Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 15a.

***********

FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON , D.C.
APRIL 5
9:14 a.m.
 

Walter Skinner sat, unmoving, at his desk, staring down at the piece
of paper in his hand while he rubbed his forehead with the other,
massaging hard enough to nearly leave a bruise across his brow.

He'd been staring at the piece of paper for several minutes, since
Kimberly had crept in with it and lain it on the corner of his desk,
putting it far away from him and not answering when he asked what it
was. She'd waited for him to look at it first, given him time to scan
it.

An official government "Wanted" flyer, this one from the NSA. Two
pictures. Mulder and Scully. Both pictures now equally sized across
the top. Beneath both the pictures, words in bold letters.
"Conspiracy." "Terrorism." "Murder."

Not just referring to Mulder now. Referring to them both.

"This was on the news last night at eleven, as well, sir," Kimberly
said softly, like an apology. "I saw it before I went to bed."

He'd looked up at her in surprise, feeling like an ass that his own
secretary had found out about this recent development before he had
himself. And she knew it, too, judging from her reaction -- the
apologetic, worried expression on her face.

Padden, the master of keeping things quiet when he wanted to (the
bastard, he thought bitterly) had done it again. Skinner had felt his
face redden as he looked at Kimberly.

And now he was taking his little trick and going public with it on a
large scale for the first time. Turning up the heat on all this.

It would get a huge reaction from the higher ups. More pressure for
the FBI to step up its own investigation, which it had been wary of
doing because of the task force, wary because it wanted this as quiet
as it could get. The FBI had taken enough hits lately.

But that was all about to change. The FBI would have to act now if
the media were involved.

He fingered the poster. "What are people saying." It came out flat,
a statement.

Kimberly shook her head. "No one knows what to think exactly, sir,"
she said. "But from what I've overheard this morning, I think it's
harder for people to believe the charges about Agent Scully, and it's
casting doubt on the charges against Agent Mulder, as well." She met
his gaze. "I think it might be working against the task force to draw
her into this. Just from what I've overheard so far."

Skinner nodded, returned his gaze to the flyer. He was pleased to
get this piece of news from the FBI gossip circle, in which Kimberly
was an enthusiastic participant. He'd come to rely on her to keep her
finger on the pulse of the Hoover Building.

"How many calls from the press so far?"

"Nine," she replied. "I'm telling them all you're unavailable for
comment."

He nodded again. "Keep doing that," he said. "And refer them to the
Public Relations Office, if you're not already. I'm sure the Director
has come up with something to say by now. I'll let him do the talking
until I come up with something."

She'd nodded. "All right, sir." She turned to go.

"And Kimberly?" he said softly.

She returned her gaze to him, and he met it solemnly.

"Thank you."

She did not smile, the same concerned expression on her face.
"You're welcome." And then she did go out the door, closing it behind
her.

Skinner had kept his eye on the poster ever since, staring at the
faces, the words that were underneath them that had no place there,
beneath these faces he knew so well. Anger simmered in him, but not
surprise.

He knew this was Padden's doing. And *all* Padden's doing. The
clandestine meeting he'd had with Granger two days ago had told him
that. There had been no mention of it in their brief conversation in
the car ride from the Mall at 14th and Constitution where Skinner had
picked Granger up, the young agent camouflaging himself with the
tourists.

But other things *had* come up.

Complicated things.

He sighed as he remembered it, now swiveling his chair toward the
window, the hand with the flyer in it falling into his lap as if it
were too heavy to hold up any longer.

"I wish there were an easier way for us to meet during the week than
this," he'd said tightly to Granger, getting lost in the traffic
going down Constitution. "This still feels risky."

"Any way we meet, even on the weekends, is going to be risky,"
Granger'd replied, pulling the camera off over his head and laying it
on the seat between them. "And this was hard enough to manage, with
Padden watching my every move at the CIA."

Granger had reached into his leather jacket pocket and drawn out his
spiral notebook, flipping the cover over.

"I've got the task force combing the El Centro area, just as we'd
planned," he said, adjusting his small silver glasses, a habit
Skinner had come to associate with him. "They're still concentrating
their energy on Southern California, so they should be safe wherever
you've got them as long as it's not there."

"It's not there," Skinner had replied.

Granger had nodded. "I went to the motel in Afton this past
weekend," he'd said, and Skinner could hear some strange tone in his
voice that made him more nervous. Something was wrong there.

"What did you find out? Something bad, I can tell that."

"Well, it's bad and it's good," Granger had begun. "Mulder WAS
there, under the name 'George Hale,' just like he said. I've got a
positive ID from the motel owner who checked him in and out. That's
the good part."

"Was he there by himself?" Skinner asked. He recalled snapping a
little in his impatience.

Granger had hesitated. "No," he said at last. "That's the bad part."

"Who was he with?" Again, he could remember the words coming out
clipped.

Granger balked a bit, looking down at his notebook.

"He was with Agent Scully."

Skinner remembered the sinking feeling, the inward groan.

He'd cleared his throat, glancing out the side window, trying to
appear casual. "It's strange that he would keep a meeting with her a
secret," he said as though he were discussing the mileage on the car.

Granger looked at him. "I think if we're both honest with ourselves,
sir, we know the answer to why he would do that." He paused. "And
that's how everyone else is going to see it, even if it weren't
true."

Well, no use trying to play dumb anymore, he remembered thinking
when he'd looked back at Granger's sympathetic expression. Not to
himself, not to Granger. Not now that there was proof of it for God
and all the world to see...

Skinner rose, going to the window, his habit when he had a problem
to solve that didn't readily present a solution. He sighed, crossing
his arms, a finger coming up to cover his tightly closed lips.

Of course he had always suspected there might be something going on
between the two of them. They were too dedicated to each other, too
much so in some way he couldn't quite name to just be partners. And
the way they looked at each other...hell, he envied it sometimes.
Envied Mulder especially (he had to admit) and envied them both for
what they appeared to have together.

But if something *had* been going on, he thought they'd managed to
keep it out of the work, out of the way.

Not anymore.

It was in the way now, for certain. No one but Scully to vouch for
Mulder, and no way to do it without damning herself for
unprofessional conduct for violating undercover protocols in the
process.

He took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes as cars nosed around below
him on the street, a mass of early-morning traffic weaving for
positions.

What they were doing wasn't forbidden. It wasn't that. It looked
like shit, he thought dejectedly, even in good times, though.
Unprofessional, at best. And given these circumstances, it looked
even worse. Their relationship could be used to bring them both down.
The task force and OPR could discount their cover stories for each
other, and blame their running on the basis of the relationship, two
lovers who would do anything and say anything to keep the other out
of trouble.

"Dammit..." He rubbed his eyes harder as he mumbled the curse to
himself. He could vaguely hear Kimberly's phone ringing again and it
made his stomach ache.

He stood for a long time looking out the window, his arms crossed.
He wondered how this could get any more fucked up for him.

The answer came with the door bursting open.

He spun at the sound, irritated at the intrusion, his mouth open to
say so. Then his mouth snapped closed.

Margaret Scully.

Kimberly was behind her, holding her arm, which she jerked away hard
enough that Skinner could hear the fabric whooshing from between
Kimberly's fingers.

And if looks could kill...

Oh, shit.

"Mrs. Scully, please," Kimberly was saying, putting her hand out
again. Skinner put his own out.

"No, Kimberly, it's all right," he said gently. "Thank you, though.
Hold my calls, if you would."

Kimberly looked at him with concern, then nodded and closed the door
behind her again.

For her part, Margaret Scully had stopped about five feet from the
desk, still as a statue. The only movement was the rising and falling
of her chest -- fast and shallow. He was almost afraid to speak
again. He jammed his hands in his pockets, the gesture's unconscious
attempt to guard his nuts not lost on him. He looked down at the
floor, then back up at her. She was still staring at him, accusation
shooting across the room like poison arrows.

"Mrs. Scully," he said. "Why don't you sit down."

She didn't sit. But she did move. She reached down into the purse
slung over her shoulder and pulled out a sloppily folded piece of
paper, unfolded it and held it toward him.

"Mr. Skinner," she said, low and dangerous. "Would you mind telling
me what this is?"

He winced as he saw the flyer, the same one on his desk. "Where did
you get that?" he asked gently.

"From a reporter from the 'Washington Post,'" she snapped. "Who came
to my house this morning at seven a.m. He was in front of three
camera crews from the local television stations, by the way."

He shook his head, looking away, his jaw clenching. "I'm so sorry,"
he said, looking into her face now, his voice soft. "I'm so sorry for
all of this."

"How could you let this happen?" she asked, her voice rising in
volume now as she shook the flyer at him. "You *know* this isn't
true. About either one of them. But especially about my daughter! How
could you let this HAPPEN?!"

Tears flooded her eyes as she said the last loud enough to rattle
the picture of Ashcroft over his shoulder.

He looked at her, guilt smashing into him like a right cross. He
took a step toward her. "It's not coming from the FBI," he said,
though the words sounded hollow to him even as he said them. "I don't
have any control over what's being done. I can't stop it yet."

"Well, what the hell ARE you good for then?" she said, her voice a
low, hard growl now, the tears racing down her cheeks. Her hand came
up to cover her mouth. It was shaking. She choked on a sob, her eyes
squeezing closed.

What the hell am I good for *indeed,* he thought, cringing. She'd
said aloud a question he'd been asking himself for months.

"Please..." he said as tenderly as he could, his hands coming out of
his pockets as he came toward her. He got close enough to put a hand
on her shoulder, and gestured to the chairs in front of his desk with
the other. "Please sit down."

She let him guide her to the chair, and she sat stiffly, wiping at
her face, her hand still trembling. He angled the one next to her
toward her and sat himself.

"Can I get you something?" he asked. "Some water, coffee..."

"No," she said, her voice hoarse, as though the yelling she'd just
done had ruined her voice. "No, nothing." She levelled her gaze at
him again, the look more pleading than venomous now.

Her hand clenched around the flyer in her hand, crinkling it.

"Who is this coming from?" she asked, her eyes shining with tears.
She was trying to pull her control back around her, straightening her
sweater. It was like watching someone try to cover themselves with a
dish towel.

Skinner leaned close when he answered. He'd never quite trusted his
office, though he'd had it swept twice by the Gunmen and once by his
own people. He couldn't help his paranoia. Not with all the things
that were going on.

"It's coming from the NSA," he said quietly. "A man named Padden who
is in charge of a task force that is investigating Owen Curran, the
man suspected of bombing the Irish Embassy a few months ago."

"What does Dana have to do with that? Or Fox?" she asked sharply.

Skinner bit his lip. "I can't tell you specifics, because it
involves classified things, but there are...circumstances that this
man Padden is using to try to implicate them both with Curran. He was
only after Mulder at first, but now he's going after your daughter,
as well, apparently. I just found out about this about a half an hour
ago myself."

She sniffed. "It's because she's running, isn't it? Running with
Fox."

Skinner nodded. "I think that has a lot to do with it, yes," he
replied.

She looked away as though deep in thought. A tender expression
crossed her face, though it was still tinged with sadness.

"She won't leave him," she said softly, and gestured with the flyer.
"Even with this. She won't come in unless they come in together."

"I know," he said, nodding.

She cocked her head as she looked up at him, as though weighing his
response, its implications.

"Yes," he said. "I *know.*"

Her gaze softened, as did his. She nodded, looked down, almost
seeming... embarrassed?... to be speaking about this. He knew the
feeling. It felt intensely personal.

He cleared his throat. "Look, I'm trying to do a few things," he
said, and she looked back up at him expectantly. "I'm trying to find
some evidence for at least Mulder's whereabouts during some key
timeframes that are under suspicion. I've got information on one of
them that might help clear both of them because they were together."

Margaret nodded. "Good," she said faintly. "That sounds good."

Skinner continued. "I'm working on one other lead I have for Mulder.
I'm going to see about that as soon as I can. Hopefully with those
two things in place, I'll be able to go to Padden and he'll call this
off and look where he *should* be looking. At Curran."

Her eyes looked very young as she looked at him, though the rest of
her looked like it had aged 10 years since he'd seen her at the
Memorial. "You think that will convince him?" she asked.

Skinner pursed his lips. "I'm not sure," he said. "I hope so. The
evidence against Mulder and your daughter is very circumstantial. It
shouldn't be that hard to undermine with a few solid facts."

I hope, he thought, but he didn't say it out loud.

