XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

TITLE: Flashing Lights
AUTHOR: TCS1121
FEEDBACK: TCS1121@hotmail.com
HOMEPAGE: www.angelfire.com/scifi2/xfilesfanfic/
RATING: R
CLASSIFICATION: X, Angst
KEYWORDS: MSR, AU
DISCLAIMER: 1013 and FOX own all the X-Files characters.
No money changes hands.
ARCHIVE: As you wish.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story takes place in the "In a Flash"
universe. You might want to read that one first to best
understand the events that take place in this story. Mulder has
been blinded and Scully has been disfigured by an explosive
blast.

Please go here:
http://www.angelfire.com/scifi2/xfilesfanfic/iaf.html
for "In a Flash," the prequel to this companion piece.
Or to:
http://x-files.bytewright.com/arcI/InAFlash.html
the Enigmatic Dr.'s site for the entire text file.

SPECIAL THANKS: Many wonderful philes helped me put
this piece together.
Thanks to Laura Savadow, and Mori my premier readers,
punctuation guides and cheering section. To Fran58
for her support and kindness. And to RachelVagts for
guidance and for putting up with me.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*
Dedicated to beta, friend, and blessing, Michelle Kiefer.
Thank you for all your hard work, and for looking out for
me, MiiMii.
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

SUMMARY:

"Scully, I've seen enough to last a lifetime."

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

"Every night in my dreams,
I see you,
I feel you..."
--Celine Dion

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Prologue xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
 

In the Gospel according to John, Jesus gave sight to a man
who was blind from birth.

This Gospel states that Jesus spat on the ground, made mud
with his saliva and smeared the mud on the blind man's eyes.
When the man washed the mud off, he could see.

It's a far greater miracle than it appears on the surface.

The brain has an area where visual memory is recorded and
stored. For someone blind from birth, this part of the brain is
literally blank. No visual images are stored there, because no
visual images could have ever been recorded. Without sight,
there are no images to store and remember.

For Jesus to have given *this* man sight, he would have also
had to create in the blind man's brain, an area where visual
images were interpreted. For example: this image is a 'lake,'
this image is a 'sunset,' this image is a 'refrigerator.'

But if a man, in his late 30's, was suddenly blinded, his visual
memory would still be intact and in full gear.

All images programmed, categorized and easily referenced.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Part One xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
 

Mulder was alone in his basement office having what he liked
to call, 'cheap fun.' Wadding up balls of paper, and tossing
them toward the wastebasket, he waited to hear the satisfying
sound of the paper wad hitting the inside of the can. He heard
that tinny thunk every time.

Of course the deck was stacked in his favor. Mulder had set
the basement up to his precise specifications, including the
distance from the desk to the wastebasket. It almost wasn't
fun anymore. If he didn't have to go searching for them when
he missed, he'd rather be tossing pencils into the ceiling.

While crackling another sheet of paper into a tight ball, Mulder
heard the door to his office swing open and a light switch click.
A small gust of air and a hint of Old Spice told him he had
company.

Mulder knew that A.D. Skinner had learned as much as he
could about blindness and visual impairment almost two
years ago when Mulder was first blinded. As far as Mulder
knew, every day that Skinner went to work, he donned Old
Spice. That way Mulder could recognize him by the scent.

Mulder hadn't needed that olfactory cue for some time now.
Skinner was more than just a scent in the air, but the gesture
still moved him nonetheless.

Guiltily stuffing the paper into his pocket, Mulder stood,
adjusted his sunglasses, and said, "Welcome, sir."

"Good afternoon, Agent Mulder." Skinner's gruff voice
sailed over to Mulder's desk.

Skinner's shoes clicked softly on the basement floor as he
approached.

"I see you're hard at work."

"Yes -- well, I -- I'm waiting for Agent Scully to return so that
we can -- uh -- finish up the last of the -- the last of the ..."

"Agent Scully hasn't returned yet? When was her
appointment?"

Mulder heard what sounded like papers shifting from one
hand to the other, then a 'plop' on the surface next to him.
Files had been dropped onto his desk.

Mulder sat and set his hands scrambling over the new
paperwork in front of him. He replied, "Her appointment
with the surgeon was at 8:30 this morning. She didn't
want me to go with her. She's very private about things
sometimes."

"I see." Skinner's voice lowered almost imperceptibly.

Skinner's chair creaked as he sat.

"I have something I want the two of you to look into. That
is, if you're not too busy."

A small smile played at Mulder's lips. Skinner had
maintained the exact same demeanor with Mulder as
he had for the past seven years. Mellowing only on rare
occasions such as: near death experiences, family
illness or death, and life altering circumstances.

But it was Skinner who insisted that Mulder and Scully be
retained as consultants to the Bureau. It was Skinner who
allowed them to keep their basement office and Bureau
expense account. And it was Skinner who tearfully
confided to Scully, that his only consolation over Mulder's
loss of vision, was that Kersh was the one who had
assigned them to that "dung finding" mission.

The small smile remained, as he said, "No, I don't think we're
*too* busy. What do you have for us?"

Skinner's chair creaked again before he spoke.

"As you know, hate crimes are Federal Crimes and therefore
fall under FBI jurisdiction. There have been a series of
crimes that the local PD in West Baltimore think may fall
into the 'Hate Crimes' category."

"Well, sir, that may be, but hate crimes aren't exactly our
specialty."

"On the surface, no, it doesn't appear to need your expertise.
However, the nature of these crimes, and the subsequent
retaliation, appear to fall under your X-Files rubric. The
crimes have been committed against a coven of witches."

"Witches?" Mulder was incredulous. "In West Baltimore?
That's why you think we're the best qualified for this
assignment?"

For an instant the words, 'Monsters? I'm your boy,' came
to his mind, and the memory made him scowl.

"Sir," Mulder continued, "Witches, by their nature, are
non-violent. The Wiccan code prohibits power manipulation
and control of others. In fact, their motto is: 'Do whatever
you wish as long as you harm no one.'

Mulder heard his boss shift in his seat and sniff the air.
"Agent Mulder, the local police don't believe these witches
belong to a Wicca coven. Their practices include a variety
of rituals and ceremonies that don't fall under any organized
spiritual practice that we can identify. The practitioners
refer to themselves as "witches." However, that's not
really the important point.

"The neighbors are apprehensive of these women, and
have made it clear that they're not welcome. At first it's
believed that the neighbors used simple methods to try to
intimidate the members into moving out of the
neighborhood. Mostly benign things like leaving chicken
heads and dog feces in the doorways and alleyways
around the member's rowhouses.

"Then the neighbors graduated to setting small fires and
verbal harassment, then finally, outright assault.

"A young, mentally retarded member, was accosted on her
way home from school one evening. A neighbor used
physical force to shove her into an alleyway, and threatened
her with a gun."

Mulder interrupted. "How many members are there in this
'coven' and do they all live in the same rowhouse?"

Mulder heard Skinner shuffle some papers before saying,
"There are six members of this--organization, and they
all live in the same small rowhouse in a very poor
neighborhood."

Now it was Mulder's turn to shift and sniff. "I agree, sir that
this does sound like it has the elements of a hate crime,
perpetrated by fearful neighbors, but I don't see why you
think this is an X-File. Other than the fact that there
are self proclaimed witches involved."

More paper shuffled before Skinner's voice said, "The
neighbors feel that the coven has retaliated in more than
one instance. Every person who was suspected of defiling
the rowhouse or bothering a coven member wound up
dead or near dead. Three victims by last count.
Causes of the injuries varied, but they were all inflicted
by their own hands."

Mulder started to speak, but Skinner lightly brushed
Mulder's hand and continued quickly.

"The last suicide attempt was thwarted when the girlfriend
arrived home just as the victim was slashing his wrists over
the kitchen sink. He said that he 'couldn't live with the
pictures anymore.'

The victim's explanation of his suicide attempt was
rambling and disjointed, but what he insists is: that
uncontrollable and disturbing images are plaguing him. He
says, 'I know the witches are playing around in my head.'
He goes on to say that he just couldn't stand it anymore."

Mulder chewed his lower lip for a moment. "Psychic, mind
melding witches? I don't suppose that any of the suicide
victims had a history of irrational behavior?"

"None that we could ..." Skinner's cell phone rang
impatiently. "Skinner." After a pause, he said, "Already?
Okay, look, I'll call you in ten."

"Agent Mulder, I have to get upstairs ..."

"I know, 'in ten.' I can still hear pretty well."

Mulder hoped that Skinner noticed the slight smile as he
spoke.

Apparently so, since Mulder heard a sarcastic sigh as
Skinner said, "I've taken the liberty of transcribing to
audio, the police reports and the preliminary investigations
into these deaths. Deaths which the Baltimore Division of
the FBI now label 'suspicious.'"

Skinner's finger tapped Mulder's wrist. Mulder turned his
hand and opened it, palm up. Skinner placed two small
audio cassettes in the middle of Mulder's outstretched
palm. Closing his hand over them, Mulder said, "Is this
all we have so far?"

"So far. After you listen to them, if you still don't think this
case is appropriate for you and Agent Scully, we can
discuss it further. When -- uh -- do you expect her back?"

Mulder paused then said, "I don't really know." He lifted the
crystal of his watch and gently felt for the time. It was
almost one o'clock.

"Actually, I was expecting her back by now. But I know
when Scully gets into consult mode, there's no telling
how long it could take."

Skinner's chair squeaked as he apparently pushed it
back to stand. He remained silent for a couple of beats.
Mulder finally said, "Sir, would you like me to let you
know when she gets back?"

"Yes, yes, I would. Thank you--Agent Mulder?"

"Yes, Sir?" Mulder said while getting to his feet.

Lowering his voice, Skinner asked, "Do you really
think she'll have the surgeries?"

The surgical consult Scully was attending, was to discuss
the feasibility of reconstructing her face. Where the
intensely bright flash from the blast destroyed Mulder's
eyesight, Scully's face and exposed skin took the brunt
of the flying debris and burning projectiles.

"I don't know. I hope so." Mulder stepped away from
the desk and hiked his left hip on the edge. "We don't
discuss it much. She's very tight lipped about it, and,
frankly it's a non-issue for me. But, I know how much
it bothers her. *She* may not even know how much
it hurts her, but I do."

"It sounds like you're back up to five senses again, Agent
Mulder. You sound like you have one that can read Agent
Scully."

Mulder snorted a laugh then said, "Another sense does
come in handy sometimes. Especially when I have a cold.
With my nose stuffed up, taste gone, and ears plugged,
I'm down to only one."

Skinner's soft heel clicks were heading for the office door
when Mulder said cautiously, "Uh -- sir?"

"Yes?"

"Like I said, we've never discussed the -- extent of the
-- uh -- damage, and she's never described herself to me.
I would just like to know -- I need to know."

Mulder sighed and his voice dropped to a very soft
whisper. "I mean, I've felt the shape of her nose and the
outline of her lips. I know where every raised scar and
spider web crack is on her skin, but in my mind, I can only
see *her*. Can you tell me? What does she look like
to you?"

Skinner was quiet for a long time. For a few minutes,
he made no sound to move or to speak. Finally he said
slowly, "It's as if -- her face doesn't quite match. It looks
like her, but there's something -- wrong."

His heels clicked a little closer to the door. They
stopped and the door opened. Skinner said, "But, I've
gotten used to it."

The office door closed softly and Mulder's basement was
black and silent.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Part Two xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Mulder had decided that the basement was too stuffy. That
the Hoover building was too stuffy. That right now, the whole
world was just a little too stuffy.

The water lapped furiously around him as he swam another
length of the Olympic size FBI swimming pool. He wore
goggles to protect his eyes, but there were tears forming in
them nonetheless. Whether it was from the chlorine, his
forgetting to blink, or the words, 'But, I've gotten used to it,'
his eyes were streaming.

He pushed off into another lap.

As his lungs worked harder to meet the demands he was
placing on his body, his mind replayed some of his life's
events.

He recalled snippets of time, out of order, but intact.
Memories and images appeared, and he hoped they
would never fade with time: a maple leaf turning gold
before its death, black stones, scoured smooth by the
ocean, littering the seashores of Maine, the pink
ribbons his mother tied in looping bows, dangling
in his sister's long, dark hair.

Mulder turned gracefully in the water. The pads of his toes
briefly gripped the side of the pool before he pushed off. By
now, he'd lost count of how many laps he'd already
completed.

Swimming mindlessly, he was lost in the snapshots in his
mind. It was more than just a game to him; it was a
meditation exercise.

He wanted to see how many events, and how many details
he could re-live and remember. Admitting only to himself, that
he was afraid of forgetting what things looked like. Like the
way you gradually forget the appearance of someone who
has died--after a while, their image is no longer sharp in
your mind. The lines become fuzzy and blurred until finally,
time washes it away completely.

The things he recalled amazed him. He could see his first car.
A used, '75 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, orange body
with a beige vinyl roof, lovingly polished, sitting in the
driveway. And there, in the corner of his thoughts, was the
Junior High School love of his life--Miss Havermore, his 7th
grade science teacher.

Miss Havermore must have been all of 22 years old. She
had short blonde hair, very little makeup, oval shaped
wire-rimmed glasses, and points of her own set way up
high. Mulder had carefully arranged to brush up against
her tight little ass one day after class. His love for her
was unconditional. Especially when she wore those
black, spike heeled pumps.

