By Kel and Michelle Kiefer

ckelll@hotmail.com
msk1024@yahoo.com
 

Category:  Casefile
Spoilers: season 6ish
Rating: R
Archive:  Just ask.
Disclaimer:  Not ours.  Sigh.
Summary:  When an investigation in the
middle of nowhere opens old wounds,
2000 miles away becomes too close to
home.  Can Mulder and Scully unravel the
puzzle before they fall apart?
COMMENTS:  Huge, huge thanks to MaybeAmanda
and Syntax6 for beta.  Thanks to Nell and
Linda for invaluable help along the way.
Our eternal gratitude also to our own
resident veterinarian, the lovely Enigmatic Dr,
for beta and technical advice on all things sheep.

This is a "Beta-in-progress" story.  The story
is complete, and we will post as each part is
pushed and pulled into shape.  We're doing our
best to stick to a once a week (at least)
schedule.   If RL schedules permit, we'll try to
make the updates a little more frequent.

~~~

Bone of Contention (12/15)
 

It was a dream he'd had before.  His besieged brain
tried to wake him even as his leaden body urged him
to sleep a little longer.

These nightmares first appeared when Scully was missing.
Usually it was Scully stripped and bound and helpless,
but sometimes it was Mulder himself.  He struggled to
escape his troubled sleep, but his weariness was too
great.

When he finally awoke, the dread had ebbed and the
feeling that screamed him to consciousness was pain.

His arms!  Crushed between his own weight and the rough,
cold ground. He tried to pull them free, and he realized
with a grunt that his wrists were tied.  Finally he
managed to lurch himself over onto his side, bringing
fresh pain to his strained shoulders.  He stilled himself
to catch his breath and let the circulation return.

He was exhausted.  He wanted to go back to sleep almost
as much as he wanted his arms free.

As the pain in his arms subsided, the panic returned, a
visceral horror that gripped his throat and soaked him
with sweat even as he struggled to remember the cause of
his fear.

*Roger and the sheep hybrid and the cancer man and--oh,
God!*

They hadn't killed him, but maybe he'd be better off dead.

He writhed frantically on the ground, ignoring the angry
jolts of pain in his arms as he curled himself into a
"C" to inspect the damage.

No blood.  No blood that he could see, anyway.  A strip
of white tape across his pelvis--what the fuck?  Sick,
dirty bastards, what had they done to him?

Nothing hurt down there.  Was that good?

He needed his hands, but his hands were useless, trapped
behind his back.  If he could bring his legs up and
squirm them through the loop formed by his conjoined arms,
he'd be able to check himself for damage.

It would have been a simple exercise in handcuffs, but
the rope that tied his wrists gave him almost no slack,
and his bruised arms and shoulders ached at the added
abuse.  Mulder ignored the pain in his arms and the pain
in his face where it pressed against the pebbled ground.
He wriggled his way through the maneuver, forcing the
fear from his mind.

His trousers and shorts were bunched down around his
shins.  The strip of white tape across his lower gut
yanked at his penis.  Better not to think about that.
Think about something else.  Something safe.

*On the mound, Mike Torrez.  Munson catching. Chambliss
on first, Randolph on second, Dent at short, and
Nettles on Third.  In the outfield...*

Finally, success.  Hands still bound, but now where he
could use them.   His balls felt solid, sweaty, and warm.
Pretty much as he remembered them.

"Thank you, God!" he whispered out loud.

Now with the overwhelming pain in his shoulders eased,
other sensations were becoming apparent.  Small stones
dug into his bare butt. He squeezed his eyes shut as
he felt the tape pull at the skin of his groin.

His fingers found the edge of the tape.  With one quick
motion, he ripped it off.

"Fuck!"

It was a hell of a bikini wax, and he'd probably removed
some skin along with the hair.  It was a small price to
pay.  His fear washed away in waves of relief, and as
the tension abated, the lethargy returned.

Drugged, he realized, remembering the needles.

He could probably free himself with enough effort, but
he was so damned tired. He lay on the ground, curled
protectively around his treasures.

Your balls or your life.  Easy choice, because you'd
be better off dead.  Cancer Man played for high stakes,
and Mulder did too.  Death was always on the table.

But not this.  Not what they threatened today.

I would have killed him, Mulder thought.  He'd been close
before, but this time he would have pulled the trigger.
Three times.  Twice for Cancer Man, and once for himself.
He wouldn't bother leaving a note.  It wouldn't be needed.

There was a trick that female agents sometimes used.  He'd
seen Scully do it, and he'd even heard her explain it to
a young rookie:

"For a recalcitrant subject, try pointing the gun at his
groin instead of his chest.  It helps him focus."

"That really works?" the rookie had asked, her voice
full of skepticism.  "A shot in the chest can kill you."

"Men aren't always rational," Scully had answered.

Unlike Scully, who was always rational.

She talked about her body as if it was something
separate from herself.   "I have cancer"--she'd only
said that once, the day she told him about the tumor.
After that, it was "the cancer that invaded my body."
It was almost as if she'd willed it to be something
apart from her after that first day.

It was one huge difference between them, because
Mulder knew he *was* his body.

Balls were courage.  Under "man" in the dictionary,
it said, "see balls."

It wasn't just a metaphor.

He really should try to get himself untied.  At the
very least, he should find a way to pull up his pants.

Again he brought his hands down between his legs,
fingering himself carefully.  All there.  He was
still himself.  He brought his hands up before his
face, studying the coarse rope around his wrists.
Hemp, not nylon, and the knots were fast.  He could
probably find a way to grind through, or even chew
his way free, but it wouldn't be easy.

His trousers were slightly more cooperative.  Gradually
he squirmed and tugged his way back into his clothes.
It was worth the considerable effort needed to zip his
fly and buckle his belt.  He was on the ground with his
hands tied, but he didn't feel so utterly vulnerable.

He should kill that bastard, for what he could have
done, even if he didn't do it.  He should kill that
smoking bastard for knowing how frightened Mulder
really was.

The sounds of an approaching car cut through his rage
and turned it to terror.  They were coming back.  They
had taken Cindy someplace safe and now they were coming
back to finish the job.

= = = = = = =

"Where the hell are you, Mulder?"

Her words echoed through the car as she turned it off
the main road onto the rutted path that cut through
the trees.  This had to be the right place, she thought.
Ahead of the car, several sets of ridges looked fresh
in the high beam's brightness.

The car bumped and bounced over the uneven terrain.
The accountants were going to complain loud enough
about the second rental car without having to pay
for a wheel alignment or damaged axle.

Scully replayed Cancer Man's cryptic words, wondering
what condition she'd find her partner in this time.
A body could only take so much abuse and Mulder had
already exceeded his quota of unconsciousness on this
case.

She rounded a slight curve in the path, spotting a
dark form sprawled in the headlight's shine.  Scully
stopped the car, realizing the dark form was Mulder.

"Are you injured?" she called out as she ran from the
car.

Mulder lay on his back, blinking in the bright light.
He seemed dazed and terrified, the fear gradually
morphing into relief at the sound of her voice.

"Scully?"

"Oh my God, Mulder.  What happened to you?"

