By Paige Caldwell
paigecaldwell@hotmail.com
 

Date: 28 Apr 1999
Classification: MSR, X
Rating: NC 17
Keywords: M,S,K
Distribution: Please keep author's name with story and notify.
Disclaimer:  These characters do not belong to me.  No
                    infringement is intended.
Spoilers: Through "The End".
Summary:    Post "The End".  What promises to be an
                    idyllic weekend between new lovers, changes
                    into a desperate pursuit for the truth.
                    Scully is reminded that the microchip in her
                    neck not only keeps her cancer in remission,
                    but has the ability of controlling her mind
                    and actions.  When a countermeasure is
                    offered by an unlikely and dangerous source,
                    the agents debate their alternatives and seek
                    one of their own.

~~~

Countermeasures
By Paige Caldwell
 

     Anticipation was the only thing that was keeping Mulder from
nodding off from boredom at work these days.  Since the X-files
had been reassigned, his job consisted of menial tasks that would
be ordinarily assigned to an entry level agent. Grunt work. His
eyes traveled over to the next desk. This was who he had to look
forwards to.  His partner.  And for the past month, his lover.

     As he expected, she was focused on her work.  Not even the
dull monotony of running background checks would compromise her
staunch work ethic.  He studied her brilliant blue eyes as they
trailed the cursor that blinked on her computer screen.  Her
lips, full and sensual, were pressed together in contemplation.
Her hand reached over to the mouse which she maneuvered across
its pad.  Clicking it, her right eyebrow lifted into a perfect
arch.  She had found what she was looking for.

     And, so had he.  What had begun as a heated argument had
taken a surprising turn.  Jealousy over his former partner, Diane
Fowley, had stripped away Scully's impassive mask.  Unable to
curtail her emotions, she had fled.  She had put the distance of
four states and four agonizingly long days between them.  The
separation hit Mulder with stark realization.  Fear of loving her
compared nothing to the fear of losing her.

     He followed her.  He apologized to her.  He admitted his
feelings in an awkward way.  She assessed him with cool, remote
eyes before she rejected him. It was the most painful sensation
he had experienced since his freshman year in high school, when
he had developed a crush on a senior only to be repudiated with
ridicule and scorn.  He had not been good enough.  He had never
been good enough.
 
     He made his departure with his usual trite style, covering
his embarrassment and despair.  But, as he sat in his car and she
gripped the open window, everything changed in a moment that
hinged between acknowledgement and withdrawal.  A single tear.  A
look of anguish that betrayed her words.  It gave him the
strength to push aside his own insecurities and see past the wall
she had constructed.  A facade built out of her own hurt over
what she perceived was an attachment to a former lover.  It gave
him the impetus to surrender to her unspoken plea.

     Capitulating to Scully was one of the best decisions he had
ever made.

     He watched her now as she rubbed the back of her neck.  He
saw the small smile tease the corners of her mouth as she glanced
down at her watch.  She rose out of her chair.  She addressed
with a casualness that reminded him of the first few years
together.
 
     "Have a good weekend, Mulder."

     "You too, Scully,"  he responded blandly.

     Discretion was essential to them both.  Never had their
status at the Bureau been more tenuous.  Reassigning the X-files
was the only the first item on the agenda to tow them in line.
Any perceived intimacy at work between the two agents would be
viewed as a serious breech of protocol.  It would result in
splitting them up.  New assignments.  New partners.  Neither of
them wanted to lose the bond that had brought them together in
the first place.
 
 

     A few minutes past seven o'clock, Scully heard the lock on
her front door being turned.  She was in the kitchen uncorking a
bottle of Chardonney.  She had stripped off her business suit and
taken a hot, leisurely bath.  Her skin still smelled of peaches,
courtesy of Crabtree and Evelyn bath gel.  Tonight she wore a
cream colored angora sweater with a revealing scoop neck.  She
slid on a pair of tight jeans, fastened pearl studs in her ears
and ran a comb through her damp auburn hair.

     Right on time, she thought, as she poured the wine.

     She entered the livingroom carrying the two wine glasses.
She glanced to the door.  Already he had shut it and latched the
safety chain.  She smiled.  Her livingroom was dark other than
the glow of the candles she had lit and the dancing flames from
the fireplace.  She looked around her, straining to find him in
the shadows of the room.

     "Is that for me," a voice whispered.

     The voice didn't belong to Mulder.

     The glasses dropped from her hands and shattered on the
floor.

     It was Krychek.  Messenger of death.  Murderer.  Staring at
her with cold, narrow eyes.  He reached out to grab her before
she could scream.

     She deflected his arm and dove for her gun which was on the
table by the front door.  Instantly he was behind her, his one
useful arm grasping her around the waist.  With all the force of
his body, he launched her against the wall.  Pinning her with his
chest, his prosthetic hand pressed tightly against her mouth.
His other hand slammed her wrist high above her head that she
might release her grip on her gun.

     "I'm not here to hurt you."  His breath was blistering
against her ear.

     Scully tasted the cold plastic of his prosthetic hand.  Her
knee shot up to his groin.  Anticipating the move, he steered his
hips away from her.  Again and again, he pummeled her wrist
against the wall.  Her eyes flinched with the excruciating pain
that coursed through her wrist.  Her fingers were slipping.  She
was not able to hold onto her gun much longer.

     Suddenly, the door of the apartment crashed open.  It was
Mulder.  His gun was already drawn as he entered the apartment.
He spun around and pointed it at Krychek's temple.

     "Get your hands off of her, Krychek," he barked.  His finger
started to ease back the trigger.

     "You got it all wrong, Mulder." The man released Scully and
took a step back.

     Mulder sneered and grabbed Krychek by the throat.  He
slammed the side of his gun against the man's head.  Stunned,
Krychek fell to the floor.

     "No, you got it all wrong by ever coming here, you son of a
bitch."

     "Mulder, listen,"  the man panted as clasped his head.  "I
came here to warn her.  I'm unarmed.  Check for yourself."

     Mulder straddled the man and pointed the gun at him again.
His eyes flew briefly to Scully.

     "You okay?"

     "Yeah," she exhaled slowly.  She passed her gun to her left
hand.  Her face disguised the pain she was feeling.

     "Check him out, Scully."  He took a step back that his
partner might search for a weapon.  He lowered the gun so that it
was directed at the man's groin. "One move, Krychek, and you'll
never have to worry about having the balls to come near her
again."

     Scully searched the man's waistband of his jeans.  Her hands
smoothed down his legs.  Her hand closed around a small vial
which she lifted from his shirt pocket.  She held it up to her
partner.

     "What have we here?" Mulder asked.

     "The reason I came to Scully's apartment."

     "Talk fast, you're on my time now."

     "Scully," Krychek looked up to the woman who stood over him.
"Feeling a little tingly lately?"

     Mulder swung back his leg to give the man a sharp kick to
the ribs.  Krychek rolled to his side, anticipating the move.  He
held up a placating hand.

     "I'm serious," he gasped.  "The back of your neck, Scully.
The microchip in your neck.  Have you been feeling it these past
few days."

     Scully blinked.  She turned her eyes to Mulder.  They were
frozen, paralyzed with sudden realization.  Her partner stared
back in disbelief.

     "It's going to happen again, Scully.  The chip that has
saved your life also controls it."

     "Shut up," Mulder began to reach down for him, but Scully
caught his forearm and stopped him.

     "No, Mulder.  I think we should hear him out."

     "He's a liar, Scully.  A murderer."

     "You don't have to remind me," she retorted.

     "You'll be summoned again.  And again.  Until they get what
they want."  Krychek appealed to her.

     "Which is what?"  she asked.

     "Their lab rat back in the lab."

     Scully swallowed hard.  Again she held up a restraining hand
to her partner.

     "Why?"

     "Because you are one valuable lab rat.  One that's been
vaccinated.  Immune to the virus."

     Mulder lowered his gun.  The man struggled up to a sitting
position.  He motioned to the vial in Mulder's hands.

     "The chip in that vial needs to be inserted directly above
the one in Scully's neck.  It's a countermeasure designed to
block out the signal they send."