Oddly enough, Miss Havermore was also very kind to
this geeky 7th grader with an odd name and raging
hormones. She made him believe he could be a
doctor, a writer, or even a scientist if he wanted.

Like Scully.

Science and truth, smart and sexy, there she was. He
could see her, as she was seven years ago, carrying a
few extra pounds and sporting shoulder length hair.
Smiling, doubting, and loyal. Her image as clear as
yesterday.

Mulder was sure he was wearing a dopey grin as
he pulled his arms through the water.

Unbidden now, was another image of Scully, only
she was thin and pale this time. He shuddered in the
warm water as he saw her: dark circles ringing her
eyes and her skin wearing the ashen pallor of
impending death. She was begging him to let her lie
for him. Begging him to give her death some meaning.

Mulder was breathing hard now, as he executed
another perfect push off. His swimming was almost
desperate in its intensity.

So many visions stored after almost forty years. He
now knew that his sight had only been temporary; and
that he had at least as many blind years ahead as the
sighted ones that now lay behind.

He consciously shut his eyes against the water
splashing against them. There would be no new images
now. There would never be any more pictures to add
to his mental slide shows.

Now he relied on touch and textures to give him a
feel for the world around him. Smell and taste gave
depth to the darkness, and sounds and songs were
heard clearly in this eternal night. But the images
stored from his life before, were the only images he
would ever have.

From now on. Forever night.

As the water sluiced around him he thought, 'Someone
should have told me that I was about to see something
for the last time. I would have watched Scully, staring
without blinking, until the last moment.

I would have held her with my eyes until it got too
bright to ever see again.'

Because in one sudden, obscenely bright flash, all
light was snuffed out.

In their bed, late at night, as he was lulled by the gentle
cadence of her breathing, he often found himself wishing.
Just one wish was all he wanted. Mulder had learned
not to be greedy when it came to wishes. One small
wish, to see her face one last time. Just for an instant,
he wanted to see his love reflected in her eyes.

His last image of her was as she crashed, face down,
into the rocks of that doomed canyon.

And now Walter Skinner's voice played back, 'But, I've gotten
used to it.'

'His beautiful Scully,' he thought, and he sobbed once into the
water.

Even the pool was beginning to feel stuffy now.

His ragged breathing echoed off the walls, and his muscles
felt like rubber. It was time to quit.

Slowing down as he approached, he felt for the edge of the
pool with his fingertips. Mulder always made his way over
to the side, to use the ladder. He'd found that if he just
hauled himself out of the pool at any point, he very often
didn't know where he was. Mulder's concentration on his
swimming didn't include keeping an exact lap count.

His toes found the ladder and, with his hands on the
banisters, he pulled himself from the water. He ran his
hands up and down both railings until his fingers felt a
piece of cloth.

The rail with the bandana tied to it told Mulder which direction
to turn to get to the locker rooms. It was a nice low-tech
solution. If the bandana was tied to the left rail, he was on
the west side of the pool and the locker room was to his left.
On the east side, it was tied to the right.

He was given permission to tie the cloth to the ladders after
he was found wandering into the ladies locker room one
evening.

Mulder stood and shivered, even though the air was humid
and very warm. He took a deep breath through his nose,
then cocked his head to the right.

"How long have you been here?" he asked into the
darkness.

A dry towel materialized over his shoulders, and another
one was pressed into his hands. A soft alto voice
replied, "Just a little over ten minutes. You were really
putting up a fight with the water. Who were you
wrestling with?"

"No pain, no gain, Scully," he panted. There was a
sad smile to Mulder's voice as he started to vigorously
dry his hair.

"Did you forget to use your goggles, Mulder? Your
eyes look irritated."

He reached up to feel for them and, sure enough, the
goggles had washed away. Still catching his breath,
he said simply, "I started out with them on."

"I spoke with Skinner briefly, before coming up here
to look for you. He said he handed you a new case
this morning." Her voice was echoing clearly and
confidently as she spoke.

"What did the surgeon say?"

She was silent for a minute. The only sound was the
last of Mulder's wake lapping the edges of the pool.
The humid air and the odor of chlorine were oppressive.

Scully finally cleared her throat and said slowly,
"There's a lot for me to think about."

He couldn't bear her evasive answers right now. In
fact, at this moment, he couldn't bear the water
dripping from his hair, the burning in his eyes, or
even the feel of his own skin. Christ, would there
ever be enough air?

'...Someone should have told me I was about to see
for the last time...'

Mulder shook his head, then breathed out twice
before deciding. "Look, I'm going to cut out of here
early. We'll meet at home and discuss our respective
information. I know there's a lot to talk about."

The towel around his shoulders began to knead his
skin as Scully began to dry him off. Her soft voice
continued, "I have a couple of things to drop off and
pick up before I leave. You want to wait for me?"

"No. I'll grab a cab. Take your time. But Scully ...?"

"Yes?"

"You're going to have to talk to me. You do know that?"

Clearly, but not as confidently, she said, "I do know that."

"Good. I'll see you when you get home."

He moved away from her and headed into the locker
room. Blind people use phrases like, "I'll see you later."
Or, "I'm going to see my sister tonight." Because they
talk the way the rest of the world talks.

However, Mulder *would* see Scully when he got home,
because he saw her every day when his thoughts drifted
to her.

And every night in his dreams.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Part Three xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

In 1827, a blind student, Louis Braille, devised a tactile
alphabet and numbers system by using an awl and punching
raised bumps into a strip of leather. From this humble
beginning, the blind community has now devised complex
methods of reading, writing and advanced mathematical
calculations.

Touch and audio technology now allow blind and visually
impaired individuals direct Internet access.

Once Mulder accepted his condition as permanent, he had
taken advantage of all the technology available,
painstakingly mastering every task and technique. He
spent thousands of hours, studying ways to live and
interact in his new, totally dark environment.

And now, through the miracle of advanced technology, a will
to persevere, and by using his computer as a pirating
device, Mulder was able to burn the Elvis CD that crooned
happily in the background.

Alone in the dark kitchen, Mulder played the air guitar and
practiced some pelvic moves as "Blue Suede Shoes"
blasted from the living room.

The kitchen smelled of garlic and Prego spaghetti
sauce. Mulder felt that there was no such thing as 'too
much garlic,' so he helped the Prego out with some
spicy adaptations of his own.

It was a little early for dinner, which they usually ate later
in the evening, but he'd missed lunch. Besides that, he
needed something to do while he waited for Scully.
So he prepared an Italian dinner for two, with salad,
toasted garlic bread, et al.

Time had recently 'fallen back' which caused the nights
to arrive sooner. Mulder made his way over to the
front door and flipped up the light switches. That
way the lights would be on when Scully did finally
return home.

As it turned out, only a few minutes elapsed before
Mulder heard a key turning in the lock. Elvis began
singing his 1958 version of "Hard Headed
Woman" when the scent of Scully mingled with
the aroma of the bubbling spaghetti sauce.

Mulder headed out of the kitchen in time to hear a
set of keys thrown on a tabletop. As he lowered
the volume on the CD player, cool arms encircled
his waist from behind and he felt the press of her
cheek against his shoulder blades.

"Sorry it took me so long," her soft voice said.

His eyes closed in contentment. He ran his hands
down her forearms until they rested on top of her
hands that were clasped around him. While moments
like these were no longer rare, they were still so
precious.

Finally, he turned in the circle of her arms, and kissed
her lips gently. He hadn't quite figured out how his
lips knew exactly where her lips were at any given
time. He'd never really kissed her when he had
his sight, but now his lips always and effortlessly
found their mark. Testing his aim again, he met her
lips square on for another moment or two or three.

So precious.

But it was time to talk, so he reached behind him and
took her hands from his back. He pressed kisses
to her palms, then dropped them gently to her sides.

He'd decided not to dance around the questions
this evening.

"Are you ready to tell me about it?"

Before answering him, she took his hand and led
him over to the couch. It used to be blue and white
striped. Whether it still was or not, didn't matter. To
him, the couch would be eternally blue and white striped.

"Yeah, I'm ready to talk about it."

"Good --good." He smiled, relieved. "But there's
something you need to do for me first, okay?" Mulder
said as he sat.

"Of course."

He lowered his voice conspiratorially, "How 'bout
turning off the spaghetti sauce?"

She snickered loudly and her footsteps tapped away
from him on the hardwood floor.

Elvis began his soft rendition of "Suspicious Minds."

'Now that she's ready to talk,' he asked himself, 'do I
want to hear it?'

Mulder's heart beat faster and thanked God that he
had this short spaghetti sauce respite, as his mind
tried to form the words he needed.

Too soon, Scully's weight sank into the cushions
beside him.

He heard her tongue click against the roof of her
mouth as she, too, tried to form words.

His arm went around her shoulders, almost by reflex.
He leaned in close to her ear and said softly; "You told
me that there was a lot to think about."

He heard Scully draw air into her lungs. A lot of air.
Then in a rush, the words came out; "I never wanted
you to know, Mulder. Never. That's why I didn't want
you to come with me today."

"What do you mean?"

"The damage--to my face and skin. You don't really
know what the blast has done to me. I didn't want you
to come, because I didn't ever want you to hear the
doctor's say how bad it really is.

"You've felt my scars with your fingers, but your eyes
have never touched them. You told me once that I was
lucky, that as far as you were concerned, I'd never age.
I actually did feel lucky, but for a different reason. I felt
lucky because in your eyes, I'd never be scarred.

"But I am, Mulder. By facing this, I have to face it all.
The scars, the explosion, your blindness--everything.
It's not just the surgeries, extensive though they would be,
but everything. I don't know if I can face it. I don't want
to. I don't."

He paused before saying softly; "I know how the blast
affected you, how much it hurts you, even now. Of
course I don't know what the actual damage looks
like, but I have to tell you something. I lied to you,
Scully. I lied when I said it didn't matter to me. It
matters more than I can say. In fact, it's probably very
selfish of me to want you to have this done because
I don't know if I can go on from here if *you* don't.

"Our lives have changed so much, Scully, but we go on.
And in some ways my life is better than I've ever
imagined. Not all ways, of course, God knows, I
would give anything to be able to see you, to see you
loving me. But we can't stay in the past. We have to
go on together. And, maybe in your case, going on,
means going back. Back to being beautiful and
unscarred."

He paused a moment then said, "I lied, Scully. It
*does* matter to me."

Scully gasped lightly before saying, "How can you
expect me to go forward and have this done? Don't
you get it? My face can probably be reconstructed to
some semblance to its former appearance. But
you--you'll still be blind. You still won't be able to see
me, or anything else. Let me carry my scars, Mulder.
Maybe it's the only way I *can* go forward."

Could she have just said that? His face felt hot and
his voice was strangled.

"Don't you DARE, Scully!"

His voice hitched in his throat.

"Don't you dare blame this decision, or lack of decision
on me! I refuse to take the blame for your scars, or to
be the object of your guilt. This will not be placed at
my feet as a sacrifice to my disability!"

Her watery voice came back at him.

"Sometimes it *is* about you, Mulder! And this time it
is. You didn't ask for this, you didn't ask for *any* of this!
Whether I have a warped sense of survivor's guilt or not,
the bottom line is: I can see and you can't."

He lowered his voice and spoke in an intense whisper,
"Scully, that's not going to change. Ever. It took a long
while, but I've finally made peace with that. I'm okay, I
really am. But by your not having any surgery done, it
shows me that *you're* not okay with it. My blindness
is reflected in your face each time *you* look in the
mirror. How do you think that makes me feel? I
want you to go on with me. Whole and happy.
Like I am. With you."

All conversation stopped. Mulder waited expectantly
while Elvis softly sang "The Wonder of You" for
them. Scully's voice came haltingly from his left.

"The time to recoup from each of the surgeries is
something we'll need to consider. This isn't a one
shot deal, Mulder. It will take several tries to get it
right. If they even can get it right at all. They'll be long
stretches of time that I won't be able to help you...."

"Look, I'm a big boy now, Scully. I get dressed by
myself in the morning, and even match my clothes--better
than I did before, actually. I can cook for myself *and*
for you." He nodded his head toward the kitchen.

" I know how to call a cab and I can do laundry. It's
almost like I'm a real, live person. What about you?
Can you say the same thing?"

When she didn't answer, he said, "I need you for so
many reasons, Scully. Most of them selfish. But not
for the mundane tasks I need to perform to just live. I
don't need you for those any more. Not ever again.
I've learned how to take care of myself. In some ways
I feel like I'm ahead of the game."

"How can you say that?" He heard her sniff, and he
hoped she wasn't crying.

He tightened his grip on her shoulder with his left arm,
and stroked her cheek with his right hand. It was
dry.

"Don't you remember, Scully? Don't you remember
when we were searching for Big Blue? I lamented my
lack of a peg leg. I said, '....if I did have a peg leg, I'd
quite possibly be more happy and more content....'
Well, now I have my peg leg."

She remained silent, and he sat in silence with her. After
a few moments, he leaned in and kissed the top of
her head.

She finally said, "The surgeries will be painful."

"Are you afraid?"

"It'll take a lot of recovery time."

"Do you have any place to go?"

"It may not work."

"Do you have anything to lose?"

"Do I?'

"Yes, you do."

"Is that a threat?" Scully's voice was slow and serious.

"Yes," came Mulder's hushed reply. "But not the
kind you're thinking. I'll always be here. I want you
here with me. Whole or at least fighting. That's who
you are, Scully. You have yourself to lose, if you
don't try."