He winced as she grabbed his upper arms to help him
into a sitting position.  He shook his head slightly,
as if to clear it.

"Oh, the usual," he said wearily, holding up his
bound wrists.  "Do you have anything handy to cut
these ropes?"

"I'll be right back."  She ran back to the car,
wishing she'd brought her medical bag.  The rental
company had included a small emergency kit in the
back of the car.  She hauled it out and carried it
over to Mulder.

"I don't see anything here...wait...maybe I can do
something with the end of this screwdriver.  Oh
good, they have a solar blanket," she said, shaking
out the silver foil fabric and draping it over
Mulder's shoulders.

The screwdriver was useless on the coil of rope around
Mulder's wrists, but she finally managed to loosen the
bindings enough to free him.  His wrists were rubbed
raw and looked extremely painful.

Mulder's hands must have ached with pins and needles as
he hissed out a breath and tucked them under his armpits,
rocking back and forth.  Suddenly, his hands flew to
his ankles, scrambling over the fabric of his slacks.
He shook his head.

"My legs were tied before.  They must have untied them
before they left.  How did...how did you know where to
find me?" he asked.

Something about Mulder just didn't feel right.  He
seemed distracted and fuzzy.  His clothing was rumpled,
but no more than she would have expected after being
tied up and left in the woods.

Mulder brought his hands down to rest over his lap.
Scully dragged her gaze away, trying not to think
about why Mulder seemed to be cupping his privates.

"Cancer Man called me.  He said you 'owe him one.'
Mulder, are you all right?"

"I'm just a little woozy."  He didn't seem able to meet
her eye.  "I saw her, Scully, the hybrid sheep.  Roger
got her away from Weymouth.  We've got to look for
them."

"Brian got a call earlier, from the Smoking Man.
He wanted to be flown out and he said he was bringing
a large dog in a crate."

"You were with Brian," Mulder said, flatly.

Why did she feel defensive?  It was his fault she had
to call Brian in the first place.

"Well, you stranded me out at Weymouth, and the hotel
didn't have a car available to pick me up for an hour.
You're lucky Brian could drive me to pick up another
rental car or you'd still be lying there tied up."

He looked at her for a moment, nodding and then closing
his eyes as if the motion had made him dizzy.

"We've got to catch up with them, Scully," Mulder said,
struggling to his feet.  One hand flew to his head as
he swayed and reached out to grab her arm for balance.

"Mulder, you should be checked out."  She slid an arm
around his middle.

"No time.  Got to get to the airport."

There was really no point in arguing, so she helped him
to the car.  He didn't appear to be in immediate danger,
though her instincts were telling her something wasn't
right.

"Okay, we'll head out to the airport," she agreed,
reluctantly, helping him into the passenger seat of
the car.

The path was too narrow to turn around, and Scully
wasn't sure she could maneuver the car in reverse all
the way out to the road.  She drove forward until she
came to a slight clearing on the left and turned into
it, narrowly missing Mulder's rental.

"Avis will be happy to know their car is intact.  Scully,
I don't have my weapon," Mulder said, patting his clothing
down.  He opened the car door, staggering a bit as he
stood up.

Her partner's eyes darted around the clearing, his hands
shaking slightly.  The car's headlights illuminated the
clearing well enough to show nothing was there except
rocks, leaves, and dirt.  Mulder walked a few paces into
the clearing and then froze in the beam of light.  Gently
touching his arm, Scully moved past him.

She opened the abandoned rental's door, searching under
the seats before popping the glove box.

"Bingo," she called out.  Mulder signed with relief when
she produced his weapon, ID, and cell phone.  This seemed
to release him from his stasis and he walked over to her.

"Thank God," he said.  "Skinner would rip my head off and
insert it where the sun don't shine if I lost another
gun."

He holstered his weapon, shoving his phone and ID in
his jacket pocket.  Crossing to Scully's car, he pulled
the door open and slid inside.

"Let's get the hell out of here."

Scully backed out and pointed the car down the path and
out to the road.

Mulder was silent for the rest of the trip out to the
airport.  Scully snuck glances in his direction, noting
that his gaze never left the passenger window and his
hands never left his lap.

They arrived at the airport, driving directly to the
airfield where they'd landed a few days before.  A
man crossed the field, a clipboard in his hand.

"We're looking for Brian Yates," Scully shouted as
they crossed to meet the man.  She pulled out her
badge, flipping it open so the man could see it.

"You're about an hour too late," the man said,
looking up at the night sky.  "Brian took off with
an older man--one of his regular fares. Is Brian in
some trouble?"

"No, he's not in any trouble.  You mentioned the
older man.  Did anyone else take off with Brian?"
Scully asked.

"Now that's a funny thing.  One of those big luxury
SUVs pulls up, and the old man gets out along with
this big guy.  I've never seen that old guy without
a cigarette in his mouth, and this was no exception."

"So he was smoking a cigarette," Mulder prompted,
gesturing impatiently for the man to continue.

"Yeah, the old man wanted Brian and the big guy
to load this crate on the plane.  Some kind of
animal was in the crate.  The old man said it
was a dog, but it didn't sound much like one."

"What makes you say that?" Scully asked.

"Something was wheezing in that crate, coughing
like.  Just wasn't making dog sounds. So, the big
guy said the animal was sick and cigarette smoke
bothered it.  You know, the big guy seemed kind of
dumb, but he was stubborn.  Said he wouldn't let
the old man take it if he didn't stop smoking.
Then Brian says he isn't carrying a sick animal
on his plane.  They argued and the old man got
on the plane alone."

"What happened to the big man?"

"He drove off with whatever was in the crate."

= = = = = =
 

"Drive me to my car.  I'll haul ass and see if I can
catch them before they make the interstate.  You head
over to Roger's place.  I don't think he'd bring Cindy
there, but it's possible," Mulder said.

Time was not on their side, and he squirmed impatiently,
sitting in the passenger seat as Scully looked him over,
frowning slightly.

"I'm taking you back to the hotel," she said at last.

Mulder shook his head.  "If you find him, call me.  I
don't want you trying to apprehend him by yourself."

Scully flipped her phone open. "Sheriff Morris, this
is Special Agent Dana Scully.  I  need you to put out
an APB."

Mulder glowered as she described the subject and his
vehicle, and when he heard the phrase "assault on a
federal agent," he had his hand to his balls before
he could suppress the gesture.

"You shouldn't have done that," Mulder said when
Scully closed her phone.

"Roger has an hour's head start," she reminded him.
"We can't catch him by ourselves."

"The sheriff won't help us," Mulder said.  He couldn't
voice his real concern--what Roger would tell the sheriff
if he was caught.  A full description of Mulder hog-tied,
helpless, and wild with terror as Roger prepared to
relieve him of his wickedness.

"He's sending a deputy to Roger's home and he's alerted
the highway patrol to look for the Explorer," Scully
countered. "He's doing his job."

Finally she started the engine.

"Just drop me off by my car so I can do mine," he said
brusquely.

"You've been drugged, Mulder, for the second time in two
days."  Her voice was gentle, calm, and measured.  She was
irritating the shit out of him.  "You may not be aware of
