"Antidote" (7/18)
by Rachel Howard
& Karen Rasch

Snowrider5@aol.com
Krasch@earthlink.net

And as the temperature drops, things sloooooooowly heat up.  ;-)

**********************************************************

October 26

The Middle of Nowhere

This didn't look good.

No way.  No how.

It wasn't even nine o'clock when Mulder was forced to suggest to
Scully that they call it quits for the night.

It was either that or chance driving off a cliff.

They couldn't see more than a foot in front of them.  Not with the snow
whipping against the windshield as if Mother Nature herself was firing
the stuff.  The storm had begun rather unremarkably, a light shower
at twilight.  Pretty, in a child's snow globe kind of way.  But before long,
the wind that had dogged them since early afternoon had reasserted
itself.  Soon, what had at first reminded Mulder of Currier and Ives
had seemed more like Stephen King.  And all at once, Scully and he
were trapped smack dab in the middle of the sort of tempest he had
prayed for as a kid, the variety guaranteed to close roads and the
schools they led to.

God, what he wouldn't give for an open road right about now.

But, traffic-free interstates not being an option, Mulder had instead
concentrated on guiding the Hum-Vee as best he could, his shoulders
hunched over the wheel, until it became clear that continuing would
be suicidal.

"I think we need to find a place to spend the night," he said at last, the
words as much apology as opinion.

His partner agreed.

Scully's softly murmured assent was one of the few things she had
shared with him since they had discussed Gateway's possible selection
as a kind of test site.  She hadn't admitted as much, but he suspected
her leg was still acting up.  Throughout their journey, she had been
restlessly shifting her weight upon the seat, her movement subtle, yet
telling.  He wished that she would just come right out and say, "You
know, Mulder--my leg hurts like hell."  But, no.  Despite some of the
inroads they had made earlier in the day, she had remained mute on the
subject, stubbornly pretending that all was well.

Mulder knew better.

Particularly, when it came to their immediate predicament.

"Well, I don't know what kind of wind break this rise is going to give
us," he said as he brought the Hum-Vee to a stop on what appeared to
be the beginnings of an incline, and put it into park.  "But, I have a
feeling it's not going to be enough for us to mistake Colorado in October
for Barbados in July."

Scully shook her head as she stared out at the storm, her expression
grim.  "How cold do you think it is out there?"

He shrugged and, leaving the motor running, slipped from behind the
wheel to turn to the cargo area behind.  "I don't know for sure.  But
with those gusts, I'd guess we're looking at a minus wind chill.  Maybe
even minus double digits."

Scully looked longingly at the temperature controls on the dashboard;
turned up to maximum capacity, the heating unit was only just
managing to keep the fierce winds at bay.  Grimacing with sympathy,
Mulder shook his head.  "We can't leave the engine running, Scully.  
Even if we didn't have our gas supply to worry about, we'd still run
the risk of carbon monoxide poisoning."

She nodded, the motion weary and resigned.  "I know.  It's just . . . .
we've got our coats and one blanket each.  I'm not sure that's going to
be enough, Mulder.  Not on a night like this."

"I'm afraid I have to agree with you," he mumbled ruefully as, flipping
on the vehicle's interior lights, he began hunting through the supplies
stowed in the back of the Hum-Vee; checking inside packs and
boxes, searching behind and beneath their meager stash of food .  The
dome light illuminating the rear hold got only a C for effort.  Its glow
was weak, casting shadows far more impressive than the light it
imparted.

"What are you looking for?" Scully queried curiously as she peered
over the seats at him.

"Anything that we can use for insulation."

Immediately picking up on his train of thought, she remembered, "The
jackets.  The ones I found with the daypacks.  They aren't the heaviest
things in the world, but they're something."

"Great," he replied with enthusiasm as he found the items in question
and draped them over the back seat so as not to lose track of them.  "Do
you recall seeing anything else back here we could use?  It wouldn't
have to be cloth.  Plastic or even rubber might do the trick."

Brow furrowed in thought, she shook her head.  "Not really.  Aside
from the food and water and the traveling medicine chest, there wasn't
all that much back there.  Some rope maybe . . . "

"Paydirt!"

"What?" Scully asked with interest, as she carefully knelt and
began to crawl over the console splitting the driver's seat from that of
the passenger.  But, as she slowly navigated the narrow path leading
to his side, her injured leg suddenly buckled.  Her hand outstretched,
her face taut with pain, she grabbed wildly for support.

"Shit!"

Mulder caught her just before her hip hit the ground.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice gruff with concern, his body
wrapped around hers, holding her up.  "What's wrong?"

She shook her head and sighed, her hands braced on his forearms.
"It's this damned leg.  It's stiffened up on me after all those hours
sitting."

"Does it hurt?" he queried, his face bent to hers.

"No--"

He slipped his hand beneath her chin and tipped her head so that her
eyes met his.  "The =truth=, Scully."

She looked up at him, her gaze faintly rebellious.  They just eyed each
other for a moment, fixed in a silent contest of wills.  At last, she wet
her lips with her tongue and softly admitted, "A little.  It keeps
cramping."

He nodded slowly, trying to judge if she was minimizing the situation
for his benefit or being straight with him.  They were locked in an
awkward sort of kneeling embrace, his one arm twined around her waist,
her face balanced on his fingertips, their legs tangled like tree roots.  
Thrust as closely together as they were, he was even more aware than
usual of her size, her delicacy.  Hell.  Her head didn't even clear his
shoulder.  He wasn't a terribly big guy, yet he was looming over her.

Maybe that's why he so strongly felt the urge to protect her, Mulder
realized with a spark of insight.  To scoop her up, and hide her away,
and make certain that nothing would ever threaten or harm her again.  
Not goons named Carl, not dangerous treks out to the middle of nowhere,
not killer snowstorms, and certainly not something as mundane as a
pulled hamstring.

Mulder vs. The Hamstring.

Yeah.  That ought to be one battle he stood a chance of winning.

Bemused by his own silliness, he quietly chuckled, his hand sliding
around the curve of Scully's face to brush lightly against her cheek,
the caress seeming to him at that moment like the most natural thing
in the world.  His odd fit of whimsy seemed to erase the last of his
partner's lingering vexation.  Lifting a brow, she drawled, "Are you
laughing at me, Mulder?"

"No, ma'am," he said meekly.

"Then what's so funny?"

His lips lifted still, he combed behind her ear a few strands of cool
auburn hair.  "Scully, you and I are about to bed down for the night
in weather a popsicle would find chilly.  Our bed is a vehicle we
stole from thugs bent on killing us.  We're somehow going to have to
manage to grab some shut-eye without the comfort of heat.  We're
miles from anywhere, without a road or maps to guide us, and yet
we're doing our damnedest to get back to a town with nary a live
citizen to greet us upon our return."

He shrugged.

"If I don't laugh, I may cry."

That coaxed a smile out of her.  "I see your point."

"I'm nothing if not persuasive," he sardonically assured her.  "Remember,
I'm the one who talked you into coming out here in the first place."

"But you were in a slightly better mood a minute ago," she murmured
as she ever so cautiously stretched and flexed her leg.  A small shadow
of pain darkened her eyes, yet she didn't cry out.  Rather, she continued,
"What did you find that got you so excited?"

"Oh!" Mulder mumbled, feeling a bit foolish for forgetting to have
shared with her the good news.  Guess that's what happens when a
beautiful woman literally falls into a guy's lap, he reasoned.  "Here.  
Sit down a minute and I'll show you."

Guiding her to one of the back seats, he gently lowered her down,
then turned and retrieved his discovery from behind him.

"Voila!"

Scully squinted in the half-light.  "What is that?"

"A tarp," he explained, shaking it out.  "I think.  I found it folded and
shoved under that big carton of bottled water.  I don't know what the
hell Carl and his buddy had planned on doing with it, but I have a
feeling we can probably find a use for it."

 She nodded thoughtfully.  "Are you thinking we should try layering
all this stuff?"

He shrugged.  "You tell me, Scully.  You're the doctor."

"I think that's our best bet," she said with another small bob of her
head.  "If we're to have any hope of conserving our body heat, we're
going to have to pool our resources."

Pool our resources.  In other words, he was going to finally get to live
out his fantasy of Scully, him, and a lone sleeping bag.

Or at least, some sadly less sensual version of it.

Beggars can't be choosers, Mulder, he dryly reminded himself.  Better
make that fantasy a reality.

After convincing Scully to sit back and let him ready their sleeping
quarters, Mulder quickly constructed a sort of makeshift nest.  The
tarp proved nearly double the size of their blankets.  So he used that
as the foundation of their bed, figuring that half the fabric could go
beneath them and half on top.  Next, he took their coats and unzipped
them so they lay flat upon the bottom portion of the canvas, then did
the same with the two plaid jackets.

"You know, we're assuming that the Gunmen didn't hear from Franklin
again because someone physically stopped him from communicating
with anybody,"  Scully said as she watched him work.  "But what if it
was something simpler?  Like a downed phone line?"

"Scully, you saw the bloodstains on the floor," Mulder argued as he
arranged the coats upon the tarp.

"I know.  I'm just saying . . . wouldn't they have cut the phone lines
to Gateway first?  If this really is what we think it is, a man-made
catastrophe?"

"Which would mean we're heading back to an area that we can't dial
out of," Mulder said, finishing her thought.  "I don't know though . . .
did you see the setup Franklin had?  I'm pretty sure he was pirating his
electricity, and the phone line, too."

"Mulder, that's not possible.  He wouldn't have a phone number, for
starters."

"Exactly.  That guy wasn't looking to be reachable to the outside
world.  He just wanted modem access so he could get onto the net,"  
Mulder said with a grin.  "A man after my own heart.  Pretty effective
way to keep the telemarketers from interrupting your dinner.  Anyway,
I doubt anyone cutting phone lines would have nuked Franklin's little
arrangement.  His cabin is too far out for them to have bothered with.  
At least at first."  

She slowly nodded her agreement.  "Well, if the cabin does still have
internet access that would make it a good place to hide out while we
try to figure out what happened in Gateway."

Mulder considered for a moment.  "That's true.  After all, when I got
the okay from Skinner to look into this, I never mentioned how we got
our lead.  No one knows that we first learned about Gateway from
Franklin."

"Except the Gunmen," Scully reminded him.

"I feel pretty sure they'll keep it to themselves,"  he assured her with
a wry smile.  

She smiled back at him.

Her grin threw more light than that stupid overhead bulb.

For just a second or two, Mulder froze, his behind on his heels, his
gaze trained on his partner's sunny expression.  "Um . . . it occurred
to me that we should actually sleep on top of the coats to help cushion
us from the floor," he muttered at last, gesturing weakly at the
handiwork in question.  "I don't know about you, but even with the
heat on, I can feel the wind seeping in from underneath."

"Good thinking."

"I like yours better."

"How do you mean?" she queried.

"The cabin," he replied, turning to regard her more fully.  "After all,
a man may have died there. . . ."

She wrinkled her nose with distaste.

"But it does have heat," he reminded her.  "And food."

"And a real bed."

Oh God.  It was like his fantasy on steroids--Scully, him, and one lone
bed.

Easy, tiger.

"Hey!  Don't knock this one till you've tried it," Mulder finally said,
mock indignation masking certain other musings.  Scully appeared
not to notice anything amiss.  She merely lifted a brow in reply.  

"Why don't you go ahead and get situated," he said, taking hold of
her arm and settling her atop the would-be mattress.  "No sense
in two of us crawling in after the fact and messing everything up."

Moving carefully, Scully did as he suggested, stretching out on her back
and looking up at him with wide, dark eyes.  For just a millisecond,
Mulder paused at the picture she presented gazing up at him, her bright
hair fanning out from her pale cheeks in tousled waves.  Then, shaking
himself free from his persistent reverie, he draped their two blankets
over her and folded the tarp on top of that.

"Do what you can to warm that up for me, will ya, Scully?" he
entreated with a grin.  "I'm gonna go back up front for a second and
shut everything down."

"Just think of me as your very own personal hot water bottle, Mulder,"
she murmured dryly.

"Ooh.  Can I share that nickname with the guys back at the Bureau?"
he queried over his shoulder.