"I don't know if I have any fight left."

"Then I'll step into the ring for you when it gets too
hard. Just make sure you ring the bell before they
count me out."

"You'd do that for me." She said it as a statement,
not a question.

"Yes, I would."

"I'll consider it, I promise I will. But it sounds as
though you've already made up your mind about this."

"I have."

"Unlike you, I need more time."

"Take it."

"I may still say 'no.'"

"As long as it's an honest decision, and not some
perverse reasoning wrought from guilt. I refuse
the blame, I told you that."

"You told me."

"Uh--how painful?"

"Depends--varies."

"Then, if you feel you have to, let the pain be your
penance. Are you afraid?"

"No. Yes--a little."

"I am, too. But let me take care of you. Let me
do this for you. I swear to you, I can."

"I know you can. You already do."

To his surprise, when Scully touched his cheek,
he felt tears beneath her fingertips. The damn
chlorine from the pool must have made his eyes
water again.

Like hell.

"You said you needed time, and I want you to take
the time you need before deciding. I know you
value your privacy, and I respect that. But I don't
want you to ever feel that you have to keep
things from me. I love you, Scully. Don't try to hide."

Damn the chlorine.

"Don't *ever* try to hide from me. When you
pull back from me, that's when I'm really and
truly in the dark."

As her lips met his, Elvis began to sing
"Love Me Tender."

And he did.

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

Mulder handed the last wet dish to Scully. He washed
and she dried and put them away.

Dinner, though delayed, hadn't tasted too bad. The
nice thing about spaghetti sauce, Mulder reflected, is
that it stood up well to prolonged simmering. It even
stood up well to prolonged sitting on a cold stove.

Elvis had been shelved, having done his part for the
evening, and the business of law enforcement had
already begun.

"A hate crime?" Scully asked. "Does it look like a
hate crime to you?"

"Well by the strictest definition of that term, it
does," Mulder replied. "A hate crime is a crime
motivated by prejudice against a social group. A
coven is a social group, isn't it?"

"Well, yes." He heard Scully stacking the china as
she put the last of the dishes away

"So," he continued, "We're investigating a hate
crime. At least that's how the FBI sees it. But the
way I see it, you and I are actually investigating
the "X" aspect of this."

Mulder reached down and grabbed the dishtowel
wrapped around the handle of the cabinet. Drying
his hands on the scratchy fabric, he continued
speaking to the air in front of him.

"We are looking for the reasons why these men,
and they've all been men so far, have either killed
themselves--or attempted to kill themselves."

The sound of the refrigerator door opening and
closing accompanied Scully as she said, "We
have a witness we can talk to about that, don't we?"

"A witness to the attempted suicide *and* the victim
of the attempt as well." While he spoke, one hand
skimmed over the smooth countertops. His hands
abruptly dropped down to open a drawer and
rummage around.

Scully's voice rose lightly over the sound of empty
glasses clinking. "Has anyone been able to question
the victim yet? Is he physically able to be
interrogated?"

Mulder's hand found the elusive object, then gave
the drawer a gentle slam.

"From what I could gather, he's suffered no permanent
physical damage, but there may be some
psychological damage. He keeps repeating that
he can't "stand the pictures" anymore. Or words
like it. And that's *all* he's said since his girlfriend
found him filleting himself over the sink."

He felt Scully's shoulder lightly brush by his back as
she moved past him. He turned to follow her. She
said, "Do we know, for sure, that this man -- uh--what
is his name? was someone who actually harassed
any of these women?"

Mulder carefully circled the coffee table to sit on the
blue and white striped sofa. "Victor Scott. His
name is Victor Scott, but his girlfriend calls him
"Pug". And yes, Pug Scott was caught in the act.
According to the police report her mother filed, he
shoved a young, mentally challenged member, Linnea
Knox, up against the building and began yelling
obscenities at her. He ended up brandishing a
nickel-plated automatic weapon at her, which scared
her. She started screaming so loudly that her
mother heard and came running."

Mulder handed the object he'd retrieved from the
drawer up to Scully. Glass clinked on the coffee
table, and then her fingers touched his as she took
it. The cushions sank as Scully sat herself to his
right.

"Do we know, with certainty, that the other suicide
victims had dealings with these women?" A soft
popping sound was made, then the swoosh of
liquid being poured. A pause, then another glass was
filled.

"Pretty sure. At least the Baltimore Division is
pretty sure. They're actually the ones who brought
this case to Skinner's attention." Mulder leaned over
and skittered his fingertips along the top of the coffee
table until he, once again, held the corkscrew. He
heard the cork tear a little as he deftly twisted it off
the tip.

"Well, even if nothing comes of the X-Files part of it,
I'm still interested in investigating crimes committed
against women just for their beliefs. Especially if a
young, mentally retarded girl was bullied."

A cold glass was pressed up against his hand. He
raised it to sniff the contents before tasting. Mulder
was getting pretty good at sniffing the difference
between a Merlot and a Cabernet.

"Okay, I'll search out the psychics, you search out
the bigots. It's a win/win situation. Cheers!" He held
his glass out for her to tap.

After clinking and sipping, she said, "We should go
up to Baltimore tomorrow. See what that office has
come up with. Maybe talk to Pug ourselves."

"Can we meet the witches, too, Scully? I want to
meet witches."

"You don't think it's enough that you live with one?"
There was a gentle chuckle and a trace of
Cabernet on her breath.

"No, that word starts with a 'b'." His hand drifted
over to her and tickled her softly under the knee.
"Though I do love it when *you* do that voodoo
that you do so well."

She hiked her left leg over Mulder's right thigh, and
rested it there. He heard her take another sip
before she sighed; "Cult activity, suicides and
suicide attempts, psychotic victims, and hate
crimes-- just another day at the office."

"I prefer to think of it as mystical activity, hexes
and casting spells, charmed individuals, and
hate crimes," Mulder said with a smile.

"Since when did you start seeing the glass as half
full all the time?" she tossed back at him.

"Since you cast your spell and charmed me,
witchy woman."

When she didn't say anything for a few beats, he
said, "What?"

"Where is Elvis when you want him?"

He grazed his fingers up to her hand and took
her wineglass. After carefully setting them both on the
coffee table, he turned quickly and pinned Scully
to the sofa singing, in his best Elvis voice,
"...just a hunka hunka burnin' love..."

As his hips ground against hers, Scully laughed
abruptly then gasped, "Oh my! Ladies and gentlemen,
I do believe that Elvis has just entered the building."

With her hair in his mouth, he mumbled, "Well,
he's about to..."

And after many successful trials of testing and re-testing his
lip aim, right there on the blue and white striped sofa, not
Elvis, but Fox Mulder entered the building.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Part Four xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Mulder sat buckled in the passenger side of a Bureau issue
Ford Taurus. He'd been in so many Taurus's during his
career, that he could tell one with his eyes closed. Or, like
now, with his eyes wide open, behind darkly tinted lenses.

The interesting feature of this particular Taurus was that it
had a bench seat in the front, instead of the usual bucket
seats.

Bench seats reminded Mulder of driving during his high
school years. He remembered how his first cigarettes
tasted, as he pressed the accelerator and palmed the wheel.
Holding his girlfriend of the week close, on the bench seat
of his Cutlass, while he drove one-handed--hoping for long
red lights so he could tongue a kiss or cop a feel.

A few years later, he bought a yellow, newer model, Buick
Sunbird with a racing stripe and stick shift. That's when
he missed the comfort of bench seats. During make-out
sessions, the stick shift was an unwelcome guest.

Right now, but for a different reason, he missed the
bucket seats. Scully's little legs caused her to have
to move the entire seat forward so she could comfortably
reach the pedals. Mulder's knees were forced to bend
almost into his chest. At least that's what it felt like to
him.

God, he missed driving. Shifting and braking, steering
and speeding; he missed the feeling of operating a
high horsepower machine. He missed the independence
of driving. And right now, he missed being able to push
the damn seat back. In an automobile, the driver always
wins.

Scully was taking them up I 95 from the DC Beltway to
the Baltimore Beltway en route to the Baltimore Division
of the FBI.

"Hey Scully, did you know that there are Interstates 95,
195, 295, 395, 495, 695, 795 and 895 right here in
the DC/Baltimore metro area. Why do you suppose
there's no 595?"

"Actually, Mulder, I think I know the answer to that."
She accelerated and the car moved to the left lane.
Mulder knew that there was a left exit off I 95, to I 695,
the Baltimore beltway.

Her voice was aimed at the windshield as she explained,
"Interstate 70 is the major east/west artery in Maryland.
The I 70 terminus is at 695. Well, I 70 was originally
supposed to hook up with I 95 in Baltimore City before
the Fort McHenry Tunnel."

Scully swung the car left again, and re-accelerated. Her
determined voice continued.

"That hook-up never happened because Baltimoreans
complained. There were neighborhoods that would
have been disrupted or destroyed by the construction
of the overpasses, and by the highway itself.

"You can still see the unfinished ramps leading to
nowhere. Well, it was that stretch from I 70 to I 95,
that was going to be I 595, I think."

"Scully?"

"Yeah?"

"Nobody likes a highway geek."

An indelicate snort, aimed toward the windshield,
erupted, and he felt two small fingers lightly flick
the side of his head.

A few minutes later the car pulled over, but Scully
didn't turn off the engine.

"We're there?" Mulder asked, turning his head from
side to side in an unconscious habit.

"Ahh, not yet. I need to make a quick stop for money.
I used the last of my cash at the dry cleaner's this morning."
The car rolled forward a few inches.

"Where are we?"

"We're off the beltway, and I'm pulling into a drive
through ATM a short way from the Baltimore office.
I'm sorry, I should've told you that I was going to do this."

The car stopped with the engine running. He felt the
car go into 'park,' and heard as Scully begin to roll
the window down.

"Hold on a second, Scully," Mulder said, as he
unbuckled his seatbelt and scooted over.

"What are you doing, Mulder?"

"Hike up a minute."

"What?"

"C'mon, let me get over there." Mulder fumbled his
hands around her hips and lifted her up an inch or two
as he wriggled his left thigh under her.

Her shocked voice came close to his ear.

"Mulder! What the hell are you *doing*?"

He reached down, lifted the latch and pushed the seat
all the way back. Then, in one fluid motion, he slid Scully
over his lap and deposited her beside him. Mulder was
now in the driver's seat.

He finished rolling the driver's side window down then
tuned in her direction and asked, "How much cash
do you need?"

"Mulder?"

"Hey, as a member of the Blind Community in good
standing, I feel that it's my duty to do this.
Will $40.00 be enough?"

"Make it $60.00."

"Okay, but you're paying for lunch."

Mulder's fingers deftly examined the raised bumps on
the ATM machine. After a few short seconds, he began
punching buttons. In less than a minute, he handed three
bills over to Scully-- he assumed they were twenties.

Her amused voice said, "Hit the bottom button once,
the machine is asking if you'd like another transaction."

He pushed the button and waited another few seconds
for the sound of the receipt being printed.

Mulder patted his hand along the face of the machine
until he felt the telltale strip of paper. With a flourish,
he handed her the receipt.

"I've wanted to do that for a long time," he said with
a chuckle.

Mulder turned toward the windshield, then paused.
He fingered the dashboard for a moment, then lovingly
gripped the steering wheel with both hands. Closing
his eyes, he skimmed one palm around the edge.

Finally, he leaned to his right, and with an audible
"Ooof," deposited Scully back in her rightful spot
behind the wheel.

"Happy now?" Scully's voice said with a grin, as she
slid the front seat up and put the Taurus in gear.

A horn honked gently behind them.

Mulder explained, "Back when I could see, I used
to laugh every time I thought about why there
would be a need for Braille on a drive-through
ATM. Now I know. 'Because the blind guy's
girlfriend spent too much cash on dry cleaning.'

Another X-File solved."

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

Scully said, "We're here." As she pulled the car into
the parking lot of the Federal Bureau of
Investigation-Baltimore Division-Department of Justice.

Mulder remembered that there was a very large
Department of Justice seal on the front of this
beige-bricked Baltimore office building. The building
itself was situated just west of the beltway in the
Rutherford Industrial Center. A far more humble setting
than the mighty Hoover building, surrounded by the icons
of American government.

Still, he recalled that the office building was pleasant
enough, with its enclosed cubicles and nice level
flooring.

Level floors were a plus to Mulder. Today, he chose not
to take his white cane into the building, but to rely on his
memory of the layout, Scully's hand, and her whispered
cues, for directions.

He knew that A.D. Skinner was involved in setting up
this collaboration, so Mulder assumed that this
office had been briefed about his blindness and
any of his other peculiarities.

Like how he held his partner's hand.

True, it was how she steered him around unfamiliar
territory, but he found that every now and then, he
needed to ground himself. Sometimes the
blackness was so disorienting, that he had to
squeeze her hand, just for a moment, to give
him the anchor he needed.

He wondered if she knew that.

This blind thing really sucked sometimes. Especially
now that the female receiving officer was literally
shouting directions at them. It was a common
occurrence, and he'd kidded Skinner about it
yesterday, but after a while, he got tired of people
raising their voices to him. He said, "Officer, please.
I'm *blind*, but I can hear. You don't need to shout."

