her face. Turning around to reach for a towel, she ended up facing the mirrored wall once again, the wall that had started her daydream, and once again found her picturing Mulder as he'd been that June afternoon. 'Daydream June Mulder' is suddenly in the bathroom with her and her eyes flutter closed as she imagines his hands on her. His hands on her satin covered ass, rubbing and sliding up and down creating a sensuous friction against her skin, creating a warmth deep inside her. His mouth seeking hers, tasting like something she wants to devour. Her hands tugging his olive drab polo out of his Levis and snaking up under the shirt, having no time to remove it. Because that would mean she couldn't touch him for a few moments. And that wouldn't be acceptable. The barely there straps on her bra falling from her shoulders as his hands somehow find their way underneath the elastic at the waist of her panties and push them down far enough until the fabric just falls to her ankles. Stepping out of them, she reaches for him, but he turns her back to the reflecting glass wall. Her hands find their way to his neck and for mere seconds, his hands leave her to unbutton his fly and then his bare feet step out of his jeans and boxers. She attempts to take him in her hand, but he pushes her hand away as he widens his stance, his feet framing hers. She barely registers that he is wide-stepping her backward into the wall until her bare ass is pressed into the mirror. She gasps and then she sighs even though she's feeling anything but bored. She can see the firm flesh of his behind in the mirror over the sink; just the part that the tails of the polo do not cover as it lies on his hips. She feels his arousal as he leans into her, one knee between her legs, parting them. Somehow, her hands are over her head, pinned to the mirror by his hand and his knee moves upward until she is moving her hips, making a very solid and rather wet connection with him. He frees her hands because he needs to feel her touch as much as she wants to touch him. She smiles as they suddenly become all arms and legs and he grabs her by the waist, hard, lifting her, bringing her powder blue satin covered chest almost close enough to taste. Of their own volition, her legs wrap around his hips and then climb up to his waist, her bare feet settling quite naturally against his backside. The view in the mirror behind him ratchets her arousal up yet another notch. As he nestles into her, his muscles clenching, she gasps, her fingers clutching at the neckline of his polo. Her head falls back against the glass as his hardness slides home, driving her up and then settling back down for the briefest moment. Her heels continue to guide him to her each time he moves away and she is wiping the mirror with her sweat against her skin. And… And then the room phone rudely dropped her back into a Mulderless bathroom with twenty minutes to get ready. *^*^* Washington, D.C. Sunday, 17 September Mid-afternoon He didn't want to place the call, but he'd rather call than have to make the trip. He was dreading it, but he'd gotten the 'request' and 'request' translated to 'command performance'. So, he was off to Vermont for a meeting with Proteus and the other members. In the meantime, Bishop needed some information. Bishop… his brother, his family, yeah, right. His brother had stopped being family when he'd become his boss. Ben chafed at the restraints of their new relationship, but had little choice if he wanted to continue his current career. He'd been given a lengthy list of area contacts, fellow law enforcement and prison guards who were also entrenched in the mid-Atlantic and northeastern corridor. His instructions were simple; call everyone and coordinate the information flow and possible travel plans. And he hated every blessed minute of it. It wasn’t so much that he was above doing grunt work. He'd done his share, though, and had finally made it to a position of some stature with the local P.D. However, in Proteus' organization, he was literally at the lower rungs. Therefore, he drew the dregs of assignments. The final call was to his northern New England connection. The 'good-looking' brother. Funny how that name was applied to one and not the other when their looks were identical. Identical twins at birth, no one would ever accuse them of a resemblance now. Bishop had told him he'd use his earnings to change his previously bleak existence. He had. He'd cosmetically changed his entire appearance with enhancements that defied belief. Ben had been jealous of a few of the more esoteric augmentations. The most obvious being that which seemed to charm the undergarments off most women who got in his way. If older brother Ben (he *had* been born a full two minutes earlier) had his way, younger brother Bishop would never get to use that particular enhancement again. *^*^*^*^*^