*^*^*
Radisson Hotel
Dana Scully's Room

"Mulder, you don't have to come upstairs, I can make it just fine 
on my own."

"Are you telling me you don't want me to come up? You could 
probably use some help. You've got to be sore."

He'd almost forgotten to tip the doorman, but managed to press a 
five into the man's palm just before they walked through the 
revolving doors. His hand on her shoulder, he moved in behind 
Scully in the same enclosure, making their process through the 
turning glass panels not a little difficult. "You know, Mulder, 
there were plenty of free spaces, you didn't have to push into 
mine."

"You know me, Scully, I like to crowd your space."  He really 
could be infuriating sometimes.

As she exited the door, he nearly tripped over her; instead he 
managed to only stumble against her before righting himself.

"Walk much, Mulder?" She muttered under breath as she headed for 
the elevators, hiding a grimace at the dull ache his jostling had 
caused. She had no desire to let him see the effect he'd had 
knowing full well that he'd want to somehow try to make it better, 
fuss over her. Right now, all she wanted to do was forget the whole 
situation had taken place.

He depressed the '6' button and then leaned back against the wall 
between the elevator doors, arms crossed in front of him. 

"It was the sheer excitement of being in your presence. You knock 
me off my feet sometimes."  

The smirk truly needed to be wiped from his face, but to do that; 
she'd have to touch him. And right now, she hadn't even wanted him 
to come upstairs with her, let alone touch him. And she didn't 
know why.

The 'ping' of the arriving car came from farthest to her left. 
With the outpouring of guests, Scully somehow managed to make it 
inside without realizing that Mulder had not made it behind her. 
When the doors slid closed and she was surrounded by others, she 
searched for him. Outside the now-rising elevator, Mulder cursed 
under his breath and then once again pressed the 'up' button.

Reaching her floor, Scully stepped out and headed down the hall, 
following the tapestry border of the carpet as it wound its way 
around the corner. She stopped abruptly when she saw Mulder leaning 
against her door waiting for her. His self-satisfied grin made her 
laugh as she shook her head. 

"Pretty amazing, huh, Scully?"

"What, the fact that you took a car that didn't stop at every 
floor on the way up?"

He leaned in close as she fumbled with the key card and whispered, 
"Where's the fun loving Dana Scully I used to know?"

Pushing his face away from her, she swung the door open and 
shrugged out of her jacket, remembering to do so carefully. Without 
waiting to see where he landed, she lowered herself into the club 
chair by the window and kicked her shoes off, propping her feet up 
on the matching ottoman. She let her head fall back and stretched 
her arms out on the chair.  The dull throbbing that was now taking 
up residence behind her eyes begged for sleep, a few blissful 
moments, but that was not to be.
 
She looked up when she heard Mulder talking to room service. It was 
nearly one o'clock and she realized she was starving. The 
hospital's scrambled eggs and toast wedges had not satisfied her 
hunger and had tasted just this side of cardboardish.  She listened 
as he ordered her a chef's salad, root beer and some plain yogurt 
with fresh cut fruit. Sometimes the man just knew the right thing 
to do.

And then he ordered himself a rare roastbeef sandwich, steak fries 
and an iced tea. Not bad for a Mulder Meal, she mused.

He dragged over a chair from the work area and turned it so the 
back faced her. His long limbs straddling the seat and back, he 
sat with his chin resting on his arms perched on the chair back. 
"Wanna tell me what happened yesterday?" His query was spoken in 
a soft tone, but was direct and told her he needed to know. She 
wasn't so sure she wanted to talk about it. 

She lifted her head from the cushion.  For some reason, she was 
ashamed and embarrassed about the fact that she'd let herself be 
abducted from a rather public area in the middle of the day. And 
that seemed to be the root of why she hadn't told him anything up 
to this point. Her rational mind knew that she'd been clearly 
outnumbered. Although she'd sensed rather quickly that their intent 
had not been to do lasting harm, it was also clear that at least 
one of them had been enjoying himself immensely. Her training and 
prior experiences told her that had she caused more difficulty for 
them, this man may have gotten carried away. She inwardly winced 
at what he'd done while behaving according to the plan she knew 
they'd had. An injury of another kind…one she willed from her mind.

"I guess you deserve to know, Mulder, but I don't feel much like 
talking about it." She sat up and looked out the window, letting 
her eyes focus on the water. It was a glorious day and she found 
herself wishing she could be out on the water doing absolutely 
nothing. She turned back toward him and explained how the men had 
come up to her, surrounding her. How no one, really, had paid them 
much attention. And then she stopped talking, turning once again 
to the window.

She never saw the look on his face as he noticed her sharp 
inhalation as she sat up. Worry lines creased his forehead, but he 
resisted the urge to assist her, knowing it would be met with 
irritation. And she never heard him get up, but most definitely 
noticed when he sat on the ottoman and placed her feet in his lap. 

"Scully." God how she loved the way he said her name. It commanded 
her attention in a way no one or nothing else really ever did. And 
he had the ability to convey a range of meaning and emotion in 
that one word.

His thumbs massaged the area under her toes with a pressure firm 
enough to ward off the giggles he knew threatened. She was ticklish 
and he'd stored that fact away for future use. But as much as he 
loved her laughter, this was about relaxation. She was wound 
tighter than a drum and was having a hard time talking about what 
had happened. He aimed to change that for her.

"You're hurting, in pain, aren't you?" His tone matched the 
massaging quality of his hands on her feet, but she could hear 
the concern.

Attempting to ignore his query, she sank a little lower in the 
cushions, a sigh escaping her lips. "You expect me to talk while 
you do that?"

"I expect you to relax and to answer my question." His persistence 
made her squirm. It was warring with the pleasurable feeling of his 
warm hands on her tired feet. The points he was touching were doing 
rather wonderful things to her entire body. His questions were 
having the opposite effect.

"Mulder, you heard the doctor on call say I could be released. He 
wouldn't have--" She knew her answer sounded lame, even without 
seeing the amused and somewhat frustrated look on her partner's 
face.

The massaging motion at a standstill, he held her feet in one hand 
and leaned forward to rest the other on the seat cushion, causing 
her to bend her knees to accommodate his upper body. 

"All I'm asking is if you're in any pain, but if you're not going 
to answer me, just promise you'll tell me if you need any pain 
medication. I really don't know what the problem is with admitting 
that your cracked ribs and bruised face might be sore. We humans, 
Scully, are allowed to experience pain that is the result of injury 
and to have some sympathy."

She tried, but was unsuccessful in pulling her legs away from him. 
As he continued to speak and lean forward, he unintentionally 
pulled her feet closer to him…to his lap. She tried not to breathe, 
feeling each small movement of her feet as they began to massage 
him. If she wasn't mistaken, his body was reacting to the pressure 
of her feet.

"Mulder, just let me go. I think Room Service is here, anyway." He 
looked toward the door, but only called out, 'come in'. Noticing 
the look in her eyes, he released her feet and watched as she 
quickly placed them on the floor.

He shook his head in resignation. Getting Scully to admit to being 
in pain probably wouldn’t happen unless she was delirious. Glancing 
at her, he got up and opened the door, ushering inside the 
delivery of their lunch.

They munched in silent comfort, both trying, but not succeeding in 
looking like they weren't ravenous. Sitting across the table from 
each other, they were able to momentarily suspend reality and focus 
in on one almost ordinary moment. Having finished his sandwich and 
most of his fries, Mulder nabbed a strip of ham from Scully's 
salad. She playfully swatted his hand away, reminding him that he 
wanted her to get her strength back. He smiled as he snagged the 
deli meat anyway. When both seemed to have eaten all they could 
manage, Mulder tried to steer the conversation back to her 
abduction.