 
     "Why not just replace one with the other?" Scully questioned
him.

     "Because the first one keeps your cancer in remission."

     "Who gave it to you?" Mulder wanted to know.

     "Those who have an interest in keeping Scully alive and
well,"  replied the man cryptically.

     "The resistance," Scully said knowingly.  "You've been
helping them all along, haven't you?"

     Krychek didn't respond.

     "Don't let him take you in, Scully," Mulder countered.
"Krychek doesn't promote anyone's cause except his own."

     Scully ignored her partner.  She crouched down so she could
assess the man's eyes.  For a moment she thought she spied a look
of pity, a flicker of admiration.  Then, it was gone.  Replaced
by the hardness of a man who had lost his humanity, who had been
bought and sold so many times that his motives were as
untrustworthy as his words.

     "No," she reflected.  "Mulder's right.  Your allegiance is
to the highest bidder."

     "Not the highest bidder, Scully," Krychek told her.  "Just
the only one interested in preserving life as you know it."

     "The resistance shows its interest in preserving life by
incinerating it," she denounced bitterly.

     "There are factions within the faction," Krychek imparted.
"And there are those who regret having not found a better way."
 
     "An act of contrition?  You're going to have to do better
than that." warned Mulder advancing on him again.

     "You're not going to get better than that, Mulder,"  sneered
the man.  "Take your head out of your ass, man. Time is running
out.  Rather than pursue that banal truth of yours, you had
better start pursuing your own salvation.  And hers."

     "The only salvation you're concerned with is your own,
Krychek,"  sneered Mulder.  He lowered his gun to the man's face.
"And, you're about to find out that there are even limits to
God's mercy."

     "Let him go, Mulder."

     "What?" he hissed at his partner.

     "I said let him go,"  Scully insisted.  Her voice held an
edge to it.  Mulder scrutinized her face and saw her that she had
reached a conclusion he had yet to see.  Her blue eyes were
charged with resolve.  He felt his own determination drain under
her piercing gaze.

     "On your feet."  He jerked the man up by the collar.

     Scully took a step forward so that her face was inches from
his.  Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it held a threat
which was grave and explicit.

     "You play a dangerous game, Krychek.  You may not have
pulled the trigger that killed my sister, you have her blood on
her hands. And Mulder's father. Preserving life means nothing to
you.  You are as dead as you are deadly."

     She reached up and softly pressed a finger between the man's
eyes.

     "So if I place a bullet right here, it wouldn't be murder
would it?"

     "Scully," Krychek arched his head and looked at her with
amused pleasure.  "A player, at last.  You are worth saving
aren't you?"

     "I've had enough," Mulder threatened, pressing his gun
against the man's ribs.  "Let's move ratboy, nice and slow."

     He escorted Krychek outside of the apartment complex, his
fingers hold fast to the man's jacket.  In a low voice he warned
him.

     "If you ever come near her again..."

     Krychek shrugged off the man's grasp.  "What would you do,
Mulder?  Kick my ass?  Trust me, I take Scully's threats much
more seriously that I do yours."

     "Just drop back down in your hole Krychek.  That way I'll
know where to find you when I decide to complete that little
business that remains unsettled between us."

     Krychek gave him a malevolent grin as he backed away.

     "Until then comrade..."  He stuffed his hands into his
pockets as he crossed the street to disappear into the shadows.
 

     Back in her apartment Scully was sweeping the shattered wine
glasses into a dust pan.  She raised her eyes to her partner as
he stood in the doorway.  She saw that he was still agitated.
His mouth was set in a firm line.  His eyes snapped with bits of
hard steel.  They focused on her for a moment, venting his fury
in one hard glance.

     "Is it broken?" she asked.

     "What?"

     "The door." Scully motioned with her head.  "Is it broken?"
 
     He turned to his side and examined the door frame.  He had
kicked it in with such force that the lock had snapped off its
hinges.

     "The lock will have to be replaced," he assessed.

     She moved over to the garbage pail in the kitchen and
emptied the dust pan.

     "We'll have to call a locksmith on our way back," she told
him calmly.

     "From where?"

     "Mulder, I think my wrist is broken."

     "That fu..."  He veered around in the doorway.

     "Mulder," her voice drew him back.

     She cradled her wrist against her waist.  When he looked
back he saw that she was in pain.  Immediately he shifted his
focus back to her.  Reaching for her jacket, he gently wrapped it
around her shoulders.

     "Friday night in the emergency room,"  he sighed.  "What a
way to start the weekend."
 
 
 

     They spent three hours in the emergency room.  The x-rays
confirmed a hairline fracture.  She was offered a softcast but
turned it down in favor of a wristbrace.  This surprised her
partner.  As they drove home he questioned her,

     "I'm no doctor, Scully, but shouldn't your wrist be casted?"
 
     "It's my right hand, Mulder."

     "Your left hand feels just as good." he shot her a grin.

     She did not return the smile.

     "It's my gun hand," she said quietly.

     The encounter with Krychek had left her shaken.  That he had
so easily broken into her apartment proved how vulnerable she
was.  Her home was no safe haven.  There was no retreat from
those who sought to hunt her down.  Even more chilling, was the
belief that she could be controlled by an unseen force and driven
to do things she neither could explain or remember.  It had
happened before.  It had led her to danger and near death.  How
ironic that the one thing that saved her life also threatened to
destroy it.

     "Hey," her partner called out to her again.  "Don't let that
son of a bitch freak you out, Scully."

     "I'm fine, Mulder," she lied.  "Really."

     Sleep did not come easy to Scully that night.  It was after
midnight by the time the locksmith had replaced the lock on her
door.  Mulder insisted on supervising the repair.  He ushered her
into the bedroom and suggested that she get some sleep.  Over an
hour later he pulled back the edge of the comforter and slid into
bed next to her.  She rolled over and contemplated him.  He had
changed into sweats and a t-shirt.  It signaled to her that there
would be no ease to her tension that night.

     "I guess this is a first," she commented.

     "Still awake?" he asked, drawing her into his arms.

     "Yup," she rested her cheek against his chest.

     "I figured you had enough excitement for one evening,"  he
murmured.  He lowered his nose to her hair and breathed deeply.

     "You have an odd way of assessing what excite's me." she
sighed, closing her eyes.

     Mulder didn't speak.  He stroked her back thoughtfully.  He
recounted the events of the evening, trying to sort out the
meaning of Krychek's visit.  He weighed the man's words.  It
bothered him how much the man knew, how plausible his explanation
really was.  It was too convenient.

     The microchip in Scully's neck had been inserted in a last
ditch effort to save her life.  While she might call it fate or a
miracle, he was certain that it was a conspired government and
alien technology that had finally beaten down the cancer that
almost killed her.

     He also believed that the same chip had mysteriously driven
her, like others, to a macabre reunion with her abductors.  The
only miracle Mulder saw was that she had been spared being
incinerated to death by the faceless resistance fighters.  His
partner had been caught between two factions in a conspiracy that
threatened them all.

     Fear of losing her had taken on a whole new meaning.

     Only the feel of Scully's warm body curled up against his,
lessened the chill that he felt. She had fallen asleep.  The
sound of her breathing, which was soft and even, relaxed him.  It
told him that she trusted him, that his presence made her feel
secure.  He wondered what she might think if she discovered that
his strength was drawn from her. Her courage was the impenetrable
type.  Uncompromising.  Valiant.

     She was everything to him.

     He wasn't about to stand passively by and lose her again.
 
     He woke hours later to a darkened room and an empty bed.  He
sat up suddenly, his eyes straining through the shadows of the
room, looking for her.  He glanced to the bathroom to see if any
light peeked out from under the closed door.  She wasn't in
there.  He threw off the comforter and swung his legs to the
floor.  It was then that he saw her.

     Scully stood by the bedroom window.  The curtains had been
pushed back and the soft light from the street silhouetted her
body, illuminating the sleek lines of her satin nightgown.  Her
fingers traced patterns against the glass of the window.

