By Alanna Rabun
emmalanna@aol.com
 

DISCLAIMER:  The characters of Mulder and Scully are the property of
Fox Broadcasting and 1013 Productions.  Any other characters and the
situations into which I have placed them are of my own creation.

CATEGORY: XRA -- mytharc, moviefic
RATING:   PG-13, for the most part.  Certain sections are NC-17
ARCHIVAL: Please archive at Gossamer.  Anyone else, please let me
know :)
SPOILERS:      The movie.
SUMMARY:       The long journey home....

FEEDBACK: Dearly appreciated at emmalanna@aol.com

Author's notes at the end.  Any scientific or geographic inaccuracies are
entirely my fault -- I'm an English teacher, not a geographer or scientist
<g>.  For those a bit confused by the name thing -- because of personal
situations, I've chosen to take my mother's maiden name as my "penname".

ESTANCIA, Chapter One.
By Alanna Rabun
 

+++++++++++++++
 

Another bead of sweat rolled down Caroline Warren's forehead.

Though she would never dare step outside of the Australian Centre for
Geographic Research without at least four layers of wool and Gore-Tex, the
temperature inside the building had to be at least 30 degrees Celsius.  The
heating system's malfunction had begun two days earlier, and her fellow
scientists had already exhausted their meager mechanical capabilities in
trying to diagnose the problem.  After several attempts at fixing the heater
had only succeeded in raising the temperature by fits and starts, they finally
radioed over to a British research facility for help.  However, traversing
several hundred miles on a Sno-Cat took time, and the natives at the ACGR
were getting restless.

Being one of only two women at a remote Antarctic research station
definitely had its low points.

Mike Gooling called out in the dining room, "Hey Carrie, how about a wet
t-shirt contest?"  An anonymous cretin had taped a crude drawing of a
woman in a bikini to a computer and labeled it the new ACGR dress code.
In the women's washroom that morning, Susan Mackenzie, her fellow
female researcher, suggested they file sexual harassment claims once they
got home.  Carrie was sorely tempted.

Wiping her hand across the back of her neck, her fingers slid over a fine
layer of sweat.  Fortunately, her partner on monitor tonight was Jacob
Smith.  Though she didn't know the newcomer well, his easygoing,
gentlemanly demeanor and his dedication to their Arctic research warmed
her to him nearly as much as did the broken furnace.

She surveyed the instrument panel in front of her.  Her primary duties that
evening were to monitor the seismograph and barometric readings and take
notes of the fluctuations every five minutes.  Carrie picked up her clipboard
and jotted down a series of numbers on the chart, then stood up and
stretched luxuriously.  Four minutes and 36 seconds until next notation.
She palmed her stopwatch and set it for three minutes.

"Hey Jacob, I'm going to run and grab something to drink.  You want
anything?"

He turned to look at her, a quiet smile on his face.  "No, I'm okay.  Thanks."

She turned toward the door, but was stopped by a series of loud, erratically
paced beats.  Running quickly back to the seismograph, Carrie was shocked
to find the needle moving up and down in a frantic, jerky motion.

This was something BIG.

"Jacob, get over here and check this out!"

He came over and eyed the control panels while Carrie examined the map
tacked up to the wall.  "Looks like it must be coming from about 150 miles
south of here, judging from these readings.  Are there any research camps in
that area?"

"Nope, not that I see.  I'll radio over to the British station and see if they're
getting these readings too."

Those would be Caroline Warren's last words, as Jacob Smith pulled out a
gun and shot her pointblank in the back of her skull.

Calmly, as if the gunshot were little more than brushing a fly from his lapel,
he pulled on his thick outdoors boots and parka, then rummaged around in
his pockets for keys.  Stepping out into the frigid Antarctic air, Smith
ambled easily over to a black Sno-Cat and turned his keys in the ignition,
leaving the inhabitants of the Australian Centre for Geographic Research to
find the body of their colleague.

He drove over snowy plains and drifts for nearly an hour before turning on
the radio and tuning it to a special frequency at the lower end of the dial.
The radio waves traveled across the continent of Antarctica, to a remote
sheep ranch on the plains of Patagonia, carrying Jacob Smith's low, hoarse
voice.

"We have a situation."
 

+++++++++++++++
 

Ninety miles away, a similar Sno-Cat rested on the flat snow-covered plains
of Wilkes Land, its yellow carriage peeking out from beneath the drifts
which had gathered around it in the fierce winds.  Inside, two lost souls
sought refuge where they could find it.

Mulder had spent nearly an hour trying desperately to get the engine to turn.
He had little real experience fixing cars, so he had relied on instinct to tell
him what was wrong.  An examination of the fuel tank had revealed that the
vehicle had more than enough gas to get them across the continent and
back.  The best he could tell was that the tubes connecting the fuel supply to
the engine had frayed then severed, leaving the engine completely unable to
function.  The Sno-Cat's battery had contained just enough charge for him
to send out a few distress calls, yet the only distress they conjured was his at
the lack of any reply.  Finally, he had pried open the valve on the gas tank
and siphoned out a small amount of fuel.  He doused it over some rags
underneath one of the seats and placed them inside a metal canister, setting
it aflame with a spark and providing a barely adequate amount of heat.  The
fierce wind hit the Sno-Cat with the fury of a hurricane, its howl whistling
through the cracks in the frame with a tiger's anger.  If Mulder had to
imagine hell, it would be this barren, snowswept wilderness.

And all this time, Scully lay curled across the backseat, her skin slowly
turning bluish-grey from cold and her mind sinking further and further into a
sleep which came dangerously close to unconsciousness.

Her partner, best friend, and maybe-lover moved the makeshift bonfire away
from anything which it might ignite and cracked the windows so that they
would have an adequate oxygen flow, then crawled over the front seat
bench into the back with her.  He gathered two thick woolen blankets from
under the seat then meticulously removed her snowsuit, setting it by the
makeshift fire to dry.  Using one of the blankets, he rubbed it over her skin,
wiping away the gooey gel from the pod and taking care not to let the
blanket scratch her.  Then he allowed himself just a brief moment to look at
her.

Mulder felt a twinge of guilt at his first experience of seeing Scully naked
being in this unforgiving hunk of steel with cold arctic winds buffeting them
on each side.  He'd always imagined this experience would be fraught with
passion, in the bedroom of one of their apartments, with her presenting
herself to him body and soul.  Full of love and awe.  That she'd give him
permission to touch her, to run his hands over her body, worshipping her
with his fingers and his eyes.  Telling himself that that moment *would* still
come one day -- that they'd escape this Antarctic Hell -- he still couldn't
resist a glance down.

Her skin was still a worrisome shade of pinkish gray, though the
goosepimples had faded and life was returning to her body.  Maps of broken
capillaries dotted her skin like a lace covering, her silken flesh presenting
itself like a shimmering nightgown.  Each blessed, welcome breath raised
her chest, and her breasts spread over her like two small pillows tipped in
the pink rosebuds of a child's sleeper.  Short, strong legs stretched along the
backseat, dark bruises springing up here and there, a testament to the hell to
which she had been subjected.  Though her red hair had shifted hue over the
years, the coppery-brown strands at the apex of her thighs kept a sheen
borne of the liquid of her entombment, which he hadn't dared wipe clean in
his ministrations.  It seemed too intimate, too much of a lover's gesture, and
he didn't want to take advantage of her for his own curiosity.  The residual
guilt manifested itself again, and he spread the blanket over her body,
warming it until the snowsuit was once again dry.

After a quarter hour, he hauled the heavy-but-dry suit from the front seat
and carefully ensconced her body within once again.  Picking her up
carefully, he stretched his tired, sore legs out on the back seat and leaned up
against the door frame, pulling Scully's body back up against him and
wrapping them in the woolen blankets.  He wanted desperately to drift off
into sleep, to surrender himself to the exhaustion overtaking him cell by cell,
but he knew that to do so could prove their death.  So he lay there,
absorbing Scully's body with his own, and gave himself over to the fears of
his mind.

Fears of death, of loss.

Of their grave being a cold, so cold hunk of steel, lost in the no man's land
of Antarctica.  Of their spending eternity curled together under drifts of
snow, until nothing was left but two heaps of bones, so completely twined
together that they would become one body.

God, Mulder!  His conscious screamed.  The path to self-destruction is
paved with fear.  Shifting again in the seat, he sat up straighter, willing his
mind to stay alert and awake.  He began reciting batting averages, all fifty
states and their capitals, the names of every friend he'd ever had and every
woman he'd ever dated.  That took all of five minutes.  Halfway through the
letter he'd begun to compose to a favorite old college professor, Scully
stirred in his arms.  He glanced down at her, wonder painting his face.  Her
eyes still closed, she brushed her cheek across his and he pulled back
slightly, not wanting to let stubble burn mix with the already-scarred planes
of her face.

Mulder stared down at his partner.  She had been slipping in and out of
sleep all day -- or was it night already? -- and he was afraid to wake her for
fear of making her cognizant of the pain she must be feeling.  Hell, she was
the doctor.  He should be the one unconscious with her ministering to him.
All he could do was be there for her, keeping her close.  After a few
moments of her stirring, she opened her eyes just a hair's breadth and lifted
her head slightly, turning to face him.  He gazed at her, stunned, as she
lightly moved her lips over his cheek and groaned slightly.

He hadn't been unconscious the last time she kissed him, on the bank of a
bottomless crater.  Through his wet hair he felt warm breath and the pass of
cool lips on his scalp.  But he'd told himself it was relief and gratitude, then
sank back down into her embrace, warming himself with her presence,
having never felt as close to her as he did at that moment.

But now she took those cold, perfect lips and brushed them lightly across
his mouth.  Lips slightly open in shock, he felt her press back against him
then heard her soft murmur.

"Thank you."

Then she fell back asleep, her breath mixing with the warmth of the carriage
of the Sno-Cat as he pulled her close -- so close -- once again, wrapping her
with his waning strength.
 

+++++++++++++++
 

Mulder was terrified.

According to his watch, they'd been harbored in the vehicle for thirteen
hours.  Scully had managed several hours of consciousness, during which
time they talked briefly, discussing what options they had for escape.

They had none.

He had sent a few more distress signals before the battery died completely.
At its last sputtering, he turned around in the front seat and looked at his
partner.  The sad, defeated look on her face told him everything he needed
to know.  That one look nearly broke Mulder's heart into a million pieces.
Defeat was not part of their characters.  Yet, what other options did they
have?  In his haste to get to her, he had neglected to pack extra food or
clothing, and the garments they wore were woefully inadequate for a trek
across who knew how many miles to the nearest encampment.  They could
build a fire in the bed of the Cat but the chances of aircraft seeing it were
next-to-nil, considering he hadn't seen any sign of life in the air or on land
since that alien ship had flown off.  In low, exhausted voices they
brainstormed for a half-hour, each possibility seeming more and more
ridiculous, given their situation.

But they couldn't give up.  They *couldn't*.  They had not come this far to
die a lonesome, cold death.

And now, hours later, he sat in the backseat with her legs across his lap, as
his beautiful, precious Scully slept.  His strong hands rubbed her cold feet,
keeping away the frostbite threatening them from the cold seeping through
the cabin after the slow death of their fire nearly an hour before.  His own
feet were freezing, yet cares for his body seemed trivial when hers was in
danger, plus the simple action of rubbing kept his hands somewhat warm.
Every so often she would stir and he'd catch his breath at the action, then let
out a long sigh of relief as it meant she was still alive, still with him.

This time, Scully's stir was followed by awakening.  She looked up at him
with eyes clouded with sleep, but the alertness was quickly regained when
she noticed the cold air surrounding them.

"Mulder?"

"Hmm?"   he replied, the sound barely making its way through atrophied
vocal cords.

She struggled to a sitting position and he watched her wiggle her toes, the
simple movement heartening him -- that his hours of rubbing had not been
for naught.  "You sleep.  I'll stay awake."

Just as he opened his mouth to protest, she repeated her entreaty in a
stronger voice, "No, I'll be fine.  You need to rest."

They stared at each other for a long moment, Scully pleading with him to
heed her words, Mulder fighting the need to succumb to his own
exhaustion.  If these were to be their last moments on Earth, he didn't want
to spend them asleep, nor did he want her to watch him fade off into
oblivion.  Finally he sat up straighter in his seat and pulled her close to him,
one arm around her shoulder and her body leaning against his.

"I saw the ship, Mulder."

That simple statement startled him, and he jerked with an energy he hadn't
realized he still possessed.

"When we were in there -- when you were helping me out, I could tell that
that wasn't a place humans had created, and then I saw those.... things."
She paused and took a deep breath.  "Those weren't humans, nor were they
animals."