"Scully, take your time and tell me what the men looked like." His 
voice was soothing, wrapping around her like a downy quilt.

Sitting up straighter in the ladder-back chair, she described the 
four men and the one who seemed to be the group's leader. Although 
she had been lulled by his voice, she immediately felt the change 
upon mentioning the group's leader. Mulder gripped the edge of the 
table, turning his knuckles white.

He looked…intense and it frightened her. "Mulder? What did I say?"

"It's probably nothing, it just sounded like someone I thought I 
recognized..." He sat back, releasing his death grip on the table. 
He was biting back what he wanted to say and she was going to make 
sure she found out what it was.

"Out with it, Mulder."

What to do… He was more sure than ever that her abduction was 
intended to make him, well, make Chris Arsenault, sit up and take 
notice, know just how powerful the group was. The man she described 
was the man he was supposed to meet with at the Metronome Club 
several nights ago.
 
*^*^*
Home of Kimberley Kresge
Monday, 17 September
Mid-Afternoon

"Ok, thank you, yes, I appreciate it."  Kimberley turned to Bryan 
perched on the edge of the oak stool at the breakfast bar and 
almost had to laugh at the expression on his face. Had she not 
been on the cordless phone, she was sure he would have been leaning 
against the phone trying to hear the other side of the conversation.

"She's ok and has been released. Her partner took her back to the 
hotel. She did take quite a beating though from the sounds of it." 
She sat on the stool across from him after setting the phone down 
on the counter behind her.

"How did you get all that out of the hospital? You're not family--" 
Bryan stopped when he saw the tilt of her head and the funny, 
'think about it Bryan' smile on her face. Of course, she was 
working with the local law enforcement now and Dana was a family 
friend.

"You know, the whole thing is a bit fishy and I'm wondering if it's 
connected to whatever her partner's working on. What really 
surprises me is just how effective they were in getting her out of 
the Market Place. Dana's never been one to let others take control 
and it seems as if it was done in broad daylight in a very public 
location.  This sounds very well-organized to me." She was pacing 
now, having slid from the stool and Bryan watched her for a few 
moments, knowing this was how she did some of her best puzzling.

"*How* organized?" He joined her, his hand on her arm. Ever since 
they'd been together, he'd grown more used to, although never 
comfortable with, her dealings with the seamier side of life.

"Well, from what my sources tell me, there's a new 'element' in the 
city. But, you know that much, otherwise I wouldn't have been asked 
in. What I don't yet know is if this is simply an organized crime 
ring with a general focus or one of the newer groups I'd done some 
research on prior to leaving home. I intend to find out, especially 
if they've somehow involved Dana. I'd also like to talk to her 
partner, Mulder. And--" She stopped when she ran into Bryan's lips. 
She had to admit, he had a way of reminding her that all work and 
no play made her day dull and his even duller.

*^*^*
Radisson Hotel
Burlington, Vermont
Monday, 17 September
4:00PM

Barely slowing at Exit 14, the Jetta careened to the stop light 
at the end of the ramp. She quickly glanced at the directional 
signs, trying to decide where to go. She knew now without 
hesitation, that Burlington was where she belonged, knew beyond a 
shadow of a doubt that she would find him here. Hoped she'd also 
find her here, too.  She couldn't remember how she knew this 
information; oftentimes, now, she would feel perfectly lucid, going 
about her business as necessary, performing with exacting precision 
and well-thought out skill and cunning, but would have absolutely 
no way to retrace her steps to that point.  No matter, she was 
enjoying life much more since the summer.

The green signs with the white outlines of the State of Vermont 
seal and state icon indicated the route. Next to it was the 
familiar blue signage indicated 'food, fuel, lodging' with the 
appropriate national symbols. A smaller sign with the red flourish 
design indicated the new Radisson Hotel on the shores of Lake 
Champlain. She turned right into the heavy rush-hour traffic. As 
Williston Road became Main and then Battery Streets, the merging 
vehicles slowed her progress toward the all-glass facade of the 
recently renovated facility. She could make out the brilliant 
reflection as the waning sun shone on the windowed walls of the 
six sprawling floors. The Lake views and the proximity to the 
upscale Church Street Marketplace drew her like a moth to a flame.

She rounded the semi-circular entryway, slowing by the valet stand. 
Smiling at her reflection in the overhead vanity mirror, she 
fluffed her hair and checked her make-up prior to grabbing her 
bag. The doorman extended a hand to her as she alighted, her short 
suede skirt giving him quite the view of her long shapely legs.

She walked to the trunk, tossing her shoulder length hair over her 
shoulders, her head held high.  Looking around her, she breathed 
in deeply, feeling totally at home amidst the glitz and glamour, 
such as it was in New England, and smiled. Her Luis Vuitton luggage 
was carefully placed on the brass trolley and she tossed the valet 
captain her key ring with a flourish.

Yes, the universe was aligning just perfectly.

Tugging the matching suede cropped jacket into place over her silk 
tank, she approached the check-in desk and requested their finest 
suite. To say that she was nonplussed when the clerk quietly told 
her they were no room available was putting it mildly. The sound 
of her manicured nails tapping the marble counter was the initial 
sign of her frustration.  And she implored the clerk to check the 
availability once again.  The woman tried to explain that since 
there was a major conference in town and it was peak foliage 
season, rooms had been booked for months.  The explanation only 
seemed to further anger the would-be guest.

She placed her leather clutch on the counter and leaned in closer 
to the clerk, her crimson stained lips forming a rather strained 
smile.  Through the smiling lips, she spoke as one does to a small, 
recalcitrant child, demanding that the clerk carefully re-check 
and procure her accommodations.  At that moment, the shift manager 
appeared from the back room, having been discreetly summoned via 
the button beneath the counter by the staff member. 

After assessing the situation and calling upon his best customer 
service training skills, he allowed the clerk to *find* an open 
suite. The manager disappeared, leaving his reservationist to 
complete the transaction.

"Your suite faces the lake, Miss, and is on our top floor. It 
appears we just had a cancellation I was unaware of."

Now in the mood to be more gracious, she smiled almost genuinely 
at the woman behind the counter and took the proffered pen to 
complete the registration materials.

"What conference is in town?" She never looked up nor paused with 
her writing as the woman told her it was the National Forensic 
Pathologists. But her eyes smiled at the possibilities.

After entering her credit card data, the clerk handed over the 
keycard and summoned the Bell Captain who in turn, directed one of 
his staff to accompany the guest to the 6th floor suites.

"Enjoy your stay, Ms. Fowley and welcome to Burlington." 

*^*^*
Dana Scully's Room
4:00PM

An impasse. One that she intended to move around. Now. Smiling 
inwardly, she mused how often he accused her of not being 
forthcoming with information and, more often, her feelings. Yet, 
here he was, mostly likely in possession of key information 
regarding her abductors and he was shutting her out. Thinking he 
had some responsibility no doubt. 

She was used to it; they performed this *dance* rather well. 
This time, she was leading.

"Out with it, Mulder," she repeated her earlier words. She moved 
over to the two-seater, her mid-section throbbing slightly from 
sitting upright during lunch. She knew he hadn't missed her attempt 
to grit back the outward sign of her discomfort as he moved quickly 
to her side, offering her his hand. She took it, but more to ease 
his conscience than for need of assistance.

Resigned. He knew that all points were leading toward including 
her, although a silent war still raged in his head. Knowing she'd 
rail against his attempts to shield and protect her. It was her 
work, too, only circumstances dictating that he handle this case 
on his own. It was not unheard of for either of them, although it 
was rare. They were a powerful and highly effective team.