     "Scully?" he called over to her.  When she did not respond
he went to her.  She stared up towards the sky.  The moon shone
against her eyes, drowning out their color.  They were pale and
vacant.  She did not see him.  She did not hear him.  She was
lost in a trance similar to a sleepwalker.

     Krychek's words haunted him.  Taking her gently by the
shoulders he steered her back to bed.  She did not resist his
touch but didn't respond to it either. Her eyes closed as soon as
her head touched the pillow.  Her breath fell evenly.  She had
fallen back to sleep.

     When Scully woke the next morning, she immediately sensed
something cold and hard against her wrist.  Believing it to be
the wristbrace, she began to roll over and was immediately jerked
back.  Her eyes opened to find that she was handcuffed to her
partner.  Startled but amused, she tugged at the cuffs until he
was awake.

     "Trying to spice things up, Mulder?" she teased.

     He rubbed the sleep from his eyes before raising himself up
on his elbow.  He studied her face a moment, assessing the
alertness to her blue eyes.  They were quite awake, sparkling
with humor at what she perceived to be a joke.

     "Do you remember waking up last night?" he asked her.

     "No, but I'm beginning to wish I did," she smiled back.

     "Me too, baby, but not for the reasons you think."

     He was serious.  There wasn't even a glimmer of excitement
to his solemn hazel eyes.

     "What is Mulder?  What happened?"  she asked.

     "The Dana Scully rendition of E.T. calling home by the
bedroom window."

     It took a moment for his words to sink in.  At first she
gave him a scoffing look.  Then she, too, remembered the warning
Krychek had given her.  The color drained from her face.  Her
eyes grew bleak as they met his.

     "It could mean nothing," He tried to reassure her.  "It
could have been just a dream brought on by stress and the
medication you took for your hand."

     "I took two Advil, Mulder," she informed him.  "And, if that
is really what you believe then why the cuffs?"

     When he didn't respond she became agitated.  Twisting her
arm, she demanded,

     "Get these things off of me."

     He reached underneath the mattress and produced the key.
Unlocking the cuffs, he prodded her,

     "What's wrong, Scully?  Being bound to me a little too
symbolic for you?"

     Without a word, she got out of bed.  She retrieved the vial
from her purse.  When she returned she stood at the foot of the
bed and waved it at him.

     "What do you think, Mulder?"

     He sat up and contemplated the vial in her hand.

     "I don't know," he shook his head.  "Are you willing to
trust that lying sack of shit?"

     "I don't think that trust is a factor here," she responded.
"Technology is, wherever it may come from.  I think we should
check it out."

     "Have I missed something here?"  he wondered.

     "What do you mean?"

     "The part where Dana Scully suddenly became a believer?"

     "Since when does one have to believe in something to test
it?"

     "Balls in your court, partner.  How do you want to play it?"
he asked.

     "Let's take it down to the Bureau labs and have a closer
look," she suggested.

     "Conventional albeit impractical," Mulder commented.

     "Why?"

     "Saturday morning for one thing.  Kersch breathing down our
necks when he finds out on Monday."

     "Alright, what do you suggest?" She sat down on the bed
beside him.

     "A trio of scientists, idiosyncratic but masterful."

     "Lone Gunmen," she acknowledged slowly before she sighed.

     "They're the ones who examined the last chip," he advised.

     "Think they'll be around on a Saturday?"

     "Scully, Scully..."  He leaned over to press his lips
against her bare shoulder.  "Everyday is a Saturday to these
guys."

 
     The chip proved to be as ambiguous as the last one the
Gunmen examined.  Contained in a vial filled with ionized water,
Byers delicately removed it with tweezers for examination
underneath an electronic microscope.  The composition and
minuscule markings on the chip were similar to the last.  As the
enhanced image filled the computer screen, Frohike commented
dryly.

     "I don't know what the two of you expected to find.  A
message that says, replace in case of the first one fails?"

     Scully stood over Byers' shoulder peering at the screen.
She winced at Frohike's question.  Without a word, she turned and
walked out of the room.

     "Did I say something wrong?"  The man's eyes followed her.

     "No, just a little inaccurate," imparted Mulder.  He too
watched Scully depart with a look that hinged between regret and
concern.  "The first chip hasn't failed.  It just came with a
price tag."

     "There's something he's not telling us,"  Langly said.

     "Yeah," Mulder's voice was terse.  He narrated the events of
the previous evening.  The Gunman exchanged bewildered and
discomforted glances as the impact of the chip was realized.

     "Mulder, there is really little else that can be done
without risking the integrity of the chip.  It's just too small."
advised Byers.

     "Leap of faith, man," agreed Langly.

     "Yeah, right over a cliff if your wrong," protested Frohike.
"Consider the messenger."

     "Oh, I am," the agent rubbed his chin.  "Problem is the
message.  It's beginning to manifest as predicted."
 
 
 

     Scully sat in the car waiting.  Her arms were folded
obstinately.  Her eyes shifted to her partner as he slipped
behind the wheel.

     "Well?" she snapped. "What have your three geniuses come up
with this time?"

     "A definition," he relayed, turning on the ignition.

     "What is it?"

     "A dilemma." Mulder answered.  He shifted the gear into
drive.  Suddenly, Scully seized the handle to the car door and
flung it open.  Mulder's arm flew out to catch her as he slammed
on the breaks. The car jerked to a stop. Pushing him away, she
got out of the car and slammed the door shut.

     "This is just great," Scully spun around the alley, her arms
raised up in indignation.  "No answers, just more questions.  How
fitting.  How exquisitely convenient."

     Mulder got out of the car.  Over the hood, he studied her
closely.  It was more than a crack in her composure.  She was
seething mad. Circling the area which was littered with boxes
filled with the Gunman's paper shreds, she kicked one suddenly.
Then another.  She was oblivious of the mess she was making.  She
waded through it to pound her uninjured hand on the Gunmen's
door.

     "Hey, calm down," He followed her, noting how she reached
for her gun from the back waistband of her jeans.  He drew in his
breath and lunged forwards.  Before he reached her, she turned
the gun around in her hand and banged the handle against the
door.

     "Are these guys deaf or what?" she yelled out.

     Mulder shot a hand over her shoulder and caught her
wristbrace.  He tried to ease the gun from her fingers.

     "Its a gun, Scully, not a door knocker." he reminded her.

     "I want that chip back now." Scully demanded.

     "Let go of the gun, Dana," he urged in a gentle voice.  His
free hand slid around her waist and tugged her back against him.

     The door jerked open to Frohike's startled expression.
Mulder shook his head in a gesture of warning.  He held the woman
tightly as she struggled to maintain her grip on her gun.  Her
eyes were glazed with fury.  It was if her mind had suddenly gone
dark.  Her behavior was bizarre, almost deranged.

     "Close the door, Frohike."

     "Mulder, I..." the man was frozen in shock.

     "Don't argue, damn it, just do it,"  he snarled.

     Frohike jumped back and pulled the door shut.  Only then did
Mulder wretch the gun away and release his hold on the woman.
She fell against the door, pressing her forehead against the cold
metal.  She seemed poised to scream or burst into tears of
frustration.  Sensing it, he reached out to grip her shoulder.
Instead of comforting her, it only incited her more.  Whirling
around, she pushed him away.
 
     "Don't you ever.." she threatened, moving upon him. Her eyes
glinted like bits of steel as she shoved him back roughly.
"Ever...take my weapon off of me again."
 
     God, Mulder thought.  This wasn't her.  It was a stranger
that was advancing on him.  Pushing him.  Poised to launch
herself at him and physically battle for what he had just taken
from her.  He contemplated her for a moment. It wasn't the gun,
he realized.  It was what it symbolized.

     "Here you go, Scully," he said in a calm, acquiescing tone.
He extended the gun, offering it to her.  "Take it, it's yours.
The control is yours again."

     "Stop trying to talk me down like a hostage negotiator."

     "I can't," he said as he carefully took her hand and closed
it around the gun.  "You are the hostage.  You've allowed Krychek
and that chip in your neck to make you one."

