This is part nine of a twelve-part post.  Author's Note, Spoiler Warning,
and Disclaimer can be found at the beginning of part 1.  Relationship
Warning has been added... If there are problems with the posting (or
comments on the story!) I'm at nvrgrim@aol.com.
 
 

AT THE BLUE HOTEL (9/12)
by Nicole Perry
nvrgrim@aol.com
 
 

Mulder ran into the emergency wing of the hospital, his breath coming in
short catches as he slowed his pace to something resembling a walk.  He
crossed quickly to the admissions desk and approached the gray-haired
nurse behind the counter, who was just finishing a phone conversation.

 "I'm here to see a patient," he said as she hung up, the words tumbling
from his mouth in a manic rush.

 "Name?" she questioned, unruffled by his panicked demeanor.  From the
looks of her, she had been asking the same question for going on thirty
years, and wasn't about to be troubled by his anxiety.

 "Wilder," he responded.  "Lisa Wilder."

 The nurse checked her admissions charts, flipping the pages back with an
agonizing slowness that cut at his soul.  Finally, her search concluded,
she looked up at him with a blank expression.

 "I show no one admitted this afternoon under that name, sir."

 Mulder paused, wondering for a brief moment if perhaps Scully had been
admitted under her own name, but dismissed the thought as soon as it
entered his head.  If she were lucid enough to have the landlord phone for
him at the library, she would never have taken such a risk.  "Are you
sure?" he questioned, certain that she had made a mistake.  "I received a
phone message."

 "From the hospital?" the nurse asked, seeming almost bored with the
routine.

 "No," he replied.  "From... oh, nevermind.  Could you check again,
please?"

 Again, she flipped the pages, with a tedious lack of urgency.  "No, I
don't show anyone admitted under that name."

 He exhaled a furious rush of breath.  "Okay... anyone admitted without
identification?  Any Jane Does on that list?"

 Hoping against hope that the answer would be no, that Scully had not been
admitted in a condition that prohibited her from identifying herself,
Mulder waited as the woman checked again.

 "No, sir, I'm sorry.  Are you sure she was admitted this afternoon?"

 "Yes!"  Mulder realized that his voice had risen almost to a shout and he
forced himself to calm down.  "Yes, I just now received the message."

 The nurse gave him a look of concern that was almost patronizing.  "Are
you sure you have the right hospital?"

 "Yes, I'm sure!"  Mulder lost the fight for control and gave into his own
panic.  "I need to speak to your supervisor.  Now!"

 The nurse glared at him, then turned to her younger compatriot who was
seated at a desk behind the counter.  "Get Nurse Bishop please, right
away."

 The young nurse leapt up from her seat at her superior's stern tone and
disappeared into the back.  "Just a moment, sir," said the older nurse,
and Mulder nodded.

 "Thanks," he said, as he backed away from the counter, his thoughts
whirling as he paced in a nervous circle on the floor.
 
 

Vincent stared at the woman lying crumpled in a heap by the side of the
chair.  She was a tiny woman, much smaller than he had imagined, and an
idle part of his mind wondered whether the Bureau had a height requirement
for its agents.  Even with her sight intact, he had a hard time believing
that she had at one time been a licensed employee of the federal
government.  But then Vincent had a hard time believing that any woman was
capable of that kind of work -- he had a dim view of any organization that
would give a woman that kind of power.

 He watched her unconscious form with a smile of satisfaction.  It had
given him pleasure to pistol whip her, the kind of pleasure that aroused
him and made his job infinitely satisfying.  He remembered Christophe's
words:  communion or confirmation, it made no difference.  Those were
magic words to Vincent.  Confirmation meant that a body needed to be
found, to be identified, and therefore needed to be left in a certain
condition upon death.  Communion was a whole different matter -- no body
need ever be recovered, and therefore it was his to be disposed of as he
chose.

 Vincent knelt down beside her, waiting for her to regain consciousness,
studying her small figure.  She was wearing a gray cardigan sweater over a
white tee shirt and jeans;  the clothing, combined with the tennis shoes
on her feet, made her appear more like a college student than a federal
agent.  And she was attractive, much prettier than he would have expected.
 He usually found women who worked on the side of the law to be staid and
dry, almost masculine in their appearance.  But there was a fragile beauty
about this woman that brought a rush of blood to his groin and he was
again pleased to have drawn this assignment.