She looked at her hands as they held the poster, her eyes on it
again. "What do I tell all these reporters?" she asked, sounding
lost.

"Do what I assume you're already doing," he said firmly. "Deny that
she's involved. Call the charges false and tell them what she's like,
who she really is. And keep doing it. But don't mention any of what
I've told you today. It's better if no one knows I've told you about
this until I get things in place."

She nodded. "All right," she said. To his surprise, one of her hands
came out and settled softly on his forearm. "I'm...I'm sorry about
what I said before. This isn't your fault. I just..."

"I understand," he said, and covered her hand with his own. "There's
no need to apologize. I know you're going through hell with this
right now. Between her being gone for so long and now this."

She managed a tiny smile. "Thank you for your forgiveness," she
murmured, and he nodded, mustered a gentle look in return.

With that, she stood, and he with her.

"I'll be in touch with any information I can share," he said.

She reached her hand out. "Thank you, Mr. Skinner. I know you'll do
your best. For both of them."

"I will." He said it with conviction as he took her hand, gave it a
squeeze. "Try not to worry, if you can. They'll be all right. They've
always been lucky that way."

She nodded. "Luck's a funny thing, though, isn't it?" she murmured
sadly. "You never know when it's going to run out."

He said nothing to that. They both knew she was right.

He watched her go, watched the door close almost silently behind
her, a calmer, but almost resigned, sound. It was a stark
juxtaposition to the noise it had made when she came in.
 

***********

ALONG DEAD MAN'S WASH
NAVAJO RESERVATION
NEAR TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
2:39 p.m.
 

Scully was high on the trail beside the wash, a light rain falling
steadily, pattering the surface of the thin river that ran through it
into a million ripples, the sand beneath the horse's feet growing
darker as the rain continued to fall.

Off in the distance she could see the heart of the storm
approaching, miles off. A dark canopy of cloud that seemed to reach
nearly to the ground, the occasional flare of lightning dancing off
the tops of the mesas. Thunder echoed, catching on the crags of rock
that climbed all around her.

She wore an army surplus rain poncho that seemed to grow heavier
with the rain, draping down her sides to cover her legs, the musty
smelling garment keeping her dry. She did not wear the hood, though,
preferring to allow the rain to settle on her pulled-back hair, her
face. Wet strands of hair framed her cheeks from the earlier downpour
of the early edge of the storm. She pushed them back, curving them
behind her ears.

Ghost sneezed, a ruffling sound, tossing his head down in the
process. She had the reins so slack that his tug on them with that
movement jolted her out of the introspection she'd been in for hours,
the nervous anticipation that had gripped her despite all her efforts
to hold it at bay.

She pulled out the map from beneath the poncho, checked the
landmarks she could identify on the terrain around her, the sharp
bend of the wash the map showed visible in the distance. The area
marked by the "X" on the map was at that bend. She was getting close,
and felt herself tensing up more at the thought.

What would she find there?

She'd been asking herself that question for hours, since she'd risen
and awkwardly packed up the tent, the cooking supplies, rinsing the
metal dishes in the wash before she'd placed them in the nylon bag.
Since she'd mounted Ghost and gotten on her way, the sky already
darkened with wool-colored clouds, the color of the horse's soft back
and ears.

She folded the map up, tucked it back under the poncho to protect it
from the rain. She really didn't need it at this point. The trail was
well-trodden, easy to follow and the only path in sight. Scrubby
plants squatted around it, the color of green ash.

There it was -- the stinging in her eyes again. Her emotions were so
close to the surface today, and she pushed at them. It was like
pushing a spider web off herself.

She reached up and wiped her eyes roughly, blew out a breath. The
emotion was without thought, nothing in her mind to anchor it to. The
memory she'd had last night of making love with Mulder had been the
only attachment to any feeling she could pinpoint. But these feelings
welling in her today were different from the bittersweet sadness she
felt over her thoughts of him. They were heavier, darker, and almost
desperate in their intensity.

She needed to reach the clearing marked on that map. She needed to
know whom she would meet there, the person or persons that Hosteen
had referred to, what she would find at that place that would give
her all her answers as he'd promised.

Unable to fully push the feelings down, she tapped Ghost with her
heels lightly, and he obediently picked up his pace, coming as close
to a trot as he could without breaking his gait. It made her feel
somewhat better to be moving more quickly now, though the emotions
still crackled in her.

Up a large rise, down the other side. Another rise, the bend of the
river edging closer. She scanned the ground ahead of her, looking for
any sign of life. She wondered about anyone who could live this far
away from the knot of farms that made up the town of Two Grey Hills.
She wondered what kind of person would be out here at all.

A rocky outcropping ahead, the trail curving around it. She followed
it around, the ground rising again in elevation. She pulled the map
out again, noted the rise in elevation on the USGS map at the "X."

Then she found herself in a large clearing, a single mesquite tree
in front of her. She was on a cliff overlooking the river, a view of
a butte in the distance. And beyond that...

Nothing.

The trail ended here at this precipice, the tree guarding the edge,
half its roots seeming to extend out into the air. A fire pit sat
like a small crater in the middle of the clearing, a small stack of
wood beside it.

Ghost stopped on his own, bobbed his head again toward the ground,
sniffing.

The rain began to fall harder, the storm coming closer from the west.

Scully looked around, her chest beginning to rise and fall quickly.
She slid off the horse, her feet hitting the wet ground, the rain
setting off a patter on the slick material of the poncho. She made
her way to the cliff edge, looking at the river below. Then she did a
slow 360 turn, her hands going to her forehead to shield her eyes
from the rain.

Ghost stood in the middle of the clearing, one of his back ankles
turned up as he stood in repose. He cocked his ear at her as she
looked at him, frustrated tears coming fast now as her chest heaved.
She bit down on her bottom lip, turned back toward the river, which
also just stared back, indifferent as the rain.

"Son of a *bitch*..." she said, gripping the stray strands of hair
not caught in her pony tail with her fists and pulling, her face
screwing into a sob. She felt sick to her stomach, the sob wrenching
her.

To have come all this way. And for what?

For *nothing,* she thought, anguished.

She thought of Hosteen back in his home, pictured him smiling at his
private joke at tricking her into getting out of the trailer.

Fury surged in her.

"You bastard," she said bitterly, and coughed out another sob,
covering her eyes as though afraid someone would see her tears.

She sank down, feeling beaten down by just the rain, until she sat
near the edge of the cliff. She pulled her knees up against her chest
and leaned forward, her forehead on them, her arms covering her head.

Her sobs broke over her, one after another, like harsh waves.

The lightning stayed off to the north, but the rain continued to
fall on her even harder, unforgiving.

Gradually, the storm pushed eastward, darkening the sky in a palette
of grays.
 

*********
 

END OF CHAPTER 15a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 15b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 15b.
 

********

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
4:50 p.m.
 

Despite the enormous pain in his side, like a stitch after running
too hard for too long, Mulder scampered after the lamb that had
broken away from the herd.

He and the other men were rounding the sheep up, moving them through
an unfenced area to the pen where they spent the nights. All of them
carried long sticks to bump them into one moving mass, and dogs
darted in and out from the perimeters of the herd, nipping the
stragglers into line.

This lamb didn't seem to take the hint and had taken off for the
house. Mulder caught him just as he was about to make the front yard.
Mulder reached down and picked him up, an arm behind the lamb's back
legs and the other around his front, hefting the animal against his
chest along with his stick. The lamb mewled in protest and fear.

"Good catch, Mulder!" one of the men called, tapping at the herd
with his stick. The front of the group was entering the pen,
bottlenecking through the gate. Mulder walked to the end of the clump
of animals, keeping the line moving. Once the last of the sheep had
entered the gate, he set the lamb down, gave its rump a pat as it
rushed into the pen on its pink hooves.

Eric, Hosteen's other grandson, was there to close the gate, and
smiled up at Mulder.

"You did that really well. You're a natural at this! The FBI is a
waste for you!" And he laughed, slapping Mulder's back.

Mulder smiled tiredly. "Thanks," he said. "There have been people
saying *I* was actually a waste to the FBI for years now. So I've
never heard it put quite that way before."

Eric smiled wider as Mulder brushed off his grey t-shirt, slapping
at the dust on his jeans.

"Come on," Eric said. "They're almost done with the vet, and then
it's Miller Time." He winked at Mulder, and Mulder smiled at the
joke. None of the men drank. "Miller Time" would mean a strong cup of
coffee with whipping cream in it, if yesterday was any indication.

"Sounds good to me," Mulder said, and meant it.

They made their way across the yard toward the house, where a mobile
vet was checking three of the pregnant mares. Victor was standing at
the head of the horse currently being examined, looking for all the
world like a nervous father. He nodded to Mulder as he and Eric
approached.

"Good day at work," he said simply, and Mulder nodded, acknowledging
the compliment.

"Thanks," he said, a little embarrassed.

Victor looked over his shoulder, nodded toward the area behind the
house. "Looks like your friend has come to see what you're up to," he
said, smiling.

Mulder turned toward the house, in the direction of his own house,
and saw Bo sitting there, his mouth open on a pant, watching Mulder.
Mulder found himself smiling a bit at the dog's proximity to the
other men and the house he'd seemed so afraid of.

"Must be hungry," Mulder said, dismissing the significance of the
dog's appearance.

"First time he's come over here since Larry died," Victor replied.
"Hungry or not."

Mulder turned back to the dog, watching him.

"I'm all done here," the vet announced, pulling off a rubber glove
that extended all the way to his upper arm. "Everything looks fine,"
he said to Victor, who nodded, clearly relieved now. The vet, John
Oxford (Mulder had read his name on the side of his truck), turned
and looked at the dog, as well.

"Ah, I haven't seen Bo in a long time," he said warmly. "I'm glad to
see he's coming back around a little bit."

"Just since our friend Tim got here," Victor said, slipping into
Mulder's cover name easily in the presence of this outsider.

Oxford looked at the dog closely. "Looks like he's got mange or
something from here."

"Yeah," Mulder said. "There's something on his sides. Scabs or sores
or something."

Oxford looked at him. "You think you could get him and let me have a
look? Since I'm out here anyway."

Mulder looked at Bo, considering. It seemed like a good idea. The
dog was clearly suffering with whatever he had. But he wondered if
hauling him over here would just traumatize Bo more, make him more
skittish and make him trust Mulder less.

Still, it seemed important if the dog was sick with something. And
Victor was right -- there was no one but him to do it. Bo didn't
trust anyone else.

"I'll try," Mulder said, and he started slowly across the yard
toward the dog.

He got about ten feet away and Bo cowered, going belly-down on the
ground.

But he did something else, as well. His tail began to beat the still-
damp ground hesitantly behind him, his eyes darting from Mulder as he
slowed his approach.

"Hey Bo," he said gently, smiling and reaching his hand out. Bo
stayed still as Mulder closed the distance until he stood before him.
The dog's tail continued its hesitant shake, and Mulder reached down
and touched his head again, just as he'd been able to do for a second
time the night before. He stroked gently.

"That's it," he murmured. Bo lifted his head into Mulder's hand now,
though he was still panting nervously.

Moving carefully, Mulder reached down and took hold of the dog's
collar, gave it a tug. Bo rose, though his tail stayed wedged between
his legs. He didn't even try to dart though. With that, Mulder leaned
down and picked the dog up as he had done to the lamb, the scabs on
the animal's sides rough on his forearms.

Bo was a fairly large dog, but he weighed about the same as the lamb
had, Mulder noted with chagrin.

The dog was tense in his grasp, but allowed himself to be carried
over to the vet. Victor and Eric had led the mares over to the
corral, leaving Oxford there by himself. Mulder was glad that the
other two men had withdrawn, because the dog was nervous enough with
just the vet there.

"Hey there, Bo," Oxford said, and stroked his back. Mulder didn't
move to put him down, knowing he would run. He also felt strangely
possessive and protective of the animal, which surprised him.

Oxford began checking the patches of scabs on the dog's sides, the
areas missing hair. "Yeah, he's got mange," he said. "Sarcoptic from
the look of it. That's what those scabs are. Him biting at himself to
relieve the itch."

Mulder nodded, not knowing what to say to that. He had never had a
dog, and had no concept of the implications of what the vet was
talking about.

Oxford went over and began rooting around in his truck. He drew out
several vials of medication and a few syringes from the containers in
the back of the pickup. He came forward again, drawing the medication
into the syringes.