     "Stop it," she cried out, jerking her hand away from the
gun.

     "You're scared shitless of losing control, aren't you?"

     She flinched at his words and took a step back.  For a
moment her eyes froze on him.  It was if he stood at the end of a
long, narrow hallway and she was moving forward in slow motion to
reach him.  Then, suddenly his image snapped back like a rubber
band and he was standing only inches from her face.  Dazed, she
wavered on unsteady feet.  Her hands grappled through the air as
if she were trying to clutch something for support.  They fell on
his forearms. Similar to an acute anxiety attack, her face turned
deathly white and she began to gasp for air.  He lowered her to
the ground and pushed her head between her knees.  She was
hyperventilating.

     "Take slow, deep breaths, Scully."

     "Mulder..." she tried to speak.

     "It's okay," he assured her.  He ran his fingers through the
thick mane of her hair.  "It's going to be okay."

     He heard the door creak open again.  He turned to see all
three Gunmen peeking out the door.  Hunched over her, he tried to
shield her from their view.  She would hate being seen like this,
sitting in a heap of boxes with her head shoved between her legs,
gasping for air, sputtering to speak.  Her dignity was just as
important to him as it was to her.

     "Need a paper bag?" Langly called out.

     Mulder frowned and shook his head.

     "Just the chip.  She wants it back." He responded.

     "You okay, Scully?" Frohike couldn't resist speaking to her.

     Scully lifted her head weakly.  With her eyes she pleaded to
Mulder.  He nodded, drawing her to her feet.  His arms encircled
her, supporting her trembling body as he walked her back to the
car.  Once inside, she closed her eyes as he pulled the safety
belt across her chest.

     "I'll get the chip then we'll go home." he gave her hand a
quick squeeze.

     Back at the door, Frohike sounded out his worry.

     "What the hell was that all about?"

     "I'm not sure," Mulder answered.

     Byers handed him the vial containing the chip.
 
     "Be careful, Mulder," he cautioned.

     "Be careful with her," Frohike added his own warning.
"Don't you dare let anything happen to her or you'll be answering
to me, my friend."

     "Okay, Toto, down boy," Mulder smirked, gripping the vial
tightly in his hand.
 
 
 

     They ate dinner in silence, sharply contrasting with how
they usually conversed in playful banter.  Intellectual foreplay.
A prelude of things to come.  But, not this night.  She was
sullen and withdrawn.  She reached for the remote of the
television and clicked it on.  It was to be an evening shared
from opposite ends of the couch, one struggling with finding a
way to bridge the gap and the other staring numbly at the
television screen.

     In bed, the void between them only deepened.  Scully stared
at the ceiling, willing away her embarrassment and shame.

     "Mulder, you awake?"

     "I'm awake."

     She rolled over onto her side.  He shifted over to his.
The light from the full moon streamed through the curtains and
fell across the bed.  He could see that she was contemplating her
words, struggling with feelings that caused her forehead to
crease with anxiety.

     "I think you're right.  I am afraid of losing control."

     "Nobody likes feeling vulnerable, Scully."

     "No, this is worse.  This goes deeper than that."

     "It's alright to be scared, Scully." he said. "And, it's
okay to admit it.  Suppressing it, bottling it up, allowing it to
build to the point that it explodes is where the real danger is.
If that is what is indeed what happened this afternoon."

     "What do you mean?" she raised her face to his.

     "Is it fear and stress?  Or is it another sign, an omen, of
what this chip can do?"

     Her eyes began to dart around frantically as if she was
searching for the answer.

     "I don't know," she whispered.  "I don't know how to
distinguish it."

     "Try." he prompted.

     "I can't." She shook her head.

     "Talk to me," he pleaded.  "For Christ's sake, Scully, I'm
not just your partner anymore.  I thought we were past hiding our
feelings from each other."

     She flung herself back against the pillow.  He was taking it
personally.  She didn't want that.  How could she explain her
fear without changing their relationship?  Until now, they had
been on equal footing.  Partners.  If she revealed her
vulnerability it might prompt him to be overprotective.  Yet, if
she didn't he would perceive her reluctance as a lack of trust.

     "It's almost like..." her voice dropped into an agitated
whisper.  "I feel like an animal caught in a trap.  There is no
way to free myself."

     Mulder reached out to pull her into his arms.

     "I'll be there to free you, Scully."

     She buried her face against his neck.  Her breath was warm
against his skin.

     "You couldn't the last time this happened," she murmured.

     "I wasn't with you then," he responded.

     "What are you going to do?  Stay here indefinitely?" she
posed.

     "Is that so bad?" He teased, caressing her hair.

     "Mulder, next week is Thanksgiving.  Have you forgotten that
you're going up north to spend it with your mother?"

     "Not anymore."

     "What about me?  I'm supposed to spend Thanksgiving Day with
my family.  Bill and his family are coming."

     "Maybe it's time you introduced your new boyfriend."

     "Oh God," she groaned.  In her mind she pictured the frigid
greeting that her brother would give him.  Bill had made his
feelings quite clear about her partner.  He despised him.  She
imagined his reaction to learning that Mulder had become her
lover.

     He read her thoughts.

     "Afraid that Big Brother Bill might kick my ass?" he joked.

     "If he does, I'll kick his,"  she promised.

     "Now, that's the Dana Scully I remember."  Mulder hugged her
tightly.

     Several minutes passed.  He felt her body shift restlessly
as her leg slid over his.  Her lips grazed the side of his neck,
pressing small kisses against his skin.  He didn't move.  He was
reluctant to take advantage of her, not wanting her to feel
compelled to reassure him with her body when the words had been
so difficult.  His determination was crushed by sensations of
lips and the feathery touch of her fingers.  They coursed down
his torso to grasp the hardness that would ultimately betray his
resolve.  She rose to straddle him, rubbing herself against him,
urging him on with her own need.

     "I need a better end to this X-file of day, Agent Mulder,"
she murmured.  Her voice was seductive.  "Care to help me out?"

     "The things one must do to keep their partner satisfied," he
groaned, lifting her nightgown up from her hips.
 
 

 
     Thanksgiving Day left Scully with little to be thankful for.
Dinner at her mother's home proved to be a grueling experience.
While her mother had been warmly gracious in receiving Mulder as
a guest, her brother was hostile, making the meal an
uncomfortable one.  Seated at the diningroom table she tried to
make small talk with her family.  Directing her attention to
Bill's wife, she said,

     "Motherhood must agree with you, Tara.  You look wonderful."

     "Must be those prenatal vitamins," the woman smiled.

     Scully gave her a puzzled look.

     "You're still taking them?" she asked.

     "Dana, you don't know?" Bill questioned her.  "Tara is four
months pregnant."

     "Again?" Scully shot out before she realized it.

     Her sister-in-law flushed.  Bill frowned and reached for the
carving knife and fork.  He rose from his chair to begin slicing
the turkey.  He pierced the turkey with the fork.  Fragrant steam
rose from the platter.

     "Why wait?" he posed the question.  "We want a big family.
And, none of us are getting any younger."

     "Speak for yourself, Bill," responded Mrs. Scully, trying to
lighten the conversation.  "I'm still getting use to being a
grandmother."

     Scully's gaze dropped to her empty plate so that her eyes
would not betray the pain she felt at her brother's choice of
words.  That she could not have children was a fact known to her
family.  His reference to age was just another cruel reminder of
the loss she suffered.  The loss of fertility.  The loss of
Emily.  The daughter she never bore, but still hers, if only for
a few fleeting days.  Created from a genetic hybrid from her
stolen ova, her only child was gone and never acknowledged by her
family.  They never quite believed that Emily had been hers.  The
one percent chance that the genetic testing was flawed had been
enough for them to justify their denial.

     Under the table, Scully felt her partner's hand squeeze her
knee.  He offered a small smile of sympathy and encouragement.
This man had believed her.  He had been there, supporting her
through the darkest moments of her life.  He reminded her that
their intimacy had begun a long time ago.  There bodies were just
catching up.