 Then again, Vincent was usually pleased with his work.  It was an honor
to be chosen by Christophe, to be counted amongst his ranks.  Christophe
selected only the best -- men who considered their chosen pursuit an art,
more than a profession.  Vincent had often been reprimanded for taking
things too far, for pushing a situation to a level that satiated his own
personal needs.  But he had never gone so far as to earn Christophe's
wrath;  on the contrary, Vincent was one of Christophe's most valued
employees.  He never came back empty-handed, and he never left a job
incomplete.  And this time would be no exception.

 After what seemed to Vincent an exceedingly long time, the woman began to
stir, her hands moving along the ground beside her in an attempt to gain
her bearings.  She struggled to a sitting position, her palms still flat
on the floor for balance, and Vincent waited for the appropriate moment
before launching his next attack.

 He reached out and grabbed her hair as it fell across her shoulders,
reveling in the gasp of breath she drew in as he did so.  He noticed that
the blow from the gun had left a large bruise along her cheekbone that was
already starting to swell and darken, and there was something about the
mark on her fair skin that caused his heart to beat a little faster.

 "Welcome back," said Vincent, his fingers twisted in her dark locks.  She
was silent, only her rapid breaths giving away her internal anxiety, and
he was fascinated by her self-control.  He still held the gun in his right
hand and he toyed with the safety, clicking it on and off again, relishing
the noise it made in the stillness.  "Now, you want to start over, and
make some sense this time?  Maybe then we can have a civilized
conversation.  You and I both know Mulder doesn't have the disk -- like
the gun, he can't get it past the metal detector at the library."

 The woman remained absolutely still, and there was something frustrating
about her silence that Vincent found oddly erotic.  Her eyes were fixed at
a point just beyond him, and their expression was totally blank;  he could
see none of the fear that normally entertained him, and this made him
angry.

 "Dana?  Let me tell you something.  I'm not going to play this waiting
game with you."  He gave the fine strands of hair in his hand a sharp
yank, jerking her head to the side.  A soft, helpless cry emerged from her
lips and he felt the familiar surge of power rush through him.  One of her
hands flew up in an attempt to free herself from his grasp, and he brushed
it aside easily with his gun arm.  "We'll have none of that," he chided.
"I'm talking now, and it's your job to listen."

 Vincent could not remember when he had last been so engaged by an
assignment.  He rarely came into contact with women in his line of work;
most of the people whose names appeared on Christophe's list were men, who
posed another sort of challenge.  The few women he had dealt with had been
of a much different variety, women who had dissolved into tears at the
first harsh word or hint of violence.  But this woman... her brave
stubbornness amused him, and he relished the moment when he would finally
be able to break her spirit.

 "You and I, we don't have much more time alone together, so we have to
make this count."  The woman's cardigan sweater was unbuttoned, and
beneath the white tee shirt she wore Vincent could see the faint outline
of her brassiere.  A smile turned up the corners of his lips as he took
the barrel of the gun and rested it against her collarbone.  "It's up to
you -- you can make this easy, or you can make it difficult.  It's your
choice."  As he spoke, Vincent slowly moved the gun down along her body,
tracing the lines of her brassiere with its edge.   Still she made no
sound, and he would have sworn she had stopped breathing entirely were it
not for the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest.  His pulse became more
rapid and he forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

 Lowering his voice to its most compelling whisper, Vincent continued his
speech.  "You're a doctor, so you must know that the most painful of all
gunshot wounds is a shot to the stomach."  He used the pistol to
illustrate his words, moving it down her body to press it into the
softness of her belly.  "On average, it takes forty-five minutes to an
hour for someone to bleed to death from that kind of wound.  In some
cases, people have survived as long as three hours, but that's rare.  Am I
right, Dana?  Am I right?"  He yanked on her hair again, and was at last
granted a small murmur.

 "Yes...."

 "Now, I *could* just shoot you now, in the stomach, and we could sit here
together and wait for Mr. Mulder to return.  I'm certain that if he found
you in that condition, he would be more than anxious to give me anything I
asked, in order to get you to a hospital."