And it had nothing to do with his need to 'follow orders'. He used 
that phrase only as it suited his purpose having learned long ago 
that sometimes he just knew better, best.  The 'suits' weren't in 
the field often enough to know what truly worked. While his partner 
was much more a 'by the book' person, at least at first, she had 
also found a style, a rhythm, that allowed her to accomplish that 
which needed doing without completely turning the higher-ups 
against her. As well as smoothing the way for him. He knew she'd 
placated and cajoled the powers that be, and disarmed not a few 
potentially explosive situations for him.

He owed her this much. Hell, he could use her assistance. But, even
more so, now that she'd been assaulted by the very men he was 
investigating, it would prove much more dangerous to keep her in 
the dark. Besides, he was well aware that her dogged determination 
would allow her to put the pieces together on her own. But…at what 
cost to her in the meantime? He had no doubt that she would tail 
him and conduct her own separate investigation if he dared to try 
and keep her in the dark.

They'd tried to leave her out before, a few years back. He'd been 
assigned to a deep cover case and although he'd argued to include 
her, Skinner had been adamant that she not be involved. Despite the 
orders, she'd insinuated herself when she'd jumped from the 
surveillance van to go after him in the park. From there, her 
suspicions of him in aiding and abetting a terrorist had grown, 
but, true to her trust in him, she'd been silent at the hearing; 
doubting, but not implicating him. Always true to their 
partnership. In the end, she'd been brought in, but it had seemed 
almost too late. No. He was going to take the chance knowing the 
benefits far outweighed the detractors.

When he attempted to pull her against him, she moved to the other 
armrest. She needed to hear what he had to say without distraction. 
And, as much as being wrapped in his arms was an attractive 
thought, especially since she was still feeling at odds with 
yesterday's incident, she needed her wits about her. Thankfully, 
he seemed to understand and gave her her space.

Before he had a chance to begin, she turned to him and stated 
quietly, "These men; they're part of your case. This is their way 
of sending you a message." No question in her mind, but needing to 
hear the confirmation.

The corners of his lips turned up ever-so-slightly. "That's what 
I suspect, yes."

She was hungry for more, wanted to help out in anyway she could. 
She didn't fool herself into believing that just because they 
hadn't followed through on their threat that they were harmless, 
but she suspected, she *knew* that he could use her help. By the 
look in his eyes, she could also tell that he was well aware that 
she was involved already whether he'd wanted her to be or not.

"So, where do we begin?"

He was on his feet now, moving to the windows, then back toward 
the door. As he began with his work on the Stillman case and how 
the Gunmen had confirmed his aroused suspicions, she smiled, 
careful not to let him see it. He was in his element here; his 
mostly monotone recitation of the facts with the occasional 
inflection for his own observations and commentary, the slideshow 
playing out in his head vividly described so that even she could 
see the case unreel. 

Her furrowed brow and arms folded across her chest told him that 
she was formulating questions, making her own connections. She 
remembered back to the Hapskah case for which she'd conducted the
 
autopsy, been surprised at the findings or rather, the confusion 
in the reports.

He brought her up to his visit to the Metronome Club that night, 
not having to explain how he'd missed his first meeting with the 
short round man. How he now guessed that man had been one of the 
abductors.  Hesitating, he stopped in front of her, biting on his 
lower lip, telling her silently what he had no need to voice -- 
there was a piece of information that was much more recent, 
something else he was considering withholding.

She stood at that point and took one hand in hers. "What is it?" 
Her tone was soft, but far from subtle. If she was going to be of 
any assistance, she needed his full disclosure.

His other hand grasped hers over his and she felt the warmth 
radiate throughout her body. God, how she'd missed him, them, this. 
A simple touch that could say so much more than their words.

"I'm sure the contact at the club saw you follow me out, talked to 
his boss. I met someone named Bishop in the park by the lake the 
day before you were attacked. I think--"

Before he could finish, she indicated that they should sit. Holding 
any one position right now, other than lying flat on her back, got 
to be uncomfortable.

"Look, Mulder, I'm sure I don't have to say this, but I will. You 
are not responsible for what happened to me by the lake. We risk 
our lives on our jobs daily and while we can sometimes watch each 
other's backs, we can't ensure each other's safety all the time. 
You know that. I know that. Besides, partner, you're already 
carrying around enough guilt for a lifetime for the two of us; you 
don't need any more and it won't change what happened."

"No, no it won't, but we have to stay ahead of this group. So, I 
need details. I need you to tell me exactly what happened. Don't 
leave out any little bit of information, no matter how 
insignificant it may seem." His look was earnest, although his 
tone was calm, level.

"You sound as if you're interviewing the victim, Mulder." Her look 
was weary once again as she played out the images from Sunday.

"Scully," he paused, hoping she'd not need any further words, but 
when her expression hadn't changed, he continued, "you *are* the 
victim."

Looking down momentarily, her teeth worrying her lower lip in much 
the way Mulder did when nervous or deep in thought, she coughed, 
sending a wash of fresh pain through her ribcage. Before he could 
move to her, she waved him off with her standard utterance, 
although she was sure he knew she was not truly 'fine'.  The pain 
subsided and she began.

Telling him of the agreement to split up and check-out different 
shops, her interest in the shoes in the window. His flip comment 
that ended with him referring to her as 'Imelda' brought a brief 
smile to her lips. She explained how she'd been about to enter the 
shop to try them on when the men had formed a suited wall around 
her.

"Describe them, Scully."

"I've done that for you once already."

"Well, humor me and do it again. What did they sound like, look 
like, colognes?"

Tucking her hair behind her ears, she sat upright, a look of 
confusion changing to sudden insight crossing her face.

"What is it? What did you remember?"

"Well, it's probably not much, but I'd swear they were all wearing 
the same scent, not an aftershave; this was much stronger, almost 
overpowering. It had a rather clean undertone to it, though, 
bracing, almost a slight eucalyptus. I remember trying to back away 
from them, and not just because I was sure their intentions 
weren't, shall we say, noble?" 

Her look registered surprise at her recollection. Damn! How did he 
do that? Manage to wrest things out of people they didn't even 
realize they knew? She knew it had to be his ability to put others 
at ease, make them comfortable around him almost instantly.

"That's how I knew! That's it, Mulder!" She barely registered his 
wide-eyed look as she continued in a rush of words. "I'd been 
having a strange feeling moments before they were around me. I 
couldn't explain it, but it got my hackles up."

It was too priceless for him to let go. "Your *hackles*, Scully? 
Explain that scientifically, please."

She nearly ignored him. Just 'nearly'…  "When the body perceives a 
threat, real or imagined, certain autonomic responses occur and--"

He waived her explanation away. "I was kidding, Scully, sheesh! 
Just continue." They both laughed, although she had to hold her 
arms around her to do so.  

"One of the men had a very gravelly voice, low, dark. When I, uh, 
started drawing too much attention to us, he kissed me. My guess 
was that he wanted to silence me. However, it did anything but." 
She looked at her partner and watched as he unconsciously licked 
his lips. Hmmm.

He nodded for her to continue.

"The blond, more burly man had a syringe, although they didn't use 
it at first. I guessed it would have merely sedated me had I put up 
more of a struggle. The man who seemed to be the group's leader, 
dark haired, ignominious bastard… may have been slightly injured, 
but nowhere they'd find evidence." She almost snickered, but the 
look receded as she recalled his hand touching her breast. Mulder 
merely watched, carefully keeping his hands from her, although he 
wanted to lend his physical presence.

"Did they talk about anything in particular, ask you any questions?"

"Actually, they seemed to think I knew a Mr. Chris Aresenault, that 
he was a friend of mine. They said we were 'chummy', they'd noticed 
at the Club. It's you, isn't it, Mulder?"

