Truce
Chapter Eleven

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"You enjoyed that, didn't you?"

"The boat ride?" Scully carefully wound her way
over the levee, smiling as she watched Mulder
gulp in air.  "Of course I did.  I love being out
on the water."

Even though the ride lasted no more than five
minutes, she knew Mulder had felt queasy from the
moment she'd mentioned his proclivity for
seasickness.  What spurred her to give him such
close comfort, she didn't want to think about. 
It certainly wasn't guilt at pointing out exactly
where he was.  But he'd relaxed at the subtle
pressure she'd applied to his wrists... and she
couldn't deny their closeness had affected her in
other ways.  She may have used her fingers to
temporarily ease his malady, but in doing so,
she'd opened *herself* up to a nervous stomach.

"That's not what I meant," he growled, tilting
his face out the passenger window to breathe deep
of the fresher air away from the water.

"You didn't throw up," she pointed out, grinning
a bit at his obstinance.

"Close enough.  You love seeing me suffer, don't
you, Scully?"

"If by that do you mean I love to see you knocked
down a peg or two - then yes.  Sometimes you're
much too cocky for your own good."

"Cocky?" He opened his eyes, rapidly regaining
his color as he slanted a look her way.  "Did you
say cocky?"

"Yes, cocky.  Sure of yourself, arrogant,
whatever you want to call it."

"Cocky."

"Cocky."

Mulder leaned back into the car, his grin slowly
warming the air between them.  "Say it again," he
purred.  He'd taken off his sunglasses when they
got back into the car, and his eyes danced
dangerously close with mischief and daring.

Scully shoved at his encroaching form, ticked at
his entrapment.  "Go suck an egg, Mulder."

"Another Scully vulgarity.  I'm shocked," he
chuckled with mock disappointment.  Lowering his
voice to a purr the likes of which made her
shiver back at the boat railing, he added,
"Actually, I enjoyed the ride more than you."

Giving him a sly, sidelong glance, she admitted,
"I had a feeling you did."

"What was that move, anyway?" He waved his hands,
looking at his wrists like they contained the
secrets of the medical world.

"Acupressure.  Light pressure on what's called
the 'inner gate' helps relieve motion sickness. 
It's the principle behind those wrist bands
people use for seasickness."

"Ah.  Ancient Chinese secret, huh?  Got any other
finger moves I should know about?"  

In answer, she held up three fingers, almost
stuffing them knuckle-first into his face.

"What's that?" Mulder asked, jerking back.

"Read between the lines.  Ancient Scully flip
off."

His laughter was infectious, and she found
herself unsuccessfully suppressing a smile.  What
the hell had gotten into him?  It was almost as
if being outside the mansion's gates, free from
Marvin's watchful presence, he'd suddenly...

That was it.  Even when he'd fought against
nausea on the ferry, he'd managed to smile at her
once or twice.  He was like a kid playing hooky
from school; giddy in his escape.  For that
matter, what the hell had gotten into *her*?  She
was playing off his humor like she'd walked back
in time a few years, countering his quips with a
lightning quickness she'd thought she'd lost
months ago.  It felt good.  It felt right.  It
would never be the same with anyone else, a fact
she resigned herself to with a sigh.

Sobering, she pulled out onto the highway,
carefully keeping one eye on the road as she
asked, "Is it just as bad for you?"

She bit her lip over the implication she'd
suffered just as much as he had without his
presence by her side, but it was no longer any
use denying they were both different people when
together.  They completed one another; it didn't
take a genius to figure that one out.  Mulder's
laughter faded as he became serious in face and
form; his steady look made her face burn with
awareness.

"Worse," he said softly, putting his sunglasses
on once again before he looked away.  "I've never
been so alone in my life."

Scully cursed herself at ruining his humorous
mood.  She opened her mouth to attempt a return
to lighter conversation when Mulder cut her off,
his hand coming up.  "There it is."

Slowing, she caught sight of a road leading off
to the right, as well as the guardhouse and fence
surrounding the property.  Taking the shoulder,
she shifted to neutral and faced Mulder.  "Now
what?"

"You have your ID?"

"Yes, but I doubt that will do any good.  Who
will I say *you* are?"