 Vincent shifted position, pulling the gun back but retaining his grasp on
her hair.  "But that wouldn't be much fun for you, nor for me.  Contrary
to what you may think, I don't like that kind of mess."

 The woman shut her eyes for a long moment, and Vincent could tell that
she was thinking.  He remained quiet, watching her with rapt attention,
waiting to see what she would do next.  She finally opened her eyes but
made no sound, and Vincent felt his patience beginning to wane.

 "Game time is over, Dana.  I'm tired of fooling around, and I'm not going
to ask again.  So if you want to give me the disk, you'll have to tell me.
 Otherwise, I'll have no choice but to shoot."

 Another long pause and Vincent savored the intensity of the moment, eager
for the outcome of their silent duel, whatever it might be.

 "Alright," the woman finally answered, the word the barest whisper of
acquiescence.

 "What did you say?" Vincent brought his lips close to her ear.  "I
couldn't quite hear you."

 She twisted slightly in an effort to move away from him, with no success.
 "I'll give you the disk."

 "Ah," Vincent replied, treasuring the moment of victory.  "Good.  But
you'll have to say please."  He placed the gun against her stomach once
more to heighten her torment, and awaited her response.  His actions were
at last rewarded by a faint plea.

 "... please..."

 Vincent knew that he had reached the end of the round, but he was a
hunter who never tired of hounding his prey.  "No," he taunted her,
"that's not quite it.  It's 'please, let me give you the disk'."  He could
see the emotions written on the woman's face, despite her best attempts to
conceal them -- hatred, mixed with terror and something he surmised was
self-loathing, and his smile grew wide with a wicked satisfaction.

 Unwilling to wait any longer, Vincent twisted the woman's hair again with
a vicious jerk, pulling her head back to expose her neck.  He trailed the
barrel of the pistol along her skin and heard her breath catch, in a way
that made him leap with excitement at the thought that she might cry.

 No tears fell, but he could hear their thickness in the woman's throat as
she forced the words out between clenched teeth.  "Please... let me...
give you... the disk."

 "Well, Dana," Vincent laughed, "that's an offer I won't refuse."  He
finally released her hair only to grab her by the arm, pulling her up
beside him as he stood.  "Let's go."
 
 

Charlie pushed open the door and entered cautiously, overwhelmed by the
bustle of activity around him.  The last time he had been to the hospital
had been to see his grandmother, and an image of her shot through his
mind, the way that she had looked, small and frail beneath the sheets.
The memory frightened him and he forced himself to remember her the way
she was when he was little, the way that she had held him and loved him
and encouraged him like no one had since she died.  The thought gave him
courage, and he moved through the corridor, searching for the man he had
come to find.

 Charlie heard the man before he saw him, his voice loud with anger, and
he followed the sound.  The man was standing near the admissions desk,
engaged in an argument with a brown-haired nurse that reminded Charlie a
bit of his mother in the way she stood her ground.  The man was waving his
arms at her in agitation, but the nurse remained calm, replying to him in
low tones that seemed to have no effect.  Charlie stood a short distance
away and merely watched, afraid to interrupt their discussion.

 Finally, the nurse motioned to another, older nurse who stood behind the
counter, telling her something that Charlie couldn't quite hear.  The two
women spoke for a moment, and then they both turned and moved down the
hall, leaving a girl at the desk who merely stared at the man with a
helpless expression.  The man watched them leave, checked the watch on his
wrist, and then pounded his fist on the counter.   He stepped away from
the desk to lean against the wall, closing his eyes and exhaling a deep,
long breath.

 Charlie took a deep breath of his own and then crossed the distance
towards the man.  He was nearly there when the man's eyes flew open to
glare directly down at him.

 The man said nothing, merely fixed him with his furious gaze, and for a
moment Charlie was at a loss for words.   He opened his mouth several
times, and on the third try he found his voice.  "Excuse me, sir?"

 "What?"  There was something about the man's behavior that was
frighteningly similar to his father, when his father was in one of his
moods, but Charlie thought about his promise to the woman on the roof and
forced himself to continue.

 "I -- I came here, looking for you."  Charlie kept his eyes on the man,
afraid of his rage, but the man didn't move a muscle, so he plunged ahead.
 "I have a message for you."