In instances like this, Scully let him handle it. Mulder
knew that this well-meaning officer meant no harm,
but he needed to quickly establish his demeanor as
an agent and investigator.

The only thing worse than being shouted at was being
whispered to like a child.

SAC Kevin Robertson was waiting for them in his
office. There was no question that, at this moment,
he was leading this investigation.

"Agent Mulder, Agent Scully, thank you for agreeing
to assist us with this situation. Please -- have a seat."

Scully gave Mulder a gentle nudge to the right, then
let go of his hand. The movements were so slight
that they probably went mostly unnoticed.

"Thank you for calling us in on this Agent Robertson."
Mulder felt for the chair with the back of his legs before
he sat, "What makes you think we can help you?"

"To be honest, Agent Mulder, I did a little research on
you before I called your assistant director. You and
Agent Scully seem to be--uh--well-versed in
unusual cases. My cohorts don't seem to feel that
this case warrants too much attention. But this is how
I see it: Not only do we have a focus group for hostile
activity, the so-called 'coven', but there are peripheral
circumstances which are undeniably out of the ordinary."

"Undeniable to whom?" Mulder asked

Robertson's voice lowered.

"To me."

Mulder crossed his right leg over his left, folded his
arms, and leaned back in the chair.

"Agent Mulder, I'll come right to the point. There's
no question that these men all committed, or tried
to commit, suicide. But I believe that the ones who
succeeded in killing themselves are victims of
wrongful death."

"You do?" Scully's voice said.

"Yes, I do. That's why I requested your help with this.
You see, I appear to be the only one around here who
feels that these suicides were induced somehow."

"You think these suicides were 'induced'?" Mulder
questioned, as he leaned forward.

"These men certainly weren't the cream of society,
but they weren't the type to throw themselves in front of
a truck. Or shoot himself in the head, or open his
veins in the kitchen!

"I've been working these streets for a long time, Agents.
This is not how these guys operate. I believe that
something, something outside of themselves, made
them do it. Someone made them *want* to do it."

Robertson sighed heavily, then continued. "It sounds
crazy, it does, but I can't shake the feeling that
something is just not right. Something I don't know
how to deal with. It's a pretty cut and dried situation
as far as the other agents are concerned, but I
know --I *know* that there's an element that has to
be investigated with more objective eyes."

"And those eyes would be mine?" Mulder asked
curiously, unconsciously thumbing his sunglasses
higher up on the bridge of his nose.

"May I be absolutely frank with you, Agents?"

"Certainly," Mulder answered as he heard the sound
of a door closing. Apparently Agent Robertson had
something to say that he didn't want the rest of the
office to hear.

"I have to live here. This is my home office, and my
bringing up other, more extreme possibilities--hasn't
been met with much enthusiasm. The X-Files already
has the reputation of being 'out there.' I want to take
advantage of that for admittedly selfish reasons. Like
I said, I have to live here.

"But I've talked to these women, Agents, these
self-proclaimed witches. I've seen the remains of the
suicide victims, and I've tried to talk with the remaining
victim. There is something terribly wrong here.

"Maybe I'm off my nut, Agent Mulder, but I think you are
far more qualified to handle this case than I am. I'd
appreciate it if you could just look around a little bit and
see what you think. That's all I'm asking."

"You're asking that we take the brunt of any ridicule that
may be generated by investigating a coven of witches?"
Scully's calm voice came from Mulder's left.

"Essentially, yes." Was the reply. "But, if you'll excuse
the expression, something is brewing over there.
I'm just not sure I know how to investigate it."

Mulder could sense the tension in the man's voice.
Agent Robertson obviously wanted to rid himself of
this sticky case, by handing it off to the X Files team.
Mulder knew that if he and Scully didn't take this case,
it would leave Robertson to investigate a case with a
possibility of extraordinary circumstances associated
with it.

Mulder also knew that Robertson would continue the
investigation without them. This case could turn into
a death sentence for this agent's career.

From the beginning, Mulder appreciated this agent's
honesty, even though Robertson felt that the X-Files
Division was 'out there.'

But Mulder knew how difficult working in the home
office would be if Robertson were forced to delve
into a non-mainstream investigation. Mulder himself
knew, perhaps better than anyone did. He knew
he had to give him an out.

Besides, Agent Robertson had the courtesy not to
shout at him.

Mulder said, "Are you handing this case over to
Agent Scully and me? Because I want to be clear
about who's calling the shots here."

"All shots are yours to call, Agent Mulder--if you'll take
the case."

Long seconds passed, with only the ticking of a
clock breaking the silence.

"We'll start by questioning the latest victim,
Victor 'Pug' Scott."

The tension in the room dissipated as the torch was
passed, and the investigation into these crimes
now belonged to the X-Files.

"He's at St. Agnes Hospital, but they're preparing
to send him off to Sheppard Pratt."

The Sheppard and Enoch Pratt Hospital, up on
North Charles Street, was a psychiatric facility.

"I'd prefer to see him before he's transferred,
if that's possible."

"It's possible. I'll arrange it now, if you like. I believe I
gave A.D. Skinner all the up-to-date information.
Of course, if you need my help on any of this, I'll be
available to assist you."

"Thank you, Agent Robertson. If you don't mind,
we'd like to go ahead and get started."

Mulder stood and put his hand out in front of him
to allow the sighted agent to shake it.

Which he did as he said, "Agent Mulder, Agent
Scully, I appreciate your help on this. If it matters,
I've run into some cases of yours that I found
fascinating. I didn't always believe your
conclusions, but it always made interesting reading."

"We're nothing if not interesting, Agent Robertson,"
Scully supplied.

Mulder turned to leave. He reached over in Scully's
direction where he felt her clasp his left hand.

In their unconventional fashion, Scully began to lead
Mulder out of the room.

Robertson's voice stopped him. His voice was
tentative as he said, "Uh--Agent Mulder, I don't know
if it's politically correct, or even polite to say this, but
I'm sorry about your accident. I'm sorry you were blinded."

That may have been a first in Mulder's book. Not the 'I'm
sorry.' part-- that had been a frequent occurrence for a
while-- but the fact that the man had used the word
'blinded.' People tended to shy as far away as
possible from that word.

Mulder mused that they must think a blind man doesn't
realize that he's blind, and if they use the 'b' word, it brings
it to his attention.

Either way, the sentiment was noted and appreciated.
Mulder smiled and nodded.

"Thank you, Agent Robertson. But since you've read
the files on our previous cases, you'll have noticed that
I was in the dark most of the time anyway."

He lifted his hand, linked with Scully's, "And Agent
Scully has been telling me what I've been looking at
for years. But I am much better at sniffing out leads
now."

As they left the building, Scully's voice wafted up and
said, "While you were at it why didn't you mention
how well you can listen for clues, feel out a suspect,
or how you can get so close to solving a crime you
almost taste it?"

"You're just jealous that he liked me better."

"Get in the car, hotshot, before I take a detour to
drop *you* off at Sheppard Pratt."

Mulder climbed in and slammed the door. He was
mildly alarmed that, for some reason, that remark
created a chill instead of a grin.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Part Five xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
 

The smell of antiseptic, disinfectant, and urine, assaulted
Mulder's nose. The beeping of monitors, incoherent
moaning, and the squeaking of nurse's shoes on slick
floors, echoed in his ears.

St. Agnes hospital was the first Catholic hospital in
Baltimore and as such, was dedicated to treating the
poor and less-than-fully-insured.

Victor 'Pug' Scott fell into both these categories. A
chronically recovering drug addict, Mr. Scott had been
prone to abusive behavior and paranoia.

As Mulder stood at the threshold of the hospital room,
he heard thrashing and the clinking of restraint buckles
hitting the bed rails. The soft mutterings of 'evil--
fuckin' evil--evil...,' chanted, as he entered Scott's room.

The white cane slid across the floor as it searched for
Scott's hospital bed. Mulder left Scully at the nurse's
station, reading the chart and discussing the patient's
medical and transfer status. He was alone in the room
with a delusional, abusive, on-again/off-again, paranoid
drug addict.

'There, but for the grace of Scully, go I.' He thought, then
shook his head to dispel it.

Tapping the foot of the bed softly with his cane, Mulder
approached, softened his voice and said, "Mr. Scott, I'm
Fox Mulder with the FBI, I'd like to talk to you, if I may?"

It never hurt to ask.

To his surprise, Pug Scott answered. "You, FBI? No
shit?"

"Yes, sir. My partner and I would like to ask you about
the events leading up to your hospitalization."

"Shit. Shitshitshit. Ain't no FBI gonna stop this fuckin'
shit. Evil fuckin' shit. Evil--evil--*evil* fuckin' shit."

Years of cigarette smoke, lack of sleep, and constant
screaming had abused Victor Scott's voice beyond repair.

"What's evil, Victor? Tell me."

"They's fuckin' evil women, man. I don' trust any of 'em.
But 'specially tha' pretty one, " Scott said in his crackly
whisper. He took a breath, then continued.

"Din't mean no harm to the retarded girl tho'. Just it got
so bad, y'know? Naaw, you don't fuckin' know, man.
Retarded one seemed easiest. Tha' was a bad
fuckin' mistake."

Mulder had stepped toward the head of the bed when
Scully's footsteps entered. He turned instinctively and
quickly waved her away.

Her footsteps retreated.

"Tell me how bad, Victor." Mulder lowered his voice
to a whisper.

"Bad shit, fuckin' bad shit. So fuckin' bad I hadda
tell 'em off. Goddam, I'm a stupid motherfucker
sometimes. Then the pictures started, man. All
day, all night, and they don't stop. Like on HBO with
lights an' sound and special 'fects. Goddam--I wish
I could make 'em stop. They won't stop, though, and
I can't make 'em--shit..." His last word ended in a
strangled sob.

"What do you see, Victor? What do the pictures
look like?"

Victor began tapping the buckles rhythmically
against the bed rail. First one rail, then the other.
Several seconds were filled with metal clanking
against metal.

Finally, Scott said softly, "You can't see, can you?"

"No."

The clanking started, then stopped abruptly.

"Can't see nothin'? Like it's all black to you, right?"

"That's right."

"Yeah, I'll tell *you*, then. You can't see. I'll tell *you*,
man. Maybe the evil won't work on you, 'cause you
can't see nothing."

Another pause, silent this time, except for the
ambient hospital noises outside of the room.

The chill was back, and it streaked up Mulder's
spine.

"First J.T. throws hisself off the New Carrollton
overpass, right onna Route 40. Fuckin' semi
drives right over 'im. All eighteen wheels."

Scott stopped to take a rasping breath.

"Then, 'round the corner, Morris D. fuckin' blows the
back of his head off. A bullet in his mouth took the
whole back of his fuckin' head off. Shit, that ain't right,
y'know, man?

"So I go on over and tells them bitches to get the fuck
outta here, 'cause I know it's them doin' it. J.T. and
Morris, they knew it, too. An' then I see my Kira. All
night long after that. Li'l Kira, all yellow and sick..."

Scott gulped and sniffed before he continued.

"Then, I see my brother, Leon, in my head, ya know?
Leon's got a fuckin' needle in his arm, and he's real
dead. But, man, that's bullshit. I mean, sure, Lee
played with needles, but he died in a car crash!
It's all bullshit, it ain't even real! An' it don't stop. More
pictures, all the time, playin' in my head. They don't
never stop. Goddam!"

Pug took a loud sniff and breathed a lungful of air through
his nose. He did this two more times before he
started speaking again.

"And I *know* they're doin' this. Even when I'm asleep,
man. So, I don't sleep. Some of the pictures're real,
like Kira, and some of 'ems just made t' look real.
They fool like that. They do it to fool you. My head is
loaded with so much, I can't sleep an' my head wants
ta blow and I can't stand it! So I grab the retarded
girl and I yell at her to go to her momma, and for 'em
all t'get the hell outta here!"

Pug was breathing hard, and then he began to sob,
"They're evil--doin' this to me--evil..."

Mulder raised his voice to him and said, "Victor, how
do you know that it's the women doing these things?
How do you know?"

"'Cause I see 'em! Well, I see *her*. Like--like--inna
movie or somethin'. Like I said, it's a fuckin' HBO
movie! That light-skinned bitch is always there.
Sometimes she's inna crowd, or maybe starin' down
at me from somewhere, and sometimes she's up close.
Right in my face, man. Right up in my fuckin' face."

"Does she tell you to do things? Does she make you
hurt yourself?"

Something about this struck Victor as extremely
funny. He started out with a stuttering giggle, which
escalated into full-blown, hysterical laughter.

"Hurt *myself*, man?" he said between gasps. "No,
man, it ain't like that. She *likes* playin' in my head.
She don't want to fuckin' *leave* it. The only way t'get
her out is to bleed her out, y'know? She don't wanna
go, man, she likes it there. I can't get her out. So,
I figured, if she won't leave my head, I will. I'll check
out of my own goddam life..."

Victor began his laughing again, and the icy water
suffusing Mulder's spine turned to hard ice.

From the doorway, an unfamiliar female voice said,
"Agent Mulder, Mr. Scott needs his rest before his trip
uptown."

That remark referred to Victor Pug Scott's imminent
transfer to the hospital of no return.

As Mulder turned to leave, Scott's voice called out to
him.

"Hey man! You may not think so, but you're lucky. I
wished to *God* that I couldn't see the things I'm seein'
now. I wish to God! Hey, hey, you hear me God?"