He felt himself getting lightheaded.  Yes, she had told him as they lay on the
snow, freezing and dazed, that she had seen "it," but that was then and so
much and so little had happened since.  "You believe?"

She pulled away from him slightly, turning her face to meet his gaze.
"Mulder, I never *dis* believed.  I just needed to see it for myself.  I just
needed proof."

Mulder wanted to scream, And this proof comes on the day of our deaths,
with nobody around to tell.  Send a prayer up to Heaven, Scully.  Tell God.
He's your only witness.

He kept quiet and simply smiling at her, silently thanking her for this last gift
of belief.  After a few moments of quiet, her voice rang out in the frigid air.

"I wanted to kiss you."

If her previous declaration hadn't been enough to make his heart stop, this
one was.  Before he could reply, she shifted in the seat and pressed her body
up to his.  Mulder looked at her, face shining in the cold, marveling that his
moment of supreme happiness could come in the last moments of his life.
Her kiss flooded his body with precious heat, her lips moving over his
softly, but with an urgency belied by their mutual exhaustion and fear.
Following her lead, he moved his mouth up and down, brushing over her
lips, then drew in breath as she pulled his lips into her mouth and sucked on
them lightly.  His hands closed on her shoulders and he opened his mouth
just enough to run his tongue along her lips, where it met her own.  A
delicious tingle filtered down his spine, pushing sensation into a body too
chilled to fill much at all.

And as her tongue caressed his own and they breathed each other's air, he
thought, //I have kissed Dana Scully.  I have kissed her and shown her my
love before we die.//

Through the daze of their enrapturement, a faint buzzing sound broke.
Scully pulled away from him with a start and he groaned, the sound coming
from deep within his hollow stomach.  She pulled up on her knees and
looked out the foggy, wet window and he heard her sharp intake of breath.

"Mulder, they're here!"

Scrambling over him to the door, she pushed it open then nearly tumbled
out onto the snow.  With shaky, barely functional arms he reached out to
catch her, and held onto her arm as she leaned out and waved one hand
frantically, her hoarse voice calling out to the phantom vehicle she saw in
the distance.  If the past twenty-eight hours had passed by in an everlasting
dirge, the five minutes it took for the humming of an engine to draw up next
to them took a lifetime.  For a faint moment, delirium seized his soul.  They
had come.  Death was here for them, like in some old Emily Dickinson
poem.

"Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me.
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality."

The wild look in Scully's eyes matched a million emotions a more lucid mind
could name.  Even though this approaching noise might promise salvation
for both of them, he cared only for the wonder he saw in her -- the beauty
she contained.

The sight of the black Sno-Cat which pulled up beside them felt like a
mirage.  Its warm steel shimmered in ghostly haze.  To his exhausted eyes
the figures of the two men who emerged from within blurred and glowed.
Scully, fortified with rest and adrenaline, stood, bracing herself against the
frame of the passenger door.

A man got out of the black vehicle, his black snowsuit and gray hair making
him seem like a monochromatic daguerreotype in a colored world.  The
Teutonic planes of his aging face resembled the rocky crags of the landscape
surrounding them.  "You stuck?" he yelled, and Mulder couldn't resist
breaking out in hoarse laughter at the absurdity of the question.

"Yes," Scully's voice rang clear, "there's something wrong with our engine."
 

"Here, come get in our Sno-Cat.  We'll take you to the nearest base."  The
man stepped back and moved to open the passenger door of the huge
vehicle.

Scully turned to look at her partner.  What had they to lose?  She held out a
hand for him and he struggled to pull himself up to a standing position, then
he followed her out into the snow.  Once his feet hit the ground, he
stumbled and collapsed -- damn legs refused to work after so many hours of
inactivity.  In a flash, his partner was there with him, her arms wrapping
around his back, pulling him upright.  Saving him yet again.

They crawled into the cab of the visitors' Sno-Cat and instantly felt
smothered by the heat within.  The man who had spoken gave them a few
moments to orient and settle themselves, then he spoke, his companion
remaining silent.

"I understand you have had quite an experience."

That sentence shocked Mulder.  What on earth?  How did this man know?

"I was informed by some... associates," he continued in a German accent
twisted with hints of Spanish pronunciation, "that you were on a large
vehicle underground, which recently left this area."

Scully and Mulder exchanged glances of alarm, then she spoke.  "How did
you know?" she said, in a voice full of suspicion.

"I'm quite surprised to see you still alive.  I would have imagined that you
would have been dead by now.  This does a great credit to your strength
and perseverance, Agents Scully and Mulder."

"Who are you?"  Mulder's dark voice rang through the carriage.

He smiled in a familiar, almost malevolent way.  "I am a member of a group
of Elders, several of whom you have already met."

"But who are --"

"Who am I?  You may call me Señor Candelaria," he replied.  The man
paused for a moment, then continued.  "I cannot say that my organization
wants you alive, but I myself do not want you to die."

Mulder looked at Scully and knew she was thinking the same thing -- that it
was absurd to have come all this way to have been saved by this man whom
represented everything they detested.

"I can offer you shelter and medical attention, if you will come with me."

Scully pursed her lips and grasped Mulder's forearm hard, her fingers biting
into his tender flesh.  The cabin was silent for several minutes before she
said, "Could my partner and I discuss this first?"

"But of course, Agent Scully."  He smiled, the corners of his mouth twisting
in a grotesque parody of benevolence.  "Though I warn you, if you choose
to remain here, you will most certainly die."

The driver opened his door, removed the keys from the ignition, and moved
outside, and Candelaria followed, the twin rushes of air filling the cabin with
the bitter cold wind he and Scully had only just escaped.  The two strangers
stood outside, facing the windows, while Mulder turned to his partner, his
eyebrows raised in the question, "Well?"

"We don't have a choice, Mulder," she said in a low voice.  "If we stay here,
we WILL die."

"No --"

"Mulder, we're already half-dead of hypothermia.  You're developing
frostbite on your cheeks and your hands and feet can't be doing much better.
I'd have the same problems if you hadn't kept me warm.  If you hadn't saved
me."  She paused, the only sound her warm breath in the carriage.

"I don't want to die here, Mulder."

Her eyes pled with him, willing him to trust her instincts even as everything
else about this situation screamed "TRAP!  BEWARE!"

But her desperate face mixed with the barren landscape around them and he
knew.

They had no choice.

"Okay.  We'll go."

If this had been any other situation, he would have smiled at her and been
blessed with the glory of her own smile, but their circumstances were too
dire for joy.  Not yet.

And so Scully opened her door slightly and leaned out to get the men's
attention.

"We'll come with you."
 

+++++++++++++++
 

The black Sno-Cat bounced over drifts and rocks, the landscape blurring
into a sea of white.

The bread and coffee Candelaria had offered them swirled around in
Mulder's stomach, threatening nausea.  He swallowed repeatedly and closed
his eyes, trying to settle his stomach, while another set of butterflies flooded
through him.

My God, what had they gotten themselves into?

They were speeding along in a vehicle driven by a man of sinister silence,
invited on the trip by a member of the organization they had fought so many
years.  He and Scully were being taken to a place where they would be at
Candelaria's mercy.

Scarcely able to move because of the exhaustion which had overtaken him,
he merely sat still in the backseat, clasping Scully's hand tightly in his own,
as they waited.

After an hour or so of driving, they reached a black unmarked helicopter --
what else?  he nearly chuckled -- waiting in the snow.  Small drifts had piled
around the bottom and snow dotted the black paint, giving the copter a
serene, marbleized look.  The driver stopped the Sno-Cat and got out, then
walked over to the copter and said something to its pilot.  Candelaria
emerged from the front seat and turned his back on the agents to look at the
scene.

Scully clasped Mulder's hand tighter and gave him a look of false
confidence.

This mysterious man who purported to be their savior opened their door
and led the two agents out and to the copter.  He gestured them inside and
motioned for them to have a seat in the back.  Climbing in after them, he
pulled two strips of black cloth from the front of the helicopter.

"I cannot let you see where we are going, you understand."

Mulder nodded tersely.

With that, Candelaria fastened the blindfolds around Scully's head, then
Mulder's.  As the engines sputtered to life, Mulder heard a rustling followed
by a sharp prick on the back of his hand.  He started as the needle entered
his flesh, then blackness consumed his world.
 

+++++++++++++++
 

Across the plains of Patagonia, a fierce wind blew.

Storm clouds from the Pacific emptied their rains and snows on the high
peaks of the Andes and when they reached Argentina they seldom had much
moisture left, instead bathing the plains and valleys with a bitterly cold wind
and electrical storms.

But that morning, the sky was clear and the winds merely a cool breeze, the
better with which to land a helicopter on the rocky shores of El Lago de las
Posadas.  The Blackhawk copter had been in the air for what seemed like
ages to its pilot; he'd flown over Antarctica with a brief refueling stop at
Ushuaia in Tierra del Fuego, all the while with two unconscious FBI agents
in the back of the hueybird.

The plane alighted at a small landing pad a short distance away from a
sprawling ranch house, at a spread without a name owned by a mysterious
man hated by the residents of the nearby village for refusing to hire local
gauchos.  They whispered about him and stared on the few occasions when
he appeared in town.  "Nazi", they sneered.  "Send him back to Germany
where he belongs!  He does not deserve to be here."

The man did not care.

The townspeople were correct.  He had been a scientist -- one of the
youngest but the best -- under Herr Hitler until the Americans invaded the
facility at which he worked.  As did so many of his comrades, he fled to
Argentina, never returning to his beloved Deutschland.   He had made a
home there in Patagonia -- married a beautiful woman from a good family,
raised four children, built a successful estancia with hundreds of acres.  But
part of his heart remained in Germany.  The closest he ever came to his
homeland were his periodic visits to New York and London to meet with
the Elders.  Sometimes that was enough;  sometimes it was not.

He personally supervised the removal of the two agents from the helicopter,
ordering them taken to a room in the gauchos' quarters which had been used
by the former caretaker and his wife.  And then he left them to the guard of
his private security officer, while he went to take care of this business.
 

+++++++++++++++
 

Sun leached through thick curtains, casting a diffuse glow over the foot of
the bed and warming the room.  Scully tried to lift herself on her elbows to
get a good look at the room, but an intense rush of blood to her head and
Mulder's arms around her stomach, holding her close even in sleep, kept her
from moving.  Instead, she shifted in the bed, movement still hampered by
her thick snowsuit, and craned her head to get a better glimpse of the room.

The furnishings were bare, merely a brass bed with a yellow coverlet, a
chair, and a heavy wooden table against one wall.  A door appeared to lead
to a small washroom.  Next to the large window was a door whose
thickness was suggested by the darkness of the wood and several deadbolts
lining the frame.  A shadowed figure paced back and forth in front of the
window -- Scully watched for several circuits before turning away, lest the
hypnotic motion lull her into another state of consciousness.

She settled back into the pillow and closed her eyes, trying in vain to
remember the events of the past... however long it had been.  Working
backward she remembered waking in the cramped cargo area of a
helicopter, trying not to move so her alertness would not catch the attention
of her captors.  However, the quickening of her breath must have gained
notice because before she could gather her wits enough to poise herself for
defense against their captors, a needle plunged into the back of her hand and
she passed out.

Going back further, she remembered their first encounter with the man who
called himself "Senor Candelaria."  She dissected every bit of the experience
and her impression of him.  His vehicle came from out of nowhere, yet it
seemed to know exactly where she and Mulder were, leading her to believe
these men knew exactly where to find the agents.  His words, "I understand
you have had quite an experience," suggested he knew what had happened
on that... in that cave.

And the man himself....

Though her knowledge of Spanish came from her study of Latin in college
and a trip to Cancun with some girlfriends from medical school, she
imagined "Candelaria" had something to do with light or flame.  It was
obviously a pseudonym he had chosen for its significance;  did he imagine
himself a sort of beacon?  He looked old, perhaps in his 80s, but still quite
healthy and mobile.  His voice had a very distinct German cadence to it,
particularly in the way each word was punctuated with the boom of his
voice.  And his face -- he seemed almost kind.  Certainly not malevolent in
the way the British man or the smoking man had been.

Scully glanced over at her sleeping partner.  She wished Mulder were awake
to discuss this with her:  he was the expert profiler, she was the scientist.

She took the opportunity to look at him, to watch his face and body, still in
slumber.  Though his face wore the marks of exhaustion and bitter cold, he
seemed young and at peace.  She had slept away most of those long hours in
the Sno-Cat, yet she remembered her few moments of lucidity with him.
Scully could still feel the warmth of his body around hers, cuddling and
cradling her to keep her warm and safe in the frigid air.  It had felt good.  It
had felt *right*.  And a blush spread through her neck and cheeks as she
remembered the way he had looked at her when she had murmured to him
that she'd wanted to kiss him in that hallway.  The slight parting of his lips,
the flush of his cheeks, the glow of his eyes as he gazed at her, as if he could
see straight through her skin into her heart.