 "What kind of message?  From who?"  Now the man's expression contained a
measure of what Charlie would have called skepticism, had he known the
word.

 "From Lisa," he answered.  "The lady... on the roof."

 The man moved towards him and Charlie took an uncertain step back, but
the man merely knelt down to face him.  "The roof..." he murmured in a
quiet voice, as though he were confused.  "Who are you?   How do you know
Lisa?"

 "I'm Charlie," he replied, relieved that the man seemed to be listening.
"I live next door.  And Lisa -- she sent me to find you.  She told me that
you have to come home, right away."

 The man was silent, looking at Charlie as though he were judging him
somehow, as though he was searching for proof.  Realizing that he could
provide it, Charlie reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out
the necklace Lisa had given him.  "I'm not lying to you," he said.  "She
gave me this, and told me that I had to get you to come home."

 Charlie held out the chain and the man took it from him, the gold cross
tiny in his palm.  He stared at it for a long moment and then closed his
hand around it, and when he looked back up at Charlie his eyes were wet.
"Thank you," he whispered.   Charlie barely had time to nod before the man
was on his feet, running down the corridor and slamming through the door
that led back to the street.
 

X-9            X-9
 

===========================================================================

From: nvrgrim@aol.com (NVRGRIM)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* - AT THE BLUE HOTEL (10/12) - Nicole Perry
Date: 14 Mar 1996 17:25:35 -0500
 

This is part ten of a twelve-part post.  Author's Note, Spoiler Warning,
and Disclaimer can be found at the beginning of part 1.  Relationship
Warning has been added... If there are problems with the posting (or
comments on the story!) I'm at nvrgrim@aol.com.
 
 

AT THE BLUE HOTEL (10/12)
by Nicole Perry
nvrgrim@aol.com
 
 

"Where is it?"

 "In the bathroom," Scully answered, choking the words past her fear and
anger.  The man's hand felt like an iron band around her arm, and she
winced at the pain of his grasp as he pulled her along beside him.

 Her mind was whirling, an incoherent rush of panic, and she fought to
think, to formulate some kind of plan.  Scully knew without question that
the man intended to kill her, and to kill Mulder as well, once he gained
possession of the disk that he was seeking.  And she knew with a dark
certainty that there was little she could do to prevent him from
accomplishing his goal.   Not Mulder, not Mulder, cried a voice inside her
head.   *She* had done this -- she had created the situation, not Mulder,
and Scully made a silent vow that she was not going to allow him to suffer
for her transgressions.  If she had to sacrifice herself in order to save
him, so be it, but she would not have him pay for her choice with his
life.

 Somehow strengthened by these thoughts, Scully allowed herself to be
dragged into the bathroom.  He released her and she stumbled, grabbing at
the edge of the sink for balance. "Okay, Dana, we're here now.  Where is
it?"

 She could hear the fury beneath his controlled words and answered as
quickly as she was able.  "The medicine cabinet," she replied.  "Between
the mirror and the frame."

 Scully leaned against the sink, listening to the familiar sound of the
cabinet door swinging open.  The man's body brushed against hers as he
sought to pry the glass from the frame, and she shifted position in an
attempt to move away from him.  Her right hand encountered something cool
and smooth, and her fingers trailed across it twice before she identified
it as Mulder's razor.  Razor... the word echoed in her mind as she
realized the implication behind the simple object.  Perhaps there was a
way...

 Unable to know if she was being observed, Scully focused her attentions
on the sounds the man was making as he fiddled with the cabinet door.  She
kept her body completely still as she allowed her hand to move lightly
across the edge of the sink, locating and rejecting item after item.
Toothbrush, toothpaste, comb... finally, she found what she was seeking.
Her fingers touched a hard cardboard surface, and she gingerly felt for
the lid, hoping against hope that the man would not witness her subtle
motions.   She found the lid and flipped it open, and pushed her fingers
inside where they met cool, sharp metal.  Razor blades, at least three or
four.