     "It is wonderful news," she related as her spirits lifted.

     The tension eased momentarily as the hostess began passing
the side dishes.  When her daughter reached out to help, Mrs.
Scully cautioned,

     "Honey, be careful of your hand."

     Bill seized upon the comment and eyed his sister critically.

     "Let me guess, you injured it at work."

     "It's fine, Bill,"  Scully said through clenched teeth.

     "And where were you when it happened?" the man accused
Mulder heatedly.

     "Bill, that's enough," cautioned Mrs. Scully.  She sat down
at the other end of the table and glowered at her son.  Ignoring
his mother, he continued to vent his irritation.

     "Why is it that Dana is the one partner who always ends up
being hurt."

     "Maybe you should tell him about the time you shot me,"
Mulder leaned over and whispered in her ear.

     His humor failed to quench the irritation that had sparked
in Scully.  She rose from the table and strode passed her
brother.

     "In the kitchen," she shot at him.

     She swung open the door that led to the pantry.  Giving
Mulder a withering look, he set down the carving utensils and
followed.

     Inside the kitchen Scully faced her brother.  Hands on her
hips she berated him.
 
     "What in hell do you think you're doing?"

     "What the hell are you doing, Dana?"  Her brother unleashed
his full fury.  "This idiocy needs to stop.  Just look at
yourself.  Your pale.  Your thin.  Once again you've been hurt.
And for what?  A job?  Loyalty to him?"

     "My reasons are my business, Bill."

     "He's a loser, Dana.  Why can't you see that?  He's been
screwing with your head all of these years, screwing up your life
...your chances at happiness."
 
     "And what makes you the expert on my happiness?  she
snapped.  "Not everyone wants to be a complacent, airhead wife
whose claim to fame is running around barefoot and pregnant year
after year."

     "You can really be a bitch when you want to be,"  Bill
growled.

     Her hand rose to rub the back of her neck.  She no longer
cared what she said.  It had been a difficult week.  The anxiety
she felt over Krychek's visit and accurate premonition was
overwhelming.  Hiding it from Mulder, who had effectively become
her shadow, was wearing her down.  Her brother's caustic remarks
were like flint rubbing together.  It ignited her temper with
such intensity that she could not longer control it.  In a loud,
threatening voice she said,

     "Then listen closely to what the bitch has to say..."

     In the diningroom, Mulder squirmed uncomfortably in his
chair.  His eyes rose briefly to the woman across the table.
Tara stared at the door that divided the rooms with shocked
disbelief.  The door had proven to be a useless barrier to the
heated exchange in the kitchen.  They had heard every word.
Mrs. Scully rose from her chair and headed for the kitchen.  Her
face was contorted with anger and embarrassment. She flung open
the door to the kitchen as her daughter bellowed.

     "I love that man that you just called a loser.  He's a part
of my life.  And if you can't handle that then you can just stay
the fuck out of it."

     Mrs. Scully's mouth dropped open in shock at her daughter's
use of profanity.  No one spoke.  All were startled by the change
in the woman who stood before them.  It was if a stranger had
crept inside and distorted her nature, which had always been so
restrained and dignified.

     "Sorry, Mom, we won't be staying," Scully remarked curtly.
She gave Mulder a piercing look.

     "Let's go," she ordered him.

     He followed her silently to the front door.  As he helped
her with her coat, he leaned forward and murmured,

     "Don't do this, Scully.  Stay.  I'll leave."

     She jabbed her finger against his chest.

     "For once, Mulder, just once, shut the...."

     "Never mind," he interrupted.  "I get the picture."
 

     In the car she stared out the passenger window for several
moments as he drove.  He glanced over at her several times,
noting how her fingers unconsciously massaged the back of her
neck.  He knew now it was more than tension that had caused her
to erupt so explosively.  He had been studying her for days,
making mental notes of her deteriorating temperament and sudden
mood swings.  It was the chip.  It was battling for her control.

     "Mulder," she said suddenly.

     "What baby?" he answered gently.

     "I'm sorry for what happened back there." Her voice was
thick with emotion.  Through the shadows of the car he could see
that tears were coursing down her face.  He reached out to take
her hand.

     "Don't apologize, Scully," he tried to tease her.  "A
daughter of a sailor should be able to swear like one."

     Her laugh was bitter.  Sniffing, she said,

     "That's what I like about you, Mulder.  Your dark sense of
humor.  I wish I had it."

     He lifted her hands to his lips.

     "You do, Scully.  You'd have to love such a loser."

     "You're not a loser, Mulder."

     "Seems like I've heard that one before."

     "Yeah, but that's before I got to sample the merchandise."
 
 

     The next morning Mulder was stretched on the couch with his
cup of coffee.  He lifted the remote control of her television
and clicked idly the channels.  Scully was in the bedroom on the
phone with her mother.  He had discretely left the room to give
her some privacy.  Moments later she joined him.  Her face held a
bemused expression.  She nodded to the television and said,

     "You won't find the Playboy Channel, Mulder.  I only have
basic cable."

     She still wore her pajamas.  The mid-drift top exposed the
slender curve of her waist.  He reached out to stroke her ivory
skin before he grabbed the drawstring of her pants and tugged her
to him.

     "I see you have Home Shopping Network, Scully.  Is this what
turns you on?"

     She settled on his lap.  Planting a perfunctory kiss on his
lips, she responded,

     "Funny you would mention that."

     "Turning you on?" His voice was hopeful.

     "Shopping," she corrected him.  He gave her a doleful,
suspecting look.

     "God, no," he groaned, shifting her off his lap.

     "Don't worry, Mulder," she laughed.  "Not you.  Mom
suggested that she, Tara and I hit the malls today for Black
Friday."

     "Black Friday," he repeated, assessing the determined look
in her eyes.

     "She thinks a girl's day out might smooth things over,"
Scully explained.

     "What do you think?" he asked.  "Other than the lure of
traipsing through Lord & Taylors?"

     She smirked.  He held up a placating hand and said,

     "I think it's a good idea.  You should go."

     Her eyes registered surprise.

     "I get a day off for bad behavior?" she remarked.
 
     "I think you need a day off from me," he told her honestly.

     "Oh, Mulder," she sighed.  "It's just that I'm not used to
being guarded twenty-four hours a day.  And, that's what this is
really.  You here because you want to protect me.  I appreciate
it, I truly do.  But, at the same time..."

     She paused a moment.  He saw a flicker of hurt rise from the
depths of her blue eyes.  Knowing her eyes betrayed her, she
dropped them and continued softly,

     "At the same time, I resent it.  It's like we are pretending
that this is a natural and normal step that our relationship has
taken.  That we're living together.  Except we're not.  At least
not for the right reasons."

     "What are you saying, Scully?"  He relaxed his arm on the
couch.  When she didn't respond, his fingers toyed with a strand
of her hair.

     "Do you want me to leave?" he offered.

     "Today makes a week, Mulder," she explained.  "Nothing has
happened by your account.  No sleepwalking if that's what we
should call it.  I feel fine."

     "You want me to leave," stated Mulder.

     "No, I want you to stay.  When I come home later I hope
you're here.  But, I want it to be for the right reasons." she
replied earnestly.

     Mulder nodded.  He understood her reluctance to accept a
status that had been forced on them.  She deserved better.  He
wanted to give her what she needed, to restore what they shared.
Only the threat of her safety held him back.  His primary focus
had to be protection.

     He had lied to her.  In the past week she had awaken twice
in the middle of the night.  The first time, she had returned to
the window and stood there transfixed by a signal that beckoned
to her subconscious mind.  Two nights later he had found her
searching throughout the apartment for her car keys.  She did not
realize that he hid them each night as a precaution.  She had no
memory of it in the morning.

     Mulder didn't tell her because he had begun profiling her
with all the skill and expertise he had developed over the years.
Scrutinizing the rapid behavior changes.  Studying her every
move.  Trying to get inside her head.  He had to stop it.  He had
to find a way.  Even if it meant continuing the lie.