"Do, and I'll deny everything," she retorted from beneath the tarp.

Chuckling, he slipped behind the wheel.  Outside the Hum-Vee the
world was a white whirlwind.  He could make out nothing but snow
and more snow, the vision leaving him vaguely claustrophobic.  
Taking a deep breath, he first snapped off the lights, then finally the
engine.

Darkness, black as pitch.

Almost at once, he could feel the frigid north wind pushing through
the vehicle's seams.

Please God, let their preparations be enough.

"Talk to me, Scully," he mumbled.  "I don't want to step on you."

"I'm over here," she called softly.

Crawling cautiously in the direction of her voice, he found the edge of
the tarp with his hand.  Bending down, he lifted up the covers and
eased beneath them.  Pulling the combination of canvas and wool to
just beneath his chin, he twisted slightly in an attempt to adjust himself
more comfortably atop the coats.

"Ow!"

He couldn't be certain, but he thought that it might have been her head
with which his elbow had made contact.

"Sorry," he apologized contritely.  "I'm sorry.  This is tricky.  I can't
see a damn thing.  And I'm afraid I'm going to kick your leg or
something."

"It's okay," she murmured from right beside his shoulder.  "Don't worry
about it.  I'm fine."

Once he was comfortably arranged, it was Scully's turn to adjust.  She
scooted up, then to her side; trying, as he had earlier, to find the best
possible position.  The problem was, their cocoon was economy-sized
at best.  There just wasn't a lot of room to maneuver.  Not if a person
wanted to stay beneath the tarp.

Which meant that her soft little body couldn't help but wiggle alongside
his longer, harder frame.  Rub against it.  Warm and firm.  Curved and
sweet.

Christ.

No doubt about it.  Parts of his anatomy were getting harder by the
minute.

"Come here," he nearly growled a heartbeat or two later.  Wrapping his
arm around her shoulder, he tugged her to him so that her head rested
on his shoulder and her tummy pressed against his hip.  In her surprise
at this sudden turn of events, her hand fluttered for just an instant to his
exposed throat.

At her touch, Mulder almost jumped straight through the covers.  "Geez,
Scully!!"

"What?" she queried, her tone disgruntled.

"Your hands are like ice," he said, trying his best not to sound like
a parent.  "Where are your gloves?"

"Nice and warm back in D.C."

"Do you want mine?"

"No.  You need them as much as I do," she told him firmly.  "Besides,
yours wouldn't fit me.  They'd just fall off overnight."

"We could share."

"=No=, Mulder."

Sighing in frustration, he pondered the problem for a moment, silently
cursing her stubbornness.   Honest to God, there were times when he
swore that his partner's independence was a curse.  She wouldn't take
his gloves, eh?  Well, she probably wouldn't approve of his back-up
plan either.  But this time, Dana Scully simply wasn't going to get her
way.

Pointedly refraining from asking for permission, he lifted her dainty
hand in his and raising it to his lips.  Cupping it in his gloved palm,
he opened his mouth and slowly exhaled.  Gently, he bathed her fingers
in moist heat, then took another deep breath and repeated the action.  
His lips grazed her knuckles, the edges of her nails scratched with
phantom force against the coarse stubble on his chin.  It took every
ounce of willpower he possessed to keep from pulling one of those slim
digits into his mouth and tasting her skin with his tongue, from suckling
lightly on a forefinger or a pinkie.  But somehow, reason prevailed.  
After a few moments, he instead took her hand and placed it against his
cheek to assess his work.

"That's better," he murmured with satisfaction, tucking both their hands
beneath the covers once more so that hers was sandwiched between his
and his chest.

Scully said nothing.  But he thought he detected a slight softening of
her body, a relaxation of sorts as she rested against him from shoulder
to knee.

They lay there for a time, not speaking.  Mulder could feel the gradual
drop in temperature on his face.  But, so far, his homemade sleeping
bag was holding up admirably.  His bed partner was throwing heat like
a miniature furnace.

"Are you comfortable?" he asked softly, his hand gliding lightly along
her shoulder and arm.

"Hmm" she hummed from just below his ear, her voice husky and low,
and astonishingly intimate in the darkness.  "Yes.  I am."

He nodded, thinking that even though she couldn't see him, she could
probably feel the motion of his cheek against her hair.

"Thank you."

He had nearly dozed off when he heard the words, whispered in a hush.
God, what he wouldn't give to be able to see her.  To look in her eyes
and try to gauge just what had brought this about.  He couldn't tell.  And
he had damn few clues to go by.  As far as he could judge, she hadn't
moved.  She still laid curled against him, her head tucked beneath his
chin. And her voice gave away no secrets; he detected no tremor, no
temper.

What in the world was she thanking him for?  For dragging her in to
this mess when in reality they had no official case to investigate?

Perhaps he should simply ask her.

"For what?" he queried softly, giving her hand the gentlest of squeezes.

She didn't answer him immediately.  Instead, she shook her head which,
given their positions, meant she was for all intents and purposes nuzzling
his shoulder.

Which, when he stopped to think about it, was probably what it had
seemed as if he had been doing to her earlier.

"Just thank you," she said again, and sighing, melted against him.

And while the warmth her words imparted would have been sufficient to
get him through a week of nights as cold as the one they were presently
being forced to endure, the sensation of a trusting Dana Scully nestled
in his arms was enough to keep Fox Mulder up for many hours to come.

        *    *    *    *    *    

Yet, he still fell asleep before his partner.  Long after Mulder's breathing
had turned slow and deep, hours past the point where his arms had grown
slack and heavy around her, Scully laid awake in the cold, starless night.  
Thinking.  

The evening's chill was biting, nipping at her ears and nose until she
was forced to seek refuge even deeper beneath the covers.  Sliding lower,
so that only the top of her head peeked out from under the tarp, she
burrowed against the man sharing her bed, drinking in his warmth,
his comfort, his familiar scent.  The wind howled outside their shelter,
shaking the Hum-Vee.  The low, mournful racket should have been
worrisome; or at the very least, lonely.

But, it seemed neither.  Not to her.  Why should she be concerned?  
She rested snug and content beside a man she knew would face down
the devil himself to keep her safe.  So what, in the end, was a little
wind?  Sure, they were edging ever closer to a confrontation with
forces who clearly wanted them dead.  It looked like one of their own
had given away their mission.  They had no one to trust, save each
other.  Such betrayal should have been devastating to her psyche.

Instead, she lay there, smiling in the frigid blackness, wry humor
striking at what many would have deemed a rather inappropriate time.  
Tickling her unexpectedly, just as it had Mulder earlier.  She was no
reckless thrill-seeker.  She knew the seriousness of their predicament,
the ruthlessness of those they sought to bring down.  She didn't take
the work that lay before them lightly.  Didn't underestimate the danger
facing them.  

It was only that she had reached a kind of epiphany that day.  One that
had begun when she had awoke in her partner's arms and grown to
maturity in that same locale hours later.  It hadn't come upon her like a
bolt of lightning.  Hadn't swept over her in a wave.  Rather it had crept
up on her, stolen around her like most wily of thieves.  Making off with
bits of her pride, pieces of her restraint.

And the entirety of her heart.

Yet, that trophy wasn't really as grandiose as it might first appear,
she mused, her cheek to his chest, her hand rubbing gently against
his sweater.  After all, Fox Mulder had owned a significant portion of
that particular organ for years.  She had just never taken the time to
fully understand what such a thing meant.  She had never questioned
whether she loved him.  Of course, she did.  She had accepted that
fact early in their relationship.

But exactly what kind of love did she feel for the man beside whom she
worked?

That thorny issue was one she had always preferred to avoid.  Love was
love.  What difference did it make?  It certainly didn't affect the way
things were between them.  Their obvious affection for each other didn't
make them any less effective as investigators.  If anything, it had molded
them into a better team.  Had more sharply attuned them to each other's
moods, had made each sensitive to the manner in which the other was
prone to evaluate a situation.  Hell, half the time she could guess what
Mulder was going to say before he said it.  She would bet that he could
boast the same about her.

And if at the times, despite the deep, spiritual bond they had forged, the
friendship she and Mulder shared fell short, if instead she confessed to
struggling with simpler, earthier, physical needs . . . .

Well, that was just too damned bad.  There were rules.  They might not
be written down in some official FBI handbook, but every agent knew
them just the same.

Thou shalt not sleep with thy partner.

The first of several such commandments.  Understood, but not recorded.

It didn't matter that she found Mulder attractive.  That, try though she
might, she couldn't help but measure every potential romantic interest
against the one man she couldn't have.

Not smart enough.

Not intense enough.

Not sexy enough.

The would-be Romeo invariably wouldn't touch her right, or listen
to her with the proper degree of concentration.   He wouldn't gaze
down at her with knowing, hazel eyes, a sly sort of humor twinkling
in their depths, and deliver an innuendo-laden comment that probably
should have earned him a slap, but instead only made her want to zing
him one better.  

No matter who he was, he wasn't Mulder.

Get over it, Dana, she would wearily tell herself.  And get on with your
life.

So she had.  She had resolutely ignored certain impulses and contented
herself with what was possible.  She had followed the rules.

But gradually, as the years had passed and one by one the ideals she
had held dear--her beliefs regarding elected officials, those sworn to
protect innocent civilians, even the workings of the universe itself--had
been undermined, she had begun questioning what was supposedly
proper and just.  She had started to wonder if perhaps other truisms
she had taken for granted might not be unworthy of her esteem.

Why couldn't Mulder and she have something more than what they
already enjoyed?  Why did this--the most all-consuming, satisfying
relationship she had ever known--=have= to remain platonic?

Who said so?

Maybe it was time to add a footnote to the old rule book.

Of course, all this was moot if Mulder was indifferent to her, she
would silently grumble, if he viewed her as nothing more than a good
buddy.  Even as--and the idea had occurred to her years ago--a kind
of stand-in for Samantha.  But, she didn't think that was the case.  
Even with the recent sorry state of her love life, she still remembered
the way a man looked at a woman he desired.  And from time to time,
her partner would direct such a gaze her way.  And then there was the
verbal foreplay, the jokes and quips, and occasional "I just got very turned
on."  She sensed the strangely charged energy that flowed between them,
knew he often touched her not because he had to, but because he wanted
to.  She was guilty of such indulgences herself.

So, the man she loved was seemingly as attracted to her as she was to
him.  Why didn't she act upon the knowledge?

Her work.  Plain and simple.  If they ever entered into a sexual
relationship, if he started looking at her as more woman and lover than
partner, who knew what that might translate into?  How it would alter
their on-the-job dynamic.

And then there were her own hang-ups with which to contend.  Her
need to remain steadfast and strong no matter what .  She didn't know
where those impulses came from, didn't really understand why it was
so desperately important to her to show that she could take it, that she
was equal to any and all challenges.  Maybe it was a lifetime of trying
to compete with her brothers for her father's approval.  Perhaps it had
developed instead as she had struggled to excel in her chosen career.  
Regardless, she recognized her tendency to hold the world at arm's
length, to go it alone.

Yet, that day's events had shown her, not for the first time, just how
unfeasible such leanings had become.  For reasons she felt certain even
he himself did not fully understand, Mulder had begun making demands
on her.  Not for her time or her loyalty; but for her honesty, her openness.  
He had told her he wanted to know when she was hurting or in need; had
expressed this desire with a passion he usually reserved for extra-
terrestrials and their earthly collaborators.  At first, she had fought him,
had fallen into her usual pattern of behavior.  

I'm fine, Mulder.  

Really.  

But as time had passed and she had begun rationalizing to herself and
lying to her partner, Scully had slowly started to realize just how twisted
her logic had become.  Since when was it more noble to purposefully
mislead the man who most depended upon her being forthright with
him?

And when push finally did come to shove, and she had been forced to
admit her infirmity, had the world stopped spinning?  Had Mulder
suddenly started treating her as a helpless female, someone to be
coddled and cosseted?

Uh-uh.

All had been business as usual.  Just as she would have handled it had
it been he who had been injured.