He loves me, she thought.  He is in love with me.  She knew this as soundly
as if he had said the words to her.  And she knew she was in love with him
too, with every ounce of her being.

So why did the thought overwhelm her?

She couldn't think of it -- not now, not with so many other more important
matters to address, like where they were and what this man had in store for
them.  And how they could escape.

Another glance around the room reminded her that she hadn't had access to
a bathroom for days now, so she shifted in the bed and slipped out of
Mulder's embrace, padding over to the washroom.  Turning at the doorway,
she glanced back at him and saw her partner turning in the bed, his arms
reaching out for one who was not there anymore, then tucking his hands
underneath one of the thin pillows.  A slight smile spread across her face.
Was this how waking up next to Mulder for the rest of her life would feel?

Scully turned into the washroom.  Simple but European in style, it contained
a sink, a toilet with bidet, and a shower stall.  She took care of the pressure
in her bladder and pulled her snowsuit back on, then stood in front of the
sink, rueing the absence of a mirror to get a look at her face.  Cupping some
water in her hands, she washed her face then used a rough white washcloth
to scrub it lightly, wincing at the feeling of the nubs of cotton against the
tender skin on her cheeks, forehead, and nose.  She filled up one of the two
cups with water from the pitcher next to the sink and took a sip, swishing it
around her mouth to clear out the terrible taste left by days of
morning-breath and another, foreign taste which had most likely been left by
that liquid in her mouth when Mulder had found her in the cave.  She
repeated the process several times, never quite feeling back up to par, then
drank several glasses of the clear water in succession.  Water had never
tasted so wonderful in her life -- it slipped down her throat like a fine wine.

Emerging from the bathroom, she walked around the room for a few
moments, adjusting her legs to the feeling of being mobile once again.  She
stood in front of the window and opened the drapes slightly, just enough to
catch a glimpse of mountains and a lake -- and the back of a guard in khakis,
a machine gun slung across his back.  Before he could turn and see her at
the window, she closed the drapes and moved away from the window,
touching the cold glass briefly before she walked away.  Scully walked back
over to the bed and sat on the edge nearest Mulder, who had shifted to the
middle of the queen-sized mattress.  She sat and stared at him, not wanting
to disturb his sleep but needing to touch him.  And so she let her fingers
play along his brow, smoothing away the hair still clinging to his skin.

A knock on the door startled her, then she braced herself against the
headboard, instinctively assuming a defensive posture.  The sound of keys in
locks followed, and a woman entered.  Short, round, and dark, she carried a
heap of fabrics nearly larger than herself.

"Senora, para ustedes.  El medico llega en unos minutos."  She set the pile
down on the table.  Then, with a slight smile, she walked over to Scully,
handing her a small bag.  "Para su senor."  The woman touched her cheeks
and nodded toward Scully's ice-burned face.  Winking at Scully, she turned
and left.

Scully looked inside the bag and found lotion, shampoo, deodorant, a comb,
women's underwear, and some cosmetics.  The first smile in some time
spread over her face.  For Mulder, indeed.

The noise of the door shutting woke Mulder.  He stirred beside her then
turned toward Scully.

"Morning, Sunshine," she greeted him in a soft voice.

He looked up at her, sleep clouding his eyes and his face still slack from
rest.  Shaking his head slightly, he spoke.  "Where are we?"

"I'm not sure.  We seem to be somewhere in the southern hemisphere,
judging from the coolness of the glass.  The woman who was just here--"

"Woman?"

"She brought us some clothes.  She spoke Spanish, so from the mountains
outside I'm guessing we're in South America."  Scully leaned back against
the headboard while Mulder struggled to a sitting position, wincing at the
effort.  "How are you feeling?"

"Awful."

"Be specific, Mulder."

That earned her a weak smile.  "My legs are sore and I have a headache,
though I think that's just from exhaustion.  I can't see them but I can feel
bruises all over my body."

"And your face has cold blisters on it."  And yet, he'd never looked quite so
beautiful.  "Can you move your toes?"

He twisted his face in pain at the effort, but then confirmed that he could.

"Well, I believe the woman said something about a doctor, so hopefully that
means one will be here soon.  They have a guard posted outside the door so
I don't see any chances of our going anywhere."  Scully stood up and
walked over to the pile of clothing.  Poking through it, she found two thick
wool cable-knit sweaters, two tailored shirts, two pairs of simple leather
shoes, a pair of jeans, and a long brightly-patterned skirt.  The sweaters both
appeared to be the same size, but one pair of shoes was somewhat smaller
and the skirt was obviously intended for her.  She held it up to her waist and
looked over at Mulder.

"It's your color, Scully," he quipped with as much of a grin as he could
muster.

"Yes, well, I'm going to have to pull this up to my shoulders to keep from
tripping over it.  Do you want to clean up first or should I?"

"You go first," Mulder said, sinking back on the pillows.  "I'm going to need
the time to get up the energy to move."

She gathered her clothes and the bag in her arms and walked over to the
washroom.  "Don't get too comfortable.  We need to figure out what we're
going to do."  With that, she closed the door behind her.

Shedding her snowsuit on the floor, she stepped into the shower stall and
turned the knobs, almost shrieking in surprise at the ice cold water, which
fortunately warmed quickly.  She stood under the spray of water for a few
moments, then worked quickly to clean herself so that Mulder might still
have some warm water for himself.  She massaged the shampoo through her
hair furiously but took more care with the soap on her still-tender skin.
After another minute of indulging herself with the warmth, she stepped out
of the shower and used one of the towels to dry herself off, then wrapped
her hair in it.

The panties fit perfectly.  The brassiere was a size too big, but it would do
for the time being.  Before putting on the blouse, she squeezed a generous
amount of lotion into her hand and smoothed it over her arms and chest.
The scent of rose flooded the room -- the smell of the lotion was stronger
than she liked but its simplicity was perfect.  She applied the deodorant and
pulled the towel off her head, then ran a comb through her damp hair.  She
slipped on the blouse and buttoned it up.  It was obviously designed for a
larger woman, but she would have to make it work.  The real problem was
the skirt.  She held it up in front of her and appraised it.  It was beautiful,
she had to admit, with shades of red, blue, and violet in a floral design.
However, when she pulled it on, the scalloped hem pooled around her feet,
a problem which she solved by rolling the waistband a few times until the
full skirt extended midway down her calves.  The shoes fit well, surprisingly
enough, and the laced-up boots would serve her well in the event of an
escape.

She took out the supply of makeup and couldn't suppress a laugh.  Bright
red blusher and vibrant eyeshadows were not her style at all.  However, the
tube of reddish-brown lipstick would work fine.  Scully applied a thin layer
of it then blotted it with her hand so that it wouldn't shine quite so brightly.

As she attempted to straighten up the disarray in the washroom, voices
filtered through the thin door.  She stepped outside and found Mulder being
examined by a man in a dark suit.  He looked up at her as she entered and
the doctor continued to bend over his legs, checking out the bruises over his
shins.  She winced at the sight of them, then met her partner's gaze.  Though
he said nary a word, the look in his eyes pierced her so deeply she almost
turned away in embarrassment.

In this prison in the middle of Heaven only knew where, Mulder made her
feel beautiful.

Scully walked over to the bed and stood beside it as the doctor rose to greet
her.

"Senora, I have been sent to see that you and your companion are in good
health," he said in broken English.  "Your man is very tired and has pain but
he does not want any medicine."

"I'll be okay, thank you," Mulder said out of politeness, but Scully knew that
they couldn't take the risk of accepting any "medication" this doctor might
offer, considering he was working with Them.

He looked at Scully, telling her without words that this "doctor" had been
fine so far, but that they couldn't trust him, which she knew without
hesitation.  "I'm going to get cleaned up while he checks you out, Scully.
Okay?"

"Okay."

Mulder slowly raised from the bed and walked with tentative steps over to
the washroom, while she sat on the edge of the bed.  The doctor pulled out
a stethoscope and motioned for her to shift in her seat so he could use it.
Scully moved so that her back was to him and heeded his, "Breathe, por
favor," request.

"You have pain?"

"I'm tired, but I think I'm okay."  Scully chose her words carefully, trying
not to underemphasize her injuries but also not overdo them so that he
would think more medical attention was necessary.

He stepped in front of her and looked her up and down.  "Your chest is
good," he said, lowering his stethoscope.  Scully knew he didn't mean her
breathing.  "I will give you medicine for las manchas on your face," the
doctor said, motioning to what she assumed were blisters on the skin.  He
walked over to a black leather case on his table.  Coming back over to her,
he handed her a tube.  Though the label was in Spanish, she recognized the
name:  Neosporin.

But was it really?  She smiled a "thank you", but decided not to try her luck.
 

"I will tell Se?or that you are in good health.  You are expected at the house
for dinner in a half hour."  He gathered his supplies and with a final, courtly
nod of his head, he rapped on the door.  It opened and the guard let him
out, looking around the room suspiciously to make certain nothing was out
of order.

Finally left alone, Scully fell back onto the bed and closed her eyes.
 

+++++++++++++++
 

The landscape overwhelmed him.

Mulder took the chance to scope out their surroundings while he and Scully
walked to the main house with their guard a step behind them.  An
impossibly blue lake glittered in the sunlight, which looked to be late
afternoon from the orange hue of the sun.  Judging from its position in the
sky, the house faced north and the lake was to the west.  Beyond the lake,
magnificent peaks broke through the clouds.  The Andes?  Perhaps.  The
area to the east surrounding the house consisted of endless grassy plains
dotted with rocky outcroppings and sheep.  The house itself was actually
quite simple.  Built in a European chalet fashion, its only extravagances
were some red paint along the eaves and rocking chairs lining the porch.
The wind buffeted them but, though it was cold, it was not so cold that it
hurt -- Mulder speculated the temperature was around 50 degrees.

He looked over at Scully.

God, she was beautiful.

Her face bore the marks of their ordeal and she limped slightly, favoring her
left leg, but she held herself tall and regal, unafraid of the danger inherent in
this situation.  Having let her hair dry naturally, it curled slightly around her
face and the collar of her sweater, giving her a softer appearance.  Though
he had always been attracted to her strength, something about this side of
Scully touched him -- that this was the woman she was beneath the facade
of professionalism she maintained.

Mulder walked as close to her as he could while maintaining a safe distance,
but even with a foot separating them he could smell the soft rose of the
lotion he had found in the bathroom.  A delicious thrill coursed through his
body, necessitating a deep breath to still his nerves.  He had more important
things to think about -- like the fact that a guard with a machine gun
followed behind him -- than how Scully's skin would taste if he were to run
his tongue down the length of her body.

Balling his hands into tight fists, he walked.

Nary a word was said during the voyage.  They mounted the steps to the
porch, the sounds of their footfalls echoing in the eerie silence around them,
punctuated only by the whinnying of a horse somewhere in the distance.
The guard moved to stand next to them and gestured with his gun -- a nice
touch, Mulder thought -- for her to open the door.  Scully obeyed and the
party moved inside.

Mulder was surprised at how quiet the house was, like the three of them
were the only humans around.  The guard led them through an airy foyer to
a closed door.  Again, he motioned for Scully to open the door and she did.
They walked through the entrance into another room, this one without
windows but featuring a large but simply-adorned dining table and six
chairs.  Tapestries covered the walls and an enormous candelabra hung from
the high ceiling.  Mulder instinctively knew that he and Scully were
supposed to sit at the table and so he walked over to it and took a seat.
Scully stood at the doorway for a moment, then joined him.

The guard watched them for several minutes, then turned and closed the
door.  The echoing of a bolt being fastened reverberated through the room.

For the first time in what seemed like ages, Mulder exhaled.

He looked at Scully.  She sat up very straight in her chair, not sharing his
breaking of his tension.  Finally, she spoke.

"They haven't left us alone in here because they trust us."

"No, of course not,"  Mulder replied. "The guard is probably still outside."

The sound of footsteps filtered through the door, followed by the low
rumblings of voices.

Mulder caught his breath.

The sounds died away.

He didn't dare speak again.

Though they had been told they were expected for dinner, the table was
bare.  The room was silent.  They had presumably been locked inside.
Mulder had no way of telling what time of day it was, his watch having
disappeared some time before.  He assumed it was early evening.

He watched Scully, and waited.  Neither spoke.

After what seemed like ages, Mulder stood and walked around the room.
He made two circuits around the table before Scully turned to face him.