 Scully held her breath and gently lifted one of the blades out of the
box, praying that she would not drop it or knock the box off the edge of
the counter or otherwise alert the man to her actions.  From the sounds
that she heard, it appeared as though he was concentrating on the task at
hand, but she could not be certain, and she continued the silent prayer
that her motions would not be spotted.  At last, she held one of the
blades firmly between two fingers, and shifted her grasp upon the steel
until it was flat in her palm.  She curled her fingers around it, then
used her other hand to pull the sleeve of her sweater down as though she
was merely clutching the fabric and not the blade beneath.

 A moment later, she heard the snap of the glass pulling back from the
cabinet frame, and the man's satisfied sigh.  "So this is what all the
fuss is about," he said, and her heart sank at the words though she had
never doubted that he would find the disk.  "Seems like a whole lot of
nothing to me."

 There were a series of rustling sounds that Scully assumed were made by
the man as he tucked the disk into his clothing.  Then there was only
silence, and Scully shuddered, suddenly knowing that the man's eyes were
upon her.  She clenched her fist more tightly around the razor blade and
sought to put defiance into her words.  "You have the disk.  Now get out."

 The man laughed then, and the sound was chilling.  "Oh, I think not.  We
really should wait for Mr. Mulder to return."

 Before she could say anything, Scully felt the man's hand on her arm
again, pushing her out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.  Her heart
was beating faster now, but she had no choice but to accompany him.   The
man dragged her to the middle of the bedroom and then shoved her so
violently that she fell, her thigh colliding with something firm yet
yielding and she realized that she had crashed into the mattress of the
bed.

 "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice hatefully high with terror.

 "We have a little time to kill," came the answer.  Scully heard a loud
clatter from the bedside table as the man placed something atop it,
something solid that sounded as though it might be the pistol.  The noise
was followed by more rustling sounds and she realized that the man was
taking off his jacket.  "And I have a very good idea about how we should
spend it."

 A spasm of horror shot through her and Scully pulled herself to her feet,
brushing past the man in an irrational attempt to reach the door.   Her
feeble and faltering escape was quickly halted as she was seized from
behind by his strong arms, and although she knew her efforts were in vain,
she struggled in his grasp.

 "Let me go!"  she cried out, only to hear the laughter in his reply.  The
man picked her up in a fluid, effortless motion, and Scully felt her feet
leave the ground, pinwheeling uselessly through the air as he threw her
down onto the bed.

 Scully had been in many dangerous situations over the course of her
career, and had managed to withstand each new peril with a strength that
sometimes surprised her.  But she had never before been as scared as she
was now.   Suddenly she felt frighteningly vulnerable, helpless and alone.
 She screamed as she fought him, kicking and scratching, desperate to push
him away even as she tried to keep her hold on the tiny piece of steel she
had taken from the bathroom counter.

 "Nooooooo!"   Her screams were harsh and incoherent and shrill to her own
ears.  She yelled as loudly as she could, desperate for someone, anyone,
to hear her.  Scully felt the man's hands close on her upper arms, just
below her shoulders, as she was lifted off the bed.   Before she could
register what was happening, her head and back were slammed against the
wall, a wicked blow that knocked the wind out of her and left her gasping
for breath.

 Scully fell back down to the bed in a daze, barely aware of the softness
of the comforter beneath her.  Suddenly she felt weak, and faint, and knew
that she was dangerously close to losing consciousness.   A heavy weight
pressed her body into the mattress, and some dim part of her mind realized
that the man was now laying atop her.   His hand closed across her nose
and mouth, forcing her to gasp for air.  His voice was a harsh whisper in
her ear that sounded as though it was coming from a far distance, though
she could feel the sticky warmth of his breath on her neck.

 "Understand something," he hissed.  "Talking ruins it for me."

 The words wafted across her brain and Scully fought to make sense of
them, but it seemed unusually difficult to figure out what they meant.
After a moment, the man moved his hand away from her face, and she
thankfully sucked in deep gulps of air, her limbs feeling curiously weak.
He shifted positions atop her, sitting so that the weight of his body
rested on her thighs, his knees digging into her waist.  Scully twisted
beneath him to no effect, the pressure of his body numbing the lower part
of her own.  She could feel the man's hands as they pulled on the lapels
of her sweater, tugging the fabric midway down her arms, before returning
to the collar of her tee shirt.   He yanked at the thin material and it
gave way with a tearing sound that Scully barely registered until the cool
air of the room hit her bare skin.