"I'm going to go ahead and give him his shots," the vet said, and
scruffed what little skin he could from the dog's neck, jamming the
needle home. Bo whimpered, and Mulder instinctively squeezed him
tighter.

"This is an antibiotic for the infection, and a steroid called
Ivermectin to kill the mites causing it. It'll also keep the itching
down." The vet drew and injected two more shots into the dog. On the
second shot, Bo began to struggle in Mulder's arms, who held him
fast.

"You might as well let him down," Oxford said. "I'm done with him."

Mulder leaned down and let Bo down on the ground, and the dog loped
away toward Mulder's own place. Mulder was relieved when he didn't
disappear into the desert beyond it, but rather stopped next to the
porch and sat again.

"What do I owe you?" Mulder asked, returning his attention to
Oxford. "I've got my wallet in the house and --"

"You don't owe me anything," the vet said kindly. "I'm just glad
he's coming around. He was a good dog for Larry. I'm glad to help him
out."

Mulder smiled, strangely pleased. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

Oxford smiled, reached out and shook Mulder's hand.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Garrett," he said. "I'll be back in a couple
of weeks to check the mares and I'll check Bo again then, give him
another dose."

If I'm still here, Mulder thought, but outwardly he nodded. "All
right," he said, and said goodbye, heading toward Victor's house now,
where the men were all gathered on the porch.

He stood still for a moment, feeling something lighter in him now as
he listened to the men talking back and forth.

He couldn't help it. As always happened when his mind was calmer,
his thoughts turned to Scully, an image of her smiling at him, curled
in his bed on her side as he came forward carrying coffee. The
comforter was pulled up to her chin, but the light caught on the
creamy expanse of her bare back, almost seeming to make her glow in
the morning sun through the window...

Around him, the light was beginning to enter the gloaming of early
dusk, and he smiled at the memory. Then he went toward the men at the
house, toward the sound of their loud voices and their persistent,
welcome laughter.
 

**********

BESIDE DEAD MAN'S WASH
6:34 p.m.
 

Scully awoke to two sensations.

The first was a chill that seemed to go straight into her bones,
most of her still damp from being caught in the rain. There was a
slight wind on her, and it raised her skin to gooseflesh, sending her
into a shiver.

The second was a gentle nudging against her belly.

She opened her eyes onto the sapphire of night falling, a thick blue
darkness surrounding her. But she could still make out a set of pale
hooves in front of her, and looked down slightly as Ghost nudged her
belly once again with his long nose, nearly pushing her over onto her
back from her side.

She was curled like a question mark on the packed ground in the
center of the clearing, the sky and its dusting of the night's
newborn stars stretched out above her.

She reached down and touched the horse's nose, cupping it gently. He
rooted around, blew a breath into her palm as he sniffed for
something to eat.

"You hungry?" she said softly, groggy, and then pushed herself into
a sitting position, the heavy poncho still gathered around her. She
reached down and pulled it off over her head, leaving it in a heap.
The long-sleeved shirt she wore was nothing against the chilly wind,
and it was enough to wake her completely and move her to her feet.

She'd been asleep for a long time, she realized.

She remembered lying down after some time of crying in the rain,
feeling tiny there on the cliffside beneath the storm. She hadn't
even tried to cover her face as exhaustion had overtaken her -- the
exhaustion of the hours of riding and from the weight of the emotions
that had crashed into her with her arrival at the clearing.

She brushed dirt off her face, her damp hair, her jeans. Then she
turned her attention to Ghost, still standing and watching her
expectantly. For a moment, she felt the fear over having left him
untethered, realized she could have been left here with no supplies
as the horse wandered off, probably back toward home.

But not this horse, she thought, and smiled faintly as she brushed
at his neck, smoothing down his silver mane.

"Let's get you something to eat," she said, and she began to unload
the things from his back -- the nylon sack, the tent, the sleeping
bag, both of which had been covered by the bag and were still fairly
dry. Then she pulled down the sack of oats and fixed Ghost's feedbag
again, slipping it over his head.

She led him to the mesquite, tying the reins to a branch that
extended far back from the edge. She removed the saddle and pad and
dropped the heavy leather and blanket onto the ground beside the
horse as he began to eat.

Then she looked around at the clearing, at the fire pit with its
halo of damp wood.

A fire first, she thought. She would need the heat. The light.
 

When Scully was a child, a nun had told her that if she stared long
enough into a fire she would see the Devil's face looking back at
her. The thought had terrified her at that age, and even at
Christmas, her mother popping corn in the fireplace with her sister
Melissa beside her, she had always averted her eyes from the flames,
afraid of what might be looking back at her.

That had been when the Devil had seemed something not of this earth,
an entity that lived solely in the fires in the ground beneath her,
some realm that didn't quite touch her. It was a place that the right
amount of prayer and penitence could hold at bay, those two things
keeping her as safe and as warm as she'd felt in her bed when she was
young, her mother having tucked her and Melissa in for the night, her
father home from the sea.

As she'd grown older, she had seen that this belief was false. That
evil could be found anywhere, in any form. Medical school and her
time in the morgues -- with bodies ripped apart in rages of violence
and misfortune -- had taught her these things first, hard lessons for
someone whose beliefs were as sheltered as hers has been. It was not
that she had been naive exactly -- she knew that evil existed around
her. It was that she believed it could not touch her in that way,
that there were no flames for her to stare into that would enable
those red eyes to find her and stare back.

But her life since then had shown her otherwise. Her work with
Mulder on the X-Files had taught her about fire, about what could
look back. She'd seen more of the evil that existed in the world
through her dealings with that than she ever thought imaginable, felt
the loss and anguish it left in its wake when it punched a hole
through that mythical place of her childhood and reached out with its
hands of flame.

She was thinking this as she sat before the blazing fire in the
clearing, the chemically treated pressed wood Hosteen had given her
drying the wood enough to set it aflame. Once it had started, she'd
put on branch after branch, making the fire climb higher into the
night, leaving her in a circle of orange, flickering light.

She sat cross-legged, her spine straight, her hands resting on her
knees, utterly still. And her eyes were on the fire, not wavering
from it, not looking away, daring whatever lived inside it to come to
her there in the quiet.

She'd resigned herself to her surroundings for the night, to
Hosteen's trick of leading her to this place more barren than the
place she'd left, and as devoid of answers. She didn't know what
she'd expected to find here, if she was really honest with herself.
There was nothing that could repair what had been done to her, no one
to repair it. What had happened to her simply was.

Maybe that was what he had tried to show her by sending her here.
That there was nothing to help her after all. That she would have to
simply go on living with the charring and scars of what had happened
to her, and it was time she resigned herself to that, as bleak as
that was to contemplate.

She sighed, her brow creasing at the thought.

Surely Hosteen, who had been so gentle with her to this point, would
not teach a lesson that harsh like this? Reinforcing her aloneness
with the solitude of this place?

She turned the thought over in her mind, weighing it and discarding
it, weighing it again. And as she did that, her eyes on the fire, her
mind began its own journey, as long and as barren as the one she'd
been on for the past days.

A drill coming toward her face, her body immobilized on a table, a
world washed in white and smelling of bottled air. Faces above her
wearing masks, Penny Northern's dry hand in hers, soothing her as her
abdomen bloated with a obscene imitation of new life that the
experiment also ensured would never be possible for her again.

Then at her mother's house, going through a box of Melissa's things
after her death. She was still aching from the hour she'd spent
sitting by the empty hospital bed, too late to see her sister before
her death from a bullet meant for her. Only Mulder joining her had
softened the brittle grief that had threatened to shatter her there,
his arms around her.

In the box, she'd found a braid of Melissa's hair, cut off from a
long strand when her sister had taken her hair from flowing down her
back to her shoulders in high school. Her mother had saved the braid
in a box, the yellow ribbon that secured it still in place, knotted
at the end. She remembered putting it to her face and inhaling
Melissa's scent from it, faint, like perfume and dust.

But even then, the tears would not come.

The sound of machinary around her, the bob of a red light breaking a
line, her heartbeat filling the room. Her skin like paper, and pain
beneath her eye, the tumor growing, pushing against its confines,
taking her.

She would lie awake in the hospital when her mother, when Mulder,
had gone home, and watch the streetlights flood in the window, a
puzzle of light and dark. Death with its leathery wings in the
shadows, waiting. The disease given to her to strike at Mulder, her
body -- her life -- a pawn in a game she'd never agreed to play.

Then the small body beside her, a furnace of fever. Emily's still
form, her hair pressed around her face with sweat, her body dying
beneath Scully's hands, and her helpless to stop it. The glint of the
cross as she held it above the casket, dangling light on the chain.
Her fist had closed around it. Mulder's hand reaching out and closing
over her fist, the other tipping the lid of the snow white coffin
closed.

The rose dropping down into the car between she and Mulder, Mulder
dying beside her, pink froth of blood on his face, Emily's knowing
smile as Scully looked up at her, terrified.

Snow falling in her room in Richmond, blue flakes like blue stars,
her hands catching them as Owen's drug took hold, sending her out
into the night and into her nightmares...

Then she remembered the final vision she'd had as the drug had
finally left her, in the cabin in Tennessee, Mulder holding her
tightly in his arms. The fire coming in off the lake toward the
island she stood on, the doe consumed by it, the wall approaching and
faces living within it.

Fagan's face.

The floor beneath her head. His face against her shoulder. Rasp of
breath.

She remembered it now, the figure made of flame. She stared at it in
her memory, looking into the fire in front of her...

The red eyes stared back, seering her, trying to turn her to ash.

The scream crawled up her throat as the tears burst from her eyes.
The sound tore from her into the night, Ghost shying from it, tossing
his head in distress at the far edge of the fire's light.

Her hands clamped down on the sides of her head as the sound
continued from her, mixed with unintelligible sounds like words, but
not words.

There was no language in the country she had been brought to.

The sound spread out around her, echoing off the stones and
darkness. Above her, the stars watched in their silences, their eyes
wide and white and seeping light.
 

**********

END OF CHAPTER 15b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 16.
 

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 16a.

********
 

PUERTO PE`ASCO, MEXICO
APRIL 6
3:35 a.m.
 

When Mae was a very little girl, she had felt safe in her father's
arms.

He would hold her on his lap at the old wooden table in the kitchen,
holding her like a baby, even though she was five or six years old,
the rich smells of her mother's cooking surrounding them both, the
clatter of pot lids, wooden spoons on the sides of heavy pots. And he
would tell her stories while she gazed up into his face, her thick
curly hair trailing over his arm.

If she concentrated very hard, she could remember the laughter the
stories would bring from her, each part of the story that was
intended to make her giggle punctuated with a tickle to her
midsection. Then he would bury his face at her throat, hugging her
almost too tightly as she laughed, and he would laugh right along
with her.

She didn't know why she was thinking about that now, lying naked in
Joe's arms, her face pressed beneath his chin, both of them still
breathing heavy, his breath fanning her hair as his hands smoothed
down her slick back.

Perhaps this was the first time she'd felt truly safe since those
days. Before her father's arrest and imprisonment. Before her life
for the Cause began, a life with an enemy on every corner, possibly
lurking behind every face.

She'd had lovers in the years since then, but none of them had ever
felt this way, this protected. It was as if when she was in Joe's
arms, the rest of the world couldn't touch her, the demons of her
past swept away.

Joe leaned back and kissed her forehead, lingering there. His hands
continued their slow stroke along her back.

"Was that all right?" he asked, just above a whisper.

She smiled against his skin, nodded. "More than all right," she said.

"I didn't...hurt you or anything?" He kissed her forehead again,
just brushing her with his lips.

She shook her head. "I'm only pregnant, Joe," she replied, her tone
teasing but still quiet. "You're not going to break me, you know."

She felt him smile, a soft chuff coming from him. "I'm sorry," he
murmured. "It's just...well, it's new to me. I'm not sure what's the
same and what's different, that's all."

She leaned back slightly, looked into his eyes, her hand coming up
to push his hair from his forehead. "It's all the same," she said
gently.

He looked at her for a beat, then nodded, kissed her softly on the
mouth, then her cheek. She put her arms around his neck and pulled
him closer, holding him tightly.

She hoped he could feel from her the words she couldn't bring
herself to say. Though she felt them. Completely.