     He turned to her now and cupped her pensive face in his
hands.  He reassured her with his eyes and the delicate pressure
of his lips that brushed across hers.

     "I'll be here, Scully.  For all the right reasons."

     Scully smiled and rose from the couch.  While she showered
and dressed, Mulder retrieved his cell phone and punched in a
number.

     "It's Mulder," he said quietly, his gaze focused on the
bedroom door.  "I need you to do me a favor."
 
 

     When Scully returned home, her arms were laden with shopping
bags, but her face was simmering with fury.  She kicked closed
the door and confronted Mulder.

     "You had me followed," she accused him irately.

     Mulder was in the kitchen.  He gave her a complacent look as
he reached into the oven to retrieve the turkey he was roasting.
He settled the pan onto the stovetop and began basting the bird.
For a moment her anger shifted into curiosity.

     He was cooking.

     Mulder was cooking.

     He was filling her apartment with the aroma of a belated
Thanksgiving Day dinner.  Pots and pans were scattered across the
countertops.  The table in the diningroom had been set with the
antique china she reserved for special occasions.  Her Waterford
Crystal goblets sparkled against the glow of the tapered candles.
 

     "You had me followed," she repeated, the irritation draining
from her voice.

     "Did your mother notice?" he asked.  He lifted the lid of
the pot that held the gravy and stirred it.

     "Frohike in women's wear.  Frohike at the Lancome counter.
Frohike in lingerie.  What do you think?"

     "That he's a cross-dresser?" smirked the man.

     She pursed her lips.

     "Actually she didn't notice at all.  But, I did.  Bit of
advice, Mulder.  The next time you have someone follow me, choose
someone a little less conspicuous."

     He gave her a sheepish grin and came towards her to retrieve
her bags.

     "Well, I'm glad that even Frohike couldn't dampen the primal
urge to shop,"  he teased her.  "What's in all these bags,
Scully?  Did I hear you mention lingerie?"

     "You may never know," she shot back.  "I though we had a
deal, Mulder."

     "We do, Scully.  I'm here for all the right reasons."

     "Then why did you have me followed?"

     "Because I don't make deals over your safety."

     There was a fierce determination to his eyes that she could
not penetrate.  She knew the range of his stubbornness.  This
time he wasn't going to acquiesce to her wishes despite any
objection she made.  She felt her control slip away once again.
This time under the force of his protectiveness.  It pulverized
her independence and her need to stay on equal terms with him.

     "You are suffocating me," she cried out suddenly.

     Her outburst was met by his uncompromising stare.

     "Grow up, Scully," he retorted.  "This isn't a game.  Why
can't you understand that?  I may be here as your lover, but
don't expect me to drop my guard as your partner.  I watch your
back and you watch mine, remember?"

     "Fine, Mulder.  Why don't you just watch my back from the
comfort of your car."

     She walked passed him into the bedroom.

     Mulder slumped against the wall.  He cursed under his
breath.  She was driving him crazy.
 
 

     Inside the bedroom, Scully slung her bags to the floor.  The
room was dark except for the glitter from a row of candle votives
he had lit on the top of the dresser.  The romantic aura he tried
to create only soured in her mind.  What was the use of romance
when the thought of him left her quivering with indignation?

     She turned on the light by her bed and saw that he had laid
a single rose on her bed.  The most delicate, long stemmed white
rose she had ever seen.  A note was tied on its stem.  She untied
the ribbon and reached over to turn on the lamp beside the bed.
The note read,

     "A rose for every month.  I hope you like dozens and dozens
or roses."

     Scully rubbed her temple as tears crept into her eyes.  The
dinner, the candles, the rose...all were loving, sentimental
gestures to celebrate their first month together as a couple.
She sank down to the bed and allowed the tears to flow.  They
dropped onto the note and blurred his handwriting.  She gasped
and tried to dry the note with her fingers.  The ink smeared
under her touch.

     "Shit," she whispered.

     "I'll write you another if you want," his voice came from
the door.

     She nodded mutely, beckoning him to her with her eyes.  He
sat down on the bed next to her.  She leaned her forehead against
his.

     "Why do you put up with me, Mulder?"

     "The same reason you put up with me.  We love each other,
remember?"

     "Maybe you better remind me," she urged him pressing her
lips against his.  She kissed him with such passion that a moan
traveled up his throat.  He opened her mouth greedily.  Their
tongues met and swirled around in delicious greeting.

     Her auburn hair fanned out across the soft comforter as he
eased her back onto the bed.  His fingers unbuttoned the front of
her shirt, stopping that his lips might travel the length of her
graceful neck and the bare shoulders that smelled and tasted of a
ripe, sweet peach.  She allowed him to undress her, reveling in
the look of appreciation as he caressed her body with his eyes.

     She reached up to strip his t-shirt over his head. Slowly,
deliberately, lingering to kiss each uncovered area, she removed
his jeans.  She pressed her lips against his skin, her nose
burying into the tufts of hair that traveled down to his stomach
and lower.  She inhaled his masculine scent.  She took him into
her mouth, licking and circling her tongue around him until she
felt him grow rigid with desire.  She lifted her head and smiled
to herself, delighting in the effect she had on him.  In this
arena, she was still the champion.

     Mulder gave her a bemused look.

     "Yes, Scully, the control is still yours."

     "This isn't about control, Mulder.  I ...."

     He flipped her over onto the bed, silencing her with a deep
kiss that quenched her words and thoughts.  He raised his head
and smoothed a strand of hair from her eyes.

     "Sure it is. Underneath that cool exterior beats the heart
of a true dominatrix.  But, now it's my turn."

     His mouth began its own journey down the length of her body.
She moaned deeply as he reminded her of that surrender was as
sweet as control. His fingers and mouth were exploring her,
teasing her, tormenting her with such madness that her breath
came in shallow gasps.
 
     "Okay, I give," she panted.  "I give...."

     She drew him back up to her.

     "Now give back," she pleaded.
 
     He entered her, filling her so deeply that she groaned in
delight.  He lifted her hips so that he might plunge deeper into
the soft, velvety wetness that tightened around him.  Flesh
pounded against flesh.  Moisture dampened the folds and crevices
in between.  His mouth covered hers.  With strong, powerful
strokes he brought her to such a shattering climax that she cried
out.  He reached out to support her back as she arched up from
the bed.  Feeling her tight, warm contractions he closed his eyes
and gave into his own rush of pleasure.
 
     "I love you," he murmured, burying his head against her
neck. "God, I love you."
 
     "I love you too," she crooned softly, drifting her fingers
through his hair.

 
 
      He slept deeply that night.  A week of restless nights had
drained his energy level.  Their lovemaking had tapped his
reserve.  Followed by a full turkey dinner, he had collapsed into
bed later that night and fallen into an exhausted sleep.  When
she rose from their bed, he did not stir.  He did not hear the
sound of her dresser opening as she pulled out a pair of jeans
and a sweater.  He did not sense her presence as she leaned over
him and lifted his hand.  Only when he felt the sensation of cold
metal around his wrist did his eyes flutter open.

     "Scully?" he called out drowsily.  Silently, she drew his
arm over his head.  The sound of metal clicking against the post
of her bed woke him suddenly.  He stared up into cold, unknowing
eyes.  He felt the handcuff that bound his left hand and strained
against it.  Realization seared through his brain.

     "Scully, listen to me," he pleaded with her in a voice that
was thick with panic.

     She lifted herself from the side of the bed.
 
     "You've got to hear me, Scully," he cried after her.
"You're in danger.  Scully...."

     Adrenalin coursed through his body as his heart beat wildly
against his chest. He thrashed his arm against the bed post in an
effort to break it. A cold sweat rose from his skin.  The skin
around his wrist tore underneath his frantic attempts to release
himself.

     "God damn it Dana, wake up,"  he bellowed.  "I know you can
hear me.  Fight it, damn you.  Fight it."

     Scully stopped in the doorway.  Her head turned back to him.
He thought he saw a flicker of recognition on her face.
Desperate, he pounced on it and continued prodding her.