 The man exhaled, a low whistling sound, and Scully felt his hands on her,
his fingers clammy and cold as they toyed with the straps to her
brassiere.  She tried to raise her arms, to push him away, but their weak
motion was quickly stopped.  The man grasped both of her wrists in one of
his hands, pinning her arms to the pillow above her head, while his other
hand continued its groping of her chest.   She still held the blade in one
hand, fingers balled into a tight fist that pressed against its sharp
edge, but it was useless to her now.

 Scully could feel the tears in her eyes and vowed that she would not
allow herself to cry.  Her throat burned with the ache of the screams she
was holding back, her fear of the man forcing her to choke back the words
that echoed in her mind --

 <nononopleasenotthisnotthisneverthispleasepleaseno>

 To Scully, it seemed as though she was trapped in a nightmare from which
there was no escape.  Her world had narrowed to the point where there was
nothing else but the man:  his iron grip on her wrists, his touch like ice
against her skin, his body a smothering pressure on hers, his raspy
breathing loud in the stillness of the room.   It seemed as though forever
had come and gone as she lay beneath him, until finally he released his
hold on her wrists.  Both of his hands then moved down her body and she
felt them grasp the waistband of her jeans, to begin fumbling with the
metal rivets that held them closed.

 <nononostopstopneverthisneverthisnostop>

 An unexpected rush of panic-induced adrenalin shot through her and Scully
acted without thinking, fueled by terror and an almost primal instinct for
survival.   With both of his hands busy at her waist, she reached up with
her left hand and found his face with her palm.   She heard his grunt of
surprise as she swept her right hand up in an arc, holding the blade flat
between her thumb and fingers, aiming her swing based on the proximity of
his head.  She felt resistance as the blade found the skin of his neck and
gritting her teeth she pulled it through, a warm sticky wetness gushing
over her fingers as she lost her grip on the blade and it fell from her
hand.

 The man yelled, a vicious cry of pain and anger, and Scully felt him
shift atop her, releasing some of the pressure on her lower body.  Without
hesitation she pushed at him with her arms and simultaneously brought her
knees up beneath him, kicking out with her legs and punctuating her
actions with a scream of her own.   Suddenly the pressure of his weight
completely vanished and she heard a loud crashing sound followed by what
sounded like the breaking of glass.

 Then, nothing but silence.

 Scully lay where she was, stunned by the sudden turn of events,
struggling to catch her breath.  It was the man's breathing that finally
stirred her to action -- the breaths were irregular but fairly loud, and
they jarred her to the realization that the man was unconscious, but was
definitely still alive.   She pulled herself to a sitting position, and
fumbled for her clothing, her first instinct an irrational need to cover
herself.  Her tee shirt was useless but she merely pulled the sweater
closed over it rather than taking the time to remove it.   She managed to
rebutton her jeans and then stood up from the bed, taking a cautious step
forward.

 She quickly found the man's body, laying where he had fallen near the
side of the bed.  Moving her hands carefully around him, Scully found
several splintered pieces of wood which she assumed to be the remains of
the nighttable.  She surmised that the man must have crashed into the
nighttable as he fell, perhaps hitting his head.   Briefly, Scully felt
the ground around the table, searching for the pistol, but she found
nothing.  She could feel her own body shaking, and forced herself to
focus, knowing that her time was limited.  Steeling her nerves, she placed
her hands upon him, patting gently down his body searching for the round
metal circle of the disk.  She found nothing, and began to panic, until
she remembered the jacket that he had removed.

 Scully stepped over the man and stumbled her way over to the bureau,
where she found the rough fabric of his coat.   She ran her fingers over
it until she found the disk, tucked into a pocket. She pulled the disk out
and stuffed it into the back pocket of her jeans, exhaling a deep sigh of
relief.  Get out, get out, get out, her mind screamed, and she compelled
her legs to follow the command.  For a moment, she hesitated, debating
about searching for the gun, but she was too afraid of what would happen
if the man regained consciousness with her still in the room.

 Moving as quickly as she dared, Scully made her way out of the bedroom
and across the main room to the front door of the apartment.  She pulled
it shut behind her quietly and then edged her way down the hallway to the
stairs, her whole being focused on escape.  The building seemed eerily
quiet, and although she pounded on each of the doors she passed, she
expected no answer and received none.