Mulder heard a sound that was part growl and part sob.

"I'm wishin' to you, God. Take *my* eyes, then! You hear
that, God? Take my eyes and let me go home. Let me go
home and sleep. Dammit, God! If you don't, then I'll fuckin'
pull 'em out myself!"

The buckles banged loudly against the rails, and the
mattress springs groaned in tandem with the sounds of
relentless thrashing.

Mulder's cane tapped lightly to the door as Victor's voice
screamed, "You *hear* me, God? Oh, God pleeese.
I wanna go home!"

The nurse's light touch on Mulder's arm indicated the
way out. He turned toward her and whispered intently,
"Please make sure that Mr. Scott has absolutely no
access to anything sharp, hard, or pointed. Not even
plastic spoons, without supervision. Make sure to note
in his chart that he is at risk for self-mutilation, and may
attempt to damage his eyes. Even to the point of trying
to remove them."

Something in his tone apparently convinced her, because
she said a soft, "Yes, sir," before entering the room to
tend to her patient.

Familiar fingers clasped his hand. He turned to Scully
and said, "You heard?"

"He's delusional, Mulder."

"Of course he is. But *something* happened to make him
want to bleed some woman out of his head. And because
of that, now he thinks it's a real peachy idea to yank his
own eyeballs out."

A few beats of silence fell between them as they made
their way to the elevators.

"I read his chart," Scully said.

"Find anything interesting?"

The ding of the elevator sounded as the doors whisked
opened. The dinging continued in sequence, allowing
Mulder to count the floors, all the way to the bottom.

In the parking lot, out of earshot of anyone who might hear,
Scully relayed, "There was nothing interesting in the chart,
other than the fact that Victor Scott recently completed a
court ordered drug rehab program--again. It appeared
successful, though. No drugs, outside of Benadryl, were
found in his system when he was admitted here."

"So, no drug induced hallucinations?"

"Doesn't look like it. No alcohol, except for the Benadryl,
was found either."

"So, what could have happened to cause this condition?"

"Mulder, the man is mentally ill. He has a history of drug
and alcohol abuse. Both substances do a really good job
of frying the brain given half a chance. He *is* tormented,
but we don't really know why. Even Scott admits that the
women didn't make him do anything. Everything he did to
himself, he did willingly."

Mulder countered, "Yes, a man in torment may willingly
take his own life. A man in torment may even try to remove
his own eyes." He shuddered involuntarily as he said this.
"But the man in that hospital bed, was not in torment until
he made contact with those women."

"Well," her cool voice replied, "I believe that *he*
believes that. I'm not sure why you do, though."

What he couldn't explain to her was that the ice
encapsulating his spine had permeated his system.
He was chilled to the bone, and it was all he could do
to keep his teeth from chattering.

"I think it's time to meet the witches," Mulder said
humorlessly, as he slammed the car door.

Scully backed the Taurus up, pointed it uptown, and
said nothing.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Part Six xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Scully described the neighborhood as she drove along the
one way city streets. Old row houses lined both sides; some of
them boarded up and abandoned. Some of them inhabited,
but looked as though they should be boarded up and
abandoned.

Mulder was listening to her, but noted, and not for the first
time, how much Scully talked to him now. That was nice,
because for years they didn't know *how* to talk to one
another. Really talk. They would relay information and
discuss strategies, but one-on-one, intimate communication
was a skill they both had to develop.

It was a skill arrived at by necessity. They knew that he
needed her words so he could see. Whether she used her
soft alto, or her shrill soprano, her voice was his sight.
Once upon a time, their silent communication was a
glance or a raised eyebrow, Now it was breaths, inflections,
and whisper light touches.

So they learned how to speak to each other. And he enjoyed
listening to her.

"Six women live in one of these rowhouses," Scully said from
behind the wheel. "These houses aren't very big. Six adults
would make for a tight squeeze."

"Well," Mulder injected, "for two of them, a tight squeeze is a
plus."

"There's a bad joke about to happen, isn't there?"
Scully's voice smirked.

"Nope. Just the facts Ma'am. Two of our witches are gay
lovers. Akiba Robinson and Tanisha Fizer. Both thirty-one
years old, and both very happy about the close proximity."

"You're making it up."

"No I'm not. You were just too busy looking at the pictures.
But to refresh your memory, we have a coven of six witches.
I'm including seventeen year old, Linnea. Her mother,
Octavia Knox, is forty-nine, so I'm assuming that she's
the leader, or queen, or whatever the head of this group
calls herself."

"Queen?"

"Well, this isn't a regular coven of regular witches,
so I don't know what the hierarchical structure is. Anyway,
there's forty-three year old Antonia Golder, and twenty-two
year old Timeka Tucker. She's the one I'm the most
interested it seeing."

"You would." Scully said almost under her breath.

"What do you mean?"

She huffed another breath and said, "I saw the pictures,
remember?"

"Yeah, so?"

He waited, then repeated, "So?"

"So, she's a beautiful, young woman. Of course she'd be
the one you'd be most interested in."

"Ohh, Scully, is that a little green-eyed monster peeking
out? This Timeka must be a knock-out. So, tell me," he
teased, "does she have light skin, full lips and high,
firm breasts?"

She chuckled softly at his rebuke and tossed, "Well,
the light skin and full lips are correct, but I can't personally
vouch for the status of her breasts. And when this
investigation is over, you'd better not be able to either."

"Deal."

"We're turning onto West Harlem Avenue now," Scully
said, as the car slowed and turned. "You know, this is
a very poor section of West Baltimore. Most of the
area is stacked with litter, and drug dealers are
hanging around on the corners.

"But here on the 3500 block, Mulder, it's spotless.
This isn't a pretty area, and most of the old brick
fronted row houses around here are in need of new
mortar. But on this block, it looks like someone has
swept the area clean."

The car stopped and Mulder felt the familiar back
and forth movements of parallel parking.

"Oh, and the streets here are potholed and the
pavement is uneven. So be careful."

Mulder had thrown his cane into the back seat,
so he popped the lock of the door behind him.
Carefully stepping out up on the sidewalk, he opened
the back door, leaned in, and felt around the back seat
until his hand closed around his stick.

Slamming both the front and rear passenger doors, he
stood up on the sidewalk and cocked his head to the left.
His sunshades were firmly in place, and his right hand
gently balanced the white cane between his index finger
and thumb.

Mulder tilted his head back, sniffed the air, and then
touched the tip of his cane to the sidewalk. It was hard to
believe that it was mid autumn. The weather had been
cooperating by maintaining temperatures in the mid to
upper 60's. Even though the days were warm instead of
crisp, the scent of fall leaves revealed the true time of year.

The unusually mild November breeze ruffled his hair and
lifted the lapels of his well-fitting suit. He felt the tip of
his tie flap gently onto his left shoulder.

Scully's soft whisper was in his ear, and their fingers
met at the same moment. Mulder briefly pondered that
his hands had somehow developed the same unerring
aim as his lips.

"You're facing south right now. The women's residence
is two houses east. Sidewalk is intact. Face north, then
five steep steps to the outside landing. I can see two
women watching us from there."

Mulder nodded and switched his cane to the left hand.
With his right, he clasped Scully's hand and turned left.
When he thought he walked the approximate distance,
he stopped to let Scully step by.

Even though the Blind Man's Handbook states the
sighted person steers the blind person from behind,
Mulder preferred that Scully climb the stairs first. He
never cared much for rules.

As a result, Scully was on the landing first and began
by addressing the women.

"Good afternoon, I'm Agent Scully, and this is Agent
Mulder. We're with the FBI, and we'd like to ask you
some questions regarding the recent harassment
you've been receiving."

Mulder tapped his cane softly on the landing and
maneuvered two small steps forward, away from the
stairs.

"Hateful, just hateful. Pickin' on us like that. Especially
'Nea, and scarin' her half to death. He's just a thug,
that's all. A hateful thug."

"Mulder, this is Octavia Knox, Linnea's mother, and
Timeka Tucker, another member of the household."

Mulder nodded in their direction and asked, "This 'thug'
would be Victor Scott?"

"Yes," Octavia replied. "Pug lives just down the street.
I don't know why he'd think to bother us. Especially
'Nea. She doesn't have the strength to fight him off."

Mulder noted that Octavia's voice was deep and
scratchy, like she'd just gotten over a bout of laryngitis.
However, it wasn't at all unpleasant. In fact, it was low
and sultry. Her accent was not strictly inner city
Baltimore, but more like classic Baltimore:
pronouncing the word "strength" without the 'g' so it
sounded like, 'strenth.'

"Well," Mulder said, "he won't be bothering you any
time soon. Looks like he'll be hospitalized for a long,
long while. I just finished questioning him. He was
barely able to form a complete sentence. I was hoping
to ask you about the other men from your
neighborhood. The ones who committed suicide."

Then, another, younger voice joined the conversation.

"Agent Mulder, have you come to investigate the neighbors
who want to get rid of us? Or are you here to investigate
*us*?"

"We're just working on a puzzle here, and trying to put all the
pieces together." He turned towards Timeka's voice, and
aimed a well practiced, endearing smile in her direction.
"Why would you think we'd be investigating you, Miss Tucker?'

The wind rustled the leaves again, and Mulder felt the tip
of a leaf brush along his cheek as it fell.

"No reason that I can think of, Mr. Mulder. None at all.
Let's go inside."

A hand that was not Scully's, took him by the arm. He
heard Scully clear her throat as the hand guided
his elbow into the house.

Usually Mulder objected when a stranger placed
even a well-meaning hand upon him. It always surprised
him that people felt entitled to handle him without his
permission. A blind man's arm and a pregnant woman's
belly must have the same tacit invitation that reads,
'Touch me!'

But he held his tongue as he was led gently but firmly,
up to a chair. When the back of his legs bumped
softly against the cushioned seat, the hand let go of
him. As he sat, the vivid image of a brown autumn
leaf blowing into his face, came to his mind. Instinctively,
he reached up to brush it away.

He heard a soft chuff of laughter; then Scully's voice
came from somewhere in front of him.

"Are the other women at home so that we might speak
to them as well?"

"All but Akiba and Tanisha, but they'll be in later on.
Linnea and Antonia are upstairs. Ever since 'Nea was
attacked, she hasn't wanted to even come out of her room.
She gets like this sometimes. I let her stay upstairs until
she's ready to come down. Antonia's with her. She has
a good way of talking to her."

"Would Linnea let me question her up in her room?" Scully
asked.

Octavia thought a second before answering. "She'd
probably be okay with that."

Mulder intoned, "We can take less time if I talk to Miss Tucker
down here, and Agent Scully interviews the two ladies upstairs.
Is that all right with you, Miss Tucker?"

"That's perfectly okay, Mr. Mulder." Timeka replied. Unlike
Octavia, Timeka's voice was light and steady. She sounded
much younger than her twenty-two years.

"All right, then. Linnea's bedroom is at the top of the stairs
and around to the right. " Octavia's husky voice ended
with the sounds of two pairs of footsteps moving up on
stressed stair treads. But not before Mulder felt the
feather light touch of Scully's hand brush across his
shoulder.

After the sound of the footfalls faded, Timeka asked,
"So, Mr. Mulder. Have you ever met a witch before?"

Mulder detected a coy timber to her voice. He grinned
as he said, "Our line of work has introduced us to many
people who've claimed to be witches. What kind of
witch are you?"

The air shifted in the room, and he heard a soft
jingling, like jewelry or keys clinking together. Then
her voice came from directly in front of him.

"Do you mean, 'Am I a good witch, or a bad witch?'"
The flutter of a chuckle escaped her lips. "I can be any
kind of witch you want, Mr. Mulder."

Mulder caught a wisp of cinnamon and spice from
her, then he felt her hand take his arm, urging him to
stand.

"Come with me." She said.

Mulder stood and leaned a little into her hand. She
deftly steered him to the left and over a few steps.

"Where are we going?"

Suddenly, the air was crisp with the scent of freshly
sliced apples. Like someone was peeling and coring
the fruit for making pies.

"Here, let me turn this oven off, and we can talk outside.
The weather is so nice for November, it's a shame to
waste it. Pretty soon, it'll be too cold to enjoy going out
for a walk."

Though Mulder heard the gentle warmth in her voice,
warning bells began softly chiming in his head. Then,
an image stirred in his mind. It was of a bright airy kitchen.
Flour dotting the red and white checked tablecloth.
There were several wads of pie dough, sized and shaped
into softballs, piled on damp towels on the counter. It was
a comfortable memory from his youth, he thought,
and it quieted the bells.

"Miss Tucker, we're here to find out about the men who
harassed you--the men who eventually took their own lives.
Why were they threatening you? Do you know why anyone
would want to bother you, or make you want to leave your
neighborhood?"

"Mr. Mulder, I can't think of any reason why. We've been
good neighbors. In fact, we keep to ourselves mostly, but
we try to be a good example. Our house is newly painted,
the stoop, and all the bricks out front, have been repaired.
We don't know why, all of a sudden, some of our neighbors
objected to us being here."

"It was all of a sudden?"

"Well, J.T. started hanging around for a while. At first I
thought he was just curious about our--ways. Witches
have ways of doing that other people wonder about. We
know that. But later, I came to realize that he was --uh--
interested in me. He pestered me for a time, but I just
brushed him off, and I thought that was it. I don't know why
he turned our neighbors on us."