On the bedside table, the small travel alarm began to chirp, and Mae
released him reluctantly so he could roll away from her and turn it
off. Her hand smoothed down the sweat on his flat stomach, the covers
slipping to his hips.

He turned back to her, leaned up on one elbow, pushed her hair
behind her ear, his eyes on her, his brow creased. She could see the
look on his face that she'd seen every morning since the day in the
hospital.

He hated leaving her now. Even to go to work.

"Go on then," she said, the teasing back in her voice to break the
intensity of his gaze. "Off with you, or the boat'll go without you."

He hesitated, despite her playfulness. "I hate thinking of you back
here by yourself with Sean if you get so sick again," he replied. "I
could take the day off and stay with you."

She shook her head. "No, I don't want that," she said, and reached
up to take his hand and hold it in front of her, putting some
distance between them that way. "I'll be fine for the few hours
you're gone. Not to worry. I'll probably sleep the whole time."

He still looked uncertain, but he finally nodded. "All right," he
said, and brought her hand to his lips, kissed it. "I'm just going to
take a quick shower. Go to sleep. I'll try not to wake you while I'm
getting dressed."

She nodded, smiled at him. "Go on then," she repeated, and he let go
of her hand and rose. He slipped into his boxers beside the bed in
case Sean should be up and about, then picked up his jeans and tossed
them over his shoulder. He padded almost silently to the bedroom door
and out into the hall.

The night air coming through the open window chilled the sweat on
her skin almost instantly with his absence. Still on her side, she
pulled the covers up to her chin and closed her eyes. She heard the
shower come on, and began to drift in the hazy place between sleep
and wakefulness.

Her hand moved down to her belly beneath the covers, touching just
below her navel. As she did so often now, she thought of her baby. In
her mind the baby was a little girl, dark hair like hers and with
Joe's kind, bright eyes. She pictured Joe with her on his lap in a
warm kitchen, her child laughing in his arms, as well.

This baby's life would end up differently, she vowed. It would not
be touched by the things Mae herself had been, would not lead the
life she had.

All of it would stop with her, like a disease she refused to allow
to be passed down another generation. She had the same hope for Sean
now that he was away from Owen's life. Perhaps it wasn't too late for
him, either...

She hummed softly on an exhale, feeling sleep begin to take her, a
pleasant weight on her body. Sounds were muffled around her. The
shower going off. The door opening softly, footsteps in the room...

She pushed it all away, going toward the gentle darkness...

A hand clamped down over her mouth.

She was jolted into consciousness, a sound like a scream coming up
from her throat as her eyes shot open.

The silencer that pressed into her temple stopped the scream
instantly, leaving only the sound of her breathing, fast and
panicked.

"Hello, Mae," Owen Curran said from right beside her ear, his voice
coming through clenched teeth. "I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner, but I
had to wait for you to *finish.*"

He hissed the last word, jerking her head back sharply. She
whimpered, closing her eyes, feeling tears stinging them.

"Some things never change I see," he continued, his breath hot on
her ear. "You still can't keep your bloody legs closed, can you?"

She clenched her eyes closed more tightly and a tear slipped from
them, over the bridge of her nose.

The baby was her first thought. Sean, she knew he wouldn't hurt. But--

Oh God. Joe.

"Now I'm going to take my hand away from your mouth, all right?"
Owen said as though he was speaking to a five year old. "And when I
do, you're not going to make a sound or I'm going to blow your
fucking brains all over this bed."

He leaned closer, whispered in her ear. "And don't think I won't do
it. You understand me?"

She whimpered again, but managed to jerk a nod against the force of
his hand. He paused for a moment, and she opened her eyes to see him
leaning over her, looking into her face, his face awash in shadow.
Then he slowly withdrew his hand and stood.

She didn't move. Her body began to tremble all over.

"Sit up," he snapped. "And for fuck's sake keep yourself covered."

She complied, easing her legs over the side of the bed, keeping the
blanket up at her throat. She stared at the pistol in his hand,
pointed at her forehead. Then she looked into his face.

His ice blue eyes stared back at her in the streetlight coming
through the window. His face was thinner than it had been the last
time she'd seen him, more chiseled. Fury rose off him like steam.

Their gazes hung as she pleaded with him with her eyes. He answered
her with his silence and the stillness of the gun pointed at her
head.

A commotion from the hallway brought her attention away from his
face to the door, and she saw Joe come in, his jeans on, barefooted,
his hands on top of his dripping head. A man was behind him, a tall
solid man wearing a sports jacket and dress pants. He had a gun
pointed at Joe's back.

Owen turned and regarded Joe coldly, looking him up and down. Then
he pulled back the hammer on the pistol, turned and pointed it at
Joe, whose eyes were large as dinner plates, his bare chest rising
and falling quickly.

"Please...please don't hurt him," Mae said, and her voice shook
almost to the point of being unintelligible.

"Look, whatever you want," Joe said, and Mae loved him for his
composure, "you can have. I've got some money in my wallet and--"

"Shut the fuck up," Owen snarled at him, then he spun on Mae. "And
YOU, I told you not to make a sound, didn't I?"

His hand shot out, his palm catching Mae across the jaw and jerking
her face to the side.

"For Christ's sake!" Joe said, anguished, the man behind him's hand
going out to his shoulder, halting his forward motion. "Don't hit
her! She's pregnant!"

Oh God, Joe, Mae thought as blood trickled from her lip. Don't have
just told him that...

Suddenly Owen had a handful of her hair, his face in hers. "You're
*what?* You're fucking WHAT?" Then he released her hair and hit her
again.

This time Joe did come forward, cursing, his hands going off his
head and reaching for Owen's throat. Owen spun on him, the gun coming
up and pressing against Joe's forehead, stopping him. Then the man
behind Joe pulled him back again, holding him still. Owen had yet to
move the gun, though, following Joe back.

"Please don't hit her any more," Joe said softly, keeping his voice
steady.

"So you're the sonofabitch who knocked up my sister then," Owen
said, cocking his head at Joe, his eyes narrowing. He turned the gun
sideways, as well, and Joe stiffened even more. "I'd be more worried
about myself if I were you."

Owen's hand moved so fast it was like a blur of motion. He struck
Joe across the face with the butt of the gun, and his knee came up
into Joe's groin, sending him crashing to his knees, a hoarse cough
coming from him. One of Joe's hands went to his belly, the other to
his face.

Mae could see blood dripping from between his fingers. She began to
cry in earnest now, frustrated tears of fear and helplessness.

More sounds from the hallway, and now Sean came in, another man
behind him. The man didn't have a gun out on Sean, and she was glad
for that. He did have a hand firmly on Sean's shoulder, though, as
though to ensure he wouldn't run.

Sean gazed at Owen for a few seconds, his expression very afraid.
Then he looked at Mae and Joe. Mae swiped at the blood on her mouth
so he wouldn't see it, but it was too late. She could tell by how the
boy's eyes had widened even more and how his breathing had begun to
come fast and shallow. Then Sean returned his eyes to Joe, who was
still hunched over, blood seeping from his cheek.

"Joe?" Sean said in a high, frightened voice.

"I'm all right, Sean," Joe managed, but it sounded like even words
hurt him.

Mae's eyes darted to Owen, whose face had twisted up in even more
rage. "You can't say hello to your own dad first, Sean?" he said, his
teeth clenched again.

Sean looked up, backed a step into the odd-looking man behind him.
"Hello, Daddy," he said, his voice faint and terrified and his lip
trembling. His eyes brimmed with tears.

Owen looked at him, and Mae could see the pain in his face from
Sean's reaction. Then Owen turned his attention back to Joe, pure
hatred in his eyes, and he kicked out again, pushing Joe onto his
side roughly. Joe lay there, still holding his abdomen. Mae saw the
huge gash in his face as he moved his other hand down to his belly,
as well.

"Owen, please...not in front of Sean, all right?" Mae said meekly.

Owen glared at her, his hand going up to rub roughly at the scar
down his face, which he always did when he was agitated. Then he
seemed to relent a bit, to regain some measure of composure, though
Mae recognized it for the front it was.

"Rudy, take Sean to his room and get him to pack up his things," he
said calmly, and the strange-looking man nodded, angled Sean toward
the door and guided him out. That done, Owen turned to Mae.

"Now get up and get dressed," he said. "We're going for a little
ride, all of us."

"Let Joe go," she begged. "He doesn't have any part of this. This is
between you and me."

Owen seemed to consider for a few seconds, looking down at Joe, who
was watching him warily.

"No," Owen said finally, almost conversationally. Mae found this
tone more chilling than the rage he'd spoken with before. "No, I
think Joe here will be coming with us, as well."

Mae sucked in a breath. "But why?"

Owen stared at her again, a faint smile on his face. "Because you
want me to let him go," he said. "And plus, he's *family* now, isn't
he? We should all stay together, don't you think?"

He kicked Joe again, this time in the side. "Now get the fuck up and
find a shirt and some shoes," he snarled.

Joe struggled into a sitting position, stood slowly, Owen's gun on
him the whole time.

"All right," he said quietly, putting his hands up in a placating
gesture. "I'm not going to try anything."

"That's good," Owen said. "Because the minute you try something, I
shoot *her.*" He jerked his head toward Mae. "And the minute you do,
I shoot *him.*"

Mae swallowed, gauging Owen, tears still running down her face.

He was serious, she thought. He would do it.

She nodded to him then and stood, bringing the covers with her. She
wrapped herself in them as she went to the bureau, her back to the
men in the room, and silently began to dress.
 

*********
 

NEAR DEAD MAN'S WASH
NAVAJO RESERVATION
5:34 a.m.
 

The fire had long since gone to embers. Scully had sat in the
darkness the fire left behind for more than an hour before the sun
began to paint the horizon with a line of gold, high nimbus clouds
lighting up amidst the persistent starlight.

She hadn't slept the whole night, watching Orion spin slowly across
the sky, her mind filled. She'd cried off and on, wrenched by her
feelings for the first time in years, bringing them out and casting
off their shadows in the light of the stars and fire.

Somewhere around the time the fire had died, a calmness had settled
over her and the tears had ceased, leaving her still and silent, her
knees pulled up against her chest, the bunting top she wore pulled
out over them. She felt utterly spent, as though something in her
that had been impossibly heavy and full was now empty.

Years of anguish she'd kept closed within her, anguish for herself,
now finally open, like a black flower that had finally bloomed,
showing her its terrible beauty and then withering away.

She watched the sun come up, a half an eye at the edge of the world.
The sky turned pink, the red rocks glowing in it, a light wind
rustling the brush around the edge of the clearing, ruffling the
stiff dry leaves of the mesquite. Behind her, the thin river surged
with light.

She glanced at Ghost, asleep, one hock turned up in the sand, and
thought again of Hosteen, replaying his words in the kitchen, the
room simmering with the smell of things cooking:

It's time for you to go to this place, he'd said.

That is where you will find everything you need.

It's not on the map, what's there. But you will see it.

She looked around her, looking for it. The world was birthing this
new day, slowly lighting the desert, chasing away the chill. There
was a strength to it, a vastness. And it was as though, for the first
time in months, she looked around and saw things not as they were but
how they could be.

As new. Like a child. So full of possibilities.

A silver thread unwound in her. A faith she thought she had lost.
Faith in herself. In the simple yet inexplicable ways of things.

Again her thoughts returned to Hosteen in his cluttered kitchen,
stirring with his worn wooden spoon.

What was it he'd said about faith? He'd said her faith would be
welcomed by whomever she found in this place.

But there was no one here, she thought.

Then a smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

*She* was here. And she did welcome it.

She was here. And she did have everything she needed to find her
answers, and always had. Within herself.

She shook her head, the smile blooming as she wiped at her tired
eyes. Her estimation of Hosteen, already very high, went up another
few notches.

He couldn't have told her any of this. He knew she had to find it
out on her own, in her own time. It was a journey she had had to make
alone to reach the end of it, to the place she now walked inside
herself.

To this quiet land that offered her, at last, some sense of peace.

She stood, walked to the edge of the cliff, watching the river run
slowly along its wide banks. Ghost awoke at the movement and turned
his head to regard her with his plum eyes.

The thoughts of Mulder, which she'd tried for so long to keep
buried, came to the surface in a warm rush. She wished he could be
here to share this feeling with her. She wanted more than anything to
share it with him, to feel his arms around her as she watched the sun
climb, an eye of light wide open now, the stars retreating to
pinpoints and then to nothing at all.