     "Your such a weakling, Scully, you always were."

     She moved back to the edge of the bed.  Her eyes studied him
in a curious, abstract manner.  She blinked.  For a split second
he saw her return to him.  Then it was gone.  When she began to
rise from the bed, he free hand grabbed her arm and forced her
back down.  She struck out at him with both hands.  He felt the
wrist brace scratching his face.  Giving her an apologetic look,
his right hand shot out and slapped her face.  Her head snapped
back.  She recovered quickly and tried to push away from him.

     "Christ, baby," he appealed to her one last time. "Don't
make me do this."

     She no longer heard him.  She was pulling away.  He was
losing her.

     His hand curled into a fist.  When it made contact with her
jaw, she toppled over and collapsed against his chest.

     He squeezed his eyes closed in agony.  He dropped his head
back onto the pillow.  Sighing, his fingers stroked her hair as
he waited for her to drift back to consciousness.
 

     Scully woke to the taste of blood.  Her tongue glided over
to the side of her mouth.  There was a long slash that ran along
her gum line.  She felt the contour of his rib cage under her
chin.  She heard his voice calling out to her.  Her eyes lifted
to his face.  His voice was contorted.  He murmured to her
hoarsely.

     "I didn't know how else to stop you this time."

     She stared at him in shock.  Disoriented, her eyes followed
his to where his hand was handcuffed to her bed.  A trail of
blood dripped down his arm.  The skin that circled his wrist was
lacerated.

     "Oh my God," she gasped.  She jumped up and grabbed a
Kleenex from the tissue holder on the night stand.  She pressed
it against her wrist while she frantically searched for the key.

     "Left rear pocket," he informed her.  She retrieved the key
from her pants and unlocked the handcuffs.

     She dashed into the bathroom and tugged open the drawer that
contained antiseptic, cotton and bandages.  She ran a wash cloth
under the cold water.  Her fingers trembled.  As she stood up she
saw her reflection.  It was stark, pale and frightened.  The side
of her chin was bruised.

     Scully returned to him and bathed the blood from his wrist.
She exhaled in relief when she saw that the cuts were not as bad
as the blood had suggested.  He would not need stitches.  She
poured the antiseptic over the cuts and tried to blow away the
sting.  He did not flinch.  He watched her closely as she
ministered to his hand, binding it with gauze and tape.

     "When was the last time you had a tetanus shot, Mulder?"
she asked quietly.

     "Scully, look at me," he urged her.  He saw the contorted
look to her eyes.  Her brow deepened as she asked him.

     "How long has this been going on?"

     "This is the fourth time this week," he confessed finally.

     The fourth time.  Her eyes closed for a moment as she shook
her head mournfully.
 
     "You had better tell me everything, Mulder," she told him.

     He detailed each episode for her.  He described the abrupt
change in her demeanor, the sudden fits of temper and the bouts
of despair.  She listened in horror.  She was losing herself.
She couldn't stop it.  It was robbing her of her control, her
autonomy, her personality.  It was propelling her towards danger.
An impulse so strong and compelling that she was capable of harm,
not just to herself but to him.

     Suddenly the taste of blood in her mouth was repugnant,
causing her stomach to heave and send bile up to her throat. She
sprinted back to the bathroom.  Throwing open the lid to the
toilet, she vomited.  She clutched the cold ceramic and heaved
again.  She heard Mulder approach her and the sound of the facet
being turned on.  She felt his hand lift her hair and press a wet
cloth against her neck.  She reached up to flush the toilet.  She
rolled over and rested her back against the tub.

     He leaned over her.  She saw the concern in his eyes.

     "I sure hope it wasn't my cooking,"  he grimaced.

     "It wasn't," she exhaled slowly.  "It's this whole damn
mess, Mulder.  It's got to stop."

     He sat down on the tile floor next to her.  She took the
washcloth from his hands and pressed it against her lips.

     "I'm going to call my doctor this morning.  I want the chip
Krychek gave us inserted into my neck."

     "No,"  he argued.  "There is another solution, Scully.  One
that I trust a hell of a lot more."

     "What is it?"

     "The answer is in here." He tapped her forehead.  "I'm
certain of it now.  I almost brought you back, Scully.  This time
you stopped when I called you.  You came back to the bed and
looked at me.  For a moment I you were there."

     She searched her own memory.  It was obscured but not
vacant.  Suddenly a thought seized her.  She repeated it to the
man who sat beside her.

     "You think I'm a weakling."

     "Never,"  he reassured her.  "But, that's exactly what I
said to get your attention.  And, for a minute it worked.  With a
little help I think you can put up your own effective blocking
device."

 
     Scully was not a fan of hypnosis.  She did not believe in
its effectiveness, nor did she like giving up control.  The two
experiences she had with hypnotic regression had left her
vulnerable and confused.  Yet, she tried now.  She was desperate.
Her partner was determined.  Together, they returned to the
office of Dr. Werber, the psychiatrist who had toyed with her
psyche before.  Seated on the leather couch, she reached for her
Mulder's hand.

     "Alright, I'm ready."

     Dr. Werber looked at her in surprise.

     "Dana, we're already done."

     "Excuse me?" she leaned forward in confusion.  Dr. Werber
glanced at Mulder who squeezed her hand.

     "Scully, you just came out of it."

     "Why don't I remember?  The last time I remembered."

     "I don't know, Dana," the doctor told her honestly.
"Perhaps it's because before we were trying to retrieve memories
you blocked out.  This time we tapped into that same blocking
system and gave it an countermeasure to fight the impulse that
summons you."

     "We..." her voice trailed off as she glanced over at Mulder.

     "Agent Mulder's profile of you has been very valuable."

     "Profile," she repeated the word.  She stared at her partner
accusingly.  "Has that what you've been doing this week?
Profiling me?  Getting into my head?"

     "Dana," Dr. Werber called out to her.  She turned her
furious eyes on the doctor.

     "What?" she snapped.

     "When you look at Agent Mulder what do you see?" he posed.

     She faced Mulder again.  She met his gaze.  The anger
drained from her instantly.  Her lower lip began to quiver.
She dropped her gaze to her hands.

     "Everything," she murmured.  "He means everything to me."

     Dr. Werber nodded to Mulder.  The countermeasure was in
place.
 
 
 
 
 

     Scully slept quietly in her bedroom.  Mulder rested on the
couch as he watched late night television.  He was restless.  He
sensed that the next assault on his partner was about to take
place.  It always began when she was asleep.  The frequency and
intensity of the calling was increasing.  His intuition told him
that the next time was going to be the last.  Either the
countermeasure worked or she was going to chance the implant.

     When she entered the livingroom, Mulder lifted his head up
from the couch.  He didn't say a word.  He watched her as she
reached for her coat in the hall closet.  He tensed as she opened
the front door to her apartment.  He reached for his gun and
tucked into the front of his jeans.  Rising from the couch, he
followed her into the hallway of the complex.  He crept behind
her, shadowing her unconscious movements as she walked to the
entrance door.

     Come on, Scully, he thought frantically.  It wasn't working.

     The countermeasure fed into her mind showed no signs of
materializing.  She was opening the door to the street, focusing
her eyes on what laid beyond.  Unable to see what caught her
attention, he moved closer.  An uneasiness shook through his
body.  She had stepped out onto the front porch and descended the
steps to the sidewalk that led to street.  She stopped.  For
several minutes she stood there like a statute, her body frozen
underneath the lamplight.  Then slowly her head turned to the
left.

     Behind the door, Mulder watched a long black limousine veer
towards the curb.  He drew his weapon and hissed her name.

     "Scully..."

     She did not turn.  She did not move.

     The limousine stopped in the street in front of her.  The
windows were darkened.  He couldn't see who was inside.  All he
saw was the reflection of the bold color of her hair against the
glass.  Mulder's heart pounded against his chest.  He wedged his
gun through the crack of the door and cried out to her.

     "Scully, get back here."

     The countermeasure had failed.

     The door of limousine opened.  Scully took a step forward.