He glanced away and then back at her, not quite able to hold his 
guilt reserve from coloring his look. "It is." That was all he 
could manage, now knowing for sure that he'd been sent a powerful 
message about the men he was dealing with.

It was she who reached out to him, knowing he needed to feel her 
reassurance. A simple gesture, her hand on his, a smile, his name 
spoken softly.

She needed to finish, to move on. "From there, I remember very 
little. Mercifully, they did drug me, so the worst of their blows 
were blunted, diffused. I remember being held and slammed in the 
jaw."

He winced visibly and his fingers twined with hers squeezing almost 
impossibly hard.

"I saw one of the men draw back, but must have passed out before 
the blow to my ribs. Mulder, no more. Nothing else will help here."

His eyes smiled sadly. Looking directly into the depths of hazel, 
she gazed at him.  He patted the cushion next to him, silently 
asking her to join him, unsure of where to hold her without causing 
further pain. She slid over slowly and turned so that her back was 
positioned halfway against his chest. He ran his hand along her 
forehead, sweeping her hair from her face, and leaned down to kiss 
her there as she closed her eyes. "Sleep, Scully."

"Just give me a few." 

The rays of sun slanted in across the carpeting, lighting a path 
across the room as he continued to stroke her hair and lightly 
finger massage her scalp. 
 
*^*^*^*^*^
Across Town
Monday, 17 September
8:00PM

The room had been set up like a fall-out shelter, as if they would 
be ensconced there for a long time to come.  The heavy brocade 
drapes were drawn tight against the night sky and the ceiling track 
lighting and smaller halogen table lamps were lit. Sixteen black 
leather chairs surrounded the mahogany inlaid oval table, each 
place sporting a leather blotter, portfolio and pen. Chilled silver 
pitchers of ice water were spaced sporadically, the cut crystal 
stemware standing guard in a bisecting line lengthwise down the 
table. On the sideboard, whole fruits, deli platters and desserts 
lay ready to fuel the group soon to be arriving.

The boss took care of those who took care of him. He demanded 
perfection and usually got it. Those that were either unwilling or 
unable to meet his expectations found themselves disowned, 
disenfranchised and just totally down on their luck…for life.

Each of the men arrived, entering the room in carefully assigned 
pairs. Some said of Proteus that he was sexist in designing his 
group. Some were accurate in their assessment, but he saw it as a 
matter of choosing those who were willing to get the job done and 
get it done right the first and only time. There were no second 
chances, no three strikes. If one missed once, one was replaced 
forever.

Ben and Bishop were the first pair to enter and take their seats; 
the two brothers' looks the only similarity between them. Ben's 
fidgeting stood out against Bishop's schooled ambivalence.  
Bishop's haughty and imperious air subsumed Ben's down home, 
working class, gritty style. They sat opposite each other, both 
reaching for a goblet and pitcher almost immediately.

The other 7 pairs filed in and Ben nodded curtly at some of the 
men he had brought to the group. They were acquaintances he'd 
never met, but knew well enough. Like himself, they came from law 
enforcement backgrounds, many from the penal system where they'd 
established a deep cover network that even now was connecting the 
northeast corridor through an elaborate human chain link fence.

While the Boss served as the director, orchestrating movement from 
the point of origin to the final destination, he relied upon his 
team to make it happen. Ben served as the overseer of the 
originating point, receiving the 'call' and starting the flow. He'd 
been promised that his position would not suffer and that he'd 
never be stained by his side business as long as he was able to 
hold up his end of the bargain.
 
From Proteus' vantage point, Ben was a good soldier, although 
occasionally cranky. He needed to be stroked and sometimes he 
needed a kick in the butt. His brother, Bishop, was definitely 
the more polished of the pair, but polish sometimes translated 
into headaches. Bishop often got too big for his britches and 
needed to be reminded just who was in charge. But, he did his job 
well, serving as the facilitator in the final link in the fence 
that was now ready to cross the border into Canada.

"Gentlemen, brothers, let us sit." Proteus surveyed the faces, 
eight on each side of him, paired across the table by their 
working relationship, assigned to watch each other, hold each 
other in check. No chair existed at the head of the table. He was 
not their equal. He did not sit with them. Gestures spoke volumes 
and he spoke loudest.

All attention turned to the man in the navy suit with the matching 
navy silk shirt and tie. As he spoke, the glint of the gold 
cufflinks and tie tac reflected the light in small energetic 
sparks.  "We have a singular opportunity here as we sit on the 
precipice. You have all played a part in constructing the bridge 
that will take us across and expand our territory. Our brothers in 
Montreal and Toronto are anxiously waiting to play their part. 
The rewards will be many, beyond measure even. But, I warn you 
that we must not let this moment of triumph render us sloppy. There 
are those even now who would seek to topple our efforts if we are 
not vigilant. I will accept nothing less than your complete 
dedication and commitment and I will handsomely reward you for it."

He paced the circumference, pausing to look at the back of the head 
of the man in front of him and across to the face of his partner, 
letting them know that while he watched directly, he also observed 
covertly. They would be wise to never forget the latter while 
acknowledging the former.

To drive his point home, he stopped, back at the head of the table. 
"And as I may reward you, I may also punish misdeeds and 
transgressions. Admitting mistakes is not accepted anymore than 
making them. Do your jobs and do them perfectly."

Bringing both arms up in front of him, he signaled to them to 
partake of the feast.  He didn't need to tell them twice. As in 
all matters, when Proteus spoke, his men obeyed.
 
*^*^*^*^*^
Stenhauser Construction Site
Essex Junction, Vermont
Tuesday, 19 September
6:30AM

The shift supervisor and crew boss arrived together, the supervisor 
jumping out of the F-150 to unlock the gated fence, motioning his 
driver inside.  The steady line of waiting workers followed them 
in, parking their vehicles on the dirt lot and surrounding matted 
grass. The tree leaves surrounding the site cast ragged edged and 
moving shadows over the vehicles from the just-rising sun as it 
climbed its way up over the eastern horizon.

Nature's early morning reverence was marred only by the diesel 
smoke of the machinery and the sounds of the workers trudging to 
their posts, hard hats pulled from truck cab hooks, tool belts 
dragged from truck beds and slung low on their hips.

An orderly line of caffeine-withdrawn workers grumbled and chatted 
about the day's assignments as the Jake's Good Eats truck pulled 
into the yard. As if led by some invisible force, the line moved 
directly toward the silver-sided vehicle as the owner propped up 
the awnings, ready for service.

The conversations became more animated, now fueled by a few cups 
of 'joe' and homemade doughnuts and pastries.

"Ok, men, we've got a job to do, so finish the java and get those 
asses moving! Those starting this morning, follow me to the 
trailer."  The crew boss's work boots cast deep impressions in the 
thick mud as he headed for the red-paneled command post and he made 
his way up the wooden stairs. Rifling through the papers on his 
desk, he had to almost yell to be heard over the rising din of the 
machinery, the cranes and the frame elevators taking the high rise 
to the top of the metal structure.

"Arsenault, Christian, front and center."

"Uh, that's 'Chris', Sir." Mulder made his way to the desk; his 
white hard hat in his hand as his other scrubbed across his 
stubbled face. The blast of the space heaters and fans took the 
edge off the chill of the crisp fall morning. A quick side-trip to 
the local Salvation Army store had provided the worn look to his 
button-down Levis, glen plaid flannel shirt that hung open and the 
well-washed, navy tee. A friend of a friend of somebody's uncle 
who owed one to Frohike had provided the walnut leather tool belt 
that hung rakishly on his hips.