"Your gigolo?" Off her slanted look, he reached
into an inner pocket, pulling out a familiar
black wallet, his grin welcome after the last few
somber moments.  "Just follow my lead."

His Bureau ID.  How in the hell had he managed
that?  She knew he had to give it up when he was
booted from the FBI.  "Mulder -"

"Kersh gave it to me for my last birthday," he
remarked.  Though her mouth pinched at his
flippancy, beneath her shades, her eyes glowed
with mirth.  She really liked this Mulder, had
missed him so much.  Chuckling now, he amended,
"Frohike knew a girl in Property Control.  He
didn't just show up at the office to grovel at
*your* feet, you know."

She didn't know what upset her more - the fact
that Mulder could get into serious trouble for
impersonating a federal officer, or the startling
realization that she wasn't the only recipient of
Frohike's undying worship.

"She had nothing on *you*, Scully." Mulder nodded
for her to continue down the road.  "Frohike
remained faithful to you 'til the end.  You were
his hero."

Ridiculously happy at Mulder's statement, she
pulled back onto the highway, suddenly missing
Melvin and his adoring glances.  "He was a good
man," she whispered, choking up a bit at the nip
of sorrow in her chest.

"He was," Mulder agreed.  "I'm lucky to have
Marvin.  In all the ways that count, he's just
like his brother."

Scully nodded, knowing Marvin's loyalty and
friendship were unwavering, just as Frohike's had
been.  She was glad Mulder hadn't spent the last
few months totally alone.  If anything, *she* had
been more alone than Mulder.  By design, she
rarely saw her mother anymore; Maggie, with
typical motherly concern, tried too hard to draw
her daughter back into what she considered a
"normal" life.  It hadn't taken long for Scully
to decline the constant stream of invitations to
teas, dinners, and other social activities. 
Sitting around gossiping about the neighborhood
couples and distant relatives had never been her
thing, and it hadn't taken Maggie long to stop
asking once Scully made it clear she had no use
for such frivolities.

With the Gunmen gone, and Doggett and Reyes up to
their necks in X-files, she'd also distanced
herself from that side of her work. 
Occasionally, she was called upon by John or
Monica to give some assistance, but her heart
just wasn't in it anymore.  She hated standing on
the sidelines, so she eventually left the
stadium.  The playing field now - thanks to
Skinner's timely intervention - consisted of this
rogue assignment, something she embraced with
relish.  Alone, she could forget just how truly
*alone* she was.  No sympathetic looks from
colleagues and friends, no gentle pushing to talk
from her mother.

She was alone, and she was lonely.  Just like
Mulder.

"Pull in here," Mulder instructed, "nice and
slow.  And smile.  Remember, I'm your gigolo. 
What's not to smile about?"

Her smile wasn't false, thanks to Mulder.  The
open gate beckoned with gaping ease and she
rolled down her window when a man approached. 
The muted roar of a lawnmower greeted her ears,
and she brought her eyebrows together with a
frown.  He didn't look like any military guard
she'd ever dealt with; flashing a look at Mulder,
she could see he agreed, as he shrugged his
shoulders with confusion.

"Can I help you?" their pseudo-guard asked,
peering through at Mulder, who eagerly flashed
his badge.

His fingers flipped it open like a pro,
strategically placed to cover most everything but
his face.  A very young, different face, but his
just the same.  "Agents Hale and Petrie,
Department of Health and Hospitals."

Scully did the same with a wan smile, saying
nothing.  Just as Mulder did, she quickly stuffed
the folded ID back in her jacket pocket, holding
her breath when the man squinted down at them.

"Department of what?"

"Health and Hospitals," Mulder said again. 
"We're here to -"

"Hold on a sec," the man interrupted, walking
quickly back to the opposite side of the
guardhouse.  The lawnmower noise ceased, and he
came back, rubbing the sweat from his brow with a
faded handkerchief.  "Sorry 'bout that.  Health
department, you say?  Y'all are here to see
Harold and the others, ain't ya?" he asked. 
"They been wondering when y'all would get around
to checking on 'em.  Go on in, it's the last few
houses at the end of the drive.  Keep left off
the main road."  He waved them on, moving back to
his mower.