Then there had been their sleeping arrangements; the pleasure to be
had by being held so sweetly in his arms, and the way Mulder had
reacted to her closeness.  Did he really believe she wouldn't notice the
effect it had on him?  For crying out loud, she was a doctor.  And a
woman.  She couldn't help but recognize the subtle tension drawing
his body tight, shortening his breath, and deepening his voice.  Did he
even realize how his hand had begun stealing softly through her hair
as they had laid entwined, almost as if his fingers had a mind of their
own?  She thought not.  But she had certainly been aware of the tender
caress.  It was all she could do to keep from returning it.

But not here.

Not now.

Soon.  With a killer disease waiting for them in Gateway, they had no
guarantees from one day to the next, no assurance that their "someday"
would ever actually roll around.  No.  Carpe diem, and all that nonsense.  
Dana Scully was sick and tired of doing what she thought she should do,
what was expected of her.  The time had come for her to do what she had
yearned to do, seemingly forever.

Watch out, Fox Mulder, she silently warned, smiling against his soundly
slumbering form.  Ready or not, here I come.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Continued in Chapter VIII

"Antidote" (8/18)
by Rachel Howard
& Karen Rasch

Snowrider5@aol.com
Krasch@earthlink.net

This chapter probably qualifies as "R".  NC-17 directly follows in
Chapter 9.  Blame Rachel.  Her smut chapter was =long=!  :-)

**********************************************************

October 27

Just Outside Gateway, Colorado

The snow around the cabin was untracked, pristine.  Mulder drove
the Hum-Vee nearly to the structure's front door, then hopped out and
floundered around the vehicle, leaving Scully to struggle out of her side
on her own.  She did so carefully, her leg stiff after a night spent on the
four-wheeler's floor and a day spent propped in one position.  The
winds had piled the snow into drifts which grew deeper near the cabin.
Mulder's jeans were already wet to the knee from wading through the
frozen waves.

Well, don't just sit there -- get out, Scully silently coached herself.
Taking a steadying breath, she shifted slowly on her seat, and opening
the car door, slid from her perch to the chilling whiteness below.

Mulder opened the cabin door just as she landed, the noisy creak of
its hinges obscuring her grunt of pain.  Half her weight had settled
awkwardly on her bad leg, sending a whip crack of pain up the back
of the limb.  Although he hadn't heard her yelp her distress, Mulder
did turn towards her in time to see the grimace that crossed her face.
His own expression tight with chagrin, he took two long strides and
wrapped his arm around her waist.  Leaning her weight against him,
they hobbled into the darkened cabin.

"It's just stiff from being in the car," she began as they stomped across
the threshold, snow trailing in after them like feathers molting from a
bird.

"I know.  It's okay, Scully."  The quiet resignation in his tone stopped
her.  How in the hell was she supposed to respond to something like
that?  Mulder didn't really seem to care one way or another.  He released
her almost immediately, leaving her to point and flex the toes on her
bad leg to chase away the ache while he got out some of his aggression
by kicking shut the door.  Slightly bemused by his macho display,
she glanced at him and saw that he was studying her, watching her
gingerly shift her weight back and forth as she tested the depth of the
injury.

Right.  Trust.

She took a deep breath.  "Okay.  I think, I =really= think, that this is
a pinched nerve and maybe a strained ligament.  If I were examining
a patient with these symptoms -- without any diagnostic instruments,
that is -- I would suggest resting the affected areas, careful stretching,
ibuprofen, heat, maybe massage therapy.  Then I would reevaluate
the injury in a day or two."  She looked up at him again, and saw that
he was listening to her closely.  "Mulder?"

He brushed some snow off her sleeve.  "Pretty good, Doc.  Did the
patient happen to mention if it hurt?"

He was testing her, she realized, vastly uncomfortable at being put
on the spot.  Then, she reminded herself again that this was Mulder,
and it was all right to need him a little. "Yeah, it hurts."

Nodding slowly, Mulder refrained from commenting at first.  Instead,
he reached over her shoulder and flicked on the light switch.  The
small cabin looked just as it had the first time they had seen it; Scully
guessed that no one had been inside it since their brief visit, days ago.
With one more appraising look at her, he bent swiftly and began
unlacing her boots.

"Mulder?"

He tugged on one ankle, and she obligingly lifted her foot so he could
remove the boot.  As he repeated the process with her other foot, he
said, "Thanks for the diagnostic help, but now it's my turn to play
doctor."  He leered at her comically while he yanked his own boots off.

When he straightened up in front of her he had two pairs of wet
boots hanging from his hands.  "Thank you for telling me the truth."

She found that she was having trouble meeting his gaze.  "Why?"
she muttered, breathing in the smell of wet wool as she examined the
pattern on his jacket with much greater interest than it should have
commanded.

He tossed the boots in the general direction of the door, where they
landed with a thud, then tilted her face up towards his before he
answered her.  "Because it matters to me.  You're always cleaning up
after my mistakes, Scully.  Always.  You're the one who bails us out
when Skinner gets pissed at us -- after I get us into some kind of stupid
trouble that the FBI could do without.  Like being here, for example.
You get stuck with all the messes I get us into, and you never say a
damn word."

Without thinking about it, she glanced over to where the dripping
boots had started to form a puddle by the door.  He looked over at them
as well, grinned, and said, "See what I mean?  It must be worse than
having a dog."  He then slid his hand from beneath her chin and moved
to properly store their boots, centering them on the mat in front of the
door.  Finding a pot-holder on the stove, he used it to start mopping up
the puddle.  As he focused on his task rather than on her eyes, he lightly
said, "I know I'm not easy to live with."

"Mulder," she interrupted quietly, but he didn't let her get any farther.

"Wait, Scully.  Let me say this.  You've been bailing me out for years.
I can't even count the times you've patched me up after something
went wrong --you've saved my life at least half a dozen times.  And
don't," he looked up with an expression she couldn't place, half-
stern, half-tender, "tell me anything about it being part of the job
description, because that's not all of it."  He ran his hand through his
hair in frustration.  "I'm not doing a very good job of this, am I?  I
guess," he paused, and she saw a thousand things flit across his face,
faster than she could possibly identify the emotions, even with her
years of experience reading Mulder's thoughts.  "I guess I just want to
say that . . . that it makes me feel good to be able to take care of you
for once."

Gazing down at him as he knelt on the wet floor, holding a soggy
pot-holder up to her like a shy suitor offering a bouquet, she wanted
nothing more than to tell him that she loved him and be done with it.
Tell him and find out if she had been reading him correctly, if all those
smoldering looks and bits of innuendo had meant what she hoped they
had.

But in the half-heartbeat it took for her to think of the words, she
lost her nerve and instead simply reached out and took the pot-holder
from him, tossing it towards the sink.  Finally, she said, in a low
voice, "That's what I wanted to thank you for.  Last night."

Standing once more, he looked at her, their bodies close, their eyes
locked.

"You're welcome," he murmured at last.

Keeping his gaze trained on hers for a moment longer, he then
dragged a chair over to her and helped ease her down on to it.  A
trifle confused by his mute yet thoughtful courtesy, she allowed
herself to be seated.  And hunched for warmth, she watched as he
got the stove going.

"When are we going to Gateway?" she inquired as she watched him
work.  "I mean . . . since that was the purpose of this little expedition."
Her query sounded forced to her ears, as if she had asked solely to
make conversation.  And in many respects, she had.  Silence usually
wasn't a problem between them, neither being the sort to speak without
reason.  Yet, this time she had felt compelled to shatter the cabin's quiet.
Subtle yet disturbing currents were eddying around them, dangerous
and deep.  It seemed as if at any instant she might be sucked under.

But Mulder appeared unaware of such things.  In contrast to her
jumbled emotions, he looked to be the very picture of calm.  Moving
with an ease she envied, he pulled kindling from a box at the base of
the stove and shoved it inside its pot-bellied girth.  A neat stack of
split logs lay conveniently nearby.  He soon availed himself of these
as well.  "Early tomorrow morning, when we see how your leg is doing,
we'll figure out a plan.  If I need to go alone, I will."

That's what you think, buddy, she silently grumbled, her lips thinning.

Skillfully arranging wood atop the pile he had fashioned of newspaper
and twigs, Mulder anticipated her protest, cutting her off before she
could voice it.  "Don't, Scully.  Just forget about it for tonight.  We both
need a break before we do anything else.  Those people will all still be
dead tomorrow."

Well, that was true enough, she supposed.  Still, she didn't like it.  She
couldn't stomach the thought of Mulder going after those thugs alone,
of either of them doing so.

But, she said nothing.  Instead, she watched as her partner patiently
coaxed the stove's contents to blaze.  After a minute or two, the wood
caught, burning nicely.  Sharp snaps and pops punctuated the cabin's
stillness.  Throwing a toothy grin her way, Mulder stood, wiped his
hands against his legs, and crossed to the makeshift desk on the
room's far side.

"Well, let's see if this gamble paid off," he said as he reached for the
power button.

Two minutes later, they both heard the humming and burst of static
that signaled a modem connecting.  Success.  They had a means of
communicating with the outside world.  Shutting down the computer,
Mulder cheerily remarked, "That should come in handy tomorrow."

"Score one for the good guys,"  Scully mumbled softly, her arms folded
on the back of her chair, her cheek resting on top of them.  It had been
one hell of a long day.  It must have been two by the time she had fallen
asleep the night before.  She had awakened a little after eight, and they
had been on the road soon after.  Now, at twilight, seated snugly beside a
toasty warm stove, drowsiness was stealing over her like fog.  Even the
ache in her leg was fast becoming meaningless.  Maybe if she just closed
her eyes for a minute . .

She didn't think she had dozed, or at least not for more than a moment
or two.  However, the sudden, loud clanging jolted her awake.  She
opened her eyes and saw that Mulder was on his knees a few feet from
her.  She watched with curiosity as he rummaged under the stove,
among the pots and pans stored there, and came out with a huge stew-
pot, and several smaller vessels.  It wasn't until he crossed to the small
alcove opposite her, yanked back the curtain, and eyed the tub with a
thoughtful gaze, that she realized what he was planning to do.

"Mulder, are you drawing a bath for me?"

Mulder turned from his study of Vaughn Franklin's pseudo-bathroom
to regard his partner.  She sat sideways on the ladder back chair he had
deposited her on, her chin propped on her forearms, staring back at him
with sleepy blue eyes.  Her hair was tousled and wind-ratted, and she
had a smudge of dirt just to the side of her full, soft mouth.

Even bedraggled she took his breath away.

"Uh-huh,"  he mumbled, unsure suddenly whether his plan would be
welcomed by the woman he sought to please.  He couldn't tell by her
expression. "This is going to take awhile, though.  How about some
dinner while the water's heating up?"

When she didn't answer right away, he had to resist the urge to shuffle
his feet like a bashful schoolboy.  Scully could be so contrary sometimes.
Would she be angry at his attempt to do something nice for her?

She was surveying him steadily, head tipped slightly to one side, her
bad leg stretched out in front of her.  Uh-oh.  He recognized the
expression on her face; it was the one she usually wore right before
he switched off the lights in the office and turned on the slide projector.
"Scully?"

She grinned suddenly.  "Why didn't I think of this before?"

"Think of what?" He felt like he had missed a step somewhere.

"Maybe I should get hurt more often."

"Oh."  Well, what do you know?  It appeared Special Agent Doctor
Dana Scully was in the mood to be pampered.

He felt a foolish smile break across his face, and said smugly,
"See?  That's why I always let the bad guys beat on me for awhile."

"That's going to cost you, Mulder," she warned, heaving herself out
of the chair.  He quickly returned to her side and hovered while she
peeled off her jacket and tossed it over the seat.  Chuckling at her
imperious gesture, he moved in to help her when she extended an arm.
"You make dinner," she directed, "I'm going to follow the doctor's
advice and lie down while you do all the work."

And with his arm locked around her waist, he guided her to the room's
double bed.

"I won't fall asleep," she predicted as she curled up atop the covers,
ruining her pronouncement with a yawn.

"I know," he murmured, his tone indulgent as he unfolded an afghan
he found at the foot of the bed and settled it over her small form.

"If you need any help, Mulder, you get me up," she mumbled into the
pillow, her eyes sliding shut.  "I was only kidding about you doing all
the work."

"Okay," he assured her, having no intention of doing any such thing.