"Is that what you think happened? That J.T. turned your
neighbors against you?"

"I think it's possible. Doesn't that sound possible to you?"

Mulder turned as Timeka led him forward, the light tinkling
sound moving with her. He didn't know why, but the warning
bells started their soft chiming again. He leaned down,
sensing that she was shorter than he, but taller than Scully,
and said, "How long have you and your friends lived here?"

"Oh, going on a year and a half. Until then, we lived
separately--you know, in our own places. It just seemed so
right for us all to be living together, now that we've found
each other.

"When Akiba and Tanisha decided to move in together,
we all thought how nice it would be if we could live as one
unit. Our strength comes from being close to one another."

"Your strength, Miss Tucker?"

"Please call me Timeka, and by strength, I mean our
spiritual strength. Not things like potions or spells and
other nonsense." She paused a moment as she let go of
his arm. The hinges squeaked as the front door opened.
Mulder's cane negotiated the way over the sill to the
outside landing.

She continued, "I know I've never experienced such
peace and such strength before. Living with them
has--opened my eyes in ways I never knew."

The air smelled clean even though he knew they were
in a dirty area of the city. The November breeze blew
and, again, he caught the spicy scent of the woman to
his right.

Her soft voice said, "Come, take a quick tour of our
neighborhood. I'll point out to you where some of the
terrible things happened. Maybe you can get a feel
for things? "

Before he had a chance to decide, she began leading
him, one step at a time, down the five steps until he felt
the sidewalk underfoot. He was slightly off balance at
the bottom, when her hand gently prodded him to turn
left.

Timeka asked, "Is it true that a blind person's remaining
senses are stronger because they don't have their sight
to depend upon?"

The leaves were either crushed underfoot, or swept to
the side by the cane, as they began walking. Mulder
took a couple of crunching steps, regaining his sense of
direction before answering her. "Yeah, I've heard that
theory about a blind man's hearing becoming more acute,
or his sense of taste and touch being enhanced. I haven't
noticed it, but I may still have some learning to do."

His cane detected a pothole, and he gingerly stepped
aside to avoid it.

"We all have to learn to stop and listen, Mr. Mulder. Even
those of us who can still see. I sometimes practice walking
through the neighborhood with my eyes closed, just to see
if I can learn something new about myself and the world
around me. You know, to see without seeing? You weren't
born blind, then?"

"No, it happened almost two years ago. My partner and I were
victims of an anarchist's bomb."

"Oh, so that's what happened to her. I'll bet she used to be
very pretty."

Mulder bristled at this remark, but tried not to show his hurt.
Who *was* this strange woman who walked around in a
dangerous neighborhood with her eyes closed? He said
the first thing that came to his mind. "My partner still *is*
very pretty. But let's get back to the crimes committed
against your --uh--group."

"We call ourselves a 'family.' Not a group or a coven, Mr.
Mulder. The kind of witchcraft we practice is only for good
things. We want to be left alone to enjoy the peace we feel
when we commune with one another. I guess there are
people who are afraid of our ways, or jealous of what we
have. But I'll tell you something; I would do anything to
protect what we have and who we are."

Mulder felt a slight tug on his sleeve. He halted just as
Timeka's voice said, "Over here, is where some fires
were lit. They actually made effigies of us, and burned
them in the street. One of the men who ended up killing
himself, started the blaze. It was lit right as I was walking
Linnea home from school. I saw his evil, and I hated
that Linnea saw it, too."

The image of a hotel fire appeared in Mulder's mind.
He remembered that there were two young children
in danger, and that he had to go through that fire to
save them.

The vision was so clear that he had to shake his head
to rid himself of the memory. Mulder realized that he
hadn't thought of that incident for many years. He
wasn't sure that it was a comfort to know that the
images were still there, lying dormant. Maybe there
were some things he didn't ever want to remember
seeing.

Timeka's voice drifted over him, "Do you feel it?
Right over here?"

Mulder paused to clear the rest of the image from his
mind. He stood still for a moment then offered his
observations truthfully. "I can't *feel* anything, Timeka,
but I can smell the burnt ashes. It must have happened
over a week ago, but I think I can still smell them."

Mulder felt that it was important to keep her talking. He
was close to something; he could feel it. He knew that
Timeka had her own agenda to fulfill, and he wanted to
know what that agenda was.

"Good--good," She said approvingly.

Another image of fire came to him, only this time it
was a campfire. He saw hot dogs pierced on long
sticks, which were hand-whittled to sharp points.
His father was holding one of the long wiener lances
and smiling at him over the flames.

"Mr. Mulder, you've got a curious look on your face."

"Do I? I--I'm sorry." Mulder shook his head and
squeezed his eyes shut. "Please don't think me
rude, but I just remembered something hidden very
deep in my memory. It must have been the smell of
the fire that brought it back."

"No, I'm glad. You just looked far away for a second."

Further than she knew, because Mulder, try as he might,
could not remember *ever* going camping with his father.

He sifted through his album of mental snapshots,
searching for this camping trip. Surely when he was
an Indian Guide, he and his father must have gone
camping? Young Fox and Bill Mulder had attended
the Indian Guide meetings as father and son, but Bill
Mulder always wore his three-piece suit, and never
spoke to the other, deerskin-clad, fathers.

A chilling thought materialized, and then, all at once,
the puzzle pieces slammed into place. The leaf
he 'saw' blow at his face, as he sat in the living room.
The kitchen with the flour-splotched tablecloth, and
dough for pies his mother had never baked. And
now, the campfire scene.

Like a fucking HBO movie.

The soft bells turned into a screaming warning siren.
His spine turned to ice so fast that he feared it would
crack into pieces if he moved. Through the chill, the
fight or flight response kicked in. Fight or flight?

Flight. God, he wanted to run. Yell for Scully, aim for
her hand, and run. 'The better part of valor' sounded
better than 'scared shitless.' But that's what he was.
Utterly helpless, standing stone blind in an unfamiliar
street, in a bad area of town.

With a witch, making pictures in his head.

In an urgent whisper, he turned to her and said, "The
other men who harassed you, you know why they
killed themselves, don't you? Victor Scott knew
you were responsible."

"He said that? That *I* was responsible?
That's ridiculous."

"You know it isn't ridiculous. Is it, Timeka?"

Her voice faltered, then returned in a calm, low tone.
"*Now*, I know why you're here, and it's not to find
the people who've been bothering us, and bring them
to justice. I told you I'd do anything to protect my family."

Her voice zeroed in on him, "You think you've figured it
out, don't you?"

"I have figured it out. Did *you* know that it would work
on a blind man?"
Mulder's voice faltered now, "How do
you do it?"

Her voice was a low growl, "Do what? Oh, you
mean --this?"

Mulder's dark world became bright with thought.
Synapses fired, and the vision of a very beautiful,
light-skinned black woman appeared in front of him.
She was slender and shapely, dressed in light
gray leggings. Her dark gray turtle neck had the
sleeves rolled up to her elbows. On both wrists she
wore several bands and bracelets, most of them
silver; the source of the clinking he heard as she
walked. His eyes followed the bracelets down to
her hands.

She had tapered fingers tipped with very long
fingernails, painted blood red. He could 'see' so
clearly that he could make out the small gold designs
painted on each pointed nail tip.

She stood about four inches shorter than he. Her black
hair was cut short and slicked straight in a drape
across the side of her face, her left eye barely
peeking out from behind the black fringe.

She walked a few paces away from him, and when
he looked up again, she was standing in the front yard
of his childhood home in Chilmark. He stood stock-still,
stunned by the vision. Without thinking, he turned his head
to look past her, to his house.

It was the house he lived in when he was very young.
The panes of glass from the large open windows glittered
orange with the setting sun, and the front door was wide
open. He could barely see through the screen door,
beyond the front foyer, but very clearly, he saw his mother
cross the center hallway on her way to the kitchen.

"How--how are you doing this?" Mulder asked in
a strangled voice.

Timeka spoke to him from his front yard. "I told you
witches have ways, Mr. Mulder. Ways of doing."
She walked deliberately towards him, smiling slyly
until she stood an arm's length from him.

He saw the sunlight glint off her shiny bracelets, and
reflect off her raven black hair.

Her dark brown eyes were alight, and her full lips
and white teeth formed a chilling smile. She raised
her arms slightly, and for a moment, Mulder thought
she was going to embrace him. But in one quick
motion, her hands shot forward, and her long pointed
nails clawed at his eyes.

All went black, and Mulder found himself whirling
backwards. The white cane flew out of his hand and
both arms began pinwheeling as he stumbled back
and fell.

And fell.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Part Seven xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
 

It was blacker than he ever remembered.

'How could it be?' he wondered. Not even a sliver of light
made its way through the bandages that swathed his face
and head. His eyes must be bandaged shut, he figured.
But still, it was *very* dark.

There was a strange buzzing in his ears, but he heard the
machines beeping with a steady rhythm. Mulder
interpreted that as a good thing.

He briefly contemplated his immediate situation, and
came to the conclusion that he was more astonished
than frightened. He must have survived the explosion.
The fact that he survived a blast like that was amazing,
and he mentally patted himself on the back for it.

However, even the astonishment he was experiencing
was dulled considerably by the heavy drugs circulating
in his blood. He was familiar with that dreamy, far away
feeling the medication gave him. Everything just seemed
so much better when you were far ... far ... away...

Yet, something wasn't right.

If there were bandages, and there was beeping, where
was Scully? He concentrated on his hands, trying to
remember how to wiggle his fingers. Why wasn't Scully
holding his hand?

And *why* was it so goddamned dark in here?

Astonishment turned to dread as he realized that he
remembered *why*. This was a different place and time.
This was the first time.

He gasped as the realization hit him. He fought to breathe
around a lump that almost closed his throat.

He was reliving the single most terrifying moment of his
life.

This was when he first experienced waking up, all alone
and totally blind. This was that very first time he opened
his eyes to nothing but darkness, and it was happening
all over again.

Oh, God, wasn't once enough?

"Scully?" he called weakly. "Scullee?"

She wasn't here. She wasn't there the first time, either.
'Please, God," he prayed, 'please don't let her go through
this again.'

He heard approaching footsteps, and the soft jangling
of jewelry. Hands silently worked at the bandages, and
slowly the gauze wrappings covering his eyes began
to loosen. The scent of cinnamon floated in the air.

Light began to peek through the gauze.

This was wrong. Mulder's heart began to pound. This
wasn't the way it happened. The first time, the gauze
unfurled into darkness.

A little brighter now.

Wild-eyed anticipation, like watching a speeding car
skid off the side of the road, overtook him; knowing he
shouldn't look, yet too obscenely curious to try to close
his eyes against the brightening light.

Layer after layer, the gauze unfolded, and after each
strip was removed, the light was more intense.

A bell-like laughter softly pealed as the last piece was
removed. He found himself staring into the dark brown
eyes of a light-skinned witch.

"There's someone here I want you to see," she said,
as she smiled and moved away.

Unable to move, unable to blink, Mulder stared helplessly
into the brilliant white light. Someone else was there. At
first, she appeared as a shadow at the edge of his vision.
The light cast a halo around her, obscuring her features
into a silhouette of light and dark.

As she moved closer, the light caught in the strands of
her shiny red hair.

All he could manage was, "Sc...Scul..."

She slowly leaned down until finally, he saw her whole
face clearly. Tearful blue eyes peered beseechingly
into his.

And Mulder began to cry.

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

Softly at first, then a little louder. It sounded like, "Shhh--
shhh ..."

A cool finger brushed over his cheek, and he heard
another soft sound. It was a high, light whine, and it
sounded terribly sad. Then the soft shushing sound
returned.

"Shhh, it's okay, Mulder. Don't--don't. You're going
to be fine."

Reality began to dawn, and through the haze of a
mounting headache, Mulder realized that the sound he
heard came from him. He was sobbing softly. He took
several breaths with his eyes tight shut before venturing
a question.

"Wh..." he swallowed dryly, "What happened?"

Ice chips were placed at his lips and he accepted them
gratefully onto his tongue.

"A pothole got you, Mulder," Scully's voice answered.
"You were out with Miss Tucker. She said you stepped
backwards and went down hard." A cool, damp cloth
passed over his eyes. "You're in the St. Agnes Hospital
Emergency Room."

"What's the damage?"

"Five stitches and a bad headache. You were lucky."

With his eyes still shut, he sat up. He would bet real
money that if he could see, the room would be spinning.

"I don't feel lucky." Mulder said as he gingerly touched
the back of his head.

"I do."

"Scully?"

"Well, you were out of it for quite a while and we didn't
know why. The lump on the back of your head didn't
appear too serious, and you only needed a few stitches."

Mulder, again, felt her cool fingers against his cheek as
she continued, "The doctor said it was just a bad bump,
but you were unconscious for a long time, and you--you
were crying."

A sizzle of fear crept up on him. He shuddered as he
remembered what he'd just 'seen.' Real and made to
look real. That's the way Victor Scott had described it.
Forcing his eyes open now, he saw--nothing.

He never would have believed that darkness would be
a comfort.

The disinfectant smell was back. He reached his hands
out in front of him and whispered, "Scully, come here."

"I'm right here," her voice was close.

His hands went up and cupped her face with both palms.
The tips of his fingers traced her cheeks, her nose, her
chin, and lips.

"Mulder, what is it?"

"She's doing it, Scully. And I'm afraid that she's going
to do it again."