Scully gave Mulder a surprised look; he sat back
in his seat, not acknowledging her.  By his
silence, he quietly commanded she move the car
forward, so she did, easing through the open
gate.  The 'guardhouse' wasn't a checkpoint,
obviously.  It may have been at one time, but no
longer.  Apparently, the need for military
security was non-existent.

When they were far enough away from the
groundskeeper, she murmured out the side of her
mouth, "Harold and the others?"

"Beats me," Mulder answered.  "I was going to
tell the guy we were here to inspect the
Infirmary... Dr. Petrie."

They passed several white buildings, all of which
looked like turn-of-the-century structures,
complete with huge pillars set on clapboard
porches.  The grounds were immaculate, the oak
trees massive, and overall, the facility was
laden with old southern charm, as if they were
driving through a long lost sugar plantation. 
Scully hadn't seen any sign of the National Guard
since they entered the complex, but the camp
appeared to be huge, spread out over hundreds of
acres of farmland.  But she knew the military was
there - the fence lining the main highway spoke
of the need to keep intruders out while keeping
someone in.

At the end of the main drive, two identical roads
branched off.  A huge building loomed before
them, caught in the crossroads.  Two metal poles
stuck up from the mottled green grass, as if lost
without the apparently missing sign between.

Scully felt a nagging familiarity with this
place, but couldn't quite put her finger on why
its dilapidated look tugged at her memory.  It
was just an old plantation like all the others
that dotted the river in those parts, but
still...

"Hold on a sec, Scully," Mulder said, nodding at
the buildings to their right.  "See what I see?"

She did; the buildings off the right side of the
'Y' in the road were better maintained, stark
white in the sunshine.  Blocks of green-garbed
teens marched in stiff-legged precision, all of
them carrying school books.  Off in the distance,
a bell rang, and within a minute, the swarm of
students had disappeared into the largest of the
buildings nearest the road.  Mulder glanced at
his watch.

"Must be lunch time.  I understand '108' has the
best chipped beef and mashed potatoes this side
of the river."  His lips twisted in a devious
smirk.  "We can get it to go."

"Not yet," she disagreed, daring him to make a
fuss.  "Something about this place... it's not
what it seems."

Mulder bit his lip, looking wistfully at the
military half of the facility, as if he wanted
nothing more than to dive into the deep end of
the pool.  "What do you mean?"

She knew it took a massive effort on his part not
to insist they run headlong into the fray; though
his instincts were good, sometimes hers were
better.  And this was one of those times.  "I
think we should speak to 'Harold and the others',
Mulder."

Looking back at her serious face, he paused, then
sighed.  "We may not have time for anything else,
Scully."  Like getting to the nitty-gritty, he
implied.

"So we'll come back," she urged.  "From the looks
of the abandoned guardhouse and the fence, it
should be easy to get in after dark, even if they
do lock the gate.  I didn't see any other signs
of security.  No sentries, no cameras."

"Me either," Mulder mused.  "It *is* a voluntary
program, you know.  They're not keeping those
kids here against their will."

The key to 108 burned a hole in her pocket. 
Still, something just as pressing lurked in those
old buildings, she could feel it.  Looking at the
more weathered buildings to her left, she noticed
the marked difference in the structures.  They
weren't falling down, but neither were they as
immaculate as those the military occupied.  A few
elderly people moved about in the groomed yards,
and she felt a renewed need to speak to Harold,
whoever he was.

"We'll come back if we have to, Mulder. 
Tonight."  Her statement was decisive.  "For now,
I say we go left."

Off his nod of assent, she turned slowly in the
direction of the older buildings.  She was almost
to the first when she heard him murmur, "Tonight,
huh?  Good thing you brought an overnight bag,
Scully."

Ignoring the pleased tone of his deceptively
casual observation, she pulled into the first
driveway and killed the motor.  They garnered a
few curious, wary looks from the people milling
about as they left the car.  An old woman knelt
in the nearest of the weed-filled flowerbeds, slowly
tending the dark, rich soil.  Mulder approached
her, and she glanced up when his shadow blocked
out the sun, her gnarled hand tossing away what
looked like briar vines.  It wasn't her place,
but Scully so wanted to suggest the woman use
gloves.  The paper-thin skin of the elderly was
very susceptible to infection from minor cuts.