"This place is deserted."

"You think?"  He couldn't keep the tinge of sarcasm out of his voice, and
kept walking, immediately regretting the harshness.

When he rounded the corner to stand behind her again, she whispered,
"They could be listening."

"Yeah,"  he whispered back, then took a step back, motioning for her to
stand.

Their steps light and noiseless, they walked over to the doorway through
which they had entered.  Scully closed her hand over the knob and turned it,
keeping the movements silent and subtle.

The door swung open.

Her gaze flickered up at Mulder then back to the open doorway.  He
watched every muscle of her body tense in tandem with his.  On instinct, he
reached for his gun before remembering he had none.  Scully went through
the doorway first, checking both ways to make sure no captor lay in
waiting.  Seeing nothing, she continued to walk.  He followed her through
the foyer then, seeing nobody, they continued across it until they found
another doorway slightly ajar.

Mulder braced himself against the wall while Scully raised her arm against
the door, then pushed.

Again, silence.

Scully took a step inside.

Her whispered, "Oh, my God!" send trembles through his body.

"What?" his whisper scratched his throat.

"Mulder--"  She disappeared inside the room.  He followed her inside,
keeping a defensive position close to the walls and a safe distance from her.
Entering the room, he found it empty, except for an enormous desk in front
of a window.  A body sat in the chair.

Senor Candelaria.

Covered with blood.

Scully rushed over to him, careful not to touch anything.  He didn't need to
watch her look over the body to know the man was dead.

Mulder ran back to the doorway and scanned the hallway.  Deserted.
Re-entering the room, he hurried over to Scully, then moved behind her to
look out the window.

Not a soul in sight, as if the ranch had never been inhabited.

Scully grabbed a tissue from the box on the man's desk and used it to cover
the hand as she opened a desk drawer.  While she examined their contents,
Mulder searched over the desktop.

And then he froze.

A rolodex next to the telephone was opened to a damning card:

FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION.
CONTACT.
+01 202 55 50 518

Shocked, he glanced up at Scully.  Her expression mirrored his own.

"Mulder--"

She pointed at a paper on his desk.  Moving around the chair to stand next
to her, he looked over her shoulder.

The paper was an ordinary thermal fax sheet.  The familiar fax header read
"FBI EXECUTIVE BRANCH".

The paper's text read the simple words, "DISPOSE OF BUREAU
THREAT.  INFORM WHEN FINISHED."

No signature.

"The Bureau... Oh, God."  His voice refused to function.

"We've got to get out of here," Scully whispered, her blanched face
searching his.  With trembling fingers, she grabbed the paper and hurriedly
folded it, then handed it to Mulder.  He shoved it into his pocket then
circled around to rip the F.B.I. card out of the Rolodex.  Scully grabbed
another couple of tissues and used them to pull a revolver out of the drawer
she had opened, then pocketed the wad of cash in the drawer.

Nearly tripping over furniture in their haste, they ran out of the room and
through the front door of the house.  He stopped short at the edge of the
porch and scanned the grounds for the sign of another human being.  There
was none.  The place was deserted.

Pulling up beside him, Scully whispered, "The gun's cold, but the man must
have died very recently, maybe a half-hour ago.  The chambers of the
revolver are fully loaded."

"It wasn't that gun."  Out of the corner of his eye he watched her shove the
gun into the waistband of her skirt.

He looked for a car nearby -- anything they could use to escape.  He found
no vehicles, but he did see a stable a short distance away, with a half-dozen
horses tethered to a post outside.  Mulder pointed in that direction and he
and Scully ran over to it, each checking for any sign of another human
being.

Still, nothing.

As if one of the Fates was smiling down on them at that moment, two of the
horses bore saddles.  Mulder ran up to the tethering post and began
unworking the knots while Scully stood sentry, gun in her hands, poised for
attack if the necessity arose.  Yet the almost sinister serenity of the ranch
posed no threat.

"I've got it, Scully," he called out to her.  She turned toward him, still in
shooting stance, and hurried over to the horses.  One was slightly smaller
than the other, so she went over to it and he helped her up onto the animal.
Once she was safely on it, he got onto the other horse.

"There's a road over there."  He pointed in its general direction.  Nudging
the horses into a fierce gallop, they escaped.
 

+++++++++++++++
 

The wind chilled them to the bone.  Though it lay dormant during the
daytime, at dusk it gained fury and power, sweeping down from the
mountains and across the plains with a bitter bite.  They wanted nothing
more than to find a warm bed in a cozy inn, but that was the last thing they
could do.

They had nowhere to go.

And so they kept riding.

Scully had not ridden a horse in years, since her childhood dreams of
owning a pony had been realized at an idyllic summer camp.  Mulder had
slightly more experience, yet the jarring repetitive motion of the horse's gait
were mallets on already tender muscles and bruises.  An hour before they
had passed a town, the sodium light of its few streetlights twinkling like
heaven itself.  They rode close enough to see one singular cross reaching
high into the sky, lit by the church's floodlights as a beacon to pilgrims
everywhere.  Scully pulled back on her horse's reins, guiding it to a stop for
just a moment so she could gaze upon the spectacle.  As lapsed a Catholic
as she might be, the vicissitudes of her faith did not keep her from wanting
to curl up in the welcoming bosom of her God, if only for one night.

But then Mulder rested next to her, looking at her with a heartbreakingly
forlorn expression, the needs of their souls reflected in his eyes.

"They might be there."

She nodded and nudged her horse back into a trot.  Though the ranch they
had fled had appeared deserted, they could not for a moment let down their
guard enough to believe that someone out there wasn't looking for them.
There would be no warm bed, no roof over their heads tonight.

And the wind continued to blow.  It skittered through their thick wool
sweaters and wreaked havoc on Scully's stockinged legs under her skirt.
She unrolled the waistband until it hung far past below her toes, then folded
and tucked the fabric so it covered her legs, but just barely.  Every time she
wanted to give herself over to chattering teeth and shivering limbs, she
reminded herself of the cold of Antarctica and suddenly South America
didn't seem quite as bad.

They still had no idea just where they were.  From the mountains to the
west and plains to the east, they speculated perhaps somewhere in southern
Chile or Argentina, a theory borne out by the cold of the southern
hemisphere.  Knowing that their safest bet was to get as much distance
between them and the ranch as possible and that a northern route gave them
the best chances and put them that much closer to home, they traveled.

After a few hours, the moonlight became too dim for guidance and the
winds became too much to bear.  Edging closer to the mountains, Scully
and Mulder found a grove of trees and stopped.  They tethered their horses
to one of the trees and removed the saddles.  Mulder used his hands to rub
down the tired horses while Scully took the blankets from their backs and
found the two of them a place in the ground.  The saddles themselves were
quite elaborate -- obviously the work of cowboys who took a great deal of
pride in their horses.  Nearest the horse was a thin chamois sheet, followed
by a woven blanket in shades Scully couldn't discern in the dark.  Topping
off the combination was an expanse of furry sheep pelt, then the saddle
itself.  Scully ran her fingers through the pelt, letting her fingers sink into the
plush wool.  Nothing had ever felt quite so wonderful in her life.

Once the horses were sufficiently calmed down, Mulder turned to join
Scully.  She had found them a spot under a low tree branch, where the tufts
of dry grass weren't quite so harsh against her skin.  He lay down next to
her and she pulled the pelts over them, barely big enough to cover their
arms and stomachs.  The chamois followed as did the woven blankets.  They
provided a scarce amount of covering, but their warmth was enough to
bring them a small amount of comfort.  And, as much as from a need for
warmth as a need for one another, they curled into one another's bodies.
Scully tucked her cold legs between his denim-covered ones and finally
allowed herself to exhale.

We need to rest, she reminded herself.  We need to rest the horses and our
bodies.  But why did she feel like they were only courting danger?

"What do you think we should do, Scully?"  Mulder whispered, his breath
close enough to warm her face.

She shifted her body slightly so that her arm curled around his waist, pulling
him closer.  "We can't keep riding forever, not with these horses.  We need
to find somewhere, get some better transportation.  They're going to find us
if we keep riding horseback."

"They're going to find us wherever we go."   She could feel Mulder wilt in
her arms.

"Mulder, you didn't find me in that place in Antarctica to let them win.  You
didn't come all this way to let them find us again.  We're going to get out of
here."  She ran her fingertips along his back. "We're going to get out of here
but it's going to be tough."

Mulder was silent for several minutes, his shallow breathing the only thing
keeping her from thinking he had fallen asleep.  "You're right, Scully."

She had waited for so long, so many years, to hear him say that and mean it.
No reservations, no disbelief.  And with the moment here, a thrill coursed
through her body.

"I've never told you this, Mulder,"  she felt him catch his breath at the
change of the timbre in her words, "but I love you."

After a few seconds' quiet, he replied, "I love you too.  I always have."

"No,"  Scully pulled away from him to stress upon him the importance of
her words, "I am in love with you.  I care deeply for you as a friend, but I
also want you as a lover."

"Scully --"

She stopped him with a kiss.  Her mouth found his in the darkness, and his
warm breath went from glancing across her cheeks to bathing her mouth.
The cold of their bodies would not allow for much passion, but their need
for each other closed the gap.  And it was perfect.  They kissed for what
seemed like ages, relishing the newness of it all despite having been six years
in the making.  He curled his body into hers and she felt the sough of his
breath against her lips as he pulled his mouth away to inhale, then placed
kisses on her cheek and neck.  She ran her fingertips down his back while he
moved slightly then drew one arm between them.  Scully chuffed at the
feeling of his hand moving under her shirt then up to tease the underside of
one of her breasts.

"I've found you, Scully," he whispered into her ear as his hands touched new
territory.  "I've found you."  He repeated the words a few more times then
she felt him drifting off to sleep, his breathing elongating and deeping
against her cheek.

And she had found her lover.
 

+++++++++++++++
 

They woke in the morning sun.  An instinct beyond love had kept them
holding each other all night, warding off the cold surrounding them.  That
same cold hit them that morning with a shock, as the coverings they'd used
were shaken to the ground beside them.

The first thing Mulder felt on waking was Scully's lips on his cheek, and the
first thing he saw was her eyes looking down on him from inches away.

"Good morning," she murmured.

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, then opened them to find her a little
further away, but still so close.  This proximity warmed him as much as
could any fire.  Waking up next to her felt perfect, and he marveled at this
step they had taken, as new and yet as natural as it could ever have been.
And then she spoke words of magic.

"I love you, Mulder."

A smile spread over his face.  This was already a beautiful morning.
"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He tilted his chin up to meet her lips with his own, and kissed her briefly
before she pulled away, sitting up straight with ease, while he winced with
the rush of blood to his head.  And the immediate grumbling in his stomach
didn't help matters.

"Ready to ride?"

Mulder groaned at her words.  "No, but I also don't want to walk all the
way to the next town, either."

"We don't have a choice."

And they didn't.

Somewhere out there, someone knew what had happened.  Someone knew
that he had found Scully in Antarctica, that they had escaped, that they had
been "rescued" -- if he could call it that -- by a man connected with Them.
And that man was dead.

Mulder and Scully were in danger.

Like that was anything new.

They'd done this before, they could do it again.  He reminded himself of that
fact as they gathered the blankets and resaddled the horses.  He chanted the
words to himself as they rode the horses north, each contact of hoof to earth
sending needles through stiff and sore muscles.  And the amazement of all
they had overcome and would *continue* to overcome kept him going that
morning.

After about a half hour of riding, they found a medium-sized city in the first
rumblings of morning activity.  The signs listed its name as "Bariloche".  On
first look it appeared to be a tourist area, judging from the signs for hotels
and the money-changing booth on the main street.  Although they'd grown
to despise their method of transportation, they got off their horses and tied
them to tethers at an intersection, then continued walking down the main
street, hoping that the horses would be stolen so they wouldn't leave a train
of evidence leading back to him and Scully.  Fortunately, several other
people were riding or leading horses, so they didn't stick out too much.
However, even if they didn't attract too much attention, Mulder knew that
their primary objective was to blend in as much as possible.

Stopping in front of a locutorio -- a telephone office -- on a busy street,
Mulder spoke.

"I have a plan, Scully."

"When don't you?" she replied.

He stretched his arms above his head then drew his body down, closer to
her.  In a low voice, he said, "I'm going to need some of that money you
have.  I'm going to try and call the Gunmen and get them to wire us some
money, then find a place to lay low for a day or two until we can get the
cash."

"A car?  We don't have that much money."

"We'll get some.  Trust me on this."

"When don't I?"  Scully murmured, with a small smile and a raise of her
eyebrows.  "We're also going to need some passports.  Think they can get
those down to us that quickly?"