He gazed down at her, affection naked in his regard, and watched her
body slowly relaxing its way into sleep.  It didn't take long.  The past
couple of days had really worn her out.  "Sweet dreams, Scully," he
wished her softly, his fingers lightly smoothing a few flyaway strands
of hair from her cheek.  She didn't feel his touch.  She had already
nodded off.

And for a long minute he just stood there, looking at her.  Thank you,
he told her silently.  Thank you for letting me do something for you,
for letting me repay even a fraction of the enormous debt I owe.

A quick scan of Franklin's larder revealed a surprising number of
options for their evening meal.  None of the choices were particularly
glamorous.  Like Mulder, Franklin appeared to have been a cook by
necessity, not choice.   Still, anything was bound to look good after
their diet of jerky and snack food.  Mulder settled on warming up a
package of frozen beef stew with rice as a side dish.  As an afterthought,
he also set out on the table a nearly full bottle of no-name bourbon he
had found stashed behind a cereal box and an open bag of flour.

Scully slept until just before he pulled their dinner off the stove
to make room for the pots that would heat her bathwater.  She seemed
embarrassed by her nap, and insisted on helping set the table.  Mulder
assured her it wasn't necessary, but in the end, let her hobble around
the kitchen, finding plates and utensils and generally getting in his
way.

The meal would never be featured on the cover of "Bon Appetit", but
it tasted delicious just the same.  Sitting back in his chair after filling
his belly, Mulder studied his partner as lit by a stubby candle he had
found rolling around in a cupboard.  Scully had praised his cooking
until he blushed, and the heady combination of her approval and the
two shots of bourbon he had downed while cooking had left him feeling
mildly euphoric.  He had talked her into joining him for a shot when
they first sat down.  Just one, for "medicinal purposes."  But he'd
caught her eyeing the bottle a couple of times while they ate.  Now,
as he scraped up the last of the stew on his plate, she reached over
and poured them each another shot.

"Medicine must be working, huh, Doc?"

"Mmmm.  Sort of."

He watched her knock it back professionally, with a practiced flick of
her wrist.  She grimaced and coughed a little as it went down, and he
laughed.  Scully shot him a pissed-off look, but the corners of her
mouth were twitching.  He saluted the woman seated across from him
with his flowered plastic cup, and imitated her.  It was a huge shot and
he felt it blaze a fiery trail down his esophagus.  Struggling, he almost
managed not to cough, but not quite.  Once he got started, he began
choking in earnest, and he had to grope for the glass of water Scully
pushed towards him.  Subsiding, he wiped his eyes and saw Scully was
giggling.  Would wonders never cease.

"Mulder, you forget, I'm Irish."

"Yeah, well, thanks for nothing." He wiped his eyes again and, standing,
peeked into the pots on the stove.  They were all boiling away.  When
he mixed their contents with cold water in the tub, Scully would have a
pretty good soak.  "You ready for bath-time?"

Scully nodded and began to get up.  "I feel a little better already.  I
think it was mostly not being able to move my leg for so long that did
me in."  She watched him begin carefully carrying the pots of hot water
over to the tub.  He had already brought in buckets of cold water from
the pump outside.  A little mixing and measuring, and she should be
in bath heaven.  The only thing missing was some bubble bath.  Curious
as to what passed for indoor plumbing in this remote spot, she ducked
her head and peered under the tub; it looked as though the single pipe
beneath ran straight down.  Did it empty out under the cabin?  She
wrinkled her nose, amused at Franklin's priorities.  No running water,
but a nice speedy connection for his modem. He'd get along just fine
with the Lone Gunmen.

Oh man, she was really looking forward to this.  She had more than two
days of road grime to wash off.  She was already warm from the food
and the bourbon, and lifting her arms above her head languorously,
she couldn't help but think of her upcoming bath as the perfect end to
what had turned out to be a surprisingly nice evening.

Wrapped in her musings, Scully felt Mulder's eyes on her, watching
her body lengthen and twist as she stretched out the kinks.  Swiveling
her head to meet his gaze, a clear picture popped into her head, one
formed without any conscious exertion on her part--the tub, full of
bubbles and hot water, and Mulder in it with her, his long limbs
twining with hers as he soaped her shoulders.  Instead of shoving the
vision away with the professional brusqueness she had hidden behind
for the last few years, she let the image linger for a moment, dulled into
sensual indulgence by liquor, candlelight and the heat of the stove beside
her.

Almost as if he sensed her thoughts, Mulder cleared his throat self-
consciously and the scene popped out of her mind like a bursting soap-
bubble.  "Need any help?"  He wasn't looking at her anymore, but his
face was a little flushed, and she wondered if he had had a vision of his
own.

"No, thanks."  Scully shook herself slightly and limped into the alcove
as Mulder added more cold water and tested the bath again.  She dipped
a hand into it and sighed with approval.  "This is perfect, Mulder."

Smiling at her words, he crossed away from her, retrieving the small
candle from the table, and carrying it back to the shadowy alcove.  
Carefully setting it on the rickety table at the far end of the tub, he
pulled the curtain across the opening as he left, taking a last look at
her as Scully neatly toed off first one sock, then the other.

Tugging her sweater over her head, she heard him moving about the
cabin, cleaning up the table and refilling the pots.  She shivered as the
cold air hit her bare skin and reached hurriedly for the zipper on her
jeans.

As she got undressed, she thought about Mulder's demand for honesty.
Funny.  It hadn't been as difficult for her to comply as she had feared.  
The sense of vulnerability she had felt when she had first realized that
her pulled muscle was going to be hindrance was gone, replaced by a
quiet glow of serenity that she couldn't completely explain.

For years, she had expected so little from Mulder.  And now, he was
so much better -- better at caring for her, better at supporting her
without making her feel helpless -- than she had ever hoped.

Shaking her head with a sort of amazement, she wondered how Mulder
viewed their new and seemingly improved relationship.  Did he fully
appreciate what a leap it was for her to open up as she had?  Did he
understand how strange it felt for her to be dependent on someone
else?  To allow him to be responsible for her well-being?

She could hear him washing the dishes in the dry sink.  Had he saved
a little of that hot water for himself? she mused.  Or was he instead
reflecting that the whole escape-from-it-all backwoods experience
would be greatly enhanced by the addition of plumbing?  And maybe
cable TV.  More importantly, was he as sensitive as she was to the
reality of her stripping naked mere feet away, a worn cotton curtain
the only thing separating them?

Smiling ruefully at the notion, she wriggled out of her panties, her
last remaining article of clothing, and kicked them toward the heap
at the edge of the curtain.  Hands braced on its lip, she began to swing
her leg over the side of the tub.

Instantly, her leg and lower back seized up.  It was by far the worst
pain the limb had given her all day, and Scully couldn't suppress a
small cry of alarm.

"Scully?  Are you okay?"

She buried her face in her hands and fought the urge to howl with
frustration.  "Yes.  =No=.  I . . . I can't get into the tub.  The sides are
pretty high, and my leg . . ."

She knew he must have heard the catch in her voice because he was
already trying to soothe her.  "It's okay, it'll be a lot better after you
soak it for awhile."

True, she thought.  The only problem was, to do that, she first had to
climb into the blasted tub.

"Scully . . . ," he called after a beat.  Then, he hesitated, and she could
hear a catch in his voice, too.  "Would you like me to help you get into
the tub?"

She looked down at herself and tried to keep her voice steady.  "Mulder,
I'm not..."

Of course, you're not, thought the man on the other side of the curtain,
a dish towel clenched in his hands.  You're naked.  Nude.  In the buff.
And I just offered to not only sneak a peak, but cop a feel.

God, he was so noble sometimes, he made himself sick.

"I know," he interrupted hastily, babbling now just a bit.  "I'm sorry,
Scully.  I really am, I just don't know how else..."

"Okay," she said.  Her voice sounded calm again and he felt an absurd
sense of relief.  Good.  She hadn't taken offense, and he hadn't managed
to single-handedly sabotage all they had achieved relationship-wise over
the last couple of days.  Thank God.  He should have known that his
practical Dr. Scully wouldn't get a case of the vapors.  They could work
around this.  There had to be a better way of getting her. . . maybe she
could put on a big t-shirt or something before he helped her into the tub.
At least that would be some slight concession to modesty.  Franklin
probably had something like that on one of these shelves. . . .

Then suddenly his terribly reasonable musings melted away like ice
before a flame.  He couldn't think at all.  Not when he saw Scully's
hand reach around the edge of the curtain and draw it back.

She was standing by the edge of the tub, completely nude.  Steam curled
up from the water and the light from the candle in the corner lapped at
her body, creating pools of light and darkness that delineated the exquisite
curves of her shoulders, the swells of her pink-tipped breasts, the triangle
of copper-colored curls at the apex of her thighs.

With acute clarity, Mulder heard his photographic memory go =click=
and thought, there is absolutely no way I am ever going to be able to
forget this.

Dragging his eyes from what had been, to that point, undiscovered
country, he finally met her gaze.  And found himself entirely incapable
of reading what he saw there.

"Do you think you could pick me up and set me in the tub?" she asked,
very politely, as if they were discussing whether or not it was going to
rain on Friday.

Her voice broke the paralysis that had frozen his brain and rendered
him incapable of speech.  "Uh . . . yeah.  Uh, . . . do we need to keep
your leg straight while I do it?"

She frowned slightly, and in the same polite tone she had earlier
employed, said, "No, I don't think so.  Just lower me in."

He ran a hand over his face and found he was sweating lightly.  He
was peripherally aware that he was already half-hard and that putting
his arms around her was going to eliminate any chance of solving that
problem before it got any bigger.

Both him and the problem.

He tossed the towel onto the counter, and took a tentative step towards
the naked woman opposite him.  He was actually bending down, circling
his left arm around her, when she said, "Ah, Mulder?"

He jerked back a half-step and looked at her guiltily.

"Mulder, you're going to get your sweater and that shirt you have on
under it totally soaked if you don't roll up the sleeves.  In fact," she said
thoughtfully, looking him over, "I think you might just have to take it
off for this little operation."

Inwardly, he groaned. That was all he needed; he was hard as a fucking
rock now. Of course, she was technically right, easing her into the water
would invariably get him soaked too. . . . shit.  There wasn't any way
to get out of it gracefully.  Trying to keep from looking at her face, he
quickly stripped off his sweater and T-shirt together, slinging them
behind him.

Turning to her again, something in him rebelled.

This was unfair.

Completely fucking unfair and uncalled-for.

There was no way he was going to get through this without enjoying
it.

No fucking way.

The realization emboldened him and he managed to, at last, look at her
face.  What he saw, floored him.

She was smiling.  Not a big, sunny smile, it was her small, enigmatic-
Dr. Scully-smile, the one that came with a slightly cocked eyebrow.

All the blood remaining in his brain rushed south.

Okay, then.

His hesitation finished, Mulder stepped forward and slid his arms
around his partner, winding one around her waist, and the other behind
her knees.  He stood up slowly and deliberately, taking his time, letting
his cheek brush her bare shoulder.  He savored her small gasp when his
three-day stubble scraped her skin.  Straightening, he shifted her weight
so that she nestled more securely against his body.  Scully clung to him,
one arm curved around his shoulders, the other twined loosely around
his waist.

The smooth press of her warm skin against him felt glorious.  Daringly,
he allowed himself a long, sweeping look, starting at her dainty, curled
toes, traveling up over her knees, dawdling on the dense nest of curls.
He shifted her weight lower, mainly for the pleasure of feeling her
rounded hip press into the tip of his solid erection, and his cock twitched
when she gasped again.  He let his gaze travel up the downy fuzz on her
belly, then up further, to the small, furled, rose-pink nipples and perfect,
creamy-pale breasts.  He lingered on her shoulders.  He had always
enjoyed his infrequent peeks at them -- they were nicely rounded, with
firm muscles that reminded him of her strength and contrasted with
her delicate, reed-thin collarbones.

Then, finally, he again looked at her face.  She was flushed.  Her eyes
were slightly dilated, her lips parted, and Mulder knew with absolute,
joyous certainty that she was as aroused as he was.  He held her gaze
for a moment before inclining his head towards hers.  He brushed his
lips along her hairline, pressed a brief, chaste kiss to her forehead, and
murmured, "Dana?"