"Yes?" she asked, wiping her twisted hands on her
apron, her face half-hidden under a floppy straw
hat tied beneath her chin.  She struggled to
rise, jerking quickly away from Mulder's helping
hand.

Scully stepped quickly forward, sensing the
woman's mistrust of Mulder's towering figure. 
"We're looking for Harold."

"You kin?"

"Yes ma'am," Mulder answered softly, his smile
disarming.  "We'd like to speak to him, if it's
possible."

Scully flashed Mulder a disapproving look for his
lie, but she felt the sudden tenseness that
surrounded them.  It wafted on the humid air, the
suspicion and fear palpable in the midday sun. 
They'd dealt with enough locals over the years to
realize that strangers almost never got the red-
carpet treatment, especially in small, country
environments.  Kinfolk, on the other hand...

"And you're his..." the old lady murmured.

"Nephew," Mulder supplied.

"Funny, but Harold never said nothin' 'bout no
nephew.  'Course, him bein' an only child might
have somethin' to do with that."  She crossed her
arms, defiant despite her fear, her French accent
more pronounced as she gained her mental footing.

As Mulder groped for a way out of the mess he'd
brought upon them, Scully stepped up.  "Look,
Mrs. -"

"It's Miss, petite chou," she interrupted, more
confident with every second that passed.  "Miss
Elise."

"Miss Elise," Scully conceded.  "My name is Dr.
Dana Scully, and this is my partner, Fox Mulder." 
The normal way of revealing themselves fell from
her tongue before she could think to use their
aliases.  She really should be more careful, but
something about the fear of this woman, and of
the others, spoke of an isolation she had no
doubt would protect them from discovery, even
with a national guard unit stationed just
hundreds of yards away.

"Doctor, you say?" She brightened at Scully's
explanation, stepping closer.

"Yes, ma'am.  We're not here to harm any of you. 
We just want to speak to Harold, that's all."

"Harold's not been feelin' all that good lately. 
Good thing you came.  We keep tellin' the Colonel
to call them people over at the hospital but he
says they say Harold's regular visit isn't for
another month.  And his prescription's almost
out."  Miss Elise gestured for them to follow
her.  "Come on.  He's in the last house over
there."

Mulder mouthed, "Prescription?" Scully's way as
he walked beside her, and she mimicked his shrug
of a few moments past.  She had no idea what Miss
Elise spoke of, but it sounded dire.  The old
woman's gait was awkward but sure, and they
shortly found themselves walking up the steps of
Harold's front porch.

"In here," Miss Elise said, waving them through
the screen door to a parlor.  "Harold?  Doctor's
here to see you."

In the dimness of the parlor, it was hard to make
out the slight form that sat in the recliner. 
The blinds blocked out the sun, and there wasn't
a light on in the house.  "Harold?"  Scully left
Mulder's side, moving to peer down at the old
man.

"Did you bring me my stuff?"  Harold's accent
wasn't slow and sure Cajun like the old woman's;
it was southern, however, a sharp twang that
almost grated on the ears.

Stuff?  "Sir, I don't understand -"

"My dapsone, gal." Scully could barely make out
the turn of Harold's head, as he directed his
next question to Miss Elise.  "Thought you said
this woman was a doctor.  My skin is deader'n a
doornail and you bring me a gal as green as
grass.  Shit."

"Your skin isn't any deader'n mine, vieux," Miss
Elise huffed.  "Now shut up and let her look at
you."

Scully tuned out Harold's weak tirade, his first
words echoing in her head.  Dapsone, dapsone.  A
flicker of recognition came to life in her brain,
and she caught her breath.

"Harold?  May I turn on a lamp?"

"Hurts my eyes."

"Just for a moment, Harold.  Please?"

She took his silence as assent and reached over
to the lamp beside the recliner.  Harold flinched
at the intrusion of the soft light, bringing a
swollen, reddened hand to his face.  "Seen
enough, missy?" he snarled.

Scully looked up at Mulder, who faced her with
equal, open-mouthed surprise.  The pieces began
to fall into place, and she turned to Miss Elise
for confirmation.

"Miss Elise, where are we, exactly?"