"All right then, Chris it is. I see that you have scaffolding and 
soldering experience? That's good because we're short at the top 
this week. I'm going to send you up lift #4. You may want to button 
or tuck the shirt, though. Being this close to the lake and that 
high up, you're going to get some powerful updrafts." Luckily, the 
boss didn't notice the slight shift in Mulder's otherwise outwardly 
calm countenance when the boss assigned him to the 'top'.

When he finished the assignments, he sent them off telling them 
they got two, fifteen-minute breaks that would be whistle governed 
and an hour lunch. Quitting time was 4:00PM sharp.
 
A firm hand on his shoulder and Mulder turned his head, looking at 
the man who towered over him by about three inches. 

"The name's Slug, but my friends call me 'Slug'." He snorted and 
smiled affably and shook Mulder's hand, already aware that his name 
was 'Chris'. Slug had a bit of trouble navigating back through the 
trailer's door; solid from head to toe and built like a Mack truck.

Mulder knew that Slug also worked at the top, but would be using 
the jackhammer and riveter. They made their way to shaft #4 and 
waited for it to return to ground level. 

"Better put that thing on your head over here, Chris." Adjusting 
the inner band, Mulder set the polyurethane molded hardhat on his 
head, glancing over at Slug to ensure proper placement.

Others had gathered to wait for their ride to the top and Mulder 
took a few minutes to take in the layout of the site. The building 
they'd be working on was part of a larger complex of small shops 
and a much-needed community center for the towns of Essex and Essex 
Junction in their surge of urban growth.  The rust colored frame 
was nothing more than a series of junctures forming a metal 
skeleton for the external skin and internal systems that would 
appear later. Here and there sheets of plywood flooring connected 
the girders, allowing the workers to move from one section to 
another. And, although it was now daybreak, each level was also 
outfitted with hanging utility lamps at regular intervals.
 
Mulder leaned back, squinting in the wan sunlight and glare of the 
gray day to see the scaffolding on which he would be working along 
the outer edge of the frame. 
 
When the elevator arrived, six men crammed in as it lurched its 
ascent, stopping along the way to deposit the crew. Mulder and Slug 
were the last ones out at the top. Slug drew in a deep breath and 
released it as he looked around. Three hundred sixty degrees of 
nothing but tree tops and sky and, off to the east, Lake Champlain 
with diffuse rays of light filtering through the cloud cover. 

Mulder followed his coworker's gaze, noting just how beautiful the 
view was…until he gazed in the direction of his work assignment. 
The platform was approximately four feet wide and ten feet long 
supported and braced by a network of steel cables and wires. A 
thin metal framework provided a railing and a few crossbars. His 
eyes traveled up one level to the large winch and motor that 
controlled the movement of the apparatus.

Interesting assignment, indeed.  Right now, being chased by mutants 
or the undead seemed mighty attractive.

Adjusting his tool-belt, Mulder then heeded the Crew Boss's 
warning, already noticing the turbulence at the top of the 
structure. Buttoning the bottom few buttons, he tucked the shirt 
into the waist of his jeans and headed toward the scaffold. Quickly 
scanning the area, he noticed that he was the only man assigned to 
the aerial platform and that Slug and the few others were all 
working around the corner and on the opposite side of the frame.

Responsible for soldering the larger end cap bolts to the frame 
uprights, he reached for protective headgear.  After removing his 
hard hat, he pulled on the pseudo-helmet with the safety glass, 
tinted amber to keep out the glare, and followed the plywood 
walkway to the eastern-most side of the skeletal building. The 
plywood walkway sounded hollow beneath his feet as he put on the 
flame-retardant work gloves.  He located the blowtorch in a small 
tool shed and pulled it free of its braces.

The wind picked up slightly and he noticed the sway of the hanging 
platform as he stepped out onto it. He knew better than to look 
down, but was drawn to do so anyway.  And nearly lost the torch 
over the side. Not an auspicious start for the first day on the job.

After connecting himself to the safety cables that would tether him 
to the platform, he flipped the helmet's visor down over his face 
and turned the small dial on the front of the torch, careful to 
keep the resulting flame away from his clothing. The feeling was 
much like being in one of those sensory deprivation tanks he had 
volunteered to try during college. Although their hey-day had come 
and gone, as a student of psychology, he'd had a few opportunities 
to participate in a few experiments. The only difference now was 
that the sound of the torch and the wind served as white noise, 
effectively blocking all else. That, combined with the weight of 
the helmet on his head and his narrow field of vision through the 
safety glass over his eyes made it eerily quiet.

Finding his rhythm and the exact distance the tethers would allow 
him to move without adjustment, he moved from one girder to the 
next, starting to sweat despite the chilly air. The sun had never 
managed to break through the increasing cloud cover, but the heat 
of the torch and his physical exertion were generating more than 
enough warmth. As he neared the end of the scaffolding, he lowered 
the flame and set the torch down, wanting to wipe the sweat from 
his brow. Straightening up, he lifted the glass visor and then 
removed the helmet, his hair now damply plastered to his forehead. 
He turned toward the lake as he dragged a bandana across his face.

And that was when he felt the vibrations on the platform and 
started to turn back toward the girders.

^*^*^
"He's over there."

"I see him, you idiot. Keep your mouth shut and move."

"You know I hate being up here, why the hell couldn't you have used 
Jack or Bill? They've got more experience with the high-wire act."

Bishop turned to the short round man and sighed. What the guy 
lacked in brain power and height, he made up for in brute strength 
and wit. He assumed Proteus kept him on because of his unswerving 
loyalty and years of service. Truth be told, Bishop actually liked 
the guy...when he wasn't whining or complaining.

"You're here because I asked for you and Proteus told me I had 
free reign; you know that, so shut up before he sees us."

They waited until Mulder had connected the two safety cables and 
picked up the torch. That would be a problem. They had no doubts 
about the man's potential strength and had no desire to be part of 
any fire play. Luckily, he worked for awhile and then took a quick 
break, setting the torch down and removing his helmet.

As soon as he turned toward the lake, they made their move.

*^*^*
He had one brief thought before they were in his face. He knew them 
both. And they were stony-faced. 

He moved toward the opposite end of the scaffold and immediately 
noticed that he had partially unrestricted movement. One of his 
tethers had been disconnected and his helmet performed a free fall 
over the rail.

Amazingly, the short round man had Mulder's arm bent and twisted 
behind him as Bishop approached, one hand pressed into Mulder's 
chest. Forcing his back against the waist high support.

"Nice to see you again, Mr. Arsenault. I see you've started your 
new job with my company?"

Trying to extricate himself without doing so by following his 
helmet to the ground below, Mulder spat at Bishop and dug the heel 
of his work boot into the other man's shin.

Bishop merely glanced down and then back up, a knowing smile on his 
face. "May I call you Chris?" Obviously not caring whether or not 
he got an answer, he continued, "Then Chris it is. We need to have 
a little agreement here." 

His hand moved against Mulder a bit more forcefully, bending him 
backward over the rail. The force of the move sent Mulder's feet 
about six inches off the flooring, his legs scissoring to regain 
his balance. 

Not wishing to totally lose their captive audience of one, Bishop's 
other hand applied pressure against his groin serving to further 
bend him over the rail, as well as, preventing him from toppling 
heels over head down to the waiting crowd.

His head twisting to one side, he saw the small group of crew far 
below, watching the scene unfold. Trying to suppress a groan as the 
metal rail dug into his lower back, he promptly jerked his eyes 
back toward the two men, gritting out, "What the hell do you want 
from me?"

The short round man used Mulder's already twisted arm to yank him 
a bit further back, but said nothing. Mulder managed to stay silent 
as his eyes scrunched shut and his lips bared, pulling into a wide 
grimace. Sure his back would snap in two if he wasn't let up soon 
he tried to move to one side to ease the pressure on his spine. 
To no avail.