"I hope so."  But he knew they would.

Scully left, on her way to find a drugstore and a market to get food and
some aspirin.  Mulder went inside the office and sidled up to the front desk.
"Habla ingles?"  he asked in Spanish gleaned more from billboards in the
Hispanic sections of D.C. than from any serious study.

The desk clerk looked up, a bored expression painted on her face.  "Yes,
how can I help you?" she asked, in somewhat fluent English.

"I need to make a collect call to the United States.  How do I do so?"

She pointed to a bank of phones in small, three-sided booths.  "You will dial
'0' for the operator.  You cannot dial any other number."

"Thank you."  He moved toward the phone, then turned back to the clerk.
"What is the name of the largest bank in this city?"

"Banco de la Nacion."  She turned back to the magazine she was reading.

"Gracias."  Mulder found a booth in a corner, away from the few other
customers.  Shifting on his still-sore feet, he picked up the receiver and hit
"0" for the operator.  When the voice answered, Mulder told him that he
needed a collect call to the United States, and the operator immediately
switched to broken English.

"What number?"

He recited the Gunmen's number from memory.  The connection took about
fifteen seconds before he heard the familiar ringing of an American phone.
With each unanswered ring, the slight panic rose in his chest.  Finally, he
heard Langly's voice and the operator asked him if he wanted to accept a
collect call from "George Hale".

"Yeah, yeah," the man replied.

"Got a pen, Langly?"

"Damn, Mulder, it's too early.  You woke me up."

Mulder wanted to roll his eyes, but the urgency of the situation wouldn't let
him.  "This is serious.  I need you to write some stuff down."

"Where the hell are you?" Langly said over the rustlings of paper.

"Argentina."

"What the fuck?"  Mulder heard the sound of what seemed to be Langly
tripping over his words in incredulity.  "Did you find her?"

"Yeah.  Listen, I can't tell you much about this because I'm still not sure
myself just what the hell is going on.  But I need you to listen carefully."

"Gotcha."

"Okay, I need you to get into my bank account and wire me $5,000,"
Mulder said, referring to the bank account in Switzerland he'd set up about
a year before in case of such emergencies where he needed to keep any
transactions secret.  "The bank is going to be Banco de la Nacion in
Bariloche, Argentina."  He paused for a second.  "Need me to repeat that?"

"Nope, I'm recording," Langly said, as if the fact should be obvious to
Mulder.

"Why am I not surprised?  How soon can you get it here?"

"Well, it'll depend on how cooperative those Swiss are."  Langly sounded
confident, though.

Mulder quipped, "Turn on your charm, Langly.  Okay, get it here as soon as
you can.  We're also going to need two passports."

"Any name preference?"   Why was Mulder not surprised that he could have
his choice of names, nationalities even.

"Use your imagination.  How long will it take?"

Langly paused for a second.  "You're headed north, right?"

"Right."

"We have a contact in Buenos Aires.  She's American but was married to an
Argentinian.  Convinced the U.S. government was behind his death.  She
loves us.  Thinks Frohike's the greatest thing since Oliver Stone.  Good
thing she hasn't seen the little troll."

"Spare me the soap opera, Langly."  Mulder's level of exasperation rose.

"Let me give her a call.  She might be able to offer you a hideout for a few
days.  She's rich.  Could probably get you on a plane back home.  Can you
get up to Buenos Aires?"

"Yeah.  Listen, I'll try to call you again in an hour.  Get us the money, okay?
Scully and I are counting on you."

"Right --" But his sentence was cut off by Mulder's disconnecting the phone.
He walked back over to the clerk.  "Do I owe you any money?"

"No."  And she went back to her magazine.

Mulder turned and left the office.  Across the street was a fairly large
clothing store.  He walked down to the intersection and crossed the street
when the light changed.  People milled around, getting started with their
daily lives.  His plan was to buy them some more clothes, get some food,
and then find them a hotel where they could lay low for a day or two until
they could get the passports.  Stopping at a newspaper kiosk, he glanced at
the dateline on the morning papers.  Thursday.  And then a headline caught
his attention.

Oh, shit.

Fishing a bill out of his pocket, he paid the man tending the booth for the
paper, then folded it and tucked it under his arm, not wanting to draw
attention to himself by reading it right there on the street.  Continuing down
the sidewalk to the department store, he stepped inside the store, relieved to
see that other customers milled about, so he wouldn't be too conspicuous.
Mulder grabbed a cart and got to work.

In short order, he picked out underwear, two pair of Dockers-style pants,
socks, shirts, and a jacket for himself.  Several instances of poking through
her luggage for various items had familiarized him with Scully's sizes, and so
he got her a utilitarian pair of leather boots, socks, jeans and a few stylish
shirts and sweaters.  Having seen the women walking down the streets of
Bariloche, Mulder knew that Scully would blend in far more if she wore
nice, fashionable clothing than if she deliberately dressed down.  He finally
dared venture into the lingerie department, convinced that the blush he felt
spreading over his cheeks would give him away.  Mulder chose her a
selection of conservative, sturdy underwear and bras, knowing that despite
his personal wishes, functionality was more important than delicacy.  He did
allow himself the luxury of buying her a silky black nightgown, and smiled
at himself with the mental image of her wearing it for him.

Maybe.

As he stood at the cash register while the clerk rang up his purchases, he
thought back over what had passed between them the past few days.  He
told himself all the cuddling was for warmth, yet he knew it was much more
than that.  It was right.  It was a natural progression.  For so long now they
had been walking in parallel paths, each looking ahead of themselves at their
goal.  Their quest.  But now they were looking at each other.  Searching
one another for signs of their devotion, of their love.

A few years ago, Mulder would have second-guessed the situation,
imagining every possible negative outcome and convincing himself of his
unworthiness.  But something miraculous had happened in the last five
years:  Scully had made him worthy.  He had meant every word he had
spoken in that hallway.  She made him whole.  She made him a better
person.  He couldn't imagine a life without her in it, nor did he want to.
And somewhere along the line, he had gone from being Spooky Mulder
whose facade of confidence was riddled with self-loathing to a man who
knew who he was and who he wanted to be -- and had achieved that simply
by having her by his side.

Scully had saved him.  Scully made him complete.   He knew this now.  And
he knew that he deserved that woman, somewhere in a drugstore buying
supplies to heal them.

The clerk's asking him for the money brought him back to the present, and
he reached in his pocket for the appropriate bills.  The purchases took a
good portion of his stash, but he still had quite a bit left.  Gathering the
shopping bags in his hands, he mounted the escalator and found the
outdoors department.  Finding a large shoulder duffel-suitcase was easier
than he'd expected, and the purchase was added to his bag, along with
several more flashlights and two compasses.

Exiting the department store, he glanced across the street to the locutorio.
Scully had not yet returned from her sojourn to the department store, so
rather than standing outside looking conspicuous, he decided to head down
to the tourist office he'd spotted and see if he could find a hotel in case they
needed to lay low in the city for a day or two.  Unfortunately, the office
hadn't been besieged by visitors yet, so Mulder stood out as he struggled to
get through the doors with his shopping bags.

"Puedo ayudarle?"  The woman behind the counter -- the first friendly face
he'd seen so far -- asked him.

He set the bags down next to the front desk and smiled at the woman.  "Do
you speak English?" he asked, and at her nod he continued.  "My wife and I
were robbed and had everything stolen except our money."

"Oh, no!"

"Yes, and we need a map and some information on how to get back to
Buenos Aires."

"We have excellent transportation.  You and your wife can take airplane
back there, or use the bus or train.  I suggest to fly, because the bus is a
very long journey of two days."

"When are the flights?"

"The flight today leaves at ten of clock.  I do not think you can make it.
There are another flight tomorrow."

"Thank you."  Mulder leaned forward on the counter, smiling his thanks at
the clerk.  He'd be damned if he didn't see her bat her lashes at him in
response.  "Where would we go to find a good hotel?"

She blushed.  "Walk down the Avenida Perito Moreno.  Many hotels there."
She opened a map and marked a few places where hotels were located.  He
studied it quickly, orienting himself to their location and where they would
need to go.

"Could you show me where the Banco de la Nacion is?"

Rather than pointing it out on the map, she gestured down the street
running alongside the agency.  "It is a half-kilometer down the road."

"Thank you very much," he glanced at her nametag, "Maria."  Smiling at her
and slipping the map in his pocket, he exited the agency.  He crossed the
street again and headed toward the locutorio, going back inside to call the
gunmen again.  Mulder went back to the same cubicle and set his bags down
between his legs and the wall.  He repeated his earlier actions, giving the
operator a different name with which to place the collect call.  This time,
Byers answered.

"Mulder, I heard you were having some problems.  What happened?"

"Sorry, Byers, I can't go into much detail.  What about the money?"

"Okay, got a pen?"  Mulder didn't, but he informed his friend that he could
remember the information.  "The cash transfer is waiting for you at the bank
you mentioned, under the name 'George Hale', confirmation #28987."

"Thanks, guys.  What about the passports?"

Byers paused for a second.  "We're having some problems on that end.  Our
source is out of town -- we think hiding from the authorities -- but we think
we've found another person to get them for us.  Even if we FedEx them, we
might not be able to have them to you until Monday."

"Shit," Mulder said under his breath.  No matter how clever they might be,
their chances of getting out of the country without passports -- forged or
valid -- were next to nil.  "Okay, send them to us in Buenos Aires.  We'll fly
there tomorrow."

"Mulder, did Langly mention the woman we know in Buenos Aires?  I
called her and she would be more than willing to offer you a safe house for
as long as you need one.  We think she can be trusted.  She seems to think
it's a big adventure."

Mulder sighed.  "Okay, I'll have to discuss that with Scully.  We'll call you
again from the city.  Listen, I have to go."

"Okay," his friend replied.  "You and Agent Scully stay safe."

"Thanks.  Hey, have you heard about any rumblings at the Bureau?"
Mulder asked, referring to the fax burning a hole in his pocket."

"No, should we be looking out for something?"

"Well, I can't go into detail but we think they have something to do with
this."

"Damn, Mulder." He heard Byers' sharp intake of breath.

"I gotta go.  Bye."  Mulder disconnected the phone and left the office.  He
stopped at a bench about twenty yards away.  The shopping bags were
arranged next to him on the bench and he pulled out the newspaper.  Mulder
tried to repress his moue of frustration and fear at the headline permeating
the page.

He and Scully were in serious trouble.
 

+++++++++++++++
 

The Hotel San Fernando was plain and unassuming from the outside.
Though the surrounding buildings were beautiful edifices in Spanish
Colonial design, the hotel itself had been designed in a utilitarian fashion, its
brick facade conveying security.  Once inside, however, it had a quiet,
humble charm.  The simplicity of the hotel was perfect for the two agents
who were looking to lay low and not attract attention.

Scully stretched out on the bed while Mulder finished his shower.  After the
harshness of their outdoors bed of the night before, the plush mattress piled
with a thick duvet and fluffy pillows was a slice of heaven.  When he'd given
her the clothes he'd bought, she'd greedily grabbed one of his undershirts
and the new underwear and went into the bathroom to change, discarding
her old clothes and donning these after a long, wonderful shower.  And the
look on his face when she emerged with wet hair, clad only in underwear, an
undershirt, and an open blouse sent thrills down her back.  Scully *wanted*
him to get ideas.

And now, she allowed herself a few moments of rest then sat up on the bed,
spreading out the supplies she had garnered from her visit to the drugstore.
Neosporin, Ibuprofin, aloe vera, bandages, iodine and rubbing alcohol.
Plus, some assorted toiletries and another bottle of that lotion she'd used
back at the ranch.

The ranch.  While Mulder had been getting things sorted out in the room, he
had showed her the newspaper he'd picked up on the street.  A grainy
photograph of Candelaria was centered on the page, under a large headline:
"MUERTE EN UNA ESTANCIA PATAGONICA".  From what little she
could tell from the article, seven people had been found murdered on the
ranch they had left.  Wilhelm Schweig, Candelaria's real name, and six of his
servants were found dead by a night watchman.  No motive had yet been
found, but the newspaper was not shy in mentioning Schweig had many
enemies and that he lived under great secrecy.

Scully found no mention of the F.B.I. or even Americans in the article.

They had not murdered this man, she knew that.  They had done nothing
wrong, except take some money from that desk.  And from the looks of
things, they were not under suspicion;  indeed, she couldn't tell that the
authorities even knew that she and Mulder had been at the ranch.

Still, that did not make her feel any better.