She would share this with him. She would give him this, offer it up
to him to try to make right what she had -- by necessity -- torn
apart between them. She wanted him to feel as whole as she did at
that moment.

Whole except for one thing.

Him.

Her eyes stung again, but this time she was smiling as the warm
feeling spread in her like water. The smile came easily, her eyes
closing and a breath leaving her in a long, slow exhale.

Finally she opened her eyes, turned and went to the fire pit,
kicking sand into the embers, covering them until they finally faded
out. She hadn't even bothered to set up the tent the night before,
the sleeping bag still rolled up beside it.

She ate quickly, a muffin, a swallow of water from the canteen she
carried with her.

Then she saddled Ghost, loaded up her supplies and mounted him,
heading back down the rise on the trail that would lead her home.
 

*********
 

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
NAVAJO RESERVATION
7:28 a.m.
 

Mulder pressed his heels into the horse's sides, urging it a bit as
they headed toward a small hill on the outskirts of Victor Hosteen's
property, the sun just beginning to glare on him, though he welcomed
the way it warmed his skin.

The horse, an even-tempered black mare named Chaco, took the hill in
stride, Mulder's grip on the reins reasonably sure but his pressure
on her mouth minimal, just as Victor (and Killer) had taught him.

At the top of the rise, he stopped her, but not to enjoy the view,
though it was a nice one.

He stopped because Bo had fallen behind again, the dog picking his
way along the trail, weaving in and out of bushes, panting, his head
down as he followed Mulder out into the desert.

Once Bo had gotten to the top of the hill, as well, Mulder touched
his heels to Chaco's sides again and they went down the other side.
He leaned back in the saddle, bracing his feet in the stirrups, just
as he'd been taught, until they reached the bottom and continued on
down the trail.

He'd been lost in his own thoughts all morning, his mind wandering
as he'd helped Victor and Eric and the others with the sheep and
horses. Finally, after Victor had caught him staring off into space
once again when he was supposed to be doing something else, Victor
had told him to take a horse and "get lost" for awhile until he could
get his mind back on his work.

The friendly swat on the back he'd given Mulder as he urged him
toward the corral had taken any hint of reprimand out of the comment,
and Mulder had smiled to him as he went to saddle the horse.

His hips had gotten used to the easy roll of the horse's long gait,
and he'd learned to handle the horse halfway decently, though the
activity still plagued him with nervousness, his side aching as a
reminder of what could happen if he did the wrong thing again.

But he was at least beginning to understand why people enjoyed this,
though a few days ago he couldn't fathom feeling this way. He felt
very authentic in his worn jeans and his boots, the grey t-shirt he
wore not quite warm enough for the morning, but comfortable
nonetheless.

He looked around at the landscape, finding solace in the simplicity
of it, its clarity. Things were very cut and dried out here. There
were no shades of gray to confuse him, no middle ground. He liked
that a lot, and was beginning to align his feelings with the
starkness of his surroundings, and with the barren terrain of his own
heart.

Maybe being alone wasn't such a bad thing, he thought, urging Chaco
up another small incline, keeping a watchful eye on Bo.

But even as he said it, he knew he was lying to himself again, and
the contradiction of that sentiment and the worry and hurt he felt
over Scully made him feel lost again.

Maybe Scully had been right when she'd told him that he loved her
too much, he thought sadly. That he was blinded by that love. Because
somewhere along the way he seemed to have misplaced something
important.

Himself.

And he was just now getting himself back, getting to know how he
looked and felt without her again.

He didn't know if it was a better or worse version of himself he was
looking at or not. It was just different. Solitary, like his life had
been before her. Familiar in that way and thus somehow comforting.
And he had to admit, begrudgingly, he liked that only he could alter
things about him now. He felt more in control than he had in a long
time, less accountable.

He found an painful kind of peace in all of this, he realized, as
Chaco went around a bend, Bo padding along beside him.

It was the feeling people settled on in grief, when they faced the
hard realization that they were going to have to rise every morning
and go about their lives without the person they'd lost, even though
they might be dying inside themselves.

He'd come to this difficult conclusion. That his life would go on,
even without her in it, if that was what she continued to choose for
him. He couldn't fight her in this, though there was still a part of
him that wanted to. Badly. And in his pain he'd somehow become
resigned to this new life, though his memory of the one he'd had with
her, his love for her, still throbbed in him like the phantom of a
limb taken away.

He would bear that pain and go on, he told himself harshly, his eyes
flinty as he watched the trail ahead of him.

Even if it meant turning in on himself, pulling in like an animal
going into its shell.

He could feel himself hardening inside even as he thought of it all,
and the feeling dulled the pain.

Beside him, Bo whined and sat down on the trail, panting heavily.
Mulder pulled up the horse, looked down at him. The dog was tiring,
he could tell, though he hadn't exactly invited Bo along for this
ride in the first place.

"You ready to head back, Bo?" he called down, and the dog looked up
at him, his long pink tongue wagging out of his mouth as his tail
thumped the ground, still a bit uncertainly. Bo whined again softly.

"I'll take that as a 'yes,'" Mulder said, and smiled slightly, then
turned the horse around awkwardly and headed back towards Victor's
house, barely visible in the distance.
 

*************
 

END OF CHAPTER 16a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 17.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 16b.
 

********
 

2679 RANDOLPH AVENUE
CHANTILLY, VIRGINIA
APRIL 7
9:14 a.m.
 

Nancy Rand looked carefully at the picture of Mulder Skinner had
handed her, her other hand at her waist, toying with the black belt
she wore knotted there around her karate uniform, or gi. She was
shaking her head but had yet to speak, which Skinner was taking as a
promising sign.

Around him, the karate class continued without her, another black
belt having taken over when he arrived to question her. Around him,
students went through drills, some off to the sides practicing forms,
other sparring wearing helmets and pads on their feet and hands.

He'd come in casual clothes so as not to draw too much attention to
himself, trying to blend in with the students of various ages
peppered throughout the room. He could be a prospective student
himself, just in the dojo to sign up for classes. That was exactly
the way he'd wanted to look.

He noticed, though, that he was still getting some odd, territorial
looks from the people around him. Clearly they weren't used to new
people coming in very often. It made him shift uncomfortably as he
waited for Rand's verdict.

She started to hand the picture back to him, then looked at it one
more time. Skinner's stomach tightened.

"He was waiting for a plane," she said, and now she nodded. "Yes, I
remember him now. My last week of work. We almost called Security on
him -- he was showing all the classic signs of someone up to
something." She looked at Skinner as he cocked an eyebrow in
confusion. "You know...standing around the gate with big carry-ons
and not boarding right away, watching everyone who got on the plane.
He looked really anxious about something."

"But you didn't call Security?" Skinner asked. He almost hoped she
had -- more witnesses. But she shook her head.

"No, I went up to him right before we were about to close the doors
and asked him if he was getting on, and he said he wasn't. Picked up
the bags and left. We were all really relieved when he left."

She handed the picture back now, her hands going to her trim hips
beneath the thick black fabric of the gi. She looked eager to get
back to what she was doing, restless.

Skinner nodded, finally breathing normally again. It all jived.
Mulder with his things packed up waiting for Scully to board the
plane bound for Boston, for her to get clear of her cover. It was an
escape route she never got to take.

Behind him, a woman was breaking boards held by other students, the
cracking startling him back into the present.

He cleared his throat. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate your
attention to this, Ms. Rand," he said, tucking the picture back in
his pocket. He pulled out a small notepad and a pen, proffering them
to her. "I wonder if you might take the time to write down everything
you just told me, for my records."

Rand pushed her blonde hair back from her face where it had fallen a
bit from a loose French braid in the back. "What's he wanted for,
anyway?" she asked, though she took the pen and pad. "*Should* we
have called Security?"

Skinner shook his head. "No, no. You did the right thing. I'm afraid
I'm not at liberty to say what the investigation is about, though."
He looked at her, forced a small smile. "But you've been a huge
help."

She shrugged, smiling shyly. "No problem," she said, and went to the
counter at the front of the dojo to write down what she'd seen,
Skinner following behind her.
 

Thirty minutes later, Skinner was back in traffic, his suit swinging
on its hanger in the back seat as he wove his way through the mass of
cars heading into the city.

He hated that it was too late now to call Granger without getting
him at the CIA, which they'd decided was a bad idea.

But they had proof now. Facts that disproved the two most damning
pieces of Padden's circumstantial evidence against Mulder. Between
that and Scully's testimony about what really happened in Mae
Curran's apartment (which he could take down over the phone from her
for now), they should be able to put enough doubt into these charges
to put footprints on Padden's head and go to Ashcroft. Then he and
Granger would put this thing to rest and get Mulder and Scully in --
and Scully into his OWN Protective Custody -- as soon as he could.

Something in him unwound a bit as he drove back toward the city, as
he felt some kind of control over this for the first time.

But he didn't let it go all the way.

After all, this was Mulder, he reminded himself.

And that meant nothing was as easy as it might seem.
 

*********

LAKE OAHE
NEAR FAITH, SOUTH DAKOTA
2:25 p.m.
 

Jimmy Shea remembered the pub, the dark corner made of dark wood,
smoke from three or four pipes catching in the bowl of the light
above the table like aromatic webs. The faces around the circle of
light were grim, the pints in front of the men all, for the most
part, untouched.

"What the bloody hell are we going to do about this then?" Pauly
Connell said, tapping his tobacco out into the large tray at the
table's center. He immediately reached into his pocket and loaded the
thing again, pressing it down with his thumb over and over, worrying
over it.

"I don't know what can be done," Shea replied, his own pipe in his
mouth. It made him feel older than his 36 years in the crowd of older
men. "You all know James Curran as well as I do. He *will* keep this
hunger strike up. He'll starve himself to death without even thinking
about it if it'll draw attention to the work."

"Aye, that's so," Seamus agreed, nodding sagely. Shea watched him
carefully, looking to him for some sort of solution, since the man
was a Brigade Leader and could do something if anyone could.

"And no chance of getting him out of there?" Paddy -- young and
stupid -- asked, and everyone shook their heads.

"That would be daft," Pauly said.

Seamus leaned forward, deep in thought. "We need to do something to
show that we're with him, though. We'll make them pay for how he's
paying." He turned to the other men. "I say a strike at the bastards
in every county. At the police. The ones who brought him in in the
first place."

There were general nods of agreement around the table, though Shea
was, himself, a bit shocked at the notion. An operation of that scale
would take every man they had. And probably a few they didn't.

"You sure that won't just make things worse for him?" Shea offered,
tapping out his own pipe. He said it casually, so as to appear to
assent but just be curious.

"What more can the bastards do to him that he's not already doing to
himself?" Paddy asked, and the other men grunted their assent. "He
can't even lay down on his back anymore, I hear, because his bones
cut into his skin. And he should see that we're behind him, even if
this comes out for the worst." The men grunted again.

"All right," Shea said, nodding now.

Seamus looked around the table. "I'll get with the other Brigade
Leaders and we'll come up with a time for us to strike, ways in, then-
-"

"How can I help then?" a small voice piped up from in front of the
table. Everyone's eyes turned toward the sound, including Shea's. His
eyes widened.

Owen Curran, all of ten years old but dressed like a man, stood at
the head of the table, looking at the men solemnly. His eyes were
cold blue, staring. His voice had been flat as the dead calm sea.

"Owen, you should be home with your mother," Paddy said gently. "And
what are you doing standing there listening to men's talk, eh?"

"You're talking about my dad," the boy said. "What you're going to
do about my dad."

"Go home, Owen," Seamus said softly. "This is work for men now, not
boys."

Shea watched Owen chafe, his small chest rising and falling. "I know
how to make things. I can listen and know things without being
noticed because everyone thinks I'm just a boy. I can get into places
none of you can get in. I can help you."

The table just stared for a long few seconds. They'd used children
before for small errands, but this... Shea wanted to shake his head
but didn't. After all, the boy was losing his father in this. There
would be no saving James Curran now, not with the hunger strike on
for this long and things having gone as far as they had.

Maybe it would make James' death easier on the boy if he felt like
he was doing something about what was happening...

Shea looked to Seamus, who was looking at Owen.

"All right, Owen," Seamus said finally. "You come back around to my
house tomorrow after you're done with school and I'll find something
for you to do for me. How's that then?"

Owen nodded, meeting the eyes of the men around the table, unafraid.