"What you talkin' about, petite?  Don't you know
this place?"

"There's no sign at the big house up the drive. 
Please, the name?"

"They renovatin' the museum out front - guess the
sign isn't up yet." Miss Elise paused, her brow
creasing.  "Honey, y'all in Carville."

Carville.  Dapsone.  Skin lesions and eye pain.

Hansen's Disease.  Otherwise known as leprosy.


**********


Mulder hung up on Marvin's protests, eyeing the
clouds moving in from the south.  So much for a
day of sunshine.  He'd long since discovered
living so close to the Gulf of Mexico meant one
had to put up with almost tropical weather, even
in the winter.  Rain, rain, and more rain.  Just
because a cold front passed through during the
night didn't mean it would keep going; weather
systems had a very bad habit of doing a reverse
at the drop of a hat in this part of the country.

He'd managed to quiet his friend's angry tirade
for a good fifteen minutes while Marvin had
complied with his request.  But as soon as Marvin
had disconnected from the Internet, he'd lit into
Mulder for his vanishing act.

Scully stepped out onto the porch, pulling her
medical bag closed.  "My guess is Harold 
suffers from multibacillary leprosy, with
Erythema Nodosum Leprosum reaction.  That would
account for his eye sensitivity."

"Well, that explains it," he remarked dryly, lost
in the medical jargon.  It remained to be seen if
the patients here had anything at all to do with
their investigation; at face value, it appeared
they were just unfortunate people who had no
where else to go.  He cut off any further
explanation with a wave of his hand, saying, "I
take it that's bad?"

"One of the worst forms of the disease."

"Should he be hospitalized?"

"What he needs is his medication.  He says it's
not unusual for the doctor to come through at the
last minute.  Typical government medical
attention, according to him... with more colorful
language, naturally."

"No more so than Marvin's, probably.  I haven't
heard curse words like that since Oxford."

"I knew there was something weird about this
place." Scully, lost in thought, looked over the
expanse of the camp.  "Miss Elise, Harold... I
doubt that's even their real names.  People long
ago came to this place with assumed names, their
families ashamed or horrified to be associated
with lepers.  And her hands - no wonder she
didn't feel those briars.  Mycobacterium leprae
attacks the nerves in the cooler parts of the
body, the hands, the feet..."

Mulder waved a hand in front of her face. 
"Hello?  Earth to Scully."

Finally, she looked at him.  "What?"

"Scully, this place has been here for a hundred
years or more.  I doubt these people know
anything about what we're looking for.  Now, that
camp over there..." he prodded gently, eager to
get going.

"Mulder, that Hansen's Disease facility in West
Virginia, all those years ago -"

"Which wasn't a leper colony after all, Scully. 
You saw those people back then... they weren't
lepers.  They were being experimented on with
alien DNA."

Sighing, she scratched her shoe against a rusty
nail on the porch.  "I'm reaching, aren't I?"

"No, you're just being you.  And for once, I'm
being you, too." He ran his thumb over her
downcast chin.  "Don't make me play the skeptic
too often, Scully.  Gives me a wedgie."

Mouth lifting in a grin, she peered up at him. 
"Well, we can't have that.  C'mon, let's get you
home."

"Speaking of..."  Mulder pocketed his cell phone,
giving her a chagrined smile.  "I think I may
have a bit of a problem when I get home."

"Marvin?"

He nodded, chuckling.  "Got room for one more in
that hotel room, Scully?"

She snorted softly, tossing back her head, her
eyes narrow with humorous reproach.  "You're
asking for help from the wrong person, Mulder."

"You wouldn't help me escape?"

"I'd throw away the key."  She smiled shortly at
his grin of agreement, then stepped off the
porch, heading for the car.  "We're in the right
place, aren't we?"

His grin quickly melted into a sobering stare as
he followed, watching her toss her medical bag
into the trunk.  "Yeah.  According to Marvin,
this is a former leper colony.  It's been around
since the late nineteenth century.  A couple of
years ago, the federal government sold it back to
the state, who turned it into the juvenile
program it is today."

"The federal government?  I thought this had
always been state property."

"The state sold it to the US government back in
the twenties; actually, it's been called many
things since then.  At one time, it was the
United States Marine Hospital Number 66."  His
eyes told her not to go there.  "It's also been a
sugar plantation and an armadillo farm."