"Do what?"

"Can we go home now?"

"After the doctor checks you out. What do you mean,
you're afraid she'll do it again?"

"Get the doctor. I want to go home."

He sat silently in his dark, familiar world until they let
him leave.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Part Eight xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
 

Mulder's head hurt, but not too much. The sharp fear he
felt in the hospital had dissipated into a soft blanket of
unease.

"I saw her, Scully," he said as a warm coffee mug was
placed in his hands. He took a sip and made a face.

"It's decaf tea, Mulder. No coffee tonight."

Mulder was in bed, pillows propping him in a sitting
position. Scully had tucked the fluffy comforter around him
and under his arms. The nights were cool, but Mulder
preferred to go shirtless, and tuck a warm blanket or a
warm Scully around him when he got chilled.

"Let me describe her to you, " Mulder said.

"Mulder, you've had a rough night ..."

"Let me describe her," Mulder said a little sharper than he
intended.

"Okay ... okay." The bedsprings bounced slightly as Scully
positioned herself next to him. He pictured her sitting
cross-legged on the bed, facing him. Passing his hands
across her folded legs, he smiled gently, and described
Timeka Tucker, as she appeared to him.

When he finished, he asked, "So, how close did I come?"

Scully didn't answer. But he heard the pace of her
breathing change.

"Scully ...?"

"How could you have known about the gold designs
on her fingernails? Did you --did you take her hand
as you walked?"

"No, I didn't take her hand as we walked," Mulder
replied, stunned.

"You would have had to touch her fingernails to know
that the designs were there, and her face to know how
her hair fell."

"Scully, I didn't touch her. That's what I'm trying to tell
you. I 'saw' her. She created her image in my mind.
That's what she did to me, and that's how she drove
those men to suicide. She planted images they
couldn't live with."

"Mulder, isn't it possible that you fell and hit your head
and then hallucin ... imagined the rest? You're very
perceptive. It wouldn't take much of a touch for you to
interpret sensations and make an image. Timeka's
voice was very seductive, and maybe her voice
conjured a picture for you."

"I didn't touch her!" Why was he feeling guilty all of
a sudden?

"Maybe you don't remember touching her, but it makes
more sense than a witch creating episodes of "This Is
Your Life" in your head."

Mulder emitted an exasperated sigh. He knew better
than to discuss this with her right now. She had been
frightened by his fall. She was also showing signs of
insecurity. He knew from history, that the more vulnerable
she felt, the more she hid behind the wall of science and
logic. Maybe in the morning she'd listen.

"I'm tired, Scully. Will you have to wake me up every few
hours?"

"No, I won't bother you tonight."

"Good. Good-night, then." Mulder turned on his side,
closed his eyes and hoped his 'good-night' didn't sound
too childish.

The bedcovers rustled and the light switch clicked. After
a long while, Scully's breathing evened out. He tossed
and turned for a few more minutes, and then decided he
wasn't tired after all. His hands reached over to find the
coffee mug when he chanced to turn his head towards
Scully's sleeping breaths.

He rubbed his eyes, because he thought he saw her lying
there. His blood ran cold as he looked again.

There was Scully, asleep on her side facing him. Moonlight
filtered through the window, touching her then glancing off.
She wore light blue silk pajamas, her skin was pale and lips
were slightly parted. Her pillow was soaked red from the
blood pouring from her nose.

He shook his head and closed his eyes. This wasn't real.
It was a trick, that's all, just a mean, disgusting trick.

Victor's words, as he lay chained to his hospital bed,
echoed in Mulder's head,
'Some of the pictures're real, like Kira, and some of 'ems
just made t' look real. They fool like that. They do it to
fool you.'

When he opened his eyes, it was all darkness again.
His head began to pound. He took several deep breaths,
and then reached out a shaking hand to touch the soft
dryness of her pillow. He needed to get up and move.
Maybe Scully was right; maybe all this was a result from
the bump on his head. Swinging his legs over the edge
of the bed, he made his way to the living room.

He went to sit down on the blue and white striped sofa.
'Shit, it *is* blue and white striped. Oh shit.'

He jerked his head to the left, and found himself staring
into the sorrowful face of Maggie Scully.

She looked at him with eyes so like Scully's, as she
turned back the cloth on the object she held. Mulder
didn't have to look down to know what it was, because
he'd seen it before. It was Scully's grave marker. His
eyes fluttered over to look at it. Her birth date was
chiseled into the stone, along with:

"Beloved Daughter, Sister, and Friend."

He turned away from the stone, and wrapped his arms
around his stomach. He choked on a sob, then called
out, "Scullee!"

"Mulder, what is it? What's wrong?" Scully was quickly
beside him, concern in her voice.

"I don't know how, but she's doing it." Mulder held
his head in both hands as he felt Scully's arms go
around his shoulders.

"Doing what? Mulder, what's going on?" Scully
obviously couldn't comprehend what he was imagining,
what he was seeing. The pictures--too real this time--
making his head and his heart ache.

"Scully, you have to make her stop." He raised his
unseeing eyes up, tilted his head back and cried,
"Make it stop, Timeka. Please make it all go away."

His mother's house. He was standing in his mother's
house, watching her busily closing and locking all the
windows.

"Mom?" Mulder tried to get his mother's attention
as she scurried out of the room. She returned with
an armload of towels.

Finally noticing him, she stopped and gave him a
sad, bespectacled smile. She walked over to him
slowly, and lovingly patted his cheek, letting her
palm rest there for a moment.

His mother turned and walked over to the front door.
She went down on her knees, and began pressing
the towels tightly into the crack under the door.

"Mom, what are you doing?"

She repeated this procedure with the back and side
doors. His feet wouldn't move. All Mulder could
do was watch helplessly.

"Mom ... please ... no."

Tears were streaming down her face. She lit a
match and placed it carefully into a wastebasket,
brimming with papers and pictures.

He called to her again. "Mom, stop! Mom--please..."

She looked up at him with tear filled eyes, turned on
the gas, and fluffed open a plastic bag.

"Nooo!"

Mulder put his hands to his eyes and sank to his
knees.

Scully's voice filtered through the pain. "Mulder, we're
going to go back to the hospital. This may have
something to do with hitting your head earlier."

"No, Scully." His eyes were wet, but his throat was dry.
"It's Timeka. She's got to make it stop." He grabbed
for Scully, and latched on to her wrist with both hands,
"You have to find her. Make her stop. Please
believe me, it's her..."

His head began to swim, and in the fog, he felt himself
being led away. Taken somewhere. Scully was taking
him someplace.

But he didn't want to see where he was going, and he
didn't want to see her.

Beautiful and bleeding, or scarred from the
blast, he wanted her face kept in the dark. He didn't
know if the imageTimeka had shown him was truly
Scully or not. It didn't matter, he was repulsed, not by
her facial scarring, but by the extent of any damage that
had been done to her lovely face. It was almost too
terrible to bear.

His beautiful Scully. He raised his hands to his eyes
and covered his face.

The gesture was futile, because his hands couldn't keep
him from seeing the little girl sitting on the floor at his feet.
Dropping his hands, he squatted down so he was
almost at eye level with her. A little redhead was
sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by crayons.
She wore blue overalls and had a brown crayon in her
hand. She was coloring very purposefully.

He looked up to see Scully, beautiful Scully, watching
the child. So much love radiated from her face as she
regarded this little girl.

Mulder wondered if she ever looked at him like that.

His heart ached from the rush of overpowering emotion
from mother to daughter.

Silently, Scully stood and held her hands out to the girl.
The child stood and Scully scooped her up. She cradled
her like a baby, and kissed her round, red cheeks, over
and over. In the corner of the room was a hospital bed.

Mulder noticed a sheen of sweat coated the young child's
face, and that she had become very pale.

Scully carried her little one over to the hospital bed, set
her down, and carefully tucked her in. She looked
over at Mulder and smiled sadly, then looked at her
child and smiled bravely. She lay down next to her,
and pressed her lips to her dying daughter's forehead.

'I'm sorry, Scully. Oh, God, I'm so sorry.'

He looked up to see Scully, heartbroken and sobbing,
rocking Emily's lifeless little body.

Mulder walked over to the bed and looked down.

"Stop it 'Meka! He's not a bad man, so stop it!"

Mulder walked over to the bed and looked down.

A little girl's skeleton was all that was left. Only now,
the bed was a slab at the morgue.

Mulder turned his head and noticed that he was alone.
Alone, except for several more small skeletons, all
waiting their turn for a place on the slab.

However, the one in front of him held special significance.

Unable to resist, he ran his index finger along the fragile
collarbone. He felt it before he saw it. The little clump of
calcified bone under his finger, indicating a broken
bone that had healed. This skeleton had long dark
braids with pink ribbons, tied in looping bows.

'I thought you were starlight, Samantha. Starlight and
eternal, but now I see that you're just--dead ...'

He turned away from the slab and buried his head
in his hands.

"Cut it *out*, Tim-eek-a! I mean it, 'cause I'll tell!"

He turned away from the slab and buried ...

"Shut UP, 'Nea, just SHUT UP!!"

... his head in his hands.

Mulder held his head for a long time. When he finally
raised his eyes, the morgue was still there, but he
was standing in the corridor outside an autopsy bay.
He was looking directly into a window with the mini
blinds closed. He was surprised to see that he held
a cord in his hand. This was the cord that would open
the blinds, and uncover what lay behind.

He watched as he slowly opened the blinds. Little by
little, a body revealed itself. It was a naked female,
mottled, and gray. There was bruising at the neck and
wrists. The head was turned toward the window, facing
him. He could see the tongue protruding slightly, and a
large bullet hole between Scully's wide open, blue eyes.

Despair grew like rain collecting at the tip of a bowing
leaf. Drops of grief coalesced into full-bodied agony,
before dripping onto the ground.

His dark world splashed with brilliant pain and
flashing lights.

Mulder willed his heart to stop beating. Willed himself
to stop breathing. Prayed for his blindness to return.

"I'm not gonna let you do this no more, "Meka!"

"There's nothin' you can do about it, Linnea."

<flash>

Mulder watched as Scully slid to the floor in the
photographer's apartment. Blood poured from
a gunshot to her abdomen, and ran in rivulets from
the corners of her mouth.

He looked down and saw Peyton Ritter's gun in his
hand.

"Momma tol' me that I have a gift, an' that you're
stealin' it!"

"We share, Linnea, you know that. We play together,
and if I didn't play with you, nobody would. Ever!"

<flash>

Mulder sat in a wooden chair at the summerhouse in
Quonochontaug. Blood was dripping into his left eye,
from the hole drilled into his head. He looked frantically
at the debris strewn about the room. Mirrors had been
shattered and small splinters of wood floated like dust
motes in the evening light.

The barrel of his gun was hot. A gurgling sound came
from the floor.

He was amazed that there was so little blood on her. By
the look of it, the bullet must have hit her heart dead on.

'Dead on'--he smiled sadly at that.

She was trying to speak. He climbed out of the chair
and crept on all fours; over to where she lay. He put his
ear close to her lips, but he couldn't hear her.

He watched her as she gasped, her lips forming the word,
"Forgive."

She was forgiving him for killing her.

That was so like her.

"I ain't gonna play like this no more! The lady, his friend,
says you're makin' him sick. I ain't gonna let you do this
no more!"

"Linnea, just wait! C'mon it's just a game..."

<flash>

Robert Patrick Modell spun the cylinder, then handed the
gun to Mulder.

"One shot."

Mulder didn't respond.

"Mulder, you don't have to do this." Scully's eyes were
brimming with tears.

He aimed the gun at her.

"Mulder, no."

"Mulder, yes."

And he fired. Point blank, right above the Kevlar vest.
Right where her low alto and high soprano originated.
A strange look of disbelief and pity crossed her face
before her head smacked the table.

"It *ain't* just a game, 'Meka! His friend says we're hurtin'
him. He's blind and you're makin' him see things he don't
wanna see. You better quit it, RIGHT NOW!"

"'Nea, don't be such a baby..."

"I said QUIT IT!"

<flash>

Scully lay on the floor, dead behind him. Linda Bowman
pushed her into killing herself. He watched in horrified
fascination as her blood pooled, clotting in her hair.

Then, out of the shadows, Linda Bowman appeared. She
raised her gun and Mulder raised his.

"I'm going to kill you!" Mulder screamed.

Before she got a chance to speak, Mulder fired. With
tears coursing down his cheeks, he fired again.

"I'm sorry, Scully. I know it's you, and I'm sorry. I'm so
sorry--I can't--can't..."

And again, and again as the empty chamber clicked
and kept clicking.

Until a small, dark hand tugged at his wrist.

"You can stop now, Mistah, it's okay."

Mulder looked down. A young, very dark-skinned
teen-aged girl was staring up at him. Her black
eyes glittered as she stared into his.

"You might should lemme have it. It ain't real anyways."

She tugged at his wrist again, and held out her hand.
He looked at her strangely, then handed her his gun.

She was a gangly seventeen-year-old with thick,
wire-framed glasses. Her hair was braided in tight
cornrows, ending in many small, colored beads, and
oiled to a shine. She had very full lips and her front
teeth had a wide gap between them.

"Momma told me I shouldn't be doin' this no more. But
the lady, your friend, axed her an' she said I could one
las' time. The lady was real upset."