it, but your speech, your movement, your thinking--they're
impaired."

"At least I didn't say I love you," he snapped.

She didn't answer.  She didn't even look at him.

"You're the victim, Mulder.  Your injuries are evidence,"
she said.

"I don't have any injuries," he said quickly.

"Your wrists are abraded.  And we'll get you to a doctor
for a thorough check."

"Drop it, Scully.  I told you I'm not injured."

There were a dozen ways she could have overruled his
refusal.  Probably it was the practical difficulties
that made her relent.

"Blood work," she said.

"You can draw blood," he agreed.

That appeased her, and they rode in silence.

If there was one person in five billion who could never
understand, it was Scully.  "A knife invaded my body and
removed its testicles."  That would be Scully-ese for
what they tried to do to him.

"I'll read your statement before you submit it," Scully
said.

"Thanks.  I'll use the spell-check," Mulder said stonily.

"Mulder, please.  You can't expect yourself to be an
objective investigator when you're also the victim."

Victim.  Anybody could be a victim.  Hell, most people
were, eventually, one way or another.  But the words
felt heavy with shame.

"I'm not going to worry about testifying against Roger
until they catch him."  The car was warm, and if only
Scully would quit bothering him, he could probably take
a nap.

"It's not just about Roger.  It's about you, and your
ordeal."

Bile rose in his throat as little details came back to
him: Roger unbuckling his belt, the feel of another man's
hands on his genitals, the smell of his own fear-sweat
as he struggled against his restraints.

If she didn't stop talking about his "ordeal," he might
just have to jump from the car.

"Shut up, Scully," he hissed. It was the closest he
could come to a polite reply.

She gave a little nod and pursed her lips.

"I won't mention it again," she said.  "But whenever
you're ready--"

"Goddamn it!" Mulder exploded.  "Spare me, okay?  Spare
me this bullshit.  Spare me your hypocrisy."

She didn't answer.  She didn't seem angry.  Her demeanor
was gentle and controlled, solicitous and tolerant.

"You make me sick," Mulder said bitterly.  He saw a spark
of pain in her eyes, but somehow that made him feel better.
"You let them blow up your body, and stuff it with monsters,
and steal your eggs, and then you tell me I have to talk
about what happened to me when nothing happened!"

"You bastard."  She sounded as if she was choking.  Good.
Choking on her hypocrisy.

"They took your eggs, Scully.  And now--now I don't even
know who you are."

Her face was deadly white, a mask of pain that he had caused.
An enemy attack would have been gentle by comparision, he
thought.  It takes a real friend to wound a person this deeply.
His satisfaction evaporated, leaving only horror in its wake.

"Oh, God, Scully, I'm sorry.  I know you didn't let them,"
he said.

"After everything, after all this time, you don't know who
I am?" she whispered.

"I was drugged," he said stupidly.

"Because I can't have children, you don't know who I am?"
she asked.

"That's not what I meant."

"Isn't that what you said?"

"No.  But eggs...hormones...sex...and you don't date."

She gripped the wheel. "No point in dating if you can't
make babies.  Is that what you're suggesting?" she asked
angrily.

"Hormones," he said lamely.  "And feelings, and biology.
Scully, I don't know what they did to you.  Do you?  I
just didn't know if everything worked the way it should.
Or if I should just forget it."

Mulder knew that with every word he made everything worse,
but he was afraid if he stopped now, they would never speak
again.

"'Cause if you don't, that would be okay.  I do love you,
Scully, even though you make me feel like an ass whenever
I say it."

Her knuckles were white.  Her lips were trembling.

"I love you," he said.  "I am an ass, but I love you."

If only she would talk.  If only she would yell at him.

"Scully, you never told me about your date."

"I have no intention of discussing my date with you."

Thank God.  She was talking to him.

"Did you have a good time?" he asked conversationally.

"Why?  Don't believe a barren woman can have fun?"

If it wasn't about sex, it wouldn't be so goddamn
complicated.  Those bastards had "hyperovulated" her,
but nobody knew what that meant.  He couldn't find a
doctor who had ever even heard of such a procedure.

If Scully had been returned with a leg injury, they
could talk about it.  He could ask her, "Do you want
to take a walk?"  And she could answer, "No, I no
longer want to walk."  Or, "I want to walk but I
can't."  Or, "I want to walk, but not with you."

"Please tell me about your date," he pressed.

"Typical date--for a woman without ova," Scully said.

"Scully, don't--"

"Dinner.  French food--very good.  You know, many
cancer patients lose their sense of taste, but I've
been fortunate."

Mulder winced.

"Then we took a drive in the country, to look at the
stars."

That son of a bitch, Mulder thought.

"Then I rescued you from the mad scientists, and Roger
used that clamp-thing on the little lamb..."

That clamp-thing.  He'd forgotten about that.

"...You passed out, and we went back to the hotel..."

That huge, curved pair of pliers that could geld a ram
without a cut, without spilling a drop of blood.  Roger
said it didn't even hurt for very long.

"Like I said, just a typical date." Her voice traveled
up and down the scale, as if she couldn't control the
pitch.

Hell, with a little Novacaine and maybe some knock-out
drops, the damn sheep wouldn't even know it had been
castrated.

"Anything else you want to know, Mulder?"

Maybe the stupid sheep would be standing in the shower
one morning and its balls would just drop off.

"I can tell you about my breakfast with Brian, if
you're curious."

Mulder didn't feel any pain, but that proved nothing.
It might even be a bad sign.

= = = = = = =

It explained a lot.

Scully kicked off her shoes and sat against her bed's
headboard, wishing she had a cigarette and a stiff
drink.  Oh yes, Mulder's revelation explained a whole
raft of previously baffling events.

No wonder he'd gently put her off after her cancer
had gone into remission.  He obviously cared about
her; she had no doubt of that.  But when she had
tried to advance them into a new direction during
their little detour from the partnership seminar
in Florida, he'd neatly sidestepped the issue,
leaving her holding the wine and cheese.

At the time, she'd assumed he was still reeling
from almost losing her.  Or maybe she just wasn't
his type--not tall enough, leggy enough, sexy
enough.  It was finally clear, though, that he'd
been repulsed.  Oh, he'd been too kind to actually
say it.  Unless he was drugged, Mulder would never
come out and admit he saw her as a neuter, a
freak show exhibit.

Her face burned with humiliation.

After they'd gotten back to the motel, she'd insisted
on bringing her medical bag to Mulder's room to draw
more blood samples.  He'd wanted to come to her room,
but she couldn't risk being unable to evict a
remorseful Mulder trying to explain away his words.

It had taken every ounce of strength not to cry in
front of him.  She'd avoided his eye, concentrating
instead on the task at hand.  When she'd rolled back
his sleeve, she winced again at the sight of his
raw wrists.

She'd escaped back to her room as soon as she'd
filled the last vial of blood and packed her
equipment.  Mulder had been in mid "Scully, wait,"
when she'd closed the door behind her.

Scully knew it was a matter of time before Mulder
found an excuse to come over.  She hoped the drugs
in his system kicked in and Mulder went to bed.
She didn't think she could handle another
confrontation tonight.

The knock on her door was distinctly unwelcome.

"Scully?  Can I come in?"