"Armadillo farm?"

"They used them for research.  Apparently,
armadillos are a good source of the leprosy
bacterium."

"And Harold and the others?"

"When the National Guard took over, the patients
were moved to an LSU-run outpatient clinic in
Baton Rouge.  A few petitioned to stay; they
considered this place home."

Scully moved to the side of the car, absently
looking out over the grounds.  "Harold told me he
was born in Georgia.  He's been living here since
he was six."  She turned, mild distress marring
her brow.  "Mulder, someone should be taking care
of these people, but they're not.  Harold said he
hadn't seen his doctor in over a month.  I did
what I could for him, but his prescriptions are
fast running out.  He needs his monthly injection
of rifampicin."

"I thought leprosy was curable now?"

"It is, if it's caught early.  These people have
obviously not had that luxury.  They've been
living here for decades, Mulder.  It's only
fairly recently that medical science has come up
with the right cocktail.  Administered correctly,
the patient is no longer infectious and can lead
a normal life." Her face darkened to a scowl. 
"But from what I'm seeing, either Harold hasn't
been getting his medicine for a while, or
someone's been giving him the wrong thing."

A placebo?  Mulder felt a chill run over his
skin.  That would mean someone deliberately
wanted Harold to remain infectious with the
bacterium.  Maybe there *was* a connection. 
Slim, but worth pursuing.

From the way Scully bristled, however, she'd now 
latched on to the idea of helping Harold, something
he totally understood.  But at the moment, they 
couldn't intervene without exposure of their real
purpose on the grounds.

"Did you happen to ask where Building 108 is?" 
He had an awful feeling the cause of Harold's
progressive illness was somewhere in the
mysterious '108'.

"On the other side," she replied, her voice dry,
as if they expected anything else.  "This place
may look open and friendly, but Harold and Elise
say there are sentries roaming the perimeter of
the camp over there.  No one is allowed in or out
without permission."

A burst of noise from the camp at the end of the
far road signaled an end to their leisurely trip.
He glanced at his watch, noting the time as the
swarms of teenagers exited the school buildings. 
It wasn't wise to remain; already the kids were
spreading out on the grounds in pursuit of after-
school activities.  Anyone could approach them at
any second and demand to know the nature of their
business.  He'd bet his bottom dollar that
strangers weren't all that welcome in their
ranks, for the obvious reasons.  

"Looks like all this - '108' as well as Harold -
will have to wait, Scully.  I don't want to draw
attention to us." Turning his sympathetic gaze to
hers, he silently vowed they would come back to
the little forgotten community on this side. 
Especially since he could see how Harold's
condition had upset her so.

She moved to his side, lowering her voice as she
crossed her arms, her gaze steady on the camp
beyond.  "I'm not letting this go, you know," she
murmured.

"I expect no less.  Actually, I have a hankering
to snoop into this a bit more myself now."

"Really?  The wedgie bother you that much?"

"I lied.  I'm not wearing underwear.  Faked you
out."

Laughing openly now, she doubled over a bit. 
"Oh, Mulder... I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too." 

She sobered at his soft, yearning agreement,
standing resolute in the waning sunlight.  She
was so proud and determined an ache rose within
him to tell her just what the day had meant to
him.  More than that, the sudden urge to say what
he'd wanted to say since he saw her for the first
time two days ago was strong and undeniable. 
"Scully?"

"Yes?"

Leaning down, he took her hand in his, feeling a
goofy smile take shape on his face.  Despite the
way his clumsy paw engulfed her delicate fingers,
he basked in the strength he found there.  "In
case I forget to tell you later... I had a good
time today."

His admission, though it seemed to startle her,
made her smile in return.  Squeezing his hand,
she replied softly, "So did I."

Oh, Jesus, he thought.  Here it comes.  He could
no more stop it than he could dam up the
Mississippi River.  "Stay."

"What?"

Giving her hand a shake, he said it again,
stronger this time.  "Stay.  Call the hotel, have
your things brought up.  Stay with me, Scully."