"A very good question, Chris. We merely wanted to bring you 
greetings from the boss and let you know that he'll be watching. 
Through us, of course. And if your behavior warrants, you'll have 
a chance to meet with him."

Mulder wasn't so sure that would be an invitation he could refuse; 
nor one he'd want to accept.

"Gee...thanks...," Mulder mustered with as much sarcasm as his 
position would allow.

Bishop did smile then -- and pushed one last time against Mulder's 
fly before yanking him upright by his tee. Making a grand gesture 
of brushing off non-existent lint or dust, he then stepped away 
from Mulder, motioning to the short round man to join him.

Knowing that following them would get him nowhere except for 
maybe blowing his cover, he gulped in several deep breaths instead.
  
The morning had certainly flown; it was lunchtime, but Mulder felt 
like doing anything but eating. Disconnecting the other safety 
cable sent a searing jolt of pain through his middle and lower 
back. Unable to either bite back the scream, nor care enough to 
attempt to, he let it rip, reminding himself that bending or 
twisting, hell, breathing, was downright painful. 

Trying to nudge his hard hat with the tip of his boot, he bent his 
knee in an effort to get it up to his hand. All he succeeded in 
doing was sending it rolling and wobbling until it was balanced 
precariously near the far edge of the platform and…evoking another 
nauseating wave of fresh pain through his body.

Deciding to leave his lunch, he began the arduously slow trek to 
the lift. Luckily, Slug had turned at that moment and noticed the 
rookie making his way from the scaffolding. "Giving up so early, 
good buddy?" He ambled toward Mulder, his arm extended as if he 
were about to give him a clap on the back. On his very sore back.

"Slug, no." Mulder brought his good arm up; biting his lower lip 
as he clumsily shuffled toward the big man. "I think I threw my 
back out, old injury. Can you give me a hand to the lift?"

"Sure, no problem, Chris." True to his word, his newfound friend 
just about carried him single-handedly to the elevator shaft. "You 
know, I'm pretty good about cracking backs. I bet I could have you 
fixed up in no time, buddy."

Mulder's panic face came alive at the thought of Slug, or anyone, 
even touching his back right now. "Thanks, Slug, but I think I'll 
be all right once I get into the hot shower. Think I'm going to 
just need some help getting into my truck."  

For some reason, he felt both comfortable with the big coworker, 
something about his open and guileless demeanor set him at ease, 
but was also somewhat wary. And then the niggling thoughts crept 
in. From what Mulder could recall, there had been only one other 
worker at this level this morning. As they headed for the lift, he 
noticed it was just him and Slug. "Where'd that other guy go?" He 
hoped the question sounded casual, just a thought in passing.

"Geez, Chris, you throw out more than just your back this morning? 
It's just you and me up here, buddy. No one else assigned."

He decided not to push it, but was now more uneasy, wondering just 
what Slug had seen and allowed to occur. They made their way into 
the waiting, open car, and depressed the 'ground' button. The 
lurching of the descent did nothing for Mulder's already aching 
body.

The small crowd seemed to have dispersed as Slug and Mulder made 
their way to the parking area.  After opening the driver's side 
door, Mulder turned, sitting himself down onto the seat very 
slowly, then bent his knees and slid both legs under the steering 
column.  Smiling the best he could, he assured Slug he would be 
able to make it home just fine, hoping he didn't hit too many 
traffic lights where he'd have to clutch and break.

His mind was awash with the images from his 'greetings'. It seemed 
this group was only too anxious to welcome him to town and into 
their fold. Some sort of initiation, he was sure of it. And most 
likely, Scully's assault had been a warning to him. Other than the 
fact that he knew they meant business, he now also knew that this 
was certainly no rookie organization. He was definitely playing 
with the big leagues.

Other than stiffness; no, make that 'extreme stiffness', sitting 
seemed to take the edge off the pain. But he had no illusions about 
what getting out of his truck was going to feel like.

Chirpchirpchirp... His cell was ringing. Which meant more painful 
movement. And that it could only be Scully.  Trying to fish his 
cell from his jeans was a major project. The fact that the jeans, 
although well worn, fit him like a second skin was only making 
matters worse. However, he knew there was no rush. He'd 
de-activated voicemail and knew that if it was his partner, she'd 
let the phone ring either until he answered it or she drove him 
nuts with the incessant ringing.

"Mulder"

<I was wondering if you were ever going to pick up. Where are you?>

"In my truck, why?"

<What's wrong, Mulder? You don't sound so good>

"Gee, Scully, you got all that from one sentence? I'm just heading 
home. How are you doing today?"

If he had hoped she would let it go and allow him to shift the 
discussion over to her, he was sadly mistaken. And he should have 
figured as much. When his partner was on a quest, she could be as 
stubbornly focused as him. When that quest happened to *be* him, 
well, he had about as much chance at deflecting her as he did of 
discovering the meaning of extraterrestrial life. 
 
<Where are you, Mulder?>  She tried to keep the edge out of her 
voice, but she was in no mood to play games. And now she was sure 
she heard a tinge of pain in his voice -- something there, but not 
quite there. Her radar was operating at full capacity. And just as 
surely as she knew something was wrong, she also knew that he was 
not about to share it easily. 'Could two people be more alike?' she 
silently mused.

"I'm in my truck. Heading home. Just like I already told you." He 
was working hard to bite back the pain that was resulting in the 
clipped responses.

This was not going the way she intended. <Look, I'm sorry for the 
questions, but I know you, Mulder, and I can hear how tight your 
words are. Let me help you. I can meet you at your place>

"That’s not a good idea. Urgh. Ahhhh."  Holding his phone with one 
hand, Mulder swung the steering wheel trying to round the corner 
carefully, but swung too wide. He succeeded in knocking himself 
into the driver's side door, sending shards of flash point pain 
through his back and shoulder. There would be no pretension from 
this point.

<Mulder! Mulder! What happened? Tell me>  Her fear was palpable.  
<I'm coming over there. What's the address?>  

Gritting out his words, he tried to tell her that the men who 
assaulted her would follow her, would be sure of their connection, 
would risk her safety, risk his case. And she carefully explained 
with scapel's edge precision how she would talk with Kimberley 
right now and have her run a search with the name, Chris Arsenault.

He knew it to be true, that she meant every word of it and would 
be at his place, probably waiting for him.

"Meet me at the Pine Street Boardinghouse, apartment #4"

<Trying to get in good with auditing, Mulder? A boardinghouse?>

"Good-bye, Scully."

She disconnected thinking that something had to be seriously 
wrong. He never ended their conversations with anything more 
than a dial tone.

*^*^*
FBI Field Office
Office of A.S.A.C Louie F. Allen
200 McCarty Avenue
Albany, New York

"I'll connect you now, Sir."

<Walter. Long time, no see, old man> The laughter in his voice 
was carefully curbed, knowing that the D.C. A.D.'s sense of humor 
was usually filed away during the workday. 

"Louie. To what do I owe this pleasure?" ASAC Allen noted that 
there was probably a smile in the question.

Cutting to the chase, knowing that he'd soon be asked to do so, 
he continued. "Look, I need some back up on a case. I know 
you've already got one Agent here. No, no, don't ask me how. You 
know the drill... Anyway, we've already got one of the Canadian 
provincials here with us, but this is growing."

"You're talking about the case in Burlington? The one I've got Fox 
Mulder on?"

<That's it. Looks like this ring is expanding faster than we'd 
extrapolated. Now, I'm going to commit two of mine for admin 
purposes, but we could use home office support. What do you say 
Walt?>

"I've got an Agent there already, finishing up a Pathologist's 
conference, but she was also finishing up some lab work from their 
previous case."