She tipped her head back and met his eyes.  Hers were wide, shocked.
At him, or at herself?  Or both?  He wished he knew.

He flexed his thumb, stroking it along her leg.  "Want me to put you
in now?"

He could hardly hear her reply.  "Uh, . . . yeah."

Mulder took the two steps to the tub and bent at the waist, lowering
her in gently, carefully, as if she were made of glass, until she was
safely settled, submerged up to the tops of her breasts.  He withdrew
his dripping arms from the tub, and said, "Call me when you want to
get out, okay?"

"Okay," she murmured, her eyes never leaving his.

Mulder left the alcove, pulling the curtain shut after him.  Scully sat
completely still for a minute or more, listening to her heart pound.
Mechanically, she reached for the soap.

What the hell had she just done?

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

"Antidote" (9/18) NC-17
by Rachel Howard
& Karen Rasch

Snowrider5@aol.com
Krasch@earthlink.net

Smut!  Get your smut here!!  That's right, boys and girls.  Here is where
it finally begins.  Please hide the young'uns.  Thank you.  :-)

**********************************************************

October 27
Vaughn W. Franklin's Cabin

What the hell had she just done?

What about =him=?  He had more than met her halfway.  She could still
feel his lips on her forehead, could still smell his skin, feel him stroke
her leg.  She closed her eyes, remembering the wave of heat that had
raced through her when he looked her over, a kind of possessiveness in
his gaze.

She began washing her hair, keeping her eyes shut as she tried to
explain her own actions to herself.  A couple of drinks, a little too
much closeness . . .  No.  Not enough to excuse what she had done.

Was she sorry?

She stopped rubbing the shampoo into her hair, her lids lifting,
and remembered the look on his face when he had kissed her.

Not really.

She started scrubbing again.  No matter how it had happened, she
had wanted him to touch her for years.  And now he had.

But exactly how far would they go?

She pondered that question until the bathwater turned tepid.  Her
fingers wrinkled like a newborn's, she managed to pull the stopper
out with her toes.  Then she sat there, watching the water swirl lazily
down the drain, and pondered some more.  Still, the answer to her
question eluded her.

Sighing, she stood up and toweled off slowly, wondering what to do
next.  Mulder had said to call when she wanted to get out.  But was
that really necessary?  Scully stretched the leg out to the side and lifted
it cautiously.  The hot water and whiskey had helped a lot.  She raised
it nearly to the edge of the tub before she felt a twinge.  Probably not
the sciatic nerve, then.  But she was still going to require assistance.
Steeling herself for that eventuality, she dried her hair and wrapped
the towel neatly around herself, tucking the end in carefully.

"Mulder?"

He appeared almost instantly, pulling the curtain back.  She saw that
he had shaved, and that he hadn't put his shirt back on.  "Need a lift?"

Nodding, she held her arms out to him, and he lifted her as easily as he
had the first time.  Instead of putting her immediately down, however,
he carried her out of the alcove entirely.  Surprised at first, she felt her
heart start to beat double-time when she saw he was heading for the
bed on the far wall.  He had turned back the covers.  The sheets looked
thin, but clean.  He carefully settled her atop them.  She felt a faint stab
of disappointment when he straightened up rather than joining her.

"Did you say something about massage therapy before, Doc?"  He looked
perfectly innocent, but her pulse was speeding even faster.

"I think it would be beneficial, yes."

He grinned at her crisp, businesslike reply, but he was eyeing her bare
shoulders again with something other than amusement.  "I stink.  First
let me wash some of this topsoil off, then I'll see what I can do."  He
pulled the covers up over her, then headed for the alcove to take his bath.

Turning over onto her stomach, she listened sleepily to the sounds of
Mulder getting undressed.  She heard the echo of cloth sliding over
skin, of water lapping against metal, of fire greedily consuming wood.  
Willing herself to stay awake, she closed her eyes, and tried to remember
what Mulder looked like naked.

When had she last seen him like that?

After she had shot him in the shoulder, when she had realized that her
original plan -- to send him to New Mexico to talk to Albert Hosteen
while she tried to clear her own name at the Bureau -- wasn't going to
work anymore.  Had she been in love with him even then?  If she hadn't,
would she have risked everything for his sake?

She had driven him, feverish and wounded, across the country.  Taking
his temperature at every stop, she found it had climbed to nearly one
hundred and one degrees by the time they reached western Nebraska.  
She had struggled him, unresisting, into a motel bathroom, undressed
him, and bathed him with cool water.  He was only semiconscious, and
she was scared that she would lose her job, that he would die, or get
better only to disappear so that he could chase his demons alone, leaving
her for good.

"Dana?"  She drifted back part way and saw that he was sitting beside
her on the edge of the bed.  His hair was slicked back, and his damp
skin glistened in the dim light.  A memory, she thought in thanksgiving.
A dream.  This was Colorado, and he was well again, and she could
feel the heat coming off of him in waves.  She came all the way awake
and saw that he had turned out the overhead light and set the candle on
the table next to the bed.  The room glowed golden with only that stub
of wax and the busily burning stove to light it.

"Dana?" he murmured again.  His voice was uncertain.

She slid over a little farther, making more room for him.  His face
smoothed out as she welcomed him, worry lines disappearing.  He had
a towel wrapped around his waist, and a bottle of cheap lotion in his
hand.  "Still want that leg massage?"

She studied at him more carefully and saw that he wasn't sure, was
maybe just as confused as she was.  And all at once, she had the answer
to the question that had plagued her earlier.  Propping herself up on
one elbow, she stretched out her arm and grabbed hold of Mulder's free
hand.  Laying back once more, she guided him by the wrist to the slope
of her breast, her eyes locked on his.  Pressing firmly against the back
of his hand, she curled his fingers around the fold of toweling tucked
just beneath her arm.  She held him there until Mulder himself gripped
the fold of nubby fabric.  Then, lifting both arms away from her body
so that they framed her head upon the pillow, she murmured simply,
"Yes."

Setting the lotion to the side, he tugged on the tail of toweling, easing
it free.  Slowly, he unwrapped her, his knuckles grazing her tender skin,
his fingertips trailing fire.  Drawing the moment out, savoring it.

And when she finally lay before him naked, when he had pulled the
towel from under her and tossed it carelessly to the floor, Scully had to
at last close her eyes.  Much as she wanted to, she could no longer lie
there watching him watching her.  Not with Mulder looking down at
her with four years worth of longing in his gaze.

Her lashes lowered, she heard him uncap the lotion and, sucking in her
breath, she shivered as the cold droplets hit her skin. "Oooh.  Mulder,
you're supposed to warm it up in your hands first."

"So you're bossy in bed, too?  What a surprise."  She snapped open
her eyes, all set to show him who was bossy, and saw that he was
smiling sleepily at her, teasingly, tenderly.  "Roll onto your stomach."

He began with the back of her thigh, then gradually worked up to her
hip, pressing firmly, working in a circular pattern.  His fingers stroked
along her skin, setting a gentle rhythm that pulsed through her.  She
knew he was trying to work the stiffness out of her leg, but his touch
was so undeniably erotic that she found herself easing her legs apart a
little, seeking to answer the ache between them.  Immediately, his
fingers dipped lower, to her inner thigh, no longer rubbing, but stroking
lightly, as if he were testing the texture of the silky skin there. Then he
sighed, and slid his hand up to cup her ass briefly with both palms.  The
bedsprings creaked and she felt him shift his legs, then lie down next to
her.

Moving with slow, sensual languor, Scully opened her eyes and rolled
onto her side, gazing at him.  Mulder smelled the sweetness of the
shampoo and soap she had used in the bath.  "I just want to be sure that
you're not getting more than you bargained for," he said, seriously.  His
fingers still tingled from the feel of her skin and he had to fight the urge
to nestle one of her breasts in his hand. "Are you sure you want to do what
I think we're about to do?" He tried to keep his question neutral -- he knew
he needed to give her a chance to back out before they went any further --
but his heart was racing.

She looked up into his worried yet hopeful face.  "I didn't plan any of
this.  But," and one small hand settled on his chest, "yes, I'm sure.  Are
you?"

He lifted his head and looked down at her small body before he met her
eyes again.  They were luminous, reflecting the candlelight, and he
wished he had the words to tell her how beautiful she was.  "Sure?  Are
you kidding me?  Do you know how long I've wanted to make love to
you?"

She stroked his chest, tracing the lines of muscle.  "Tell me."

He opened his mouth, then shut it again.  "You remember our first case,
in Oregon?  When the thunderstorm knocked the power out, and you . . ."

"Came down to your room in a total panic and practically got naked in
front of you?"

"Yes. . . . No.  It was when you hugged me.  But it's different, now."

He thought of long plane rides she had spent sleeping on his shoulder,
of the time she'd helped him face down Modell, of all the instances
when he had left her behind because he was afraid for her, or of her,
or both.  He felt her fingertip circling his nipple, then rubbing it softly.  
And suddenly it was torture to try to think at all.  "I'm not good at
saying this stuff, Scully.  Can I show you instead?"

She smiled up at him.  "Yes.  Would you kiss me now, please?"

He smiled back and whispered, "See?  Bossy."  Then he did as he was
told, settling his mouth over hers.

The kiss was nearly as chaste as the one he had deposited on her
forehead earlier; innocent, as if she were not lying naked next to him.
Then he flicked his tongue once across her upper lip, teasingly, and
she sighed softly into his mouth.  Her lips parted under the pressure of
his.  And the kiss deepened into something raw and hungry, flavored
by years of wanting.  When he lifted his head, they were both gasping.

He reached for her, but she gently batted his hand away.  She grabbed
hold of the edge of the towel he still wore around his waist and tugged
it loose.  With an indulgent smile, he watched her slowly look him over,
his face shifting into a smug grin as he saw her eyes widen slightly
when they reached his erection.

"Hey, Doc?  You done checking me out yet?"

"Quit calling me that, Mulder," she muttered, examining his abdominal
muscles intently.

She took her time studying him, and he waited, restraining his desire
to touch her until she had looked her fill.  Finally, she rested her palm
against his cheek and brushed her lips over his chin, then lightly bit
the mole on the side of his face.  He felt her lips open against his skin
and turning his head to hum his approval, kissed her again, feeling her
smile.

Her weight shifted and her hand closed firmly around his penis.  He
squeezed his eyes shut and fireworks exploded behind his lids.  Her
mouth was warm and she tasted faintly of bourbon and of something
much more intimate, a Dana-taste that he loved immediately because
he knew he was tasting the essence of her.  She stroked him slowly,
from root to tip, and he thrust once, twice.  Hard.  Up into her fist.

He pulled her hand away and eased her onto her back, sliding a hand
under her lower back so that he could adjust her position.  He settled
between her spread legs and bent his lips to one nipple.  It was gumdrop-
hard and he drew it into his mouth, sucking hard and grazing it
repeatedly with his teeth until he heard her make a low, animal noise.
Her hands tangled in his hair, her hips shifting restlessly beneath him.
He shifted to the other breast and nuzzled it as he eased a hand between
her legs.

Scully heard herself cry out as Mulder sank two fingers into her at once.
She was almost embarrassingly wet, and he brushed his thumb against
the source of that moisture before he began circling it around her clitoris.  
He lifted his head to kiss her again, and she met him hungrily, open-
mouthed and panting, reaching for his face, for the smooth, hot skin on
his back, for any part of him that she could reach.  She felt his engorged
penis prodding her hip.  She was moaning steadily now, and she could
sense the tension building in her center.  When he took his hand away,
she made a new sound, one which he interpreted correctly as
disappointment.  Grinning evilly at her for a second or two, he pushed
her legs farther apart and scooted down between them, to rest on his
stomach.

She sighed with relief when she felt his mouth close gently around the
small bundle of nerves hidden in her folds.  His tongue flicked out to
worry at her clitoris, suckling and licking at it, as if trying to commit
her taste to memory.  He slid his fingers inside her again, three this
time.  Stretching her, teasing her, readying her for the invasion of his
rigid penis.  Slowly, he increased the friction with his tongue until
she arched helplessly against him, crying out sharply as she came.
He rode it out with her, making it last as long as he could, then slowed
down, easing off gradually until he felt her relax completely once more.