"Not right now," she called.

"It's kind of important."

"I'm not feeling well," she said in a mammoth
understatement.

"I really need you."

Scully had promised herself she'd be brave and strong,
and although she wasn't yet ready to test herself,
she opened the door a few inches.

"What's wrong?" she asked him through the gap.

"I need you to check something," he said.

"Check what?" she asked him brusquely, hoping her
tone would discourage him.

"Can I come in?" he asked again.

"What for?" she asked impatiently.

"Scully, you don't even have to look.  I just need
you to check and see that, umm...everything's
the way it should be."

His fear and urgency finally penetrated the haze of
her own misery, and she opened the door and let him
in.

"What's wrong, Mulder?"

"Nothing.  Probably," he said.

"Then what do you want me to check?"  Her exasperation
was pushing her closer to tears, and if he made her
cry she would have to kill him.

His face twitched in a dozen stupid ways and he gestured
awkwardly at his belt buckle as he answered.

"Down there."

"Oh, Mulder!"  This was too much.  *He* was too much.

She'd squinted at his retinas through her ophthalmoscope.
She'd cleaned and sutured the occasional laceration.
She'd put him on antibiotics for bronchitis when he
swore it was just a cold.

But "down there"?  Did he understand that her usual
method of examination was to slice off a chunk and
send it to histology?

"Goddamn it, I need you!  You're the only doctor within a
thousand miles who doesn't work for Weymouth Scientific."

She wouldn't refuse him.  She might want to, but they both
knew she wouldn't.

Something had happened to him out in the woods, though
he clearly wasn't ready to tell her about it.  She'd
noticed the way Mulder's hands had gravitated over and
over to his "boys."  She had wondered what had been
wrong, and had been poised to tackle the subject when
he'd struck out at her.

Maybe that had been the point.

"All right.  Sit down."

She observed him as he walked across the room and sat on
the bed, noting that his movements appeared normal and
comfortable.

"You're staring at my crotch," Mulder complained.

It was years since Scully had conducted this type of
exam, and what she remembered most from her very limited
experience was the incredible awkwardness.  She joined
him by the bed, reminding herself that she was a
professional and he was a patient in need of her care.

"Do you have any swelling, lumps, or tenderness in the
scrotum?" she asked.

"No."

"Do you have any swelling, lumps, or tenderness on the
penis?"

"Damn it, Scully, I didn't ask you to humiliate me!
I just want you to make sure there's nothing wrong,"
he pleaded.

She interpreted his answer as a "no."

"Are you aware of any painless lumps on the testicles?"
she asked.

"I don't believe this!" Mulder complained.

Another "no."

"Have you had any unprotected intercourse?" she asked
stonily.

"In my life?" he shot back.

"Recently," she clarified.

"Like you have to ask me that," he said bitterly.
"Like you wouldn't know."

"Do you have any discharge or pain with urination?"
she asked.

"No," he answered.

Despite Mulder's impatience, Scully knew the history
was as important as the physical assessment.  But she
was out of questions, and it was time to snap on the
latex and do what she had to do. If she and Mulder
both survived the exam, there would be concrete proof
that no one ever died of embarrassment.

"Okay.  Take off your pants."

She studied the ceiling as she pulled on her gloves,
and when she looked down, Mulder was still in his
boxers. Apparently he expected her to peek through
the slit.  Their eyes met, and, sighing with
resignation, he stood up and shucked off his shorts.

"L-lie down," she stammered.

Now Mulder studied the ceiling as she studied his
scrotum.  It was cool in the room, which wasn't going
to make this any easier.

"You know, it would help a lot if you'd tell me what
the problem was," she said.

"Just get it over with," Mulder said with manifest
misery.

"Let me know if anything hurts," she instructed him.

Her first touch nearly launched him off the bed.

"Sorry," he gulped.  "Your hands are freezing."

"Gloves," she corrected him as he settled back onto
the bed.

"Well?" Mulder asked a few minutes into the examination.

"I'm not finding anything remarkable," Scully said.
"Is there something in particular you're concerned
about?"

"Um," he said.

It was terribly unprofessional of her, but she wondered
if a twist or two wouldn't encourage him to speak up.

"Um, how are those ol' spermatic cords of mine?" he asked.

She located the cords once again, palpating gently
between thumb and index finger.

"Palpable, nontender.  I find no evidence of injury or
pathology, but a Doppler study would be more conclusive,"
she said.

"Nothing's crushed down there?" he asked.

More than ever she wanted to squeeze the truth out of him.

"Tell me what happened back in those woods!" she commanded.

He heaved an immense sigh of relief.

"Apparently nothing."

It would take threats and pressure to force him to talk,
and she couldn't make herself apply either with Mulder
at such a disadvantage. Damn him for using his vulnerability
against her.

"Do you think you could find somebody else on this planet to
check your prostate?" she asked.

"No problem."

"Get dressed."

= = = = =
Additional author's note--Special thanks to Nell for her help
with the infamous "Dr. Coldhands" scene.
 

Bone of Contention (14/15)

He awoke the next morning with the firm conviction that
something was right.  Ancient memories swam through his
brain as he sought the source of his happiness.  Snow
day?  New puppy?

No.  Better.  Scully was okay.  She'd always been okay.
The things he'd imagined and feared... well, maybe he
really was paranoid.  Hell, if there had been a way for
them to turn Scully into someone who couldn't love him,
they would have done it.  But they couldn't, which meant
she could.

That date with Brian, that was a good thing.  It proved
she was okay.  It wouldn't be a good thing if Mulder
believed for a minute that Brian had a chance in hell
with Scully, but for the first time in a while, Mulder
was optimistic.  All he needed to do was show Scully
he was interested in her "that way."  Easy.

And Mulder was okay too.  Original equipment intact.

The memory of the near miss clouded his joy, but he pushed
it aside. He'd think about it later.  Or, more practically,
he'd add a clause to his living will, and then never think
about it again.

He forced his mind back to happier thoughts.  Planning
Scully's dream date.

Not dinner-and-a-movie.  Not football, not basketball.
Something different, something classy--the Symphony.

He pulled out his phone.

The Mulder magic almost failed him.  Ticketmaster offered
him separate seats in the second tier.  Danny Vallejo said
he'd ask around. ("Symphony?  What's up with that, Mulder?")
Langly wanted to know if he was smoking crack. Finally he
called the box office and found success.

With his mojo working, not to mention his Gold Card, it was
time to strut his stuff.  First a shower, reconfirming that
his equipment remained intact.  Usually his mind wandered
as he washed up automatically.  Today he was aware of
everything, and intensely grateful that nothing but water
circled down the drain.

Clean, dry, and dressed, he knocked on Scully's door and
prepared to sweep her off her feet.  She answered, mumbling
a greeting around her toothbrush.  He caught a fleeting
glimpse of damp hair as she turned and retreated to the
bathroom.

"So, Scully.  How do you feel about Telemann?" he asked,
enjoying the sight of her round little ass.  God, he
loved the way that skirt clung in all the right places.

"What?" she called from the bathroom over the sound of
running water.

"Do you like Telemann?"