<We can set up a lab for her at the university. Their facilities 
are excellent>

"That should do it. I have a feeling she'd find a way to stay on 
anyway. Mulder's her partner."

<You're talking about Agent Scully? Spooky and Scully, huh? Are 
they as tight a team as we've heard?>

Skinner's face momentarily lit with what could have been mistaken 
for a smile. "They're that tight. All right, Louie, I'm going to 
get this in the works. I'll have her touch base with you."

<Thanks, Walter. And do me a favor? Let what's left of your hair 
down a little>

*^*^*
Burlington Police Department
284 East Avenue
Tuesday, 19 September
3:00PM

Leaving Bryan at a job over on Church Street, Kimberley drove on 
past the University of Vermont to its eastern edge. She needed to 
touch base once again with the locals and do a check on the 
bartender from the Metronome.  Although she'd intended to run the 
search a lot sooner, a few things had gotten in the way.

Namely, Dana's mysterious illness, her partner's arrival and then 
Dana's assault.  Kimberley wryly considered that what she'd heard 
from Missy had been true. Dana spent more than her fair share of 
time hospitalized. She guessed it might come with the territory, 
although she herself had been lucky and avoided visiting medical 
facilities. 

She still had a lot to learn about exactly what Missy's baby sister 
did and hoped they could get reacquainted.  Dana had left 
Kimberley's house the other day rather abruptly. She had assumed it 
might have had something to do with Bishop's visit, but Kimberley 
was puzzled. From what she could tell, Dana had caught only bits 
and pieces of their conversation and hadn't actually seen much 
more of him than his backside as he got into his BMW and drove off. 
Her friend's sister had been distant and unwilling to talk about 
it.  Kimberley couldn't really tell Dana any details about the 
meeting, couldn't divulge information about the fact that she 
suspected he was tied to the drug running case she was providing 
assistance for.  She made a note to follow up the next time she saw 
redhead.

Surprisingly, the officers and staff lived up to their purported 
friendliness. She'd read quite a bit about the city before 
arriving, found it noted as an up and coming friendly place to 
live, safe -- well, except for the alleged heavy drug traffic, 
that is -- and clean.  Well, two out of three wasn't a bad start!

She was given access to a computer terminal and with the help of 
an Officer Shari who frequented the Club, was able to pull up the 
file on one Hayward Barnes. For the most part, he was just another 
Tom, Dick or Harry: 50 years old, separated from his wife of fifteen 
years, two grown sons who lived on their own, joint owner of the 
Metronome…and that's where it got interesting. The co-owner was 
listed as a Brantwell 'Bishop' Stillman.

Printing out a few copies of the information, she thanked Officer 
Shari and the rest of the staff, heading for her car.

^*^*^
Pine Street Boardinghouse
Noontime

As he steered the black F-150 into the small parking lot, he saw 
the fiery red hair of his partner, her back to him. She was perched 
on the steps to the building, looking very small, yet oddly at 
home. Head to toe beautiful and small and at home in her green 
leggings and a long navy and green velour top, she was idly 
playing with the ties to her brown bucks, a backpack by her feet. 
This was a side to Scully he didn't often see...and wished to see 
more.

He'd almost managed to avoid grunting or wincing for those few 
seconds of distraction and he inwardly thanked her for the respite. 

She heard the heavy vroom of the diesel engine and the following 
shut down and stood up, grabbing the woven handles of the bag and 
slinging it over her shoulder.

He sat for a moment, taking a deep breath as much an attempt to 
relax his tightly held body as to brace himself for Dr. Scully. It 
wasn't so much that he minded her ministrations. Hell, she'd saved 
his ass, and the rest of his body, from everything from minor 
scrapes to bullet wounds to literally rising from the pseudo-dead. 
But, much like her, he really didn't feel comfortable under the 
intense attention.

Shutting off the engine, he unfastened his seatbelt and opened the 
door. He watched her approaching the truck, her look vacillating 
between cautious smile and wary concern.  He attempted to ward off 
the coming question, but 'Hey, Scully', was about all he could 
muster with a smile.

And she saw right through it. "Let me help you, Mulder. Then you 
can tell me what happened." In a semi-squatting position, she 
gently grabbed onto his bent legs, swinging them sideways as he 
turned his body. The way he held himself told her trained eye that 
both his back and left arm were painful. 

He waved her away as he stood, determined to move on his own, and 
she backed away to give him his space. But not so far that she 
wouldn't be able to offer support.

He ambled and she walked, a companionable silence between them as 
they approached the back door to the building.  She followed him to 
the elevator and pushed the button for his floor as he semi-slumped 
against the plastic paneled wall behind her. Glancing above her 
into the fish-eye safety mirror, she saw his somewhat distorted 
face drawn into a mask of what she was sure he believed to be a 
smile. It wasn't working.
 
As she turned to him, he seemed to relax a bit and her breath 
caught. How long had it been since she'd seen him in this 
combination; hurt, pained, trying to bear the brunt, keep it 
hidden from her...and looking so downright gorgeous? Certainly a 
man of constantly shifting moods.  She took a deep breath, hoping 
her neck and face were not as flushed as she felt.

The ding announcing his floor and the grating swoosh open of the 
doors snapped her from her mental meanderings. He exited first and 
she followed him down the long hallway to the very end. He seemed 
to bend over to fumble with the key easily enough, but returning 
to upright elicited an audible groan.

"Mulder, please, let me help you out a little here. Let's get you 
inside and I'll see what I can do, make sure nothing's broken." 

She followed him inside, pulling the door closed behind her, her 
eyes traveling around the plain, but very comfortable looking 
rooms. A smirk threatened when she realized she'd know he lived 
here even if he hadn't told her. It wasn't so much that the 
bedcovers were strewn haphazardly nor that the newspaper was 
scattered on the coffee table and couch. It was more the Hansel 
and Gretel type trail of clothing and the probably still damp towel 
that dotted the landscape between the bathroom and the bed that 
identified the current resident was her partner.

He sat down heavily onto the bed and leaned over to remove his 
boots. Feeling his back muscles protesting at the stretch, all at 
once trying to contract again in protest, he stopped, sucking in 
his breath. "Uh, Scully? I don't think I can sit up..." His voice 
was low, the words halting.
 
Untying her shoes, she climbed onto the bed behind him, her knees 
against his hips. "Pull in your abs, Mulder and then take a deep 
breath and hold it. When I count to three, release the breath and 
sit up. Ok?"  He nodded and took a breath. He slowly released it 
as she said, 'three', and sat up, surprisingly almost free of pain.

Wordlessly, she scooted off the bed and worked his boots and socks 
free. Now standing to face him, her look demanded answers.

"I had a visit this morning."

Her silence spoke volumes, implored him to continue.

"Nothing much to tell. They were set on showing me Burlington from 
a rather interesting angle, my head hanging over the rail."

Her eyes said, 'Oh, Mulder', as she barely whispered for him to 
remove his shirts so she could get a better look at the bruises she 
was sure she'd find on his back.  He tossed the flannel shirt onto 
the chair by the bed where it joined the damp towel. As he 
attempted to lift the navy tee over his head, his back spasmed, 
sending fresh ripples of agony through his body. 

"Mulder, leave the tee for now. Can you lay face down on the bed 
for me? Maybe I can work out some of the kinks for you."  Her hands 
smoothed the fabric back down over his chest and abs as she stood 
between his parted legs.

"Oooh, Dr. Scully, do you proposition all your male patients like 
that?" For someone with the kind of pain she was sure he was 
experiencing, he was still quite capable of the flip and witty 
comment. She rewarded him by rolling her eyes, trying to suppress 
her urge to laugh with him. Give him an inch and he'd expect a 
mile...