Crawling from between her legs, Mulder laid back down beside her and
put his arms around her, holding her patiently as her heartbeat eased.
Breathless, she reached up for his head and kissed him deeply, tasting
herself there, her eyes squeezed shut.

"Are you still sure?"

His voice was rough with his need, but she knew he was asking for
permission.  "Oh, Mulder.  Please, yes."  She slung a leg over him and
opened her eyes.  His were clear hazel, warm and wonderful, and she
knew with perfect clarity that she loved him more than she had ever
loved anyone in her life.

He grasped her hip and rolled her smoothly onto her back.  She felt the
head of his penis nudging against her opening as he kissed her, and
then he was inside of her in one smooth thrust.

He was huge and hot, stretching her fully, and she sighed her pleasure.
He held perfectly still for a few seconds, breathing deeply, letting her
get used to the feel of him buried within her, and brushed another light
kiss across her lips.  She edged her hips up towards him, wordlessly
urging him on.  Reverently, he murmured her name, soft and gentle,
and began to move.

They found their rhythm immediately, like long-time lovers.  Dropping
his head to her shoulder, he bit down, the impact measured.  In
retaliation, she dug her fingers into the long muscles of his back.  
Mulder could only moan his satisfaction.  Breathing fast and hot, he
bowed his head to touch his forehead tenderly to hers.  Feeling his
gaze, she opened her eyes again to watch his face. Between surges, he
stole another kiss, and she smiled up at him.

"God, Scully."

The weight of his body blanketing hers was exquisite; the taste of the
sweat sheening his skin drove her to lap at his shoulder for more.  Love
you . . . God, I love you, Mulder.  But she never spoke the words, letting
her body tell him as it joined with his.

He was moving faster now, and she rose to meet him, tucking her pelvis
to pull him deeper within her body.  Her leg throbbed quietly, rhythmically,
but she ignored it.  "Dana.  Dana.  I want to watch you come."

His sweet entreaty, whispered in her ear, husky and soft, made her stiffen.
"I, oh, I don't think . . ."

He drove smoothly into her again, hooked an arm underneath her and
rolled them over with a grunt, never leaving her body.  "Mmm. Yes,
you can.  Let me try."

The quick spin momentarily jarred her leg.  Sucking in a harsh gasp
of air, she froze just for an instant.  But, the pain didn't last long.  Then,
palms braced against his chest, she looked down at Mulder.  His hair
was feathered and mussed from her fingers tangling in it.  His cheeks
were flushed; his lips glistened from her kisses.  He was beautiful.  
Pulsing with energy and heat, he laid beneath her, like the most docile
of mounts, waiting for her to ride him.

Docile?  Somehow, she knew better.

Slowly, carefully, she started to move above him, rocking along his
length with small, shallow dips of her hips.  Tipping back his head,
and letting loose with a low, rough groan, Mulder deliberately licked
both thumbs and reached down between her legs, just above where
their bodies joined.  Moving in tiny, devastating circles, he began to
stroke her again.

The point of contact was electric and his caresses sparked a new fire
in her.  She rose higher over him before sinking back heavily upon his
length.  The feeble sounds coming from deep in her throat were steadily
building.  She could feel the wave rising in Mulder as well, sense him
struggling for control.  She wouldn't allow it.  Not for him.  No control.
Her eyes half-shut, her lips parted, Scully reached behind her to cup his
testicles in one hand, stroking gently.  He thrashed against her, his
eyes squeezed tight in ecstasy.

Lying beneath her, slicked with sweat, his long, slim fingers teasing
her as he thrust up into her, focused on her pleasure, he was easily the
most erotic thing she had ever seen.  She tried to think of what else
she could do to please him but he had already taken her beyond
coherent thought, beyond anything but pure sensation.  Pure joy.

Mulder moaned again, his stomach muscles tensing, the bucking of
his hips fierce and wild.  Scully knew he was trying desperately, but
wouldn't be able to hang on much longer.  Thankfully, she was close
as well.  The tension built in her belly, rising, spiraling, soaring.

And all at once, she took flight.  Resting her hand on his leg, she
ground down against him sharply, her leg forgotten, the pitch of her
cries crescendoing as she found her release. Mulder tried to keep his
eyes open to watch her orgasm.  But finally the wave of white-hot
pleasure found him, and he shut his eyes once more, shouting low
and hoarse as he followed her over the edge.

Shivering in the aftermath, Scully collapsed bonelessly onto him,
burying her face in the side of his neck.  Trembling himself, Mulder
wrapped his arms around her, murmuring sweet words of love, praise,
passion.

And, muffled, spoken from where she had tucked her face into the
hollow of his throat, she whispered her response.  "...love you, too."

Then, saying nothing more, they drifted off to sleep.

*           *      *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Continued in Chapter X (Seems fitting, don'cha think? <g>)

"Antidote" (10/18)
by Rachel Howard
& Karen Rasch

Snowrider5@aol.com
Krasch@earthlink.net

All disclaimers can be found prior to chapter one.  This is
just story.  No more smut for awhile.  We're back to a simple
PG-13 rating for this chapter.

**********************************************************

October 28
A Cabin Outside Gateway, Colorado

Mulder awoke to the smell of coffee, its familiar aroma rousing
him from slumber with a gentle nudge.  Sighing quietly into
the bedding, he sleepily blinked his eyes and tried to recall
when exactly he had phoned down for room service.

Then, as he lay on his stomach, his arms wrapped tightly around
his pillow, cool sheets encasing his sated body in starchy softness,
another faint fragrance made itself known.  One that had nothing
whatsoever to do with food or drink, but one which stirred his
appetite nonetheless.

Scully.

That's right. . . .

The cabin.

The bath.

The bed.

Last night.  When all the elements had woven together so
beautifully.  The planets had aligned.  The earth had moved. . . .

Oh yeah.

It was all coming back to him now.

Smiling with a kind of drowsy satisfaction, he inhaled once
more, this time more deeply, reveling in the fact that he
could smell her on the bed linens, under the covers, on his
own skin.  It might have been masked by an unfamiliar soap
and shampoo, but nothing could hide the unmistakable scent
that belonged to her alone.  It was everywhere, surrounding
him, saturating his senses.

Well, what do you know? he mused with a touch of whimsy.  
Scully had marked him, like an animal claiming something
as their own.

Animals.

Claiming.

Yeah, there had been a little of that going on the previous
night as well.

He had the scratches to prove it.

Then, as sleep slipped further and further away, a more
detailed awareness began filtering back to his consciousness.  
Impressions of a long and almost sinfully enjoyable night.

The sound of Scully sobbing for breath, gasping high and
helpless, as he moved over her, in her.

The sensation of her small hands clutching at his buttocks,
his shoulders; digging into the muscle there, urging him to
plunge deeper, harder, faster.

The sight of her beneath him, her lips swollen and parted,
her lashes hanging heavy and low.  Her watching him, her
gaze cloudy with arousal, soft with yearning.

And all at once, he missed her, desperately.  Wanted her beside
him in that dead man's bed with a longing that was nearly
powerful enough to assume form and mass.  He opened his
eyes to look for her.

And smiled when he spied the object of his search.

The woman who had scant hours earlier used his back as an
emery board, who had sapped his strength and will as surely
as Delilah had Samson's, looked markedly different in the
soft, early-morning light.  Gone was the seductress, and in
her place was the sweetly rumpled girl next door.

Oblivious to his scrutiny, Scully padded about the cabin's
kitchen in borrowed clothes.  Her limp remained, although
it appeared less pronounced than it had the day before.  
Oversized rag socks covered her feet, bunching sloppily at
her slender ankles.  Draping her torso was a vastly over-sized
blue plaid flannel shirt, its hemline hitting midway down her
thigh.  She had neatly folded back the garment's sleeves to just
below her elbows, yet this small attempt at tailoring in no way
disguised that she was in danger of being swallowed whole by
her second-hand garb.  Her face was scrubbed clean, her hair
pulled back in a high, lopsided ponytail.  It looked like she
was doing a bit of laundry.  A small pair of lavender panties
and matching bra were strung up over the sink, water dripping
from them in fat, measured drops.

How odd, he realized with a start.  He had seen the woman
fully dressed and he had seen her in the buff.  But, aside from
that first time, ages ago, he had never seen Scully modeling
the latest from Victoria's Secret.

Suddenly, he wondered just how long it might take for those
delicate slips of purple to dry.

She must have sensed his eyes on her, because all at once she
turned to unerringly meet his gaze.  Mulder pushed up on to
his elbows, fiercely conscious of the fact that he was naked
beneath the bedcovers while she, at least in some fashion, was
clothed.

"Hey," she murmured from across the room, her voice throaty
and a tad shy.

"Morning," he mumbled in reply, the corner of his mouth
lifting in greeting.

"I'm . . . uh . . I'm washing out a few things," she explained,
gesturing over her shoulder, a dish towel in her hand.  "After
all, it's been a more than a couple days now, and it's not like
I'm going to see a change of clothes anytime soon."

"True enough," he said evenly, wishing she would stop
talking about nothing and simply come to him.  He wanted
to touch her, to draw her into his arms and kiss her good
morning.  To ease the ache that had seemingly begun  
throbbing the moment he had laid eyes on her.

But Scully didn't appear ready to do this, didn't seem to know
precisely how to behave in this strange, uncharted stage in
their relationship.  Mulder sympathized with her confusion.  
The night before, they had had candlelight and cheap bourbon
to get them over the rough spots.  Yet, in the cold light of day,
that buffer had vanished.  Now, it was just the two of them.  
Naked.  And nearly so.

"How's your leg?" he ventured, thinking this was safe, neutral
territory.

Judging by her even-tempered response to his query, Scully
agreed.  "Good.  Well . . . better.  It's not nearly as stiff."

"Are you going to be able to walk on it for any distance?"

"Yeah, I think so.  Shouldn't be a problem."

He nodded, watching her closely as, with a small smile, she
turned to finish tidying up the sink.  Mulder had to hand it
to her.  To the casual observer, Scully looked as if she were
perfectly at ease.  Like they did this sort of cozy, domestic
thing all the time.

Waking up side by side.

Her puttering about the kitchen.

Him lounging in bed.

Unless a person looked really, really hard they would no
doubt miss the signs which pointed to a slightly different
reality.  Like the way her hands kept finding just one more task
to complete.  First she had been wiping down the counter.  
Then, she had carefully returned the cleaning supplies to their
proper places.  Now, she was folding the fraying dish rag in
her grasp with the kind of precision he usually associated with
origami.  Tidiness was one thing, but her current fastidiousness
bordered on the compulsive.

Yet what most set off Mulder's alarms were Scully's eyes.  He
couldn't see them.  She stubbornly refused to meet his gaze for
any length of time, choosing instead to focus on the floor, her
hands, anywhere, but on his own increasingly troubled face.

"Hey, Scully," he said at last, his voice soft, his chin propped
on his fist.

She instinctively looked up from her perusal of the towel.  
Then, true to form, her gaze skittered away.  "What?"

"Come here a minute.  Would'ja?  I promise I won't bite."

She arched a brow.

"I'd come to you," he murmured soothingly, "but I have a
feeling it's kinda chilly out there."

That earned him a soft chuckle.  "Are you telling me you
aren't dressed for autumn in the Rockies, Mulder?"

"I'm telling you I'm not dressed, period," he retorted dryly.

She smiled again, and for just a moment their eyes connected
and held.  "I know.  I remember."

"So do I," he told her, his voice rumbling low.

It was not his own nakedness he recalled, of course.  But hers.

She swallowed hard.  "Mulder . . ."

He didn't try and squash her protest with words.  Instead,
braced on his forearm, he held out to her his hand; extended
the woman he loved an invitation.

And waited to see if she would accept it.

It took a beat or two, but at last she left the toweling on the
counter and crossed to the bed, her stride uneven.  Taking
his hand with one of hers, she used the other to smooth the
flannel plaid beneath her derriere, and perched beside him,
settling herself even with his hips.  Balancing on his side,
Mulder looked up at her, his fingers tangled with hers.  
"Scully . . . you're not regretting what we did last night, are
you?"