"The composer?" she asked, obviously confused.  She
moved to the dresser, putting her watch on.  Her voice
was quiet and controlled when she spoke again.  "What's
going on, Mulder?"

She turned to face him then, and he realized how tired
she looked, how pale and fragile.  The skin around her
eyes seemed bruised.  She looked like she'd spent more
time crying than sleeping the night before.  Guilt
twisted in his gut as he remembered the conversation
that had preceded his impromptu physical.

"Scully..." He stalled, unable to broach the subject of
dating in the face of such pain.  "Are you all right?"

At first he thought she was going to cry, but then
her expression twisted into anger.

"Why wouldn't I be?  What's that saying about the
empty vessel?  That it makes the loudest sound."

"Scully, I was crazy last night.  I was scared and
confused."

"I'm barren, Mulder.  Sterile.  Not a woman, just
some left-over parts that used to be a woman."

"I'm so sorry, Scully.  You have to believe that.
I wasn't in my right mind.  You said it yourself--it
was the second time I'd been drugged in two days.
You can't take anything I said seriously."

She shook her head, a bitter little smile playing
over her lips.  "You want me to believe you love
me when the only time you say it you're in a
barbiturate stupor.  You can't have it both ways,
Mulder."

He took her by the shoulders and shoved her to the
bed.

"Sit down," he ordered her.  "You've got to listen
to me."

He saw her jaw tighten with outrage, but she sat.
Even if he found the right words, he didn't know if
she would hear them.

"Scully, do you remember when you said that it wasn't
always about me?  Well, this is.  This is all about
me."

"About you?  I'm the only one whose sexual function
is in question.  You're all man, Mulder, as we proved
last night with that exercise in physical assessment."

"When I think about what happened to you, I think how
I wasn't there for you.  And I tried to get you back,
but I was too late, and then I didn't even know where
to look.  And in all this time, I've never even been
able to get them for what they did to you.  And that
does make me less of a man, Scully, just as much as
if Cancer Man had turned me into a capon."

Scully's eyes widened as Mulder realized his slip.
He had just revealed the darkest shame of his captivity.

"Oh, Mulder."

Her sympathy troubled him more than her anger, but he
decided to make use of it.

"You see.  It is about me," he said.

"You're fine, Mulder, I promise you."  She rose from
the bed, facing him squarely.  "You weren't talking
about capons yesterday, you were talking about eggs
and hormones.  You were wondering what I was.  Those
are the things you said yesterday."

"But it was still about me.  About whether you could
love me."

She shook her head slightly, and then turned away.
He watched her as she walked to the window, shoulders
high, back straight.  He didn't know what more he could
say.

The awkward silence was interrupted by Scully's
ringing cell phone.   She gave Mulder an almost
painfully resigned look as she flipped her phone
open.

"Good morning, Sheriff Morris," she greeted the
caller, then fell silent as she listened.

"We'll be right there," she told Morris before
closing the phone.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"A Lincoln Navigator leased by Weymouth Scientific
was found burning in the woods off Peyster Road."

They were going to continue this conversation if
he had anything to do with it.  Scully had to let
him in, had to listen to him.  But right now, she
was heading out the door and all he could do was
follow.

He hurried after her, getting to the driver's
side first.  Things were going to be hard enough
as it was.  At least driving the car would take
some concentration and keep him from going crazy.

They found the burning SUV without much difficulty.
It wasn't far from where Mulder's car had been
left in the clearing.  Sheriff Morris was standing
talking to another officer a few feet from the
smoldering truck.  He turned and watched them
approach.

"Damndest thing, it's like that SUV was roasted
from the inside out.  The paint's barely blistered
and the gas tank didn't blow, but the passenger
compartment's practically vaporized," he told them
before going back to his squad car.  He leaned in
through the open door and reached for the radio
speaker.

"We need a forensics team," Scully said.  "Victim
identification will be extremely difficult."

Morris nodded.

"The state's sending some crime scene techs, but
they won't be here till tomorrow."  He caught Scully's
scowl. "Car's still too hot to process anyway.  And
the victims aren't going anywhere--if there were any."

Scully stepped back from the stinking truck and
turned to Mulder.

"Do you think Roger was in the car?" she asked,
studying him carefully.

He shrugged, watching smoke drift from the big Lincoln.
Even after the horror of his near castration, Mulder
felt no triumph at Roger's fiery end.  Too many
questions remained.  Whoever set Roger on his mission
of mutilation hadn't used threats or payment; the
slow-thinking giant really believed the world would
be a better place if Mulder sang soprano.  Was Revere
that clever?  How had he done it, and why?

"They're getting rid of the evidence, Scully.  If
Cancer Man couldn't take Cindy with him, he
had to make sure no trace of her remained."

"I think you're right, Mulder.  We have to get back
to Weymouth."

She was efficient and focused.  Mulder sighed with
pity, for her and himself.  Scully could charge around
issuing orders about a case they'd already blown, but
she couldn't avoid it forever.  Very soon they would
have to have the conversation that would transform
the hardboiled FBI agent back into the angry,
red-eyed woman only barely containing her tears.

"Hurry," Scully said.  She opened the car door, eyeing
him quizzically as he stood, leaning against the hood.
"Mulder, Revere's in danger.  So is anyone else who
knows."

Shit.  She was right.  Galvanized, he opened the door.

"Hold on."  Sheriff Morris approached them, cutting
a wide path around the smoking Lincoln and turning his
face to avoid the odor.  "It just came over my radio.
Weymouth's off limits.  Some sort of chemical spill."

Mulder squared his shoulders and looked the other man
in the eye.

"We're federal officers, Sheriff, investigating a
series of federal infractions.  You don't have the
authority to stop us."

"Stop you?  I just thought you'd want to know."
Morris shook his head and shrugged.  "Knock
yourselves out."

Once they made it back to the open road, Mulder was
able to pour on the speed.  The only signs that
Scully was less than comfortable were her feet
planted against the floorboard and one white-knuckled
hand gripping the dashboard.

They were a half mile from Weymouth when they heard
the helicopters.  Mulder craned his neck to follow
two Blackhawks swooping ahead of the car.

The car lurched to a halt as they approached Weymouth.
Firetrucks, rescue vehicles, state police cars, all
crowded the normally deserted Peyster Road in a
surreal landscape.

Mulder pulled onto the shoulder of the road, hopping
out of the car and jogging past the vehicles.  He was
vaguely aware of Scully calling his name as she
hurried after him.

"Sir, you need to get back in your car!" A large man
in military fatigues approached Mulder, pointing in
the direction of the road.  "This area is restricted."

"I'm a federal agent," Mulder said, flipping open his
ID.

"I don't care if you're Eliot Ness, turn around and
leave.  This facility is a class five biohazard."

"Which is why Colonel Ostelhoff called for my
assistance," Mulder explained patiently.

The soldier wasn't impressed.

"I never heard of any Colonel Ostelhoff.  But Colonel
Jackson gave the order to clear out all civilians."