"Yes, sir," he said softly, and he pulled on his small cap and
turned and was gone.
 

Jimmy Shea was thinking all this as he watched the tiny trout spin
in the sunlight from the almost invisible line, its tail curling a
bit, its gills flooded and crisp with blood. It was still struggling
now and again, though he had no idea how long he'd been looking at
it, lost in his thoughts.

He'd hooked it through the eye, he realized, struck back into the
present, and he carefully worked the hook out of the foil orb, being
as careful as he could with the fish, which was too small to keep
even if he'd been inclined to do so. He wasn't catching to eat today,
the motel he'd found without a kitchen. He was just catching to
catch.

There was a crackling as the hook popped loose and he worked it out
the gaping mouth, holding the fish by the lip. There was a trickle of
blood on his thumb, and he tossed the fish back into the water,
rinsed the blood quickly in the lake as though the blood had burned
him.

From his pocket, his cell phone began to chirp, and he dried his
hands on his pants quickly as he reached for it, hit the talk button.

"Aye," he grunted into it.

"Mr. Shea?" came Conail Rutherford's voice, crackling with static
from a spotty signal in the middle of the vast lake.

"Aye," Shea repeated. "What do you have for me then, Conail?"

"I've gotten a phone call," Rutherford replied. "A strange phone
call. Someone who's been putting our friend up here and there. He
told me where he might be going to next, if you want to catch up with
him there."

The ambiguity had become part of their conversations. Always talking
about friends meeting up. It made Shea sad every time Rutherford said
it, though he knew, of course, why he did.

"All right then, where is it?" he said, still rubbing his hand
absently on his pants.

"Alder Creek, Colorado," Rutherford replied. "Where are you now, if
you don't mind me asking?"

"I'm in South Dakota," Shea replied, looking at the lovely blue-
green fir trees lining the banks of the deep blue lake. "Not too far
away. I'll just finish up an hour of fishing here and then I'll be on
my way."

"That's fine," the younger man replied. "Take your time. It looks
like this man who called...he's interested in the same thing we are,
it seems. Said he'd keep in touch."

Shea nodded. "That's good then," he said quietly, distracted. "Call
me in a few days. I'll be there. Sooner if you know anything else."

"Aye, that I'll do," Rutherford said. "Travel safe, Mr. Shea."

"Will do," he replied, and hung up, tucking the phone back in his
pocket.

He looked out over the lake, a sudden wind rippling the lake into
waves that turned the boat with its small hands.

He should be happier with the news, he knew. But he couldn't muster
it. Only when he thought of Ruby, being back home with her, was he
cheered, though just a bit.

Sighing, feeling all his sixty-plus years settling over him, he
turned to the outboard, pulled on it roughly and it coughed to life,
sputtering. Then he angled the boat against the wind, heading back up
the lake.
 

**********
 

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
NAVAJO RESERVATION
5:34 p.m.
 

The path to Albert Hosteen's house was going a burnished bronze as
the sun set over the desert, the clouds that had persisted all day
gathering on the horizon and surrounding the last of the sunlight
like hands.

Scully was half asleep on Ghost's back, lulled by the horse's slow
gait as he made his way toward his home. Her head lolled forward and
she snapped awake just as they reached the back of the house. She
could see Hosteen looking at her through the back window, and raised
her hand in greeting, coming more awake.

She came around the house, stopped Ghost at the front porch and
dismounted, landing on both feet in the dust, stretching her stiff
back.

She was pulling the reins over Ghost's head to hitch him to the
porch post when the screen door creaked open and Hosteen came out,
his hands in the pockets of his worn jeans, a flannel shirt hanging
on his thin frame. His long silver hair was in a ponytail at his
neck, and there was a small, knowing smile on his face.

She finished tying the horse up and turned, regarding Hosteen and
returning the smile.

"How was your trip, Agent Scully?" he asked, his voice quiet. She
could hear the television mumbling to itself inside the screen door,
and smelled fry bread cooking. It was a smell she knew she would
forever associate with this time in her life, this man. It comforted
her that much.

"It was good," she replied, looking down shyly. "It was very good."

"Hm," he said, nodding. "Did you find what you were looking for,
what you needed, while you were there?"

She hesitated, felt her eyes brimming with tears suddenly, fatigue
and the emotions of the past three days welling in her suddenly. She
looked away, her hands on her hips as she pulled in a calming breath.
Her head bobbed once.

"Yes," she said, keeping her voice steady. "Yes. I found what I
needed."

Now she did look at him, into his eyes, which caught the light from
the porch and held it like starlight.

"All but one thing," she added just above a whisper.

Hosteen walked to the edge of the porch, standing before her,
looking down into her face. She didn't flinch from his gaze, from the
way he studied her, smiling as though he was pleased with what he
found. She smiled back, reached out tentatively and touched his
forearm.

"Hm," he said again. "Well, then come in and have some dinner, have
a shower."

He paused, and his hand reached out to cover hers on his arm.

"Then go to him."

She nodded, and now the tears did come. She closed her eyes.

"Thank you," she breathed, her voice escaping her.

He only nodded in return, and, stepping back, he held the door for
her and led her into the house.
 

**

6:48 p.m.
 

Mulder sat on one side of the ancient brown couch, the fuzzy
reception of "The Andy Griffith Show," the only show that would come
in, scattering the room with its flickering white. There was a lamp
on beside him, throwing light on the 1953 National Geographic he was
flipping through. He turned the pages slowly, looking at the pictures
and breathing in the smell of old books and dust.

He turned to look at Bo beside him on the couch, who was sprawled on
the other cushion, his long legs crossed as they hung over the edge.
He was lying on a battered towel Mulder had found at the bottom of
the linen closet, his head resting on the arm of the couch's arm. The
dog's eyes were half-closed, his breathing slow.

Mulder reached over and touched Bo's flank, gave him a pat. Ever
since the visit with the vet the other day, since the long walk in
the desert with him yesterday, Bo had seemed to be under the weather,
lethargic and not quite as interested in eating as he'd been before.

Mulder was worried about him all day, and thought there'd be no harm
in letting him in the house since Bo had come to the door wanting in.
Mulder had had to lift him up onto the cushion, though, when he put
the towel down, afraid Bo's sores would stain the fabric.

Not that it mattered, he thought ruefully. The couch was already
covered with cigarette burns, and must have been older than he was,
or close to it. But he was still mindful of being a guest in this
house, dilapidated as it was.

It was beginning to feel homey in its disrepair and its relative
silence.

He kept his hand on Bo's rump as he turned the page with his other
hand, put his ankle up on his knee as he sunk further into the
cushion. He sighed and looked at the picture on the next page.

Ah, the naked Pygmies from his youth...

It almost teased a smile from him. Almost.

There was a knock at the door, faint. Had the sound on the
television been up any higher, he probably wouldn't have heard it at
all.

He glanced at his watch, wondering what Victor could want at this
time of night, the horses all in the corral for the evening, the
sheep in their pen. Wind creaked against the plexiglass windows,
signalling a storm coming up.

Maybe Victor wanted help putting the horses in the stable, in case
the storm got too bad. The lightning out here was the fiercest he'd
ever seen.

He rose, tossed the magazine onto the couch, retucking his white t-
shirt into his jeans in the back as he headed for the door. Bo opened
his eyes and followed Mulder with them, though he didn't move beyond
that, Mulder noted. Not even for the knock.

He must really be feeling badly, Mulder thought as he watched Bo,
still going toward the door. The dog wasn't even spooked at the
prospect of someone outside coming in.

Mulder reached the door and flung it open, thinking to ask Victor
about Bo's state --

And was confronted by Scully standing there on the other side of the
screen door in the yellow porchlight. The light gleamed on her still-
wet hair, threw a gold glow on her long-sleeved shirt. She had her
hands on her thin hips and was looking at him uncertainly, her eyes
on his face.

His heart finally started beating again after a few seconds and he
regained his composure from the gape he had frozen into on seeing
her.

Now he found himself looking away. He could feel a flush rising
beneath his beard.

"Hi." She said the word softly, sounding almost a little afraid.

"Hi," he replied, and it came out stiff. He was looking down at her
booted feet, over her shoulder. Anywhere but her face and into those
eyes.

There was an awkward moment of silence. A dog barked somewhere off
in the distance. The screen door still separated them, and he made no
move to open it.

He chanced a look at her face. She was still trying to get him to
meet her eyes.

"Is there anything wrong?" he asked, unable to bear the silence any
longer.

She shook her head. "No, no," she said, her voice still quiet.
"There's nothing wrong."

"That's good," he replied hurriedly, nodding. He glanced at her face
again, this time for a few seconds longer. "You look tired."

She smiled slightly. "I've been out...camping for a few days," she
said. "Not the most comfortable sleeping conditions."

"Camping," he repeated, nodding again, looking down. "Good. That's
good. Did you have fun?"

She shook her head. "No."

The word stilled him and he did look up into her face now. Her eyes
were sad and tender and pleading all at once, and he didn't know what
to do with any of it.

"Oh," was all he could think to say. "I'm sorry."

She shifted from one foot to the other, shaking her head. "No, don't
be sorry," she said, and he could hear frustration seeping into her
tone now. "I just...I was just wondering..."

She paused, and it was her turn to stare down. He watched her,
something in him growing inexplicably afraid as she struggled for
words.

"You were wondering what?" he asked, trying to sound casual. He
failed.

"I was wondering if I could talk to you," she said finally, and her
eyes met his again. He wondered if his expression gave away his
nervousness.

She took a step closer to the door, put her hand on the screen, her
fingers brushing against it. He saw her swallow and realized she was
as nervous as he was.

"Can I come in, Mulder?"

He hesitated, taking a step away from the door, from her hand on the
screen.

He tried to remember what he'd felt yesterday out in the desert, his
resolve at having himself back, at being all right with being alone
and unaccountable. Emotions tinged with bitterness and anger and a
strange sort of power.

The feelings reared in him, very real, but even as they did so, he
recognized them as the defense that they were, thrown up to cover his
nervousness and his fear.

Fear of her. Of being hurt by her.

He didn't think he could bear it again.

It was an admission to himself that made his eyes burn with tears,
which he blinked back. He hadn't realized he was still this raw. He'd
felt so numb for so long now, so closed.

But here she was, opening him with her small hands again.

He almost resented how easily she could do it.

"Mulder, please," she murmured, and the pleading was in her voice
and her eyes now. "Please let me just talk to you."

He balked for another few seconds, waiting until the emotions were
back under some semblance of control. Then he met her eyes, nearly
getting lost in their familiar blue, and knew there was only one
thing he could do.

He reached for the door handle, and she stepped back as he pushed it
open and held it for her. He could not bring himself to speak,
however, not trusting his words or his voice.

He could see the sadness come over her face at his silence. But she
nodded, angled her head in thanks, and walked through the doorway and
into the living room beyond.

He stood still for a moment, his eyes down. Then he finally let go
of the door, turned, and closed the wooden one behind him.
 

*************
 

END OF CHAPTER 16b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 17.
 

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 17.

**********

6:58 p.m.
 

Scully stood in the space between the kitchen and the living room,
her hands in the pockets of her jeans. Her heart was pounding and she
drew in a deep breath, let it go, calming herself as best she could.

It's still Mulder, she reminded herself. It's just Mulder.

The thought didn't comfort her much. She didn't know anything about
how he was, how he felt. She didn't know what he thought of her, or
how much anger he might have at the things she had done to drive him
away.

She wondered just how far away he'd gone in the time since the fight
in the motel, since she'd struck him, cursed at him.

The distance was definitely there. She could feel it. It was like
they were looking at each other from two islands, each stranded on
their separate shores.

"Can I get you something?" Mulder asked, coming up behind her and
then going for the kitchen. "I have some coffee that's still warm,
fairly fresh..." He trailed off as he lifted the percolator from the
stove, as if to prove he was telling the truth.

She didn't want coffee, but she nodded nevertheless. "Sure. Coffee
would be nice. Thank you."

He nodded, his eyes still darting away from her as fast as
frightened birds. It pained her to see that he could not look at her
for more than a few seconds before he had to turn away.

She watched him for a moment as he went into the cabinet, pulling
down a dingy looking mug, its bone-white surface battered. He poured
the coffee, went to the fridge and took out the milk and a small bag
of Domino sugar.

She took a small comfort in the fact that he remembered how she took
her coffee. A ghost of their previous life.