This hotel room was by far the safest place for them to be, Scully told
herself, until they could get the hell out of the country and back to D.C.
But even that could be dangerous, considering they had no idea just what
that fax from the Bureau had meant.  Somebody in the executive branch of
the F.B.I. wanted them dead.  She knew it was not Skinner.  She trusted
him far too much for that.  As for the rest of the branch -- who knew?
Could be the Smoking Man, might even be someone not directly employed
by the Bureau.  Anyone with access to the executive level fax machines
could have sent that.

Even after all they had seen, the possibility scared the hell out of her.  As
her father had been known to say, they were well and truly screwed.

The rumblings of a shower being cut off jolted her back to reality.  She
folded the newspaper and set it beside her, then gathered the drugstore
supplies back into their bag and put them next to the bag of food she'd
gotten at the supermarket.  After a few minutes of listening to him rumble
around in the bathroom, he emerged.

My God.

His hair was a mass of just-from-the-shower spikes, and droplets of water
ran down bare arms.  Wearing only his khaki pants and a tank top, Mulder
had never looked more amazing.

Somehow locating her voice, Scully murmured, "I got the food out."

"Great, thanks."  He sat down on the bed next to her, wincing noticeably as
he folded his legs in front of him.  Spread out before them was their "feast",
an assortment of fruit and empanadas, chosen for their nutritional value and
ease of consumption.  She watched Mulder pick up an empanada and bite
into the pastry, to the ham and cheese filling, then she did the same.

"Well, Scully, counting the money left over from the ranch along with what
the guys wired us, we have about $5,100, which should be more than
enough to get home."

"What about the passports?" she asked, after swallowing another bite of the
pastry.

He finished his empanada then picked up some grapes.  "Byers says it's
going to be a few days before he can get them ready, and I asked him to
ship them to us in Buenos Aires."

"How are we going to get there -- wait, where are we, anyway?"

She watched Mulder take out a map and spread it out on the bed.  He
pointed to a spot in the southwestern part of the country.  "We're in
Bariloche."  His finger swept up the map to a point on the east coast.  "Here
is Buenos Aires.  It's about 800 miles away."

"Could we fly?"

"We could.  The next direct flight is tomorrow morning.  I'd rather take a
car out there, but we can't afford to waste a day that way."

"Let's fly, then."  Scully finished her second empanada and lay back on the
bed, propping herself on her elbows so she could still see his face.  Mulder
scooted around on the bed until he was sitting next to her.  He took a long
sip of his bottled water, then replaced the cap.

"What do you think of that fax, Scully?"

She leaned her head back so that she was staring up at the ceiling, the back
of her head pressing against her neck.  Her sigh vibrated through her chest,
but couldn't take away any of the tension coursing through her body.  "I
don't know, Mulder.  I honestly don't know."

Scully felt one of his hands come up to play with her hair, and another, more
delicious thrill floated down her spine, pooling in her belly.  "We need to get
back home, as soon as possible.  We need to get away from this place
before someone finds out we were at that ranch," he said, referring to the
newspaper article.

Although the clock on the table beside the bed read 1:13 PM, the light
through the window darkened and a hard rain began to assault the
windowpanes.  She closed her eyes, listening to the staccato beating of the
raindrops and the elongated sloughing of his breath.

The bed shifted under her and she opened her eyes to find him clearing all of
the food off the bed and placing it on the small table in their room.  Scully
struggled to a sitting position and picked the bag from the pharmacy up
from the floor and emptied it onto the bed.

"Let's get you cleaned up, Mulder."

He turned to look at her, a dark look on his face and his chest rising and
falling with each deep breath.  She met his gaze and kept it as she took each
item out of the bag.  Peeling off his shirt, he lowered himself onto the bed
and stretched his legs out next to her, wincing noticeably with soreness.

"Tell me where you hurt," she instructed, pulling out her tube of neosporin.

Mulder gestured toward his shins and murmured, "I think I have some
scratches on my legs."

"Well," Scully replied, moving on the bed so she sat next to the legs in
question, "I can't help you with those cuts if you keep wearing those pants."
Her voice trailed off on the last word.  He caught her gaze and something
passed between them -- something intangible and wonderful, giving
credence to everything they had felt the past week, everything they'd felt
during their lives together.

She watched his hips move as he removed the pants in a fluid motion,
exposing his legs inch by inch until all he wore was a pair of white boxer
shorts, the first stirrings of arousal visible in the folds of fabric.

Shaky fingers fumbled with the tiny cap on the tube of ointment in her hands
and somehow it loosened, the flexing of her hands on the tube spilling some
oily cream on her thumb.  Her hand reached out to rest on his left shin and
fingers tangled in the wiry hair on his leg as she spread the medicine on an
angry red scratch.  Rubbing it into his skin, she felt the shuddering of his leg
under her hands, thrilling her with a sense of power.  But despite the
sensation, she could scarcely manage a whisper as she told him to part his
legs so that she could reach the scratches on the inside of his knee.

Capturing her heart in his hands, he obeyed her request, then she heard a
groan catch in his throat as his hips bucked slightly with the movement.

He must have noticed the look of worry and confusion in her eyes, for he
sheepishly murmured, "Too much horseback riding."

"Oh, are you bruised?"  Her voice became coy of its own volition.

"Careful, Scully.  The only thing that has a chance of being bruised is my
ego."  A smile quirked at the corners of his mouth.

She returned his smile.  "Keep at it and your ego might get lucky."

He didn't respond, instead gasping for air as her hands worked their way up
his thighs until they rested where his shorts met dark skin.  The ointment
was forgotten as nimble hands worked at his quadriceps, molding them into
submission.  Scully marveled at the effect she had on him, as the front of his
boxers grew and the fly slightly opened, offering tantalizing shadowed
glimpses within.

A full moan escaped his lips, his Adam's Apple bobbing with the motion and
his eyes slipping shut in the precursor to ecstasy.

Drawing her hands away from his legs with difficulty, she moved them up to
his stomach, resting her palms on the flat, taut muscles of his stomach.
Fingers played with the sparse curls of hair, mimicking his own movements
of the night before.  She flattened the pads of her fingertips on the warm
skin, not wanting to add to his injuries by nicking his flesh with her ragged
fingernails.

Her hands rested above his heart, its steady beat mimicking the rain
pounding on the window of their hotel room, their brief refuge in the midst
of this maelstrom.

"Your chest looks... fine, Mulder.  No scratches."

"No scratches?"

She ran one slightly torn fingernail over his nipple, scratching him slightly
but not breaking the skin, and was rewarded by the deep shudder of his ribs
and his breath.  "Would you like me to scratch you?"

HIs voice was more ragged now, more strained as he murmured, "That's all
right... unless you have more of that cream."

"I have something better, Mulder."  He flinched slightly as she removed her
hands from his chest and reached for the bottle of lotion she had bought
earlier.  Squeezing a generous amount onto her hands, the cool cream mixed
with the heat of her palms.  She rubbed her hands together, spreading out
the lotion, then placed her hands flat on his chest, working the lotion into his
skin.

His eyes closed in ecstacy.

She smiled.

He inhaled, and she could feel him breathing in her smell, the arousal she
could feel coming off her in waves mixing with the gentle floral scent of the
lotion.  Scully gave his chest her undivided attention for a few minutes, until
the lotion was long gone, leaving only its scent and the smoothness of his
skin as a memory.

And then he opened his eyes.

Yet again, Mulder made her feel beautiful.

Finally, he spoke.

"You must have some scratches too, Scully."

She quirked an eyebrow in response.  Her answer came in the form of her
taking off the shirt she had worn over the tank top and lying back on the
bed.  She closed her eyes as he moved on the bed, the faint noises of covers
rustling and objects picked up and discarded bathing her over-sensitive ears.
The faint, clean scent of aloe floated up to her face and she inhaled the
mixture of it and Mulder greedily as his cool hands took hold of one of her
feet and massaged the gel into it, soothing away the still-tender pains the
chill of the Antarctic had given her.

Giving herself over to the feeling, sensuality overtook prudence and she
murmured, "I always thought this would happen at my home, in my bed.
Not here."

"This?"

"Us, Mulder."

"Ah."  He gently placed her foot back on the bed and took the other one in
his hands, working the healing gel into her skin.  "You always thought?"

She lifted her head and looked at him, at the waves of love and passion
giving his body a beautiful glow.  "Always."  Scully paused, letting her
words sink in.  "I never doubted it."

He smiled at her, eyes narrowing and darkening.  Shifting on the bed, she
propped a few pillows under her head so that she could watch him touching
her.  Her gaze focused on his hands as he ran them up and down her legs,
his feather-light touch giving her goosebumps.  After a slight moment of
hesitation, Mulder moved his hands up to the fleshy skin of her hips,
kneading them lightly for a few minutes then slipping just his fingertips
under the elastic bands of her underwear.

"Take them off."  The rasp of her voice scratched at her throat, though she
scarcely noticed, too consumed with the look of supplication mixing with
power on his face.

The muscles in her stomach tightened as she lifted her hips slightly to give
him better access while he hooked his fingers under the waistband and drew
her panties down.  The simple cotton caught on her bunched muscles as
they moved down her legs and finally away.

And then he bent over her, his legs tucked beneath him and his arms braced
on either side of her hips as he leaned over her body.  She watched him bend
down and purse his lips, then blow cool air over her belly.  Shivering with
the sensation, she shifted her hips, opening her legs slightly for him.

He began the slow worship of her body.

Fingers inched under the hem of her tank top, then eased it up until it was
bunched around her neck, his hands never making contact with her skin.
Her breathing slowed and deepened as his gaze roamed over her chest,
focusing on her collarbone then moving down to her breasts.  Silently,
wordlessly, she willed him to touch her, but still, his hands stayed away
from her skin.

She imagined herself hovering in the air, her arousal and desire for him
making her body light, free.

Finally, Mulder sat back on his heels, his hands resting at his sides.  She
looked at him and a slow, satisfied grin spread over his face.  After
everything else -- after the last *five* years -- she was reaching a place
dangerously close to her breaking point.  In something akin to a growl, she
ordered, "Touch me."

He did.

His fingertips traced her ribs, drawing oracles on her stomach.  Luxuriously,
she raised her arms and pulled the undershirt above her head, then stretched
them, running her fingers along the smooth wood of the wall then crossing
them on the headboard.  And still, Mulder drew.  His touch gained pressure
as it moved over her stomach, pressing into her taut muscles.  Fingers
inched over patches of warmth, tracing the half-moon curve of her breasts,
then pressed into the supple flesh.

Opening her eyes, she looked at him.  His face held the awe of the explorer,
the greed of a man who had just been given his greatest wish.  One hand
came up to tweak her nipple, rolling it in nimble fingers.  A wave of glory
rushed through Scully's body, her hips bucking upward and her throat
closing with the ecstasy.  He repeated the motion with his other hand,
picking up the rhythm of the rain on the window, matching the thrumming
of blood in her veins.

Finally, it became too much.  One of her arms reached up and curled around
the back of his neck, drawing him down to her.  His tongue snaked out of
his mouth and she watched him trace a circle around the mole on the curve
of her right breast, thinking nothing could possibly be more wonderful, more
perfect than this.  Running her fingers through her hair and nudging his head
with her hand, she moved him the few inches to her nipple, then gasped as
he latched onto it, suckling fiercely with full lips.  Breath drew through
clenched teeth and she squirmed with the pleasure of it all, urging him
forward to bring her closer to completion.

After allowing him a lifetime of feasting, she couldn't handle any more
without collapsing in an ocean of sensation.  Grabbing his head in her hands,
she pulled him up with as much strength as she could muster, up to her
mouth.  And she began to feast on him.  This kiss eclipsed all the others they
had shared, the previous tenderness transformed into a need to devour one
another, to take him into her mouth and swallow him whole.

But she needed all of him.  With one shaking hand, she caught his wrist in
her grasp and tugged it down to her hips, pushing it into the flesh of her
mons.

"Now," she ordered between moans.

"But--" he whispered into her mouth.

She moved his hand down until it rested between her legs, gliding over the
slickness of her arousal.  "I want you in me now.  Play later."

Forcing her eyes open, she stared at him, willing him to forego the slow
luxuriousness of exploration and to give him what they both wanted.  One
another.  Somehow he managed to remove his shorts with one hand, his
other hand pressing up into her folds and teasing her clit as he leveraged for
balance.  Bracing his hands on either side of her, he was suddenly right
where she wanted -- needed -- it.  Before he could move away to tease her
some more, one of her shaky hands reached down and grasped his
steel-smooth cock, holding it hard lest he mistake her intent.  Guiding it to
her entrance, she clenched her fist around him and was rewarded by a
lightning-quick shudder moving through his body, head to toe.