Her eyes widened with what was to him a satisfying measure
of shock and dismay.  "No.  No, of course not."

He nodded slowly, his gaze trained on their linked hands.  
"Good.  Because if you had said otherwise, I would have
tried to do the right thing."

He stole a look at her.  She sat, her brows lifted, her head
cocked in question.

"I would have told you not to worry about it," he murmured,
his eyes averted, his thumb rubbing lightly over the back of
her hand.  "That it was okay.  Just a one-time thing.  That it
didn't have to mean anything.  Didn't have to change who we
are or how we are together."

She didn't speak, didn't move; seemingly content to let him
ramble.

He slicked his parched lips and continued.  "And then, after I
had tried my best to convince you, I would have done my
damnedest to behave as if all of that was true."

"Mulder . . ." she whispered, her grip tightening on his.

"But it would have been a lie," he finished softly, lifting his
shoulders in a small, helpless shrug.  "Every word of it."

He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss just below
her wrist.  "I wouldn't change a single thing about last night,
Scully," he said, looking at her once more.  Her big, blue
eyes stared back at him gravely.  Shadows darkened her
gaze.  But he couldn't discern their cause.  "I wouldn't trade
a second of it.  But that doesn't mean that what happened here
hasn't changed things for us."

"I know," she said quietly.  "I've been thinking about that . . .
about us, ever since I got up this morning."

"Come up with anything you feel like sharing?" he queried
wryly.

The corner of her mouth quirked.  She paused for a moment,
gathering her thoughts.

"Mulder, you know as well as I do that I instigated the
majority of what happened here last night," she began, her
vision concentrated on her lap.  There, her free hand repeatedly
bunched and released the hem of her shirt, kneading it, like a
kitten seeking comfort.

"Scully . . . ," he mumbled in protest.

"I stood before you naked, Mulder, and asked you to take me
in your arms," she said flatly, a vaguely sheepish cast to her
lowered gaze.

He smiled. "Yeah.  I remember."

She peered at him through her lashes, her lips similarly curved.  
"Not one of my more subtle moments."

"Hey, you of all people know that subtle only rarely works
with me," he said lightly.  

They looked at each other, their smiles lingering, their hands
yet joined.

"I wanted you, Mulder" she told him simply, her tone hushed
and husky.  "Badly.  To tell you the truth, I want you still."

He dipped his head in understanding, his cheeks suddenly
flushed with heat.

"But we can't do this," she said, shaking her head.  "We can't
let our feelings for each other get in the way of what we're
here to do."

"What do you mean?  Are you saying you're worried we might
get careless or lazy?" he queried with surprise.   "Because that's
not going to happen, Scully.  We're not kids mooning over some
crush.  I know better than that.  And I sure as hell know you do."

She thinned her lips and lifted her shoulders.  "I don't know.  I
don't know what I'm saying.  All I know is that right now part
of me wants nothing more than to crawl back under those covers
with you."

Mulder took a deep breath and nodded, thinking just how good
that sounded.

"But we're not going to figure out what happened in Gateway if
we spend all day in bed," Scully said with a regretful shake of
her head.

"No," he agreed ruefully.  "I don't suppose we would."

They sat there for a moment, each recalling the horrors they
had seen before being discovered in the woods, steeling
themselves for what was still to come.

Then, Scully smiled suddenly, almost as if consciously trying
to dispel the gloom, the light in her eyes nearly impish.  "Sorry
for needing to make this an all or nothing kind of proposition,
Mulder.  But, I have to be careful.  You're just too damned
distracting."

He chuckled warmly, squeezing her fingers with his.  "Hey,
don't talk to me about distracting.  I'm not the one hanging up
my unmentionables all over the place."

She lifted a brow as if accepting blame.

"So what do you want to do?" he asked, aware as he did so that
while his question sounded casual enough, a great deal was
riding on it.  Possibly everything.

She pondered for a moment, changing her grasp on his hand
so that it now lay nestled in both of hers.  "I want to get through
this case alive.  For us both to.  But to do that, we have to be
focused.  We can't go into a situation where some infectious
disease might be waiting for us to slip up unless we're
concentrating one hundred percent on the investigation.  Do
you agree?"

He solemnly nodded.

She inclined her head in turn.  "With that in mind, I'm afraid
we can't risk a repeat of last night.  Not while we're on assignment."

"And after that?" he asked, hoping he didn't sound as concerned
as he feared he did.

"And after that, we figure out a way to make this work," she said,
her gaze locked on his.  "That is . . . if you want it to."

"I want it to," he said firmly.

She smiled, her face transformed by its glow.  "Good.  So do I."

He looked up at her, the hunger he had suffered earlier intensified
by her nearness.  And by the knowledge that, for the foreseeable
future, he was going to be on the strictest of diets.

"Hey, Scully," he murmured, rolling onto his back and tugging
her nearer.  She scooted forward, her hip rubbing along his.

"What?"

"Have we decided that from now until we get back to D.C. you
and I will be back to our old platonic selves?"

The corner of her generous mouth lifted infinitesimally. "'Fraid
so."

"Then do you think you could maybe do something for me?"

"What's that, Mulder?" she said, her voice laced with amusement.

"Do you think you could give me a kiss for the road?"

"For the road?" she echoed, her brow shooting skyward.

"For the road, for old time's sake--hell, for new time's sake," he
said, drawing her gently but surely down onto his chest.  At last
she rested above him, her forearms braced on his breast, her face
floating inches from his, the slight weight of her upper body
teasing his senses, reminding him of pleasures past.  "Think of
it as an early birthday present if you have to.  I would just really
like to kiss you now."

She pursed her lips and considered.

"Just one more time," he cajoled, his fingertips stroking lightly
along her cheek.  "To tide me over.  Then I'll be good.  I swear."

She smiled tenderly.  "You swear?"

"Scout's honor."

"Okay," she murmured, nuzzling his nose with hers.  "Only you
better make it a good one, Mulder."

"You got complaints about the way I kiss, Scully?" he growled
in mock indignation.

She slowly shook her head.  "No. That's just it."

"What is?"

"I like the way you kiss," she whispered.  "A lot, actually."

"Yeah?" he said, his voice coming out dangerously close to a
squeak.

"Yeah," she confirmed lowly, tracing his brow with her index
finger.  "And now that I've had a chance to know what that's
like--what you feel like, taste like--I know I'm going to miss
not having you.  Like that."

Mulder swallowed thickly, wondering if Scully was purposefully
adopting that marvelously sultry tone just to make him squirm a
bit.

If so, it was working.

"You're planning on missing me even though I'm gonna be right
here, Scully?" he mumbled, cupping the back of her head in his
palms and guiding it towards him.

"I plan on missing your kiss," she told him, her breath softly
bathing his lips.  "And . . . other things."

He captured her lower lip between his teeth and nibbled ever
so lightly before echoing, "Other things?"

"Oh yeah," she whispered and lapped softly at his mouth with
her tongue.  "Things you do very, very well.  So make me miss
you, Mulder."

She brushed her lips against his then, teasingly.

"Make me miss you terribly."

And crushing her wonderfully soft mouth to his, Mulder
realized that he had never before wanted to solve a case so
badly in his life.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Continued in Chapter XI

"Antidote" (11/18)
by Rachel Howard
& Karen Rasch

Snowrider5@aol.com
Krasch@earthlink.net

Well, Rachel and I have discussed it amongst ourselves, and
it is with a heavy heart (well, two actually) that we have
decided to return to plot.  Enough of this romantic interlude
stuff!  On to ghost towns and mass murders!  It's the X-Files
way!!  <g>

**********************************************************

October 28
Outside of Gateway, Colorado

Just shy of noon, the two agents left the shelter of Franklin's
cabin and set out for Gateway.  They had spent the morning
charting strategy and gathering supplies.  Luckily, their
absent host's particular interests matched their current needs.
They were able to appropriate binoculars, firearms, a battered
U.S.G.S. topographical map, a compass, a battered backpack
to carry their equipment, snow boots for Mulder, and two pairs
of snowshoes.  

The largest chunk of time had been spent battling with bailing
twine.  Mulder had let loose with more than a few muttered
curses, but in the end they were both satisfied that the smaller
pair of snowshoes would stay attached to Scully's boots.  This
was a good thing.  With the snow as deep as it was and her
Timberlands coming up only as high as her anklebones, there
was no way she would have been able to keep up otherwise.  
As they made ready to head off, loaded down with Franklin's
belongings, Scully couldn't help but feel badly about the way
she and Mulder kept helping themselves to the man's possessions.  
Even though she knew deep down inside that their modern day
mountain man was in no position to miss them.

And given his fate, would no doubt applaud their usage.

"You know, Mulder . . . something has been bothering about
that night in Gateway."

The sun was now almost directly overhead.  Warmed by its
rays, the pair tromped through the snow-covered countryside,
the unfamiliar contraptions lashed to their boots hindering their
progress, forcing them to move slowly and carefully so as to
refrain from stepping on their own feet.  Or the feet of the person
walking beside them.  Yet, despite the inconvenience, neither
was complaining.  Were it not for the snowshoes, the fluffy white
stuff would have been hitting Mulder just below the knees and
Scully just above them.  Headway of any kind would have been
next to impossible under those circumstances.

"Something has been bothering you?" Mulder echoed, his hand
reaching out to steady her as they crossed over a particularly
slippery bit of terrain.  The weather had turned moderate once
more, with temperatures hovering at what had to be close to
forty degrees.  But a great deal of snow had fallen.  It would
take a day or more of this kind of warmth before they saw any
substantial thaw.  "You mean =besides= the rows of body bags?"

She grimaced, recalling.  "Yeah.  Believe it or not."

"What exactly?"

"That rat."

"What rat?" he queried, frowning.

"The one I nearly stepped on," she said as they crested a rise
and began a cautious descent down the other side.  The pain
in her leg had dulled to a throbbing, low-level ache.  But one
unexpected slip or twist, and she would be back where she
had started from.

Which wouldn't have been all that bad were it not for the
agreement Mulder and she had reached earlier that day.  The
one that for all intents and purposes prohibited the sorts of
activities they had indulged in the night before.

In other words--no more long, hot soaks.

Or massage therapy.

Or anything else.

Mores the pity.

"Oh, that's right," he murmured as they sidestepped their
way down the slope, searching beneath the unspoiled whiteness
for footholds, for any rock or twig against which to brace
themselves.  "It was like a pet rat, right?"

"Or a lab rat," she mumbled, her eyes trained on her feet, her
fingers clenched on Mulder's sleeve for balance.  "I didn't really
get a good look at it.  All I know is it was white and very dead."

"So why is that important?" he asked as they once more reached
level ground.

"It may not be," she said with a small shrug and a shake of her
head.  "It may have simply been someone's pet.  One thing is for
sure though--it wasn't a natural occurrence of albinism.  Rats
like that don't survive to adulthood in the wild."

Mischievously, he leaned in to her as they ducked beneath a
tree branch, a lop-sided smile tugging at his lips.  "Maybe he
was just big for his age."

She wrinkled her nose and shot him a sideways glance.  "It
just . . . it feels odd to me, Mulder.  That's all.  I mean . . .
you have to admit--if it was from a lab, it's one hell of a
coincidence.  Dead lab rat, dead town."

Saying nothing, he grimly nodded.

"If I can find the corpse, I'd like to bag it, maybe send it off
to the labs in D.C. and see what they come up with."

"You saying you've got a hunch, Scully?" he teased as they
began picking their way carefully through the snow-covered
underbrush.

"What can I tell you," she said dryly.  "You're a bad influence."

"That goes without saying."

They hiked for awhile in silence, consulting both the map
and compass from time to time.  They aimed their path in a
wide circular swath, their plan being to ultimately approach
Gateway from the west, the opposite direction from that which
they had taken before.  This meant their journey was longer, but
ideally safer.  They weren't heading for a confrontation with
those responsible for Gateway's tragedy.  They only hoped to
observe.