Mulder gave a look that was meant to convey sullen
defeat and got back in the car.

"Revere isn't answering his phone," Scully informed
him.  "Mulder, what's going on?"

The line of vehicles heading toward Weymouth was
bumper to bumper, but Mulder nosed into the traffic
and forced a gap, waiting for the truck ahead to
move enough so he could complete the turn.

"We're leaving?"  Scully sounded surprised.  "Just
driving away?"

How times had changed.  Instead of fighting with him
to keep out of trouble and do what they were told,
she was questioning why he would give up so easily.

"Wait," he said.

He drove another hundred feet and then stopped,
blocking the lane.

"They're evacuating the area.  This is the only road
they can use," he explained. When a car pulled up behind
him, he was ready.  ID in hand, jacket open to reveal
his weapon, he approached the driver.

"How ya doin' there, sir.  Colonel Jackson wanted to
clear up a few details before we let you go on your
way," he said.  Scully appeared at his side.  Her
ID was in evidence, but not her gun.

"Oh, man!"  The driver got out, kicking at the dirt,
looking back at the Weymouth building and then to Mulder.
"I work in the mail room!  I don't know anything, least
of all how I'm gonna make my next mortgage payment."

"I understand, sir.  We just need to go over a few
questions," Mulder said.

The driver nodded.

"What happened when you reported for work?" Scully asked.

"I was late--with half the parking lot roped off, I had
to park way out back," the driver said.  "Didn't matter,
because they were shutting the place down on account
of that spill."

"Has that ever happened before?" Mulder asked.

"Hell, no.  Nobody even knew they were using poisons
and radiation."

"And you left the plant immediately?" Scully asked.

"I wish.  I had to stay behind and run the shredder."

"What do you know about the nature of the spill?"
Mulder asked.

"Just what they told us.  Nothing dangerous, just a
precaution."

"Thank you, sir.  You may go," Scully said.

"I wasn't finished," Mulder complained mildly after
the driver had gone, his car groaning and shuddering
as he bounced on the rough shoulder to avoid the Avis
rental.

"He's a little fish.  Let's see who else shows up,"
Scully said.

"Revere?  You really think so?" he asked.  That would
be one whopper of a coincidence.

"No, Mulder, I don't.  But I don't know where else to
look, either."

It was ten minutes before the next fish swam along, and
he was another guppy.  They had to pull off the road
for a large green army truck--Mulder wasn't foolhardy
enough to try his "Colonel Jackson" line on actual
soldiers.

"Army trucks, fire trucks, ambulances--not a bad
response time for a hazardous spill in the middle of
nowhere," Mulder said.

"All they need is landscapers and builders," Scully
said.  "Then they can cover it over and put up a
playground."

The road had cleared, and the only traffic moving was
by air.  Two more Blackhawks arrived, and one took off
and returned, unless that was a different one.  Mulder
drove the car back onto the road.

"We'll cast our line once more, then call it a day," he
said.

Mulder passed the time with his binoculars, although
nothing he saw added to his knowledge.  Scully was back
on the phone, trying to find Revere.

"What are you doing, calling every listed number in Rock
Creek Crossing?" Mulder asked, yawning.

"I finished Rock Creek Crossing.  Now I'm calling every
listed number in Old Drummond."

"Then you can try New Drummond."

"There is no New Drummond, Mulder.  Just Drummond, East
Drummond, and Drummond Centre.  You need to do your
homework."

After years on the road to places only slightly more
cosmopolitan than Rock Creek Crossing and the Drummonds,
Mulder felt he could picture them all.  Drummond Centre
probably had a trailer park and maybe a gas station.

Scully's phone rang, and she reached for it eagerly.  Her
face fell as she listened.

"Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir," she mumbled, and then she
hung up.

"I don't suppose that was Dr. Revere," Mulder observed.

"Skinner.  We did great," she sighed.  "Saved the
world from Weymouth Scientific with all its
chemical-nuclear-biological threats.  Time to come home."

"Oh, well.  Want to see who else comes by?  Strictly out
of curiosity, of course."

"I'll give it ten minutes," Scully agreed.

No one had driven past since the army truck, but soon a
vehicle came hurtling down the road.  Mulder watched it
bear down on them, ready to stomp on the gas if it didn't
stop.

It did, with a squeal of the brakes.  Scully got out first,
her hand on her gun as she approached the Mercedes. Mulder
followed, equally wary.

"It's him," Scully said.

The door of the luxury car flung open, and Sage Revere
lurched out.  His face was rigid as he took in the vehicle
and the armed agents who blocked his path.  Then he turned
from them, looking back at the research facility he
commanded.

"Dr. Revere, I'd like you to come with us," Scully called.

Revere turned to face them.

"What happens to a dream deferred?" he asked woodenly.

"Get into the car," Mulder said.  He motioned from his
gun to his car, using the gesture to make the suggestion
more persuasive.

"That company was my dream.  I accomplished things I
didn't think possible," Revere said.

"That's what we want to talk about," said Scully.
"Please come with us."

Revere shook his head.  He looked gray and ragged, as
if he'd slept in his thousand-dollar suit.

"You can't hurt me.  You've already done your worst,"
he said.  He paced away a few yards, then stood staring
back at the large Weymouth building.

"Dr. Revere, we believe you may be in danger," Scully
called.

Revere was walking back to his car, his gait robotic.
It occurred to Mulder that they might all be in danger,
this close to the Mercedes.

"Scully, get in the car," he said.

"Please, doctor, let us take you into protective custody,"
Scully called.

Mulder noticed a new wave of activity at the Weymouth building.
The Blackhawks took to the air, and the hazmat teams were
returning to their vehicles.  The trucks closest to the
building began pulling back, forming new lines closer to
the periphery.

"Scully, let's go," he called.  "Now."

Revere gripped the door handle.

"Protective custody," he sneered.  "What's the point?"

"The people you work for don't leave loose ends, doctor.
You're a loose end," Mulder called raggedly.  Scully caught
his eye as they both hurried back to the car.  They couldn't
protect Revere if he wouldn't cooperate.  They probably
couldn't protect him even if he did.

Revere was one hell of a loose end, and not only for the
consortium.  Mulder had a lot of questions about Roger
and his clip-scheme, and Revere held the answers.

"Maybe it just sags like a heavy load," Revere intoned.

"Mulder, run," said Scully, her voice totally calm.

"Or does it explode?" Revere threw open the door to the Mercedes.
Nothing happened.

Mulder threw himself into the car, a split second behind his
partner. He floored it before he had the door closed.

"You gotta love a rich white guy who quotes Langston Hughes,"
he commented.

Scully turned around in her seat as Mulder continued to gain
distance from the Mercedes.

"He's going the wrong way," she said.

"Back to Weymouth?"

"But everyone else--they're pulling out."

The explosion slammed them down and then forward, scraping
the undercarriage against the road.  The steering wheel
shuddered in Mulder's hands but he held tight and never
took his foot off the accelerator.

"My God," said Scully.

"We can't help him.  I'm not going back," Mulder said.  He
was driving too fast to risk a glance in the rearview mirror.
The shock of the explosion was huge, as if they'd used an
A-bomb to destroy one vehicle.

"That wasn't Revere.  That was Weymouth," Scully said.
 