She looked around the living room, the television's picture barely
visible through the static, Andy playing the guitar and humming on
the porch through the hiss. There was only one light on, a lamp by
the couch that faced the television. There was a stack of National
Geographics on the coffee table, Mulder's own coffee mug beside it,
which didn't match the one he was presently filling for her.

The place was warm and dark and cave-like. Neatly kept, which
surprised her. He rarely kept his own apartment clean. She wondered
why he did here.

She took a step toward the back of the couch and saw legs splayed
out from one of the cushions. Leaning over the back, she found
herself looking into the face of a terribly thin black dog. She
winced as she looked at the sores on its visible side, the starkness
of its ribs.

"Hey," she murmured, and reached down to pet its head, finding it
surprisingly soft considering the state of the rest of the dog's
body. The dog whined faintly as she did so, nervous eyes the color of
oil blinking up at her.

"Where'd you get the dog?" she asked, continuing to stroke the
animal's head, smoothing back its ear.

"He sort of found me," Mulder replied, and finished stirring her
coffee. "His name's Bo. This is his first night in the house. I don't
think he's feeling very well."

Scully walked around the couch now, moved the coffee table back a
little so she could get to the dog more easily. She checked him over,
feeling his head and ears more carefully. The dog pushed further into
the couch, turning his head away from her.

"It's okay," she said softly, and the dog whined again.

Mulder came forward from the kitchen, around the couch. He kept his
distance from her, though, she noticed.

She pulled on the dog's neck, watched the skin slowly fall back into
place.

"He's a little dehydrated, for starters," she said, then checked the
sores. They seemed to be all right, most of them closed over and
healing. "He needs a vet, though."

"He's seen one," Mulder replied, his voice still nervous. "A couple
of days ago. He got a bunch of shots."

Scully glanced at him, then down at the dog. "That's probably all it
is, then, if the vet didn't find anything serious," she said.
"Sometimes they can have a reaction to the medications. Especially if
they're already weak, and he clearly is."

"That's good to know, that it's just the shots," Mulder said as she
stood, still regarding the dog, sprawled on his towel as though
someone had dropped him there.

"He's got a bowl of water in the kitchen," he continued. "He's been
drinking some. Maybe he'll be okay in the morning."

Scully nodded. "I'll check him tomorrow for you, if you'd like."

Mulder looked uncomfortable, but nodded, as well. "Okay...thanks."

Bo took one final look at her, still unmoving, then closed his eyes
and exhaled a deep breath, falling asleep.

Mulder shifted from one foot to the other as she turned her
attention from the dog to him. He offered her the coffee and she took
it.

"Thanks," she said quietly. Mulder picked up his own cup, and they
regarded each other for an awkward beat.

"So..." Mulder said, gesturing to a chair beside the couch. She
moved toward it and sat, and he took the empty side of the couch,
sitting on the very edge. She did the same in the chair. "What did
you want to talk to me about?"

She looked down into the milky surface of coffee, hesitated. Her bad
hand trembled it into ripples. Then she glanced up at him, and he was
looking at her solemnly. He took a sip of his coffee, half his face
lit by the lamp on the end table.

She smiled, embarrassed, and shook her head. "I don't know where to
start," she admitted faintly, looking down.

Silence hung between them again, wind pushing on the windows,
creaking the trailer.

"Tell me...tell me how you are," she said quietly, returning her
gaze to his face. His expression was unreadable, as though he'd put
on a mask.

"Me? I'm great for a guy that's been thrown off half the horses in
Victor Hosteen's corral." He turned the coffee mug around in his
hands, took a sip. Then he looked up at her again. "How are you
doing?" His voice sounded far away.

She cringed inwardly. He had shut himself off from her so much. It
hurt her to feel it, even though she knew that she was the one who
had caused him to do it. She hated knowing that.

"I'm doing much better," she replied. "I've had a lot of time to
think."

He nodded. "I'm glad you're doing better," he said, and some warmth
leaked into his voice. He cleared his throat. "I've been...worried
about you. You know, wondering how you were."

"I've been worried about you, too," she replied earnestly, sensing a
tiny space in his considerable armor.

"I'm fine," he said flatly, sipping his coffee again. He said it
with a note of finality, as though he didn't want to talk about it
anymore. It verged on defensive.

"Mulder, I'm..." Emotion rose in her and she struggled to stifle it.
"I wanted to tell you how sorry I am. For what I did and said before.
I was just--"

"You don't need to apologize," he interrupted. "I understand."

Again, that firm tone. Almost dismissive.

"No, I *do* need to apologize," she persisted, treading carefully.
"I should never have treated you like that. Not given how much I--"

"It's okay, Scully," he interrupted again, and stood now, going into
the kitchen.

She watched him go, feeling tears climbing behind her eyes. She
pushed them down.

He poured some more coffee from the pot, draining it. He set it down
a little too hard on the burner, making a loud clap of metal on
metal. He stayed beside the kitchen sink, his eyes down.

"Mulder, please don't walk away from me," she murmured into the
quiet.

He turned his face to her and stared. She withered a bit under it.

"I know...I know you're angry with me," she stammered. "You'd have
to be."

"I'm not angry with you, Scully," he said, monotone. "You've been
through a lot. How could I be angry at you knowing that?"

"What I've been through doesn't give me the right to do what I did
to you." She said it softly, meeting his eyes.

She could see his jaw working from here, the tense line of his
mouth. He put the coffee cup down carefully, leaned against the sink,
facing her, his arms crossed.

"What do you want from me, Scully?" he asked, and the question took
her off guard.

"I..." She looked down, unable to meet his hard gaze. "I guess
that...even though I know why I did what I did to you, that it was
necessary on some level, that I want you to forgive me for it." She
shrugged as she said it, her voice growing very faint at the last.

A flash of lightning popped at the window like a flashbulb going off.

"You're forgiven," he said, unmoving. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

She looked at him. "And I came here to ask you to give me another
chance."

"Another chance at what?" he snapped. It was there now. The anger
was coming.

"To give *us* another chance," she said softly.

"There is no *us* anymore, Scully," he said. "There's just me and
there's just you."

"Please don't say that." She looked down at her hands, feeling the
frustrated tears rim her eyes at last.

"You know, I've had a lot of time to think, too, Scully," he
continued, the words coming hard from him, his volume rising. "And
I've realized something myself. You were right when you said I loved
you too much, that I was blinded by it. I *lost* myself when I was
with you. I forgot who I was. And I've finally gotten myself back and
I'm not going to go back to that again. Not for ANYTHING."

His anger was so roiling now, his face like stone, his jaw pulsing.
He leaned away from the counter and had it not been his place, she
might have been afraid he would leave.

"I said that to hurt you," she said, trying to keep her voice steady
in the face of his rage. "Mulder, you have to know that. I'm sorry I
did it, but that's why I did. And I didn't believe that was true when
I said it, and I don't believe it now. If you'll think about what we
had before all this happened, you'll know that it's not true, too."

She paused, looking at him intensely. "I would have said anything to
drive you away because of the pain I was in. It was never really
about you, Mulder. Please try to understand that. But I hurt you
terribly, I know. I'm so sorry for that--"

"Stop saying you're fucking sorry!" he roared, stunning her.

Another flash of lightning, and Mulder spun, picking up the coffee
mug in a fist. Then it was out of his hand, flung at the wooden door
where it crashed, sending a dark splash across the door's white
surface as the pieces tumbled to the floor.

The dog bolted upright, his ears down. Then he jumped off the couch
and scurried, almost on his belly, behind the television, wedging
himself against the wall. Thunder rolled again, and rain began to
spatter the windows.

Scully looked at Mulder in surprise, covered her mouth with her
trembling hand. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen now, the
heels of his hands dug into his eyes. She could see his chest rising
and falling as though he'd been trapped in a box with no air and had
just now gotten out.

"Mulder..." She rose, set her cup down, and went to him, anguished.
She bit her lip, tears coming fast now as she stood before him. She
murmured his name again.

"Go away," he whispered. "Please get away from me."

"No," she replied, and her voice shook. "I'm not going to go away.
Not like this. I love you too much."

"Don't say that," he pleaded, his hands still over his eyes. His
chest lurched on a sob.

She reached up and gripped his wrists. He resisted her gentle tug,
and she drew them down more firmly until she revealed his eyes,
clenched closed, his long lashes wet with tears.

"Don't..." he said, hoarse. "Leave me alone, Scully."

She took a step closer, let go of one of his hands so she could hold
the side of his face. Her hand trembled against him, her thumb
brushing at the tears.

"I *am* sorry, Mulder," she murmured, her voice tender but sure. "I
was protecting myself. Protecting you, I thought. I was wrong. Let me
help you now..."

She leaned forward, not knowing any other way to prove what she was
saying to him. So she pulled his face down gently and brushed her
lips to his cheek. When he didn't pull away, she went to his throat,
tracing his skin with her mouth. She pressed a kiss to his forehead,
feeling a tremor beginning to course through his tensed body.

Finally, she moved to his lips, touching her open mouth to his.

She felt something give in him with that, as though he'd been
carrying something impossibly heavy and had finally set it down.

He pulled his arm away from her, shook his head against the emotions
she could feel storming from him, the last of his resistance falling
away.

His arms opened and she was suddenly in them as he nearly crushed
her against his chest.

Her arms went around his neck, pulling his face onto her shoulder.
He wept openly now, his body shaking with it. She cried with him, her
hands stroking his hair, her lips on the side of his throat.

"Just let it go..." she murmured to him.

She lost her sense of how long they stayed together like that, the
only sounds their hitched breathing and quiet cries.

Then a crack of lightning, and this time the lamp and the television
went off, the room awash in darkness. The trailer creaked again in
the wind, rain clambering on the window beside them.

There in the darkness he pulled back slowly from her, loosening his
grip, his hands going to either side of her head, sliding through her
damp hair. He rubbed his coarse cheek against hers, his lips grazing
her closed eyes and the tears there. She pulled in a breath as he
kissed her forehead, the skin beneath her eye, then finally her lips.

The kiss was not careful or gentle. It had the pull of a drowning
man in it. She leaned her head back as he pressed into her, his mouth
opening and hers with it. She teased his tongue with hers, surprising
herself with her need to touch him like that. He responded
immediately, stroking the inside of her mouth. She made a soft sound
in her throat like a faint moan.

Then she couldn't breathe, a panicky feeling passing over her. She
pulled back from his lips but held his face close to hers, their
labored breathing mingling, tears still coming from both of them.

"You okay?" He held her face between his hands, his thumbs smoothing
her tears over her skin.

She nodded. "We just need to slow down a little...we have to go slow."

"We don't have to do anything at all," he murmured, his voice still
shaking. He started to pull away.

"No," she said, holding his forehead to hers. "I want to feel this.
I want to feel everything." She whispered the last word against his
mouth before she kissed him again, soft, searching. "Even the things
that make me afraid."

He shook his head. "I don't want you to be afraid of me."

"I'm not afraid of you," she said with conviction, and she released
him, stepped back and took his hand.

"Show me the way," she said, and he hesitated. She saw the doubt in
him as a flash of lightning flickered, illuminating his face for a
few seconds.

"Please," she said, giving his hand a squeeze.

After a moment he squeezed back. She could hear him let out a slow
breath, and knew he was gathering himself, calming.

Then he turned and led her down the hallway through the darkness.
 
 

His voice is my voice.

She thinks this in this dream-like world where they are twined,
curled into each other.

Breathless words, half spoken in the language of sheets:

Here?

His voice in her ear, then his mouth on hers, searching. Careful.

Yes there...

Kiss after kiss, soft as rain.

His hands on her breasts, rough thumbs grazing her nipples. His
tongue, warm and smooth, on them, his beard teasing the soft skin.

More...

Her voice stretches to a whisper with her need. His dark eyes answer
from above her, saying yes.

Hands moving down her belly, between her legs. She opens herself to
him as best she can, a hand gripping his arm.

Beautiful...

She smiles at the word. Time holds still.

Then his body on hers, the slow slope of his back her hands follow
down, her leg pulled up to his waist.

Press of weight. Her fingers curling.

A gasp, her face turning away as he fills her, her body taut,
resisting.

Shh...Relax...

His words like anchors, her, a small boat on a storm-tossed sea.

Please, Mulder...

Tell me...

No, don't stop...

Then the pleasure is there, beginning, mingled with tears she can't
stop.