Scully drew breath into her lungs as she drew him into her, stretching and
filling her.  His body was hard, his lips soft on her forehead as he nearly
collapsed onto her, managing to raise on his elbows lest they be crushed
together.  She raised her head to lick his jawline and he slowly began to
move within her, in and out.  Stretching and inflaming.  Her arms curled
around his back and she used the muscles in her legs to raise slightly then
roll them over, her body pressing down into his.

She looked down on him.  He was hers.

Entreaties were unnecessary to make him touch her again, as one hand came
up to rest on her breastbone and the other snaked down to where they were
joined.  He massaged her clit, touching the hooded nub lightly at first, then
with an increasing pressure until she couldn't bear any more pleasure.

As she gave herself over to the waves of climax, one word slipped through
her lips.  "Mulder."

Just as she thought she might fall over, unconscious from the sheer pleasure
of it all, he clasped his hands around her back and held her steady, riding the
waves with her until she managed lucidity again.  Though her physical
pleasure had subsided, the joy she felt in his gaze remained strong as she
smiled weakly and clenched her inner muscles around him, begging him
come.

And he did.  As she felt him empty into her, his hips jerking up into her own,
he managed to speak through gasps of air.  "Scully.... I...."  Words were
smothered as his face clenched in ecstasy for seconds she was too
enraptured to count, then he finally relaxed.  Happy.

His lover murmured, "Me too, Mulder."
 

+++++++++++++++
 

Years from now, when his mind drifted back to this time in their lives, Fox
Mulder would have a wealth of memories.  The tether by which he'd been
led, the way everything almost collapsed upon them, the knowledge that this
time -- when it had mattered more than any hint of any truth -- he had been
able to save Scully.  That through his exertions and sheer will, he had been
able to find her and rescue her from the possibility of a cruel, icy grave, and
that by doing so, she had saved him from desolation.

But most of all, Mulder would remember this moment, of lying in Scully's
arms and being able to touch her, to please her, to show her all the love he
felt for her, without reservations.  If perfection were to be found in life, this
was it.

Though his nervous system cried out for sleep, Mulder simply lay there, one
arm tucked under her body, holding her close, and the other tracing the
muscles of her arm.  He watched her, memorizing her face in the afterglow
of making love, wanting nothing more than to stay like this forever.

She was the first to break their silence.

"The horseback riding doesn't seem to have taken a toll."

A slow smile spread over his face.  "Oh, just wait until you see me at full
speed."

"I'm not sure I could handle that."

Laughter rolled in waves over his exhausted body.

"Let's get out of here, Mulder," she whispered, her voice changing in his
ears.  Deepening, more serious.

Turning to look at her, he replied, "I'll go out in a little while to get us
tickets for the flight tomorrow."

"We can't go out.  Someone might see us."

"We haven't had any indication anyone is looking for us, Scully,"  Mulder
sighed, strength returning to his voice.

"But we don't know they're not."  She rolled over onto her back, loosening
herself from his hold.  His first instinct was to pull her close again, but he
knew the movement was her way of regaining her concentration.  Attempts
at compartmentalization were the first reaction of this step they had taken,
and the psychologist in him understood that.  But then, they had spent five
years loving each other and being such a strong partnership, and he knew
that as they became accustomed to this new open familiarity, it would blend
into their lives as surely as did everything else they had with one another.

Scully was silent for a few minutes.  "We're going to get out of here and
back home, I know that.  And when we do, would you promise me
something?"

"Anything, Scully."  In her profile, he glimpsed the first whispers of a smile.

"Promise me we'll come back here every anniversary."

"Anniversary of what?  Our first kiss?  The first time we made love?"  The
words rolled off his tongue, warming him.

Scully turned her face to his.  "All of it.  But first, we have so much to do.
We have to find out what happened to me, why all this is happening."  He
pulled her close, her head resting on his chest.

"Are you sure you want to know?"  His mood darkened.  The words were
more for himself than for her.  Though he had lived his life in a quest for
Truth, some truths terrified him, as much for what they might mean to her
as for his own inadvertent complicity in them.

They lay there together for a long moment before she whispered, "Yes.
Yes, I do."

Sometime later, in the midst of somnolence and thought, he felt her drift off
to sleep.  While her breathing lengthened and deepened, each puff of air
moving over his chest, he stared up at the ceiling, listening to the rain beat
against the windowpanes.

He had drawn her into this mess.  He had caused so many things -- terrifying
things -- to happen to her.  Though he wanted to believe that love
conquered all, it did little to assuage the cloak of guilt covering him.  No
matter how much they overcame, that responsibility would never leave him.
He wanted so much more for her than his love alone could provide.

And so he held her close, letting her sleep, absorbing the memories of this
time they had together, and he prepared himself for the day when he would
have to leave her, to save her.
 

+++++++++++++++++
 

Red slowly became black.

Mulder shifted on his feet and adjusted the cheap plastic gloves on his
hands, then wrapped the towel more securely around Scully's shoulders
before bringing his hands back up to her head and massaging the thick
greyish-black gel into her hair.  With a small sigh, she arched her neck and
let her head hang back, her hair swirling over his fingers.  She had never
known hair washing -- or hair dyeing, as the case may be -- to be so erotic.

The dark brown temporary dye had been chosen so that she could blend into
their surroundings more easily;  though she had seen many people with
lighter hair colorings as she'd walked the streets of Bariloche, she knew that
a darker hue would allow her to attract less attention than would her natural
red.  She reminded herself that this color would fade away within a few
weeks, and looked forward to seeing how the difference would look on her,
so long as she was assured that she would eventually return to the red she
had always secretly loved.

"I think that should do it," Mulder said, placing his hands on her shoulders.
She could feel him squeeze lightly through the towel.

She lifted her head and met his gaze in the mirror.  "No, keep going," she
murmured, then moaned softly as his hands came back up to her head and
began to massage her scalp.  Closing her eyes, she let herself absorb the
sensation, a now-familiar lassitude moving through her body.  Her body still
bore the warmth and tingle of the love they had made just a few hours
earlier.

Scully felt one of his hands move away from her head, then his cheek
pressed against hers, stubble scraping along her skin.  He placed a kiss on
the corner of her mouth, letting his lips linger there for a few moments while
he pulled her closer to him.

A slight smile painting her face, she whispered, "Mulder, you're going to get
dye all over you."

"It'll wash off," he murmured against her skin.

She felt his hands -- now gloveless -- inch under the towel draped over her
shoulders like a cape, and rest on her ribs, kneading them and his thumbs
brushing the sensitive undersides of her breasts.  Letting him hold her close,
she imagined herself sinking into his body, becoming one with him.  One
with Mulder.  She loved that she could now let herself love him, to touch
him and look at him without having to wait and plan for a day which might
never come.  The day had come, however, and this oasis of quiet peace in
the middle of all the fear and danger surrounding them kept her sane.

"Do you think we'll be able to get plane tickets tomorrow at the airport, or
do we need to go get those today?"

Mulder took a moment to respond, as she watched him examine them in the
mirror.  "I think we'll be okay, though I should probably make a few phone
calls to make sure."

"And what do we do when we get to Buenos Aires, Mulder?  Do we keep
running?  How long can we stay undercover with all these people looking
for us?"

"We have to."  Instead of straightening up, he curved his head closer,
resting his chin in the crook of her neck.  She loved that they could discuss
such serious matters and still keep this closeness.  "If we can get those
passports, that will help a great deal."

She met his gaze in the mirror.  "Where are the guys sending them?  How
will we be able to pick them up without anyone noticing?"

"They said they can send them to a friend of theirs in the city."

"A friend of theirs?"  Though the Gunmen had helped them immeasurably in
the past -- and even now -- she still wasn't certain just how far she could
trust them, or at least, trust friends of theirs.  Paranoia such as theirs bred
wariness.  "What do we know about this person?"

"Well, all Langly could tell me on the phone was that she was a friend of
theirs, that she was American but her late husband was Argentinian, and that
she has a deep distrust of the U.S. government.  They seem to think that she
can be trusted."  Mulder's voice maintained the surety so characteristic of
his personality, though she sensed an undercurrent of wariness which
matched her own.  "Langly said that she'd probably be more than willing to
offer us a safe place to stay for a few days."

She raised an eyebrow.  "I'm not sure about this."

"I'm not entirely sure, either, but right now it's our safest bet.  We know
nothing about Buenos Aires, and despite our wealth of experience in
navigating unknown places," he smirked at her, "it might be worthwhile to
have a contact who knows their way around and can give us assistance in
getting home.  Besides," his grin faded, "one thing that can be said about the
Gunmen is that, as far as we know, they don't have any connections with the
Consortium, and it's a safe bet to say their contacts don't either."

"Perhaps," she murmured, wanting to scold herself for the suspicion in her
voice but it was as large a part of her soul as was he now.  Mulder might
not always love her skepticism, but he did love her prudence -- she knew
that.

He turned his head and made to draw away from her, kissing her earlobe
and letting his tongue roam over the whorls of cartilage.  She shivered with
the sensation and barely heard as he whispered, "I'll call them on the way to
the airport tomorrow and get this woman's address and phone number, then
we can decide if we want to contact her when we get to the city."

"Okay."  She returned his whisper.

Standing up straight, Mulder placed his hands on her shoulders and adjusted
the towel protecting her skin from the dye.  "How much longer does that
stuff need to set on your hair?"

"About five or ten more minutes."

"I can think of a good way to pass the time."

"Oh?"

He nudged her shoulders so that she could turn to face him.  "On the
counter, Scully," he ordered her.  She followed, shivering slightly as the
cool tile moved against her bare ass.  Letting her feet hang down from the
edge, she flexed then pointed her toes, the stretching motion soothing her
tired legs.  Mulder dropped to his knees, kneeling before her.  He brought
his hands to her waist and pulled her forward slightly, until her hips perched
on the edge of the counter and her toes grazed the floor.

She looked down at Mulder, the smoldering of his gaze warming her as
much as did his smooth touch.  A shiver coursed through her body, thrilling
her with the intimacy of this between them.  His voice was more growl than
lucidity as he said, "I never got a chance to do this earlier."   With that, he
gently pushed her legs apart and buried his face in the sensitive flesh of her
core.

Oh, God.  Through the fury of the awakening of her body, she felt his
tongue tracing her, his breath against the sensitive skin.  Her hands braced
against the countertop were the only things keeping her from melting as he
continued to feast on her, every small motion he made sending shivers
through her body.  The rasp of the stubble of his beard on her thighs
inflamed her as much as did his tongue.  Each time she felt herself close to
climax, her legs involuntarily clenched around his body, and he backed
away, placing tender kisses on her thighs then looking up at her, his face
slick with... her.

The first time, she moaned, "Oh... don't stop."

The second time, she whispered, "Thank you, Mulder."  Though the words
were spoken in the haze of approaching climax, she meant them.  A
breathtakingly beautiful smile spread over his face, and he returned to his
task, bringing her off with a frenzy of sensation and enrapturement.  She had
never felt so *alive* in her life.

Some minutes later, they stood under the spray of the shower, as Mulder
gently washed the dye out of her hair, then they soaped each other's body
and cleansed away everything but the emotions they felt.  And once they
were dry and a towel was wrapped around her wet hair, they moved to the
bed, to spend one more night together before once again being plunged into
the unknown.
 

+++++++++++++++
 

The two of them woke early the next morning, having spent the night in bed
together, holding each other tightly as if even in their dreams they were
afraid the other would vanish.  They quickly packed up their few belongings
into the bag Mulder had bought, then stole downstairs to turn in their room
key and pay to have the towels they had ruined replaced.  Hailing a taxi
outside of the hotel, they crowded into the backseat, the overstuffed bag of
clothing and supplies resting between them, and ordered the driver to take
them to a telephone office so that Mulder could call the Gunmen to get
information on this contact of theirs in Buenos Aires.

When the taxi pulled up at the locutorio, Mulder got out and ran into the
office while Scully remained in the car, slouching down in her seat so as not
to attract attention.  His conversation with his friends was brief.  He
scribbled down the woman's address and phone number on a scrap of paper,
then asked Byers one question:

"Can this woman be trusted?"

"Yes," his friend replied, and Mulder wanted to believe.

He replaced the receiver and quickly left the office to rejoin Scully in the
car.  She called out to the driver to take them to the airport, and the man
navigated the streets while Mulder kept a surreptitious watch for anyone
who might be following them.  Although they appeared to be in the clear,
the events of the past few days would not let him relax for a moment.

They finally reached the airport with only fifteen minutes to spare.  Scully
paid cash for two tickets to Buenos Aires under the names "Martin and
Gloria Smith" while Mulder scanned the small airport, trying to catch a
glimpse of the plane they would use.  Glancing out the window, he saw
people already boarding the plane, which barely looked large enough to
carry people to the next town, much less the 800 miles to the capital.  Still,
he had flown on worse before, and in their haste to get out of this place and
back on safe -- or relatively so -- ground, the airplane looked like heaven
itself.