Mulder looked around and saw that the warehouse,
where he'd just killed Scully, had disappeared. Now he
was in a young girl's bedroom. He sat on the edge of
the bed; on the bedspread was the smiling face of
Jasmine from the Disney movie, "Aladdin."

"Momma got real mad at Timeka, and she was gonna
get real mad at me, but then the lady said let me help,
so momma said it was okay."

Finally finding his voice, Mulder asked, "Who are you?"

Her features crumpled, "I'm so sorry, Mistah. Timeka tol'
me you were bad like the man who burned the dummies,
an' the man who yelled at me and wanted to hurt me."

'Dummies?' Mulder thought. Effigies. She saw the man
burning their effigies.

"You're Linnea, aren't you?"

"Please don't be mad at me. Momma already tol'
Timeka to get out. I promise I won't do it again!"

Mulder looked around the room. He noted the purple
curtains festooned with huge pink bows. The face of
the Genie smiled from the curtains that were draped
in front of the dirty windows. A pair of blue jeans lay
folded over the back of a small wooden chair tucked
next to a very small dresser. On the top of the dresser
were tiny toy figures from the same Disney movie. The
walls were a shocking shade of orange.

"Is this what your room looks like. Linnea?"

"Well, not 'xactly," she admitted shyly. "Momma couldn't
afford the "Aladdin" stuff, and she *hates* orange. But
my pants *are* folded neatly. Do you like it?"

"Yes, yes I do. Very much." He attempted a weak grin.
Tears were still wet on his face.

Linnea smiled a full gapped tooth smile.

Mulder continued softly, "But we're not really here, are
we, Linnea?"

"Well, no, but it kinda looks like this. I can make all
sorts of things for you to look at," she said proudly.
"I can even show you the kitten I want to get someday,
if you want."

"You don't have to show me any more things to look
at," Mulder whispered.

"Why not? The lady says you can't see anymore,
so when I take the pictures away, you won't see nothing.
Ever!"

"You're right, Linnea." He looked up at this young
lady who stood in front of him. "But that's what you're
gonna have to do, because I *don't* see anymore.
Okay?"

She scrunched her forehead, not quite understanding
him.

"If you can't see, then why don't you want me to show
you stuff?"

How could he explain to her that being blind was how
it was supposed to be? It was true that when he was
first blinded he felt like a piece of himself had been lost.
No, not just lost, amputated.

Only emptiness, where there once was light. The loss
of his sight was both depressing and disorienting.
Phantom pain, in the form of cerebral artwork, kept
itching and stinging; constantly reminding him of a
world filled with color and dimension.

But Mulder finally accepted the darkness, and now the
blindness was an inescapable part of who he was.

"It's all right, Linnea. I have all my own pictures that I can
look at any time I want to."

She looked at him for another moment and said, "You
do?"

He smiled warmly and nodded.

"Okay, if you're sure." All at once, Linnea's face lit up
as a thought occurred to her. "Hey, Mistah, is there
somethin' or somebody you want to see for real before
I take the pictures away? I'm really good at makin' 'em
look just right."

He looked at this young girl's animated face, and was
absolutely certain that she looked just like the image he
had before him.

Yes, there was one person he wanted to see.

"It's okay, Linnea. You can take the pictures away
now."

And he did see her, every night in his dreams.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Part Nine xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
 

The pictures were gone now.

They'd been gone for over two days and Mulder's world
was utterly black again. Even his dreams were mere
overcast shadows.

He sighed in his sleep as he shifted onto his back.

The mild autumn weather continued, and he kicked one
leg out from under the blankets. Ever since he was a boy,
when he got too warm in bed, he'd hang a foot off the side
as a way to equalize the temperature.

In a semi-conscious gesture, he skirted his hand over
to Scully's side of the bed. It was empty, but still warm.

Straining his ears, he listened for the sound of running
water, or padding footsteps, signaling her return. His
inner clock told him that it must be well into the wee hours
of the morning, and his head lolled to the side as he
began to doze again.

For several minutes, Mulder lay like that. His left hand
stretched out, with his palm down, feeling the heat
Scully's body left behind, while the right leg, uncovered
from toe to thigh, dangled almost to the floor. His eyes
drifted shut, as his chin dipped to touch his shoulder.

A very soft sound piqued his curiosity, and caused
him to turn his head slightly. There it was again, a
soft muffled stirring coming from the living room.

Rousing himself enough to sit, he kicked off the rest
of the blankets. Mulder stood up, wobbled for a
second, and gently rubbed the back of his head where
the stitches still resided.

Still in a half conscious state, he shuffled into
the living room. He cocked his head to the right and
discovered that the sounds were coming from the
couch.

"Hey," he whispered. "What'cha doing up?"

He heard a watery sniff, before she said, "Go back to
bed, Mulder. I'll be there in a few minutes."

He yawned and stretched his fisted arms over his head.

"Well, that's a nice try, Scully, but I know how you hate
to cry alone." He sat down on the couch and scooted
over. He found her curled up on the far end of the sofa
with a throw pillow clutched to her chest.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." Another sniff
then, "Please go back to bed."

"Not without you, I'm not."

He was close enough to feel her heat, so he reached
out his hand. It landed in just the right place to cup the
crown of her head. He started stroking her hair and
said, "C'mon, tell me what's wrong."

For a few moments all he heard was her quiet breaths.
When it seemed she wasn't going to answer, she
finally cleared her throat and said, "As a scientist, I
look at the world clinically. I don't judge whether things
are right or wrong. I look at the world as it is, and try
to understand its order."

He continued his gentle stroking, and nodded for her
to continue.

"My father taught me to do that. One day, when I was
about ten years old, I remember being out with him, and
seeing a very disabled child. I was heartbroken. I
felt sorry for the parents, and for the child. But
more than that, I was angry. I could find no rational
justification for why a little girl should be so handicapped.
After all, what could she have done to deserve such
a fate?"

Scully's grip on the pillow tightened for a moment, and
she took a deep breath, blowing half of it out before
she spoke.

"I ranted to my father: Why did this happen? This was
so unfair. How could such a terrible thing possibly be
explained to anyone's satisfaction? How could God
allow this to happen to someone so innocent? How
could anyone ever be able to take care of such a
handicapped child? It was just so *unfair*"

She stopped and shook her head. Mulder felt wisps of
her hair trail against his chin.

"He told me, 'Starbuck, you can't look at the world as
being a place that is either fair or unfair. That doesn't
help anyone. You have to look at the world the way it is.
It is, as it is. And somebody will always have to take
care of the children.'"

Mulder kissed her temple softly, and said, "Your dad
was a wise man."

"He was wise. And I've tried --and mostly succeeded --
in seeing life as it is, and not how it should be.

"But Mulder, what happened to you wasn't fair. No
matter how clinical I try to be, or how I try to step back
and look at it through objective eyes."

She turned toward him, her breath soft against
his neck.

"When you first woke up without your sight, I knew
how hard it must have been for you. Mulder, you were
so brave. I saw how hard you worked to get through
it and accept it. You struggled through Braille classes
and banged knees. Mobility training and barked shins.
Technology training and stubbed toes. And I'd never
been prouder, nor loved anyone so much, in all my life."

Mulder swallowed thickly and asked gently, "Is that why
you're out here crying?"

"Mulder, you had an opportunity to see again, for one
last time. Now your last images are tarnished and sad.
When I took you back to the hospital, two days ago, you
were in such pain. I heard you cry out, and I knew you
must have been seeing terrible things. I was heartbroken
and angry all over again. And helpless. I didn't know
what I could do to help you."

"But Scully, you did help me. I heard you calling to
me through the darkness, but I couldn't keep hold of
you. Even terrible images are seductive to a blind man.

"Scully, you found the strength for me. Even though you
were skeptical, you went back to that house on East
Harlem Ave, and confronted a woman whom *I* believed
to be a witch. Your faith in me saved me."

He kissed her again.

She softly sniffed before she said, " I did go back to
confront Timeka, but I know now that it was Linnea,
who came to your rescue. She came downstairs as
I was begging Timeka to turn you loose. Timeka never
said a word; she just smirked as I pleaded with her.

"I don't know how much Linnea heard, but after Octavia
told Timeka to leave, I was --well-- very upset. I was
convinced that Timeka was the only one who could
help you.

"Linnea took my hand and told me not to worry; that
she was going to go see you, up in her bedroom.
She left to go upstairs, and I left to go sit by your
bedside at St. Agnes. But when I got there, you
were waiting for me to take you home."

She wove her arms around him, and he pushed
himself closer to her.

He spoke softly in her ear. "I know that Linnea is
one of the special children that we've been entrusted
to take care of, but isn't it funny how sometimes it's
the children who take care of us?"

They sat, curled together, before she spoke again.

"Mulder, you saw Timeka. You saw that she was
a beautiful woman."

"Well, I know that the image she presented me
with was of a beautiful woman. I don't really
know what she looked like."

"Oh, Mulder." She buried her head in her hands.

"What? Tell me. What's wrong?"

"It's just that--Oh shit..." She hesitated, then
said in a rush, "I thought that I wouldn't have to
worry about other women now."

Mulder sat up and searched her face with his
fingertips. "You've never had to worry about other
women. Not now, not before the accident, not
ever." He sat back, pasted a campy smile on his
face, and in a breathy voice quoted, "You had me
at 'hello.'"

Instead of hearing her groan, as he expected, her
breath hitched unevenly.

She said, "I was jealous, Mulder. I'm still jealous,
and I'm afraid of what she may have shown you.
I thought for a while that I couldn't bear it if she
showed you a false image of me. Then I realized
that I couldn't bear it if she showed you a true
one."

"Scully ..."

"It's all so unfair, Mulder. The world be damned,
it *is* unfair. You---you've been blinded, you've
lost your most vital sense, and now you don't
even know what I look like anymore. And me---
I'm jealous of beautiful women. But I'm vain, too, I
didn't know it, but I am. And I want you to know
what I look like when you're making love to me.

"I can't give you your sight back, but I might be able
to give you back the vision you had of me. So, I've
decided to have the surgeries. I'm going to make
the arrangements in the morning."

He brought his face very close to hers and said,
"Scully, I'm grateful for having been sighted for almost
forty years. Nobody knows more than I do, how tenuous
and unpredictable life is. With you anchoring me, I've
learned to be grateful and thankful, and not bitter and
resentful. Believe me, Scully, I've seen enough to last
a lifetime. So, don't do it for me, because I *do* know
what you look like when I make love to you."

He thought for a minute. There was something very
important he wanted to say, and Mulder realized that
now was the time to be truthful with her.

"Scully, she did show me an image of you."

She recoiled, but he held her fast.

"I saw sadness in your eyes, a hollow sadness. Timeka
must have seen it too, in order to put it there for me
to see.

"I want to take that sadness away, Scully. The sadness,
the jealousy, and the guilt. I want to wrap my arms
around you and love you until it all disappears. I don't
know if I can, but, God, I want to try."

He took her hands and kissed both palms lightly.

"Give me a lifetime to try. And if I can't do it in this
lifetime, give me the next. Marry me, Scully. Forever."

There was absolute silence. Mulder couldn't even hear
her breathe. He didn't know whether she was staring
at him, slack jawed, or rolling her eyes ready to mutter,
'Oh brother.'

Plowing ahead he said, "Look, I know I may not be the
best choice for a husband..."

"Mulder..."

"...but your clothes would never have to match, and
you'd always get to drive, and I swear I'd never, ever
look at another woman..."

"Mulder."

He lowered his voice to a whisper. "And I love you
so much, Scully. You *have* to know how much.
Life without you would be unthinkable, unbearable."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Then say, 'yes.'" His hands cupped her cheeks
and he kissed her eyes.

"Mulder, your impulsive streak is going to get
you in trouble..."

He kissed the back of her neck. "Say, 'yes.'"

"The trauma of the last few days has clouded
your judgment..."

"Say, 'yes.'" He kissed behind her ear.

"And we have to consider that ..." He kissed the line
of her jaw.

"...what with the surgeries..." the hollow at the base
of her throat.

He stopped and waited. He raised his head so that
he knew his face was squarely in front of hers. Her
breath passed to him, and he passed it back. This
is how it had always been, one shared breath,
one shared life.

She paused a moment longer, then said, "Yes..."

He blew out a breath then said, "There, was that
so hard?"

"No." She sounded stunned. "No--it wasn't."

She touched his face, almost tentatively. The backs
of her fingers were cool as they caressed his cheek.
He noticed that they trembled slightly as they curved
over his ear.

"I have loved you for so long, Mulder. It almost
frightens me how much." She kissed him warmly,
and he returned the gesture. After several minutes
or hours or days, Scully sat up.

She said, "I want so badly for you to know just how
I feel."

She brushed her hand across his bare chest, then
tugged at his earlobe with her teeth.

"Ooh Scully...," he murmered

"I'm going to do something for you that I've never
done for any other man."

Mulder's heart rate went up a few notches.

She placed her lips very close to his ear, and in
her soft off-key alto, began to sing:

"Wise men say, only fools rush in, but I can't help
falling in love with you.
Take my hand, take my whole life, too..." she climbed
onto his lap, buried her face in the crook of his neck,
and finished the verse.

"For I can't help falling in love with you..."

Mulder chuckled and said, "The king lives!"

He closed his eyes and leaned down. As he touched
her lips with his, he said a silent prayer of thanks, and
marveled at how very bright his future was looking
right now.

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I wis