Shhh...it's all right. You're all right, Scully...

The quick rise and fall of his chest, her heart beating like a
bird's, a strand of hair catching in the corner of her mouth as she
turns her head, her eyes on his.

His hands on either side of her, his body moving, rhythmic, growing
faster. His lip caught between his teeth, brow creasing, an
expression like pain.

A pressure building in her, flush of heat, spreading like water
through her belly.

Mulder...coming...

Yes...

I can't...

Yes, you can...

And a burst of light, her eyes closing against it, her mouth on his
shoulder, teeth bearing down as wave after wave washes over her and
she struggles to breath beneath them.

A moan wrenches from him.

He shudders in a rush of warmth. In a cry.

Then he is beside her, their foreheads pressing together. They relax
into sweat. His fingers brush at her tears, gathering them.

Her hands in his hair, smoothing the wet hair at his temples.

His body, a harbor of light.

....love...

Love you...

The rain outside continues to fall, the storm raging, all of it
feeling very far away.

Their pleasure ebbs between them like a tide, his lips on her damp
hair, her face against his throat.

She finally drifts into sleep against him, her last thought that,
despite everything...

We made this.
 

*****

APRIL 7
5:40 a.m.
 

Mulder lay awake on his side, propped on one elbow, the sky going
from black to a brighter blue-grey and beginning to illuminate the
room around him, the last of the night falling away.

Scully lay beside him, facing him, deep in sleep. Her right hand
held the covers up close to her bare chest; the left reached across
the scant space between them, her fingers curled against his belly,
the hand and arm trembling faintly even in her sleep.

Her hair spread out behind her, red across the pillow, her eyes
shifting beneath her closed lids as she journeyed in the midst of a
dream.

He felt like a Christmas child looking at her in his bed again, a
small smile on his face, his head turning to get a better look at her
features.

He reached out and fingered a strand of hair that had fallen across
her face, stroking it back, smoothing her hair down and brushing her
temple with his fingers. He worried about her dreaming, memories of
the nightmares overtaking her burned into his mind.

Since he'd awoke, she'd made one small sound, a troubled sighing, so
he kept his vigil over her as the dawn spread out around them.

Then, a knocking at the door, loud and insistent.

Victor...

Mulder carefully climbed over her from his place against the wall,
trying to disturb her as little as possible as he made his way to the
floor. Scully moaned softly at the movement, but did not awaken.

Once he got his feet over the side, Mulder nearly tripped over Bo,
who had taken up a place at the side of the bed in the night. Bo
opened his eyes and watched Mulder loot through the strewn clothes
for his grey boxers, the dog's tail thumping lightly on the floor.
Mulder smiled, stepped into his boxers and reached down to stroke
Bo's head gently, then headed for the hallway before Victor could
knock again.

The screen door was opening as Victor prepared to bang another time,
and Mulder opened the door quickly, shards of the shattered mug
pushing with it on the floor. Victor was holding the screen door and
his hand was in the air in front of Mulder's chest in mid-knock.

"You're late *again*!" he exclaimed, and Mulder cringed at his
volume.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, Victor," he said quickly, keeping his own voice
quiet, hoping Victor would follow suit.

Victor stared at him, at his hair, which Mulder knew must look a
sight after a night of alternately sweating and sleeping, and at his
red-rimmed eyes. And he was standing there in his underwear, as
well....

"What the hell happened to you, man?" Victor laughed, banging him on
the arm. "You look like you just got laid or something!"

Mulder grimaced, and he blushed from his mid-chest up. He put a
finger over his lips, smiled an embarrassed smile.

Victor stilled, glanced over Mulder's shoulder, then back at his
face. His smile melted away and he cringed.

"Oh," he said, and the new look on his face matched Mulder's. "Guess
you get the day off, for sure," he said, and his voice was quiet now.

"I'm sorry," Mulder said again. "I know with the storm you must need
some clean-up help, but I--"

"No, no," Victor said. "It's fine. It's all good. You can help me
later today if you get the chance." He grinned, winked. "Or not."

Mulder reached out and grabbed hold of the screen door, shaking his
head, but he was smiling. "Am-scray," he said softly, and Victor
chuckled, put his hands up in a gesture of surrender, and backed away
as Mulder closed both the doors.

He turned and went back down the hallway to the spare bedroom where
Scully lay, the room with the full-sized bed Mulder had avoided all
this time because he couldn't stand to sleep in a bed with one side
empty.

He turned the corner and stood in the doorway, stilled.

Scully was on her back now, her arms thrown over her face to cover
her eyes, the sheet slipped down to her waist. A beam of light fell
through the gap in the curtains from over the bed, splashing onto her
breasts, the creamy white of her belly.

Mulder stared for several long seconds, captivated.

He smiled as he made his way to the bed, touching Bo's head again,
who was now sprawled in the pile of clothes. Then Mulder sat on the
edge of the bed slowly, carefully, put an arm over her, his hip
barely touching hers.

He wanted to press a kiss between her breasts, wake her that way,
his mouth moving over her skin...

Then something caught his eye beside one of her breasts.

A faint patch of red there, a chafe. He looked her over further and
noted another on her shoulder near her throat, a spot of red beneath
her jaw.

He reached down and lifted the covers, saw more. A streak on her
smooth belly. Another half visible on the inside of her thigh.

He cringed, shook his head ruefully.

Oops.

He covered her up, and she turned fitfully, going back onto her
side, mumbling something. He touched her gently and stood, padding
silently out of the bedroom to the bathroom at the end of the hall,
throwing on the light.

His toiletries bag was there, gaping open like a mouth. A can of
shaving cream was on the counter, and he turned on the water,
splashed it onto his face, drenching his beard to the skin. Then,
taking a handful of foam, he worked it into the hair, rinsed his
hands and pulled out his razor and an entire pack of refill blades,
snug in their plastic holder.

Wetting the blade, he lifted his chin and began to shave.
 

A long time later, he was wiping his face with a towel, dabbing at
the dots of blood on his face. Around him on the sides of the sink,
the refill blades scattered, clogged with dark hair, whiskers all
over the porcelain surface.

He wiped his face again, cleaning stray lines of white foam from
around his ears, his sideburns, the towel feeling almost too rough on
his overly sensitive skin.

He looked at himself in the mirror.

A man he used to know stared back at him.

A man he hadn't seen in a long long time.

Mulder smiled to him.

"Welcome back," he murmured to himself. "Welcome back."
 

**

In the bedroom down the hallway, Scully dreamed.

She and Mulder at an airport, the gate crowded, choked with people,
all carrying tickets made of light. Mulder held one in his hand,
fumbling it as he pushed his black trench over his arm, lifting his
suitcase with his free hand.

She looked at him, taking in his appearance as though she had never
seen him before and never would again.

Black suit. Crisp white shirt. Black tie patterned with silk
outlines of birds in flight. His hair was shorter than she remembered
from the night before, no beard. The suit hung on him beautifully,
elegantly.

A suit good enough to be buried in, some voice in her said darkly.

She pushed the voice away, stared up Mulder, the crush of people all
around them.

"Seats fifteen and higher may board," the attendant said, and Mulder
looked down at his ticket.

"That's me," he said, and smiled at her. "Gotta move on, you know."

She looked down at herself. She was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt.
There was a gun on her hip and something warm in her hand. She looked
down at it.

A child stood there. A little girl holding her hand. At first she
thought it might be Emily, but this was not Emily. It was another
child. Dark hair, long and curled down her back. Eyes as blue as her
own, but deeper, almost navy, and shining. The girl smiled up at her.

This is not my child, she thought in the dream, the part of her that
was trying to wake her from it reasoning with her, almost pleading.

She looked back up at Mulder, who was still looking at her
expectantly.

"Don't go," she said. She said it as warning. "We need to stay here,
Mulder. We need to go home."

"I have to go," he replied kindly. "You know that." He reached up
and touched her face with the hand that held the ticket. When he
touched her, his hand was colder than ice. The light from the ticket
all but blinded her.

She stepped back from him, terror coming over her, though at what
she couldn't say. As the ticket receded, her eyes widened, panicked
and disbelieving.

"I'll see you," he said, and leaned in to kiss her quickly. He
gestured to the child. "Take care of her, all right?"

She nodded mutely, frozen in place, and he took a step back, his
trench swinging as he turned and joined in with the line.

Someone came forward and took his ticket, and he disappeared down
the dark tunnel of the gate.
 

Her eyes shot open, her hand going out to the worn mattress beside
her. Sunlight beat in the window over the bed, and she shielded her
eyes, struggling to orient herself.

"Mulder?" she called, the fear from the dream in her voice.

She rolled over, sitting up, drawing the sheet up to cover her
chest. She looked around the room, at the battered dresser, its
drawers crooked as teeth, the cheap rug, the rumple of clothes on the
floor, on which the black dog from the night before was lying,
looking up at her warily.

She leaned down and touched his head as if for reassurance that
something in the room was real.

"Mulder?" she called again, and now she heard footsteps coming down
the hall toward her.

He appeared in the doorway, a towel around his neck, his brow
creased. "I'm right here," he said quickly, coming toward the bed.

She swallowed as he sat on the edge of it, looking into his face.

"You...you shaved your beard," she murmured, her eyes still wide.

He smiled, reached up to cradle the side of her throat, his thumb
rubbing on her cheek.

"Yes," he said, his voice tender. "Some of us have sensitive skin."

His hand dropped down, pushing the sheet down, a finger brushing
over the red spot beside her breast. Looking at the beard rash made
her smile, as well, though it was a nervous one.

"You okay?" he asked, and she returned her eyes to his face. There
were a few dots of blood on his face, and she reached her hand out,
touching them with her fingers.

She looked at her hand. At his blood on her hands.

"Yeah," she said, trying her best to shake off the dream. "Yeah.
Just a bad dream. Nothing new about that."

He nodded. "You want to talk about it?" he asked.

Good enough to be buried in....

She shook her head, pulled in a deep breath. "No," she said. "Could
you...would you lie down with me again though?" She looked at him
almost shyly as she said it, feeling like the words were a great
concession.

He simply smiled back at her. "Sure," he murmured, and tossed the
towel onto the floor, scooted over as she drew up her knees to give
him room. Then he slipped under the covers, lying back, pulling her
into his arms, urging her to curve her body against his.

She put her cheek against his chest, an arm around his ribcage,
holding him tightly. Almost too tightly.

He sensed it. "It's okay, Scully," he whispered gently. "It was a
dream."

She nodded against him, turned her face into his chest and kissed
him there. He pressed his lips to the crown of her head, rubbing his
face in her hair, inhaling deeply.

We need to go home...

Good enough to be buried in...

She thought about it, closing her eyes as she drew a calming breath.

"Mulder, I want to go home," she said finally, and felt him go
still. His breathing all but stopped for a long moment.

"You must have an overwhelming desire to see me in a day-glo orange
jumpsuit behind three-inch glass," he quipped, stroking her hair.

"No," she murmured, not rising to the joke. "I'm terrified of that,
in fact."

He was quiet for a moment.

"Padden won't protect you, Scully," he said. "We've been over this.
Even Skinner says he won't. You're safer out here. We both are, until
Curran's caught or Skinner tells us otherwise."

She leaned up, her chin on her forearm across his chest so she could
look into his face. "Mulder," she began quietly. "Do you
remember...when I had cancer...when I was in the hospital in
Pennsylvania."

His face darkened, despite the dawn sun streaming on it. "Yes."

"Do you remember what you said to me in the hallway?" She didn't
wait for him to respond as he looked into her eyes. "You said: 'The
truth will save you. I think it will save both of us.'"

"I remember." He swallowed.

She pulled in a breath, let it out, gathering herself.

"We're running from a lie," she said. "You and I know the truth. And
the truth will clear these charges against you. It will bring the
investigation out of Padden's control and allow Skinner to protect
me."

She reached up, stroked his face, soft now, smooth. "It *will* save
both of us. And it's not out here where we are. It's back at home.
And that's where we should be, too."

She inched forward, kissed his lips softly, bracing herself on her
hands on either side of his body. His hands went to her back, her
sides, his fingers brushing the sides of her breasts.

"Just think about it," she whispered as they parted, and his hands
moved down her back, an urgency in his touch now that she recognized
as his warm, familiar desire.

"I will," he replied, and leaned up to kiss her again.
 

**********
 

END OF CHAPTER 17 AND PART 2. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 18 AND PART 3.