~~~
 

285 miles to Bozeman.  If Scully did the math,
dividing the miles on the highway sign by their
rate of speed, factoring in a long wait at the
Bozeman airport, flight time, layover time, and
traffic from Dulles to Georgetown, it would be
1.75 days before she hit her front door.

Rock Creek's little airport was pandemonium with
EPA officials arriving and unloading equipment.
It was probably just as well that they couldn't
make a connection there; Scully wasn't eager to
face Brian Yates today.

She wasn't eager to face a lot of things right now.

She and Mulder had to talk.  It couldn't be put off
forever, but she was feeling too bruised to handle
it here and now.  Maybe when they were back home,
when she felt safer, more in control.

Mulder stole glances her way, looking as if he had
something to say and no way to say it.  Scully toyed
with the idea of feigning sleep to avoid his eye,
but decided that would be cowardly.  Not that she
was willing to let herself be ripped into pieces again,
but fakery just seemed wrong.  She watched the
trees pass by in a blur, keeping her gaze away from
her partner.

"I fucked up."

His words jolted her, and she turned to face him.  He
looked miserable.

"I realize the case didn't wrap up neatly, but even
with the loose ends, Skinner was pleased."

"That's not what I meant by 'fucked up'," Mulder said,
shaking his head.

"Weymouth won't be doing any more unethical testing,"
she said, studying her folded hands as
they rested in her lap.

"Weymouth blew up.  Three cheers for the FBI."

"I suppose we should be used to it by now--having
proof only to have it snatched out of our hands.  I
know you're frustrated, Mulder."

"Frustrated," he echoed hollowly.  "You could say
that."

They traveled in silence, listening to wheels
passing over pavement.  It had been miles since
the last car shot by in the opposite direction.

"We have to talk, Scully."  Mulder's voice was quiet
and tense.

"We've been talking," she offered weakly, praying
he'd sense her need for time and distance.

He didn't comment, but the muscle in his jaw
twitched, her own personal barometer of Mulder
anger.  His fingers clenched and unclenched around
the steering wheel until with a sudden jerk, he
pulled the car onto the shoulder of the road.

"Mulder?"

Without answering, he yanked the key out of the
ignition, released his seatbelt, and pushed
the door open.  Mulder was out of the car and ten
feet away before she got her seatbelt off.

"Mulder," she called, slamming the car door and
hurrying after him.  He didn't stop walking until
she caught him by the arm.

"Okay," she said.  "We'll talk."

He nodded, hands in his pockets against the cold.

For a man who'd wanted to talk, Mulder remained
silent, staring down the empty road.

"I can't stand it," Mulder said at last.  "After
everything we've been through, everything *you've*
been through, what's breaking us apart is something
I said.  I can't take it back, Scully.  I would
if I could."

"That's a bit melodramatic, wouldn't you say?"
she asked, hoping her voice didn't betray her.

"Is it, Scully?  Are you going to be able to get
past this?"

"You have to give me some time, Mulder."

"Time for you to pretend it never happened?" he
asked darkly.

"What the hell do you want, Mulder?  You called me
a neuter.  I can't just 'shake it off' in a matter of hours."

"Is that what you heard, Scully?  Because that
isn't what I meant, not ever."

She sighed, wanting desperately to be doing
anything but having this discussion.

"Apology accepted.  Let's get out of here."