With one hand on each of his shoulders, she leaned forward until 
she was just inches from his face. Her voice soft, she commanded, 
"Lay face down, now."

Stepping out of the vee of his legs, she crossed her arms, her 
stance belying the frisson being that close to him had sent through 
her. Both eyebrows rose slightly, his lips quirking into the 
smallest, tell-tale and knowing smile as he complied.

"Whatta you doin', Scully?" he muttered into the pillow. He was 
surprised at just how good it felt to let his muscles relax for the 
first time. His tee had ridden up slightly as he'd crawled, half on 
his knees, half on his belly along the bed. The weight of his body 
sunk into the mattress, his legs sprawled. This was one time his 
curiosity hadn't gotten the better of him. Although he was dying to 
know where she'd gotten to, he had no desire to lift his head to 
find out. The rasping and sussurring sound of nylon and zippers 
told him she was probably fishing around in her doctor pack for 
things that sting... He burrowed a little farther into the bed 
linens.

She took the bottle of arnica oil and brought it over to the bed. 
"Relax. I was just getting some oil to massage into your muscles.  
It's going to smell faintly outdoorsy, but it will help prevent the 
bruises from becoming any more colorful."  Reaching for the hem of 
his shirt, she carefully slid it up along his torso, noting that 
he was able to lift slightly to aid her.

Straddling his slender hips she settled onto his rear. She then 
poured a goodly amount of the slippery liquid into her hands and 
set the closed bottle down. Rubbing her hands together, she warmed 
them and the oil. "Tell me if the pressure is too much, Mulder. 
I'll start with your upper back." Her voice, now as warm as the 
oil and her skin, touched his ears as her hands touched his back.
 
He responded with a short grunt and she bit back a similar sound at 
the feel of the smooth flesh under her palms. A heady sensation. 
She watched the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, the way it 
slowed as she applied a little more pressure. Careful to listen and 
observe his reactions, she slowly moved toward the center of his 
back knowing she would most likely encounter strained muscles. His 
skin was abraded and red and the first mottled purples and blues 
were making themselves known. 

Sure enough, he bucked beneath her at the first sweep of her hands 
over his lower lats. "Breathe with the touch, Mulder. It'll help." 
Once again, she saw his shoulders sink into the bed and down away 
from his ears where they'd risen.

The light crisp woodsy scent and heat of the oil was also working, 
rendering him languid and almost able to forget the stresses to his 
body. Floating somewhere in the fringes of his consciousness, he 
was also suddenly very attuned to the weight of her lower body on 
his ass. Substantial in both a comforting and arousing way. He 
reveled in the former, in the memories tugging at his fading 
ability to think, and willed the latter to abate, unsure of whether 
she would feel the same. It had been too long, much too long, since 
they had shared anything more than a kiss. He smiled into the 
pillowcase thinking about their most recent meeting when he had been 
sure things were about to get very out of control.

"Mulder?"  She had noticed the small lines at the corner of his 
left eye and the rise in his cheek. "Am I hurting you?"

And she had it all wrong. So wrong. "Uh, um, no. It feels good, 
very good."

She stopped to add more oil, this time holding the bottle above his 
lower back, watching in fascination as the golden droplets made 
contact with his skin and expanded, changing shape, first 
elongating, then widening, as they meandered into the beautiful dip 
below the swell of his hips. Absentmindedly flipping the cap closed 
and letting the bottle fall to the comforter, she sighed and then 
rose up onto her knees. Somehow knowing that she needed to refocus 
her efforts, needed to remember that she was helping him... 
Helping him what? Ward off severe bruising and muscle stiffening, 
hold the pain at bay, yes, that's what she was doing.

"Scuhhleee?" His voice floated up and around her as she strove to 
pull herself from the haze. 

Quickly and efficiently replacing her hands, although she remained 
on her knees now, she pressed the heels of her palms on either side 
of his lower spine, working outwards with her fingertips. "I'm 
here, Mulder, just needed more oil." <Just needed to pull myself 
back from thoughts of your body, thoughts of what it would feel 
like to touch you...>

He noticed the subtle change in her voice and the not-so-subtle 
change in her position, how she had risen above him, no longer 
feeling the heat of her center nestled against his ass. He, under 
what he hoped was the guise of just trying to get more comfortable, 
tried to reestablish that contact, lifting and shifting his hips 
just slightly, knowing that she wouldn't have moved far. However, 
she was just as determined as he and his efforts got him nothing 
more than a just this side of rough shove back down into the 
mattress. He smiled. Couldn't fault a guy for trying.

Her fingers now moving vertically, she worked the long muscles 
on either side of his spine, feeling the tension in them and then 
she fanned her hands outward, wrapping them around his waist, 
pushing just inside the waistband of his jeans. Sending shivers up 
her spine. Her face flushing at the contact. She guessed the sheer 
heat and electricity she felt as it traveled from her palms up her 
arms and in every direction from there was the result of his 
contact with the bed, with her above him, with the warmed oil. 
Whatever it was, it was intoxicating and she was finding it just 
a little difficult to breathe.

Her hands continued to move of their own accord, her fingers 
crawling and dancing and pressing along a horizontal line sometimes 
parallel to and sometimes underneath the waist of his jeans and 
boxers. Somewhere in the recesses of her losing-focus brain, she 
wondered how she'd managed to start massaging so far from the 
sources of his injuries... Another thought conceived and tossed 
aside.

Mulder wondered also, but allowed himself to wallow in the sheer 
ecstasy of her touch, gentle and firm, relaxing and arousing, 
purposeful and nonchalant. Had she changed her mind about them 
needing more time? Back muscles be damned, he was so hard now that 
he was thankful for the soft mattress beneath him. He desperately 
hoped she would continue the journey and let her fingers work 
loose the button on his jeans. The torture was exquisite. And 
he barely remembered why she had begun the massage.

Her thumbs applied pressure at the very base of his spine as her 
hands held him in place. She gazed up his body, the navy shirt 
bunched under his arms, the broad expanse of his shoulders and 
upper back, downward to the vee formed as his lats tapered inward 
toward his narrow waist and the rise of his hips. She'd always 
thought he had a magnificent body...beautiful, really. He moved 
with a sinewy grace, lithe, yet strong. Her mind thusly occupied, 
she barely registered the sudden movement.

Barely registered that she was now looking into his pillow-smooshed 
face, his hair brushed across his brow, eyes dream-like. His tee 
twisted and scrunched, revealing his abs, his taut midsection and...
her hands, her palms, now pressed firmly against the hardness 
straining against the well-worn denim. The heat from his slow smile 
rivaled the scorching she felt through the fabric.

With a quick realization and a muttered 'I'm sorry', she scrambled 
off the bed, nearly falling, her shaking legs not expecting the 
quick change in position. She looked at her hands, held them in 
front of her momentarily, wondering when they'd taken on a life of 
their own. She stammered again, 'I can't do this', and reached for 
her backpack.

Pulled brutally upward from his heightened state, Mulder's 
expression shifted, moving from that lust/love combination to a 
deep worry/concern. As he pulled his shirt down and slid to the edge 
of the bed, he watched her back away from him. Away from them? 
Sitting with his hands on his thighs, head titled imperceptibly to 
one side, his eyes asked the question he knew she'd never verbally 
answer. His enigmatic partner...

She seemed to regain her composure as she slung her backpack up to 
her shoulder. She watched as his lips parted, sure he was about to 
say something and then changed his mind. Instead, his hand found the 
bottle of oil and held it out to her. Tucking her hair behind her 
ear, she told him it was okay to just hold onto it and she turned 
toward the door.

"Get some rest, Mulder, and I'll check on you later."

"Scully?"

She turned back toward him, her eyes silently telling him that it 
was okay, that they were okay.

^*^*^