     "Get down Scully," Mulder screamed as he crashed through the
door.  He pointed the gun at the limousine.  Before he could fire
he heard an explosion and saw the glass window explode into small
pieces.

     Scully stood a few feet from the limousine.  Her two arms
were extended in a straight line, balancing the gun she had just
fired.  In a flash, she had drawn it from the folds of her
overcoat.  Without doubt or hesitation, she had aimed it at the
window and pulled the trigger.

     She fired again.  And again.  She was unloading her weapon
on the limousine.  Another window shattered.  Blood sprayed
against the lit interior of the door as one of her bullets hit
someone inside.  Suddenly, the door snapped shut.  The tires
screeched in fury as the limousine pealed away from the curb,
shaking against the force of acceleration as it sped down the
street.

     Holy shit, Mulder gasped in shock.

     He caught her arm and tried to force her back to the safety
of the apartment complex.  She jerked away from him.  Her eyes
were no longer vacant.  They were sizzling with a raw, focused
energy.

     "They were going to kill you, Mulder," she related.  "They
were going to take me and kill you."

     "They may still try," he said, grabbing her around the
waist.  He dragged her up the steps and pushed open the door.
Once they were safely behind it he released her.  She sank back
against the wall, her gun still clenched in both hands.  Her eyes
slid to the window frame of the door.

     "They won't be back," she pronounced.

     "What makes you so sure?"

     "They may know where I live, but I know when they're
coming."

     He gave her a incredulous look. She wore an expression of
triumph.

     "And, now they know that I'll be waiting."

     In the last week he had forgotten how formidable Dana Scully
could be.  He peered out the window.  The limousine was gone.
Sirens could be heard coursing through her neighborhood.  Someone
had called the police.

     "What happened, Scully?"

     "You should know," she replied.  "The plan was yours."

     "The plan was for you to believe that I was in danger.  For
you to find me and warn me.  That was the countermeasure."

     "You were in danger."

     "God damn it, Scully," he gritted his teeth.  "It wasn't
meant for you to go blazing out there open firing with no thought
of your own safety.  It was meant for me to protect you."

     "You suggested the impulse, Mulder," she retorted.  "How I
perceived it...how I acted upon it was really up to me, wasn't
it?"

     A police car came to a sudden, jerking stop before the
apartment complex.  She retrieved her badge from the pocket of
her coat and flipped it open.  In a calm voice she told him,

     "You forgot why the impulse so strong, Mulder.  You mean
everything to me.  Everything."

     She pushed open the door with her foot.  She walked out onto
the porch with her hands raised high.  In one hand was her gun.
In the other was her badge.

     "Special Agent Dana Scully," she yelled to the police who
were crouched behind the doors of the squad car.  "Behind me is
Special Agent Mulder.  We're with the FBI."

     She was back.  All of her.  Rather than be haunted by her
demons she would hunt them down.  He suspected that given the
chance she would hunt down his as well.  He mind sought the right
word to describe her.  As he followed her out onto the porch, his
hands raised over his head, the word came to him.

     Grit.  Rooster Cogburn be damned.  This woman had true grit.

     Along the side of the apartment building, lurking in the
darkness that hid him but did not obscure his view, Krychek
watched.  He had been stalking her for days now.  He was
relieved to find that his advice had not been ignored. The
countermeasure was in place.  Control had been returned to her.
He had witnessed its effectiveness, drawing his breath in awe as
she fearlessly squared off against her abductors.  As she raised
her gun to the level of her eyes, he knew that this woman would
never be a victim again.  As she delivered a round of bullets
with fierce, electrifying resolve, Krychek felt a tightening in
his groin.  He wondered what it would be like to...

     No, he reconsidered.  Lust seemed sacrilegious, even though
he was not a religious man.  She deserved better than that.  She
had accused him of being dead, but was still alive enough to feel
desire for such an attractive, indelible woman.  Still able to
recognize how sordid he had become.  Still capable of yearning
for the type of love she gave Mulder.

     He had seen too much.  He had spied a bit too closely.  He
had witnessed the truth.  They were more than partners now.  Much
more.  He wasn't surprised, but couldn't help feeling envious.
Jealous of a bond so tight that nothing could break it.  It had
spanned years, endured hardships, tested faith and still managed
to evolve.  They had it all and he...he had nothing.

     It was time to go.  He held back, waiting for one last look,
one more glimpse of her.  He crept forwards to where the light
fell on the pavement.  He strained to see the titian hair through
the crowd of people near the street.

     Suddenly, she turned as if she sensed his presence.  Her
eyes closed in on the corner of the building, searching past the
light and into the shadows where he stood.  He was there.
Watching her.  His gun was clenched in his hand as if he, like
Mulder, had been prepared to use it.  But, not against her. The
dark angel of death had come this time to protect her.  He gazed
at her now with a sad and wistful look.

     Krychek held his breath, poised to flee if she chose to
reveal his location.  But she didn't.  She turned away.  Once
again, she was letting him go.  Allowing him to escape and ponder
the meaning of her action.  He realized then that she was more
than just a player. In a game that had gone dark and ignoble, it
was her dignity that had become a beacon of hope.  She was well
worth preserving.  He felt his melancholy fade as he slipped away
into the blackness of the alley.
 
 

     Later that night, Scully sat at her desk and stared at her
computer screen.  She typed in a sentence.  She paused and read
it.  Groaning, she tore the Velcro fasteners from her wrist brace
and removed it.  She stretched out her fingers.  They were stiff
and sore from clenching her gun earlier.

     "Put it back on," her partner admonished her from the couch.
She turned and peered at him over her glasses.  He was still
watching over her.

     "It's hard enough coming up with a plausible explanation for
all of this."

     He pushed himself to his feet and came over to her.  He
steered her out of the chair and sat down.

     "Okay, you compose. I'll type."

     "What do I say?  That it began with a microchip embedded in
my neck, that may or may not keep my cancer in remission, but has
the ability to summon me like a homing pigeon to God knows where
or by whom.  That my partner, who also happens to be my lover,
convinced me, after I cuffed him to my bed and he knocked my
lights out, to be hypnotised.  And, that the power of suggestion
that my partner, who also happens to be my lover, was in danger
prompted me to open fire on a limousine that mysteriously
appeared at my doorstep."

     She drew in her breath.

     He shook with silent laughter at her narrative. Rubbing his
chin, he groaned in agreement.

     "Sounds like an X-file to me."

     "Which means Spender and Fowley will be assigned to
investigate it."

     "They wouldn't know what to do with it."

     "I bet your little chickadee would."

     "Behave." Mulder pulled her down onto his lap.  His arms
circled her waist.  His lips teased the side of her neck.

     "Stop that," she squirmed.  "This isn't getting this report
done, Mulder."
 
     "Screw the report," he said turning off the computer.
"We'll do it tomorrow."

     "Mulder?"

     "Hmmh?"

     "I don't think I'm in danger anymore."
 
     "Let's talk about it tomorrow."  He removed her glasses.

     "Tomorrow's Sunday.  The last day of the holiday weekend.
We report back to work Monday morning."

     "And..." he ran a finger across the bruise on her cheek.

     "And, you'll be going home tomorrow night, right?"

     "Do I have to?  I like it here.  Food's good.  The bed's
soft.  The entertainment, well, it's better than any R-rated
flick I've seen in a long time.  Plenty of sex and plenty of
violence.  Just what I like."

     She laughed and kissed him.  Tracing the scratches along his
chin, she grew serious.

     "I want you to move in."

     He gazed into her eyes.  She was incredible.  His self-
assured Scully.  Once again, she had made the first move.

     She was everything to him.  Everything.

     He reached over to turn the monitor back on.

     "Mulder, what are you doing?"

     "We're going to finish that report tonight,"  he answered.

     "You said it could wait until tomorrow," she protested.

     "We're going to be too busy packing me up."  He extended his
arms and cracked his knuckles.  "Because tomorrow, Agent Scully,
your partner's moving in."
 
 
 

Feedback is always appreciated.  Please e-mail me at
paigecaldwell@hotmail.com.