She gestured toward the car, but he didn't budge.

"Like a brain injury.  It can change your
personality, how you move, how you speak.
You're a doctor, Scully.  You know it's true."

"This wasn't a brain injury."

"Hormones, Scully.  Body chemistry.  I was afraid.
I just didn't know."

"Mulder, even with a brain injury, even if someone
can't talk, or can't move, you don't wonder who
they are.  That hasn't changed."

"I guess I just forgot how strong you are."

She almost laughed.  Strong.  She felt as if she'd
been trampled.

"I don't feel strong," she said, wrapping her
arms around her middle.

"You'll always be you, Scully.  You never waver,
no matter what happens."

What did he see when he looked at her?  Apparently,
not the doubts and fears that threatened to overtake
her.  She wanted to laugh, or cry, but that would
only interrupt him.

"I saw that yesterday," he said.  His voice shook
a little, but he went on.  "When Roger... when Roger
was... what Roger was threatening... I couldn't have
lived with the results."

"You're stronger than that," she said, taking his
hand and squeezing hard, as if to will him away from
his dark thoughts.

"I couldn't have gone on from that.  Even if I had
found a way, I wouldn't have been me."

"We don't need to talk about something that didn't
happen."

"They used to think the heart was the seat of your
emotions, but that's wrong.  A man with a heart
transplant is still the same man.  But your
brain, your nuts--you gotta have those."

"Mulder, we aren't our bodies.  Testicles don't
make a man any more than ovaries make a woman.
We're made up of bone and muscle and skin, but
those things aren't *us.*"

"Spoken like a true pathologist," he said wryly.

"Exactly," she agreed.  "When I perform an autopsy,
I'm working on a body, not a person.  What made that
person who he or she was is gone."

She brought his hand up between them, cradling
it between hers.

"Mulder, you'd be the same man.  Trust me on
this."

"I wouldn't be.  I don't have your ability to
lock things up in separate compartments and keep
going as if nothing happened,"  he said.  "That's
what makes you stronger than I am."

"It's not as if nothing happened, Mulder.  I'm
not convinced it's a 'strength' at all."

"I'm finally starting to understand," he said.
"It used to drive me crazy, but now I realize
it's how you were able to survive.  And I'm
grateful that you have that ability to keep
yourself separate from all the terrible things
that happened to you."

She nodded, convinced of his sincerity, if not
the truth of his words.

"Scully, you may not believe me, but I do love
you.  Nothing would ever make me stop loving you.
No matter what happened to you or how it changed
you, I'd love you."

She looked at him, blinking back tears.  Everything
about him, his voice, his eyes, told her he meant
what he said.

"But Scully, it terrified me to think they'd
taken so much from you...that if you weren't whole,
you might not be able to love me the way I love
you."

Silence stretched between them as they stood on the
side of road, wind tearing at their hair and
stinging their eyes.  Scully tried to swallow past
the lump in her throat.  Finally, she found her
voice.

"Then I guess that proves I'm whole."

Scully shivered either from raging emotions or the
cold wind cutting through her coat.  As her words
sunk in, astonishment bloomed on Mulder's face.

"Say that again," he said.

"I think you heard me the first time," she answered,
smiling gently.

He stepped closer, gathering her into his arms.
He was beaming, and she'd never seen his amazing
face so alight with joy.

"I think we need to mark this moment," he said huskily.

He bent to kiss her, his lips soft and pliant against
hers.  His arms tightened around her as her hands
came up to encircle his neck.  As he deepened the
kiss, she felt her knees wobble.  The wind whipped
at her suit and she began to shiver.

"Cold?" Mulder asked.  "Let's get back in the car."

He put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close
as they walked back to the car.  Scully slid her arm
around his waist, drawing close to Mulder's warmth.

"You never did answer my question," he said, leaning
down to open the door for her.  "What do you think
of Telemann?"

= = = = = = = =

"Come on, girl, just a little further."

Cindy gripped Roger's arm as he led her into the
cafe, shuffling awkwardly in her new canvas shoes.

"It's gonna be fine now.  Don't you worry," he
assured her.

He hoped he was telling the truth.  The place was
dim and empty.  Cindy had on his big old coat, and
his Christmas-present scarf over her head.  She
looked like a foreign lady.  A short little foreign
lady who had been in an accident, maybe.

"There you go.  You can sit down right here."  He
supported her as she dropped into her seat, smiling
his encouragement.

Cindy trusted him when he told her they were going
to be all right.  They weren't looking to bother
anybody, and there was no reason for anyone to bother
them.  Roger was good at lots of stuff.  Anything with
lifting and fixing.  Especially anything with animals.

Mr. Terranova had given him his fancy big truck for
a present, but that wasn't Roger's way.  He just used
it to drive back for his own van, bought and paid for,
with the help of the credit union.

No more credit union.  No more job, either.

"It's gonna be fine," Roger said again.

"Mm-hm," Cindy agreed.  She patted his arm.

The waitress who approached their table was heavy
with a great big bosom.  Not like Pamela Anderson
Lee, more like a grandma.

"How're you doing tonight?  You know what you
want?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am, cheeseburger with fries.  And a bowl
of oatmeal for...her."  Roger hadn't figured out
what to tell people about Cindy.  His friend?
His sister?

"Sorry, no hot cereal after eleven," the waitress
said.

"You don't understand--"  Cindy needed something
soft and easy to swallow.  Maybe she could eat
noodles or mashed potatoes, but that wasn't what
she was used to.  Roger had tried to think of all
the things that could go wrong, but this hadn't
occurred to him.

"Hey, it's all right.  I'll get them to cook up a
bowl of oatmeal for your wife."

Roger sighed with gratitude and the waitress nodded
sympathetically.

"Poor thing," she asked.  "What was it that
happened to her?"

Roger didn't want to lie, but he really couldn't
tell the truth to the waitress.  He wished he had
someone smart like the Doc to tell him what to
say.  He felt his face getting red.

"It's okay," the waitress said, patting Roger on
the shoulder.  "It must be real hard to talk about."

"It is," Roger said, relief pouring over him.  He
looked at Cindy, her calm blue eyes shining at him.
Things were going to be scary until they found
someplace to settle, but he'd do anything to keep
Cindy safe.   Cindy gave him the "okay" sign, her
slender fingers curved to make an "O."

Roger nodded emphatically.

"Everything's gonna be just fine," he said.
 

 The End.
= = = = = = =
 

"I like fusing ideas into one vision.  I like seeing
that vision come to life with other people who know
exactly what it takes to get there."
                      Amy Tan, The Opposite of Fate.