Fortunately, because this was a domestic flight, they did not need passports,
though the clerk's wary glance spurred Mulder to pull Scully away from the
counter and toward the plane as soon as the tickets were in hand, lest the
woman get any ideas.  They made their way out to the tarmac and onto the
plane, which only contained a few dozen passengers.  Taking seats in the
front so they would be visible to as few eyes as possible, Mulder and his
partner got seated, keeping their bag at their feet, and only allowed
themselves to relax when the airplane was safely in the air.

He glanced over at the woman next to him, and a shiver ran through his
body as she took his hand in hers.  The same hands had caressed and loved
him the previous night, its beauty still lingering in her face.

His voice dropped to a whisper as he said, "When we get to Buenos Aires,
we'll go straight to this woman's house.  Byers' directions on how to get
there were very specific."

Mulder could see his partner's face tense slightly as she whispered back,
"Okay."

"I'll call the guys and give them the header data from the F.B.I. fax and see
if they can trace it.  Hopefully we can fnd out where it was sent from."  His
hand reflexively moved to his breast pocket, where the fax and rolodex card
were kept as safely as he could manage under the circumstances.  What he
wouldn't give for a photocopier and a lockbox.  "I'm also going to ask them
to do some research into this Schweig person, to find out just who this guy
is and how he's connected to all this."

Scully nodded.  "Once we get the passports, I want to go straight back to
D.C., Mulder.  I *need* to get back there.  We can't keep running like this."

"I know."  But if she was by his side, they could run forever.

They relaxed as much as their minds would allow them, and spent the rest of
the flight in silence, finding safety only in each other's presence.
 

+++++++++++++++
 

Back at the Bariloche airport, a man pulled a cellular telephone out of his
coat pocket, then punched in a number and raised it to his ear.  He waited
for the call to connect, then spoke into the mouthpiece, saying in Spanish,
"Austral airlines, flight 97."  Disconnecting the phone, he put it back into his
pocket, where it nudge the belt holster of his automatic pistol.

Taking one last look at the airplane taking off outside, he turned on his heel
and walked out of the airport, then got into his car and drove south.
 

+++++++++++++++
 

The plane touched down in Buenos Aires without fanfare.  Scully and
Mulder were the first to disembark, and they made a show of togetherness
so as to give the impression they were a couple just back from a romantic
weekend together.  Truth be told, Mulder didn't mind the charade one bit.
His arm around Scully's waist and her head -- with that new dark hair --
brushing against his shoulder felt wonderful.  The smile painting his face
was as much a show of his contentment as it was for appearances' benefit.
He loved holding her close.  He loved her.

They made their way out into the terminal and followed the signs to the taxi
queue,  surreptitiously scanning the corridors for suspicious faces.  Mulder
was rather surprised that nobody seemed to be following them so far.  This
was all too easy.  Though he certainly couldn't complain about the relative
ease of their escape from the ranch, he worried that they weren't looking in
the right places, that danger was everywhere but they couldn't see it.  Any
number of people could be after him:  Candelaria/Schweig's men, the
Consortium he appeared to have worked for, even the F.B.I., if they were
involved in this as the fax in his pocket suggested.  Even though the
newspaper had apparently given no suggestion that the authorities knew that
he and Scully had been at the ranch when Schweig was murdered, and even
though Mulder doubted that the man had kept any records of the agents'
having been at the ranch, the possibility of discovery remained strong in his
mind.

They had to get to a safe place as quickly as possible, then get home.  Yet
even that plan was problematic -- someone would probably be lying in wait
for them in D.C.  Suddenly, going home immediately wasn't as safe an
option as it had been before, but they couldn't hide out in South America
forever.  Too many lives were counting on them:  the lives of the people
who could be affected by this plague wrought by the Consortium, and their
own lives.  Mulder knew that if they were meant to die, better it be at home,
serving justice and exposure of these criminals, than on the run in a strange
land.

And better that they were doing so together.

Scully got into the taxicab first, sliding across the backseat to accomodate
Mulder.  He settled himself in the fake vinyl seat and rested the bag on his
lap, then pulled the information on their contact out of his pocket.

"Calle Herrera, 14, por favor," he called out to the driver, in what he knew
was badly accented Spanish.

The driver turned slightly to face them.  "Cu l barrio?"

Mulder furrowed his brow, not knowing what he was being asked.  The
driver turned all the way around and appraised his passengers.  With a look
of disinterest, he repeated in broken English, "What town?"

"Town?"  Mulder asked, blankly.

"Ay.... er... neighborhoods?"

Oh.  He had no idea, and shrugged to convey his lack of knowledge.  The
driver rolled his eyes and turned back around in his seat, muttering
something under his breath.  Mulder turned to look at Scully, and a
bemused smile played along the corners of his lips.

"Hey, how would *I* know what neighborhood?  Byers didn't tell me that,"
Mulder testified in his defense.  Scully merely grinned back at him, and a
flash of testosterone coursed through his veins -- the alpha male
embarrassed by not being a success in front of his woman.  Alpha Mulder
felt ridiculous, even though he knew that Scully didn't think less of him for
that.  Still, failure -- while it was a familiar feature of his life -- didn't come
comfortably for him.

The two of them were silent for much of the ride, as Mulder stared out the
window, memorizing each turn and drawing a mental map of their route for
future reference.  As they passed a large public square, Scully reached over
and ran her fingers along his forearm, then placed her hand back in her lap.
The simple touch scorched through the thickness of the sweater he wore,
sending a jolt through his body.  Even after they had made love, Scully still
held that power over him.

The car eventually stopped at a large gated driveway, and the driver called
out, "Calle Herrera, 14."  Mulder craned up in his seat and read the taxi
meter, then pulled out enough cash for the fare and a tip.  The man didn't
quite smile as he muttered, "Gracias," and hit the automatic door locks so
the couple could exit.  Almost before they could gain their footing on the
sidewalk, the sound of tires screeching on pavement echoed down the
street.

The Pereira residence was impressive, Mulder had to admit on first glance.
An enormous wrought-iron gate was flanked by 10' high stucco walls, with
a machine-gun wielding guard stationed in front.  He could see the sparkle
of broken glass embedded into the top of the wall, as extra protection
against intruders.  As Mulder picked up the bag and hoisted it onto his
shoulder, Scully approached the guard.

"Mrs. Pereira is expecting us," she said in the authoritative voice Mulder
loved.

The guard appraised them, apparently checking to see how much of a threat
they posed.  Fortunately for him but unfortunately for them, their threat was
bodily only, since they had had to get rid of Schweig's pistol before going
through the metal detector back at the Bariloche airport;  Mulder doubted
that hand-to-hand combat against this man would be successful, despite the
odds being in their favor.

"Who are you?"  the guard barked.

"Mr. and Mrs. Smith," Scully replied.

Without another word, the guard walked over to the gates and unfastened
the latch, then gestured them inside with the butt of his machine gun.
Mulder's mind flashed back to a different guard doing the same thing at that
ranch, and stifled the sense of foreboding at the image.

The front driveway curved gracefully toward a large house, painted in a
garish yet oddly elegant color scheme of yellow and green.  In place of a
front door, a large wrought-iron gate graced the center of the building,
flanked by huge curtained windows.  The agents approached the gate, and
the majordomo opened the latch for them, after asking their names and
speaking into a walkie-talkie.  Scully led the way through an archway with
large dark wooden doors on either side, to a huge courtyard.  Foliage and
flowers of all colors and styles grew in controlled chaos, while the center of
the courtyard boasted a large tiered fountain.  The entire effect was one of a
vaguely bohemian luxury, carefully planned to give the appearance of calm
-- an appearance belied by yet another guard standing sentinel at the other
end of the courtyard.  His appearance made Mulder's muscles tense.

Mulder set the bag down next to him while Scully moved forward, further
into the garden, cautiously looking around her with every step.  Before she
could reach the fountain, a loud American-accented voice rang through the
space.

"Ah!  You must be Age-- Mr. and Mrs. Smith!"  The woman quickly
corrected herself.  Mulder pivoted to look at her as she walked up behind
him.  Mrs. Barbara Pereira was definitely a sight to behold.  She stood
nearly six feet tall, the brightly-colored clothing she wore fighting a duel
with her fair skin and hair.  He speculated she must have seen one too many
Carmen Miranda films, judging from the flounces of her floral-print skirt and
red blouse, and the flower tucked behind one ear;  the overall appearance
was one of a spokesmodel for a banana plantation, rather than a woman in
control of what was obviously a small fortune.  The doyenne walked with
purpose, each high-heeled step sending an echo around the courtyard.  As
she approached, Mulder figured that in her heyday she probably *was* a
spokesmodel; lines on her face were visible through a layer of makeup,
though beauty must have rested there once upon a time.
 

Scully was next to him in a few steps, as Pereira hugged each of them and
kissed their cheeks.

"Come on," her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "I've heard so
much about you two and I want to hear all about your adventures!"

Glancing over at Scully, he was rewarded by a deliberate roll of her eyes;
when Pereira looked back at him, he stretched his sly smile for his partner
into a bright grin for their hostess.  Pereira approached one of the doors in
the archway and clapped her hands briskly, signaling the majordomo to open
the door and take their bag from Mulder.

Lady of the Manor, indeed.  Mulder silently cursed the Gunmen and
followed the woman inside, his hand resting on the small of Scully's back as
much to support her as himself.

Sighing deeply, they allowed themselves to be escorted to the sitting room,
so that Barbara Pereira could learn all about their "adventures."
 

+++++++++++++++
 

The young man attracted little attention as he bicycled down Calle Herrera.
His light olive complexion and curly black hair blended in with the other
youth on the street, and on first glance, a stranger would see little to set the
man apart from all the other young men in the Capital.  They would see only
a man on his way to a rendezvous, perhaps with a sweetheart, and overlook
the slight bulge in his back waistline, concealing a handgun.

Slowing down slightly as he passed Calle Herrera, 14, he did not stop his
bicycle, lest he attract attention from the sentry outside.  He imprinted into
his mind the image of the privacy wall as quickly as possible, then continued
down the street, on his way back to the small hotel room where he could
plan his next course of action.

Jacob Smith had very little time.
 

+++++++++++++++
 

The cool spring breeze filtered through gauzy curtains framing open
windows, which looked out onto a verdant courtyard lit by torches and
discreet floodlights.  Scully sat on the edge of the bed and unlaced her
boots, then walked barefoot to the window, taking care to stay out of the
sight of anyone in the courtyard.  Below, a party was in full swing, the
sounds of band music and social chatter floating up toward her window.
She raised her arms above her head and stretched, the twinges of pain in her
muscles both invigorating her and helping her to relax.  The combination of
the amber hues of sunset and the flickering candlelight made the room
darker, and though she welcomed the shadows, she reluctantly stole away
from the window and walked over to the far corner of the room to turn on a
lamp.

Shedding clothes step-by-step, once she was completely naked she stopped
to pick up the clothing, folding each item carefully then placing them on top
of a low chest of drawers.  The white of her blouse stood out against the
dark mahogany wood of the furniture, which was complemented by the
polished inlaid wood floors and the greens and blues of the spread over the
four-poster bed.  Fortunately for her, though the house had been built nearly
two hundred years earlier -- a fact of which Mrs. Pereira had spoken with
pride -- the bedrooms contained private baths, created out of old bedrooms
when Barbara Pereira had moved in after marrying her husband.  Scully
stepped into the bathroom and sighed with relief at the very modern bathtub
and shower stall.  Their hostess had thoughtfully furnished the room with a
plethora of bathing products and had hung a robe on the back of the door.
She walked over to the tub and turned the knobs, drawing herself a bath.

In contrast to the characteristic Latin darkness of the bedroom, the
bathroom was furnished entirely in shades of white.  Scully rolled her eyes
at the impracticality, and after pouring nearly an entire bottle of bubble bath
into the running water, sank down into a white chair to wait until the tub
was full.  She closed her eyes and though her mind reflexively began to
reflect over their situation, she tried her best to clear her mind of all such
thought, so that she could simply enjoy her bath while she was afforded that
brief moment of peace.

The only thing which kept Scully from drifting off to sleep while immersed
in bubbles and warm water was the towel wrapped around her hair, keeping
it from getting wet and bleeding dye all over the pristine bathroom.  The
water soothed her tired muscles, helping her forget everything they had
endured in the past week, yet the idea that she felt so *good* worried her.
She was a doctor.  Her self-diagnosis told her that she had no physical
symptoms from her experience, yet her intellec