Speechless, she stared at him for a moment before
dropping her chin.  "Mulder -"

"Think about it, okay?" He backed off, sensing
her quick refusal.  He had the long trip back to
the mansion to convince her it was the right
thing to do.  For the investigation, for him,
*and* for herself.  A cloud of dust from the far
end of the road caught his eye; a Jeep was fast
approaching from the other side of the property. 
Quickly, he reinforced his request with a shaky
smile.  "Stay.  I'll even shave off my beard if
you do."

She gave the Jeep a quick glance as she chuckled,
"You're making it hard for me to say no, Mulder." 
Her face was relaxed, but still there was a
lingering trepidation in her eyes.  She wasn't
letting herself say yes, not yet.

"Then don't." He grimaced at the Jeep, releasing
her hand.  It was time to leave off the personal
and concentrate on business.  Already reaching
for the car keys, he gave her a quick smile
before stepping around the end of the car, an
idea taking shape in his mind.  "Feel like doing
Brennan's?  Or Mulate's?"

Since he'd finally broken free of his confinement
- and spoken what was in his lonely heart - he
was itching for further exploration of the world
beyond his mansion.  He felt like he could tackle
the world, especially with funds at his disposal
and Scully at his side.  Scully took the opposite
route to the passenger side, her eyes pleading
for an end to the day trip.  "I think we should
call it a day, Mulder." 

Guess he wouldn't get what he wanted today - at
least *one* of the things he wanted.  But he'd
gladly forgo a four-star meal if it meant he
could eat popcorn with Scully later.

"Okay," he conceded, quickly moving to the
driver's side door.  In moments, they were
barreling down the drive, deftly reaching the 'Y'
before the Jeep could cut them off.

The glares of the two uniformed men were ominous,
but as Mulder left them behind, he noticed in the
rear view mirror that the Jeep wasn't following. 
It screeched to a halt within yards of them, just
sitting as if glued to the road. "Is this car a
rental?  Or is it one of Luquet's?"

"It's a rental." She swivelled in her seat. 
"They're not following - why?"

"Beats me.  Just keep an eye out, we're heading
back." Before turning on to the highway, he
spared another glance in the mirror.  The Jeep
idly made a u-turn, going back the way it came. 
Very peaceful, very unusual - in light of the
fact that moments ago, it was poised to intercept
them.  Mulder turned onto the highway, and sped
up, bypassing the ferry launch.

"No ferry ride?"

"Takes too much time.  I'll take the Sunshine
Bridge a bit farther downriver."

She settled back in her seat.  As she kept one
eye on the mirror outside her door, she asked
softly, "You thought they didn't follow because
you figured the car belonged to Robert, didn't
you?"

The thunderclouds gathering to the south had
nothing on her pissed look.  "In case you didn't
know it Scully, Luquet owns quite a bit in New
Orleans.  Including that hotel you're staying
in."

"*Part* owner, Mulder.  That's common knowledge."

"He owns ninety percent interest, Scully.  The
other ten is shared by the employees.  I'd say
that means the hotel is his."

Her mouth, once pinched with anger, fell open. 
"I didn't exactly rent this car," she said
softly, swallowing as she looked his way. "I had
the front desk contact a rental agency yesterday. 
It was waiting for me when I got back from the
party last night."

Mulder pursed his lips; he wondered why Scully
drove around in a luxury vehicle.  The Cadillac
was a bit too showy to be a common rental. 
Besides, Scully wasn't the ostentatious type. 
She never would have requested such a car, even
for comfort's sake.  "Registration," he bit out,
feeling as if a thousand eyes followed their
progress down the highway.  Was the car bugged? 
Tagged and traced by satellite?  If it was, it
was too damned late to do anything about it. 
Scully had literally led Luquet to Mulder's front
door last night.

Scully rummaged through the glove box, her face
pale.  With trembling fingers, she pulled out a
sheaf of papers.  Chin lowered, she whispered,
"It belongs to the hotel.  Robert's name is
listed as primary driver on the insurance card."


**********


"This doesn't mean he's dirty, Mulder."