Listening to the birdsong and the wind fluting through crannies
made of pine needles and twigs, Scully allowed herself a
moment's pleasure as they walked.  A short, indulgent minute
or two to simply enjoy the brisk autumn afternoon, to raise her
face to the sun like a child silently asking for a kiss.  Before
they had begun their trek, they had debated the wisdom in
making a daytime trip to town.  Scully had pointed out the
obvious danger of discovery in the cold, harsh light of day,
while Mulder had countered with the reasoning that while the
bad guys could more easily see them, they also stood a better
chance of spotting the bad guys first.

A sweep of brown caught her eye, the unexpected movement
startling her.  She lifted her head once more and caught sight
of a hawk circling lazily above the tree line, his wings wide
and still as he rode the air currents like a kite.  Taking a deep
breath to steady her nerves, she prayed his was the only patrol
they would run across that afternoon.

Mulder had followed the direction of her gaze.  Bringing to
his eyes the high-powered field glasses hanging around his
neck, he focused on the bird of prey above them, watching
him swoop and dive, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

It had been those binoculars which had finally tipped the scales
in favor of them making their jaunt in the afternoon rather than
the evening

"We should be able to see for miles with these things," Mulder
had said excitedly, holding the glasses to his eyes and giving
them a test run out the cabin window.  "If we can make our
way to that elevation just west of Gateway, Baron's Peak, we
should stand a pretty good chance of seeing whether the town
is still being watched."

She had crossed to join him at the window, curious to see what
sort of magnification the binoculars offered.  Taking the glasses
from him, she had leaned close and peered through their lens.
"I have to confess, Mulder.  I'm miserable at map-reading.
Which hill did you have in mind?"

"There," Mulder had said softly, his face near hers, his hand
pointing off just to their right.  "The center one there of the
three.  See that cluster of wavy lines?"  

"Okay.  I see it."

"So, what do you think?  Might not be a bad lookout point.  If
it's as steep as the map indicates, there shouldn't be a lot of
trees obstructing the view."

"Which also means not a lot of trees offering cover," she had
murmured dryly.

"Shouldn't be a problem.  They won't know we're coming."

"All right," Scully had said with a nod, her brow furrowed
behind the eye-piece.  "But I'm still not sure what we're
supposed to do once we get up there.  Take a look around,
then run?"

Mulder had shrugged a bit sheepishly and folded his arms
across his chest.  "I don't know, Scully.  I think our best bet
is to play it by ear."

At that, she had lowered the binoculars and looked at her
partner, her eyebrow cocked, not pleased at all with the
apparent improvisational nature of their plan.

Sensitive to her reservations, he had immediately laid his
hand on her arm, his expression earnest, his voice low and
soothing.  "Scully, I have the same doubts as you.  The same
fears.  And I would like nothing more than to get on that
computer, e-mail Skinner to call in the troops, then catch
the next flight out of Grand Junction.  But we know for a fact
that someone is on to us.  Was probably watching us from the
moment we took off from D.C.  And that someone has got to
have come from inside the Bureau.  No one else knew where
we would be.  We made a mistake when we went through
official channels.  We should have investigated this one on
our own."

"And you're sure the information regarding our whereabouts
couldn't have come from the Gunmen?" she had asked, already
knowing how he would respond, but needing to ask the
question just to clear it out of her mind.

"No, Scully," he had replied at once.  "The boys would never
betray us.  After you, I trust them more than anyone."

Sighing, she had nodded wearily in agreement.  "I know.  I do
too.  It's just . . . it's so much easier believing the leak might be
on their end rather than on our own."

"I know," he had murmured sadly.  "That's why we have to
wait and go to the Bureau with something concrete.  If we
try and contact Skinner now, we run the risk not only of
disclosing our whereabouts, but of forcing Carl and his
buddies to destroy what little evidence may remain."

Evidence, Scully now silently grumbled as they neared the
final leg of their journey.  How could she have imagined when
she had first joined the Bureau that such a basic thing would
prove so great a luxury.  Well, at least if all went according to
plan, they would have in their possession a photograph or two
illustrating Gateway's desolation.  Maybe if they were really
lucky they might even capture one of the moonsuited men on
film.  While neither would necessarily prove what had happened
to the town's citizens, such pictures could perhaps persuade
their superiors that something untoward had taken place.

They began their ascent up Baron's Peak with Mulder in the
lead and her on his heels.  They had been walking for upwards
of two hours, and although her leg had improved, it still wasn't
one hundred percent.  Gradually, she began to tire, her condition
exacerbated by their mode of travel.  Over the course of the
afternoon, Scully had learned a valuable, if painful, lesson.
Snowshoeing required a weird gait, one that put stress on the
muscles in her thighs and calves, straining them in ways in
which they were not accustomed.  Again, that old, deep ache
began inching its way down the back of her leg as they inched
their way up the side of the hill.  The higher they climbed, the
further she fell behind.  Mulder kept looking back at her
worriedly, almost as if he were hoping she would call a halt to
their march.  Or at least, ask for a rest.  But head bowed, she
plowed on, determined to reach the top.  It was already mid-
afternoon.  They couldn't afford to waste the light.

At last, they hit the summit.  Surveying the valley below, Scully
braced her hands on her knees and bent forward at the waist,
trying to simultaneously catch her breath and ignore the fiery
twinge radiating through the lower half of her body.  

"You all right?" Mulder asked, his hand on her shoulder,
his brow drawn tight with concern.

"I'll live," she panted, her breath expelling in little puffs of
steam.

He didn't look convinced.

"It's okay," she insisted, standing upright once more.  "Come
on.  Let's do what we came here to do."

With that, she crossed away to the edge of the incline.

To the side that overlooked Gateway.

Trailing after her, Mulder settled himself awkwardly atop the
snow, stretched out on his belly so as to minimize his chances
of being seen.   After a minute or two she joined him, wincing
as she lowered herself to his side.  Giving her one last look,
her partner made no comment, choosing instead to simply
bring the binoculars to his eyes, blocking her from view.

"See anything?" she asked quietly after a time, almost as if they
were in danger of being overheard.

"No," he murmured flatly, his elbows braced before him.
"Not a damn thing."

"No sign of the trucks?"

"No trucks.  No people.  Not even a dog.  The place looks
completely deserted."

He handed her the glasses and she took a look for herself.
It wasn't long before she had to concede that Mulder was
right.  Not a soul wandered Gateway's streets.  No traffic.
Nothing.

The town was seemingly empty.

Haunted.

Its ghosts newly dead, and not at all at rest.

"It's kind of spooky, isn't it?" she whispered, a slight shiver
shuddering down her spine.

"What is?" he asked just as softly, his lips near her ear.

"It's like they were never there.  Like no one was.  Like nothing
ever happened there at all."

"We know better, Scully," he said, pressing his shoulder to hers
in comfort.  "We're their witnesses."

She nodded, and was just about to return the binoculars to Mulder
when she saw something on Gateway's outskirts, half hidden by
brush.  

"Mulder, what is that?" she asked, peering intently through the
glasses, realizing even as she fired her question that he couldn't
possibly see clearly from this distance.  Not with the naked eye.

"What?  What are you looking at?"

"There," she said, handing him the binoculars and pointing to
the road running between Route 141 and Gateway, the narrow
two-lane strip of asphalt that connected the tiny enclave with
the world.  She couldn't be sure, but just the other side of the
roadblock, hidden from anyone who might have been driving
down the highway by a bend in the road, she thought she spied
something.  She just couldn't tell what.  The sun reflecting off
the snow was making it difficult for her to see.  "Do you see it?  
It appears as if there may be something in the gully there at the
side of the road.  Something big by the looks of it."

He pointed the glasses in the direction she had indicated and
stared long and hard, his brow wrinkled with concentration,
saying nothing.

"What do you suppose that is?" she queried at last, her eyes
narrowed against the glare, craning her neck as if trying to
get a better view.

At last, Mulder lowered the binoculars and turned to regard
her, their faces close, his eyes glowing with excitement.  "I'm
not sure.  But, I think that may be a truck, Scully.  Not a Hum-
Vee, like ours.  Something bigger.  More like a supply truck.  
And, call me crazy, but something tells me it didn't find its
way into that ditch all on its own."

"What are you saying?" she asked a bit cautiously.

"I'm saying that it looks as if the coast is clear.  So we owe it
to ourselves and to the citizens of Gateway to get our butts
back down this hill and check out that truck."

*           *     *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Continued in Chapter XII

"Antidote" (12/18) **NC-17**
by Rachel Howard
& Karen Rasch

Snowrider5@aol.com
Krasch@earthlink.net

I think a content warning is in order for this chapter. It gets a
little icky in this next installment.  Not mushy-icky, or sexy-icky
(we figure the Noromos mostly bailed out sometime before ch. 9),
but gross-icky.  Dead bodies and stuff.  Unfortunately, if you skip
this chapter, you're missing important plot development.  So you
decide.  

*********************************************************

October 28
On the Outskirts of Gateway, Colorado

Moving cautiously, they picked their way down the slope.  It
was trickier than going up had been; Mulder tripped himself
twice on the edges of his snowshoes.  Scully just kept her head
down and tried her best to ignore the throbbing in her thigh.  
Finally, however, they made it to the edge of the forest.

They stepped out onto the shoulder of the unplowed road, and
stopped.

It was perfectly quiet.

Far off in the distance, a plane hummed its way across the sky.  
But from the town, from the road, came no sounds of life at all.

They walked a bit further down the highway to where the
barricade was set up, barring the curious from visiting tiny
Gateway.  Navigating through the sawhorses and sandbags,
they made a very pleasant if unexpected discovery.

Mulder stopped dead in his tracks.  "What the hell . . ."

There, tucked away behind tightly packed grove of evergreens
lay a small fleet of Hum-Vees, six in all.

"What are these doing here?" Scully murmured in confusion.
"Why park these so close to the road and then walk to town.
That makes no sense."

"Unless you weren't planning to go to town in the first place."

"What are you saying?"

"What if whoever was assigned to these trucks were doing
border patrol?" he said softly, his brow furrowed in thought.

She nodded slowly.  "To keep people out."

He looked pointedly at the truck lying nearby in the ditch.  
"Or to keep people in."

Scully sighed, her lips flattened.  "So where did everyone go?"

Her partner shook his head.  "I don't know."

The truck they had spied from above lay on its side, boxes
spilling out of its back.  It didn't look as if the vehicle had hit
anything, and any skid marks that might have told the story
of the accident had long since been covered by the snow.  

The two agents plodded carefully over to the back of it.  
Scully frowned when she read the lettering on the side of
the box at her feet.

RACAL.

She reached down and pulled at the tape sealing the box.  
Mulder reached down to help her, and together they
struggled with the box until one of the flaps gave way.

It held an orange plastic suit with bubble helmet.  

"Mulder, this is a field bio-containment suit."

"Like what they were wearing when we got here?"

"Yes.  But this truck is headed =away= from town."  She
looked up at her partner.  The wind had ruffled his hair and
dried the sweat on his face.  He looked worried.

"Mulder," she said slowly, "put it on."

"What, the suit?"

"Yeah, the suit."  She began tearing at another box.  "I have a
very bad feeling about this."

Taking off the snowshoes and putting on the bulky plastic suit
was no easy task.  Scully was still wrestling with the Velcro
wrist and ankle closures on hers when Mulder called out from
the front of the truck, his voice muffled by the helmet, "Well,
I don't need a medical degree to tell you what killed this guy."

She picked her way through the snow to where Mulder stood,
peering into the cab of the truck.

The driver had been shot point blank in the side of the head.  
From the way the left side of his face was missing, brains
splattering the passenger seat, Scully guessed that someone had
put a gun to his temple and summarily executed the man.  What
had caused him to drive off the road into the ditch, however,
remained a mystery.

Mulder put a hand on her shoulder.  "Shot trying to escape?"

"Maybe.  But escape what exactly?"

He could only shake his head.

"We've got to get into town, Mulder."

"Quaint as these snowshoes are, it's at least a mile into Gateway.  
I vote for firing up one of these HumVees.  What do you think?"

Scully nodded.  The snowshoes could puncture their suits, anyhow,
and that simply wasn't an option.  "When was the last time you
hot-wired a Jeep?"

He grinned mischievously at her through the clear plastic mask.  
"I'm pleading the fifth.  But I think I can manage."

As they waded through the snow -- a much more wearing task