Behind him, her voice sounded hollow and distant. 
Of course, he'd not said another word to her
since they'd found out the car belonged to Luquet
almost an hour ago.  He stayed silent on the ride
home, partly because the damned car had a flat
halfway home.  He was drenched, he was tired, and
he was angry.  But his silence after his tire-
changing rain dance was mostly because he hadn't
trusted himself not to go off on a tirade of
monstrous proportions.  He wasn't angry at *her*,
he was furious at the way she'd tried to reason
away the way Luquet's name seemed to pop up at
every turn.

He's well-known in the area, she'd argued.  So
what if I'm driving one of his cars?  So what if
he owns the hotel?  So what if he spoke to a
woman at the party?  You're the one who's
reaching now, Mulder.

In other words, you're a jealous bastard who's
seeing connections where there are none.

Oh, he was a jealous bastard all right.  But he
wasn't wrong about Luquet, he could feel it. 
Those military types at the facility had braked
immediately when they took note of the car, as if
they were well acquainted with its sleek,
expensive lines.

Mulder left the onslaught of fat raindrops behind
as he walked through the front door of his house. 
He heard Scully's car door slam, heard her huff
as she ran to follow.  In the growing dark, he
winced at the sudden glare of the lights flanking
the massive door.  Marvin's stony-faced form
filled the doorway, and Mulder threw up an
impatient hand.

"Don't say a word," he warned, almost running
over the little man in search of his study and a
warm drink.

He had the carafe poised over a cup when Scully's
voice penetrated his frustration.

"It's obvious we've reached an impasse, Mulder. 
I'm leaving.  The disc, please."

The cup in his hand shook.  She was cutting him
off because of *this*?  No matter who Luquet was
to them, friend or foe, his presence in the
investigation - hell, in their lives - was of
little consequence.  He thought that today had
proven they could still work as a team, if
nothing else.  That Scully could trust him to
hold his rash impulses in check and take it slow
and easy.

Yes, he'd let his personal happiness - and a
smidgen of jealousy - burst forth at times.  But
she'd gone along for the ride without much
complaint other than a warning shot over his bow
now and then.  Damn, the way she'd touched him
back on the ferry had almost made him melt with
longing.  As soon as the trip had ended, he'd had
to force his legs to move his body away from her
warmth before he made a total fool of himself by
dropping to his knees like a soothed tiger tamed
by the simple pressure of her fingers.  And he'd
thought she'd gotten past her issues of trust and
abandonment; she'd opened up more in the last
eight hours than he'd ever hoped for.  Until the
specter of Luquet had raised its ugly head a
while back, he'd been sure she'd accept his offer
to spend the duration of the assignment with him
in the mansion.  He'd had it all planned, with
arguments designed to work on the logistics she
couldn't deny and whispers designed to work on
the desire for his touch he knew still lived
within her.

Slowly, he lowered the carafe, his taste for
coffee gone.  He raised his head from its stiff
droop, taking a deep breath.  The business with
Luquet was just an excuse; she felt herself
surrendering to the pull of deeper water, and
this argument was the perfect lifeline to save
her from drowning.

He could override her resistence.  With just a
touch, or a kiss, or a pleading word of
capitulation, he could gain back the ground he'd
lost in a matter of moments.  Or he could simply
lock her in this house and make her admit she was
fucking scared of getting too close to him again.

Neither of those options would work in the long
run, however.  Besides, they both left a bad
taste in his mouth.  He wasn't comfortable with
forcing his will on her, just as he wasn't used
to begging.

"It's in the safe," he murmured at last, not
facing her.  "Behind the mirror just inside the
door over there." The level tone he employed in
giving her the combination afforded him little
satisfaction.  She was leaving.  All he could do
now was hope for his dignity to survive until she
left.  After that, he was cracking open the booze
again.  So much for his self-control with the
alcohol; it stood on a par with restraint over
his jealousy.

He heard her fumble with the safe; in a minute,
she'd be gone.  "Scully?"

"Yes?"  

He pictured her standing in the open door, a
calm, immovable form so far removed from him now
she'd never let him near ever again.  He wanted
to tell her to get the hell out.  He wanted to
beg her to stay.  He wanted to tell her he loved
her, but wasn't sure she'd accept or return it.
He did none of that, saying the one truth
remaining between them.

"I'm not the one running this time... for
whatever reason.  You need me, I'll be here."

The only response was the soft clicking of the
closing door.



End Chapter Eleven