 After what seemed an eternity, Scully reached the glass door at the front
of the building. She fumbled for the handle, determined to swing it open
and risk the melee outside in search of help, but the door refused to open
despite her fierce tugs.   After a moment, she felt cautiously along the
edge of the door itself, only to come across a strange and unfamiliar
piece of metal.  A lock, she thought, her throat going dry with the
realization that the stranger had somehow trapped her inside the building.
 It was only a matter of time, now, before he awoke....

 Scully was at the point of completely succumbing to her fear when she
remembered Charlie, remembered the roof, remembered the fire escape.   Her
breath coming in fast, furious gasps, she climbed back up the stairs,
running her hands along the walls for balance, until she came to the door
that led to the roof.  She threw it open and mounted the steps as quickly
as she was able, until she finally reached her destination and was greeted
by the fresh scent of open air.

 She slammed the door shut behind her, heedless of the noise, thinking
only of her desire to put as many barriers between herself and the man as
possible.   Scully edged her way along the roof, searching for the
unfamiliar section at the far end where the sounds of the fire escape had
come from.  After a few frantic moments, she found metal with her hand
that she could only assume to be the stairs.  Terrified but determined to
continue, she grabbed the metal with her hands and swung her leg over the
side of the roof, incredibly relieved to find a flat step beneath her foot
instead of mere air.

 Scully descended the fire stairs with astonishing speed, despite her
inability to see the steps beneath her.  She was moving on automatic pilot
now, more afraid of the man than of falling off of the ladder.   She had
only come a few steps when she heard the door to the roof swing open with
a loud clang that chilled her, and she attempted to quicken her pace.

 <nononopleaseGodnomorenomorenomorepleaseplease>

 The man's footsteps were loud on the roof and then Scully felt the fire
escape shake as he shifted his weight onto it.   She kept moving, hoping
against hope that if she reached the ground before he caught her she could
somehow get away.    When it seemed as though she would never reach the
end, her left foot hit the last step, her right finding nothing beneath.
Jump, jump, jump, her mind screamed, and she did just that, allowing her
body to fall.

 Scully hit the ground in a crouch and cried out as a sharp pain raced
through her ankle.  Though the fall had been short she had landed badly,
but she ignored the pain and forced her legs to run.  She had no sense of
direction, yet all she could think about was putting distance between
herself and the loud sounds coming from the metal stairs behind her.

 She had only accomplished a dozen awkward strides when she heard the
man's approach and she screamed, a loud scream of terror and rage and
helplessness, before he tackled her body with his, forcing her to the
ground.  Her scream was cut off as the air rushed out of her lungs, and
she again lay trapped beneath him, feeling his hand as it pulled the disk
from her jeans.

 "Dumb bitch," the man cursed, his words slicing through her ear into her
brain.  "You need to learn not to start something you can't finish."
 

X-10            X-10
 

===========================================================================

From: nvrgrim@aol.com (NVRGRIM)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* - AT THE BLUE HOTEL (11/12) - Nicole Perry
Date: 14 Mar 1996 17:25:41 -0500
 

This is part eleven of a twelve-part post.  Author's Note, Spoiler
Warning, and Disclaimer can be found at the beginning of part 1.
Relationship Warning has been added... If there are problems with the
posting (or comments on the story!) I'm at nvrgrim@aol.com.
 
 

AT THE BLUE HOTEL (11/12)
by Nicole Perry
nvrgrim@aol.com
 
 

Mulder was in the midst of his third assault on the shatterproof glass of
the front door to the building when he heard the scream.

 Heard her scream.

 Heard the fear, the pain, the agony.

 Heard the way that it cut off, abruptly.

 His heart suddenly stuck in his throat, Mulder swept past the old
neighbor couple standing next to him, barely catching the woman's words as
his feet churned around the corner of the building.  "Stanley -- call the
police!  Stanley..."

 Mulder was around the side of the building in an instant, throwing his
shoulder against the wooden fence that blocked access from the street,
shattering the makeshift lock with one solid blow.  The side yard was
empty, and he careened around the building towards the back at a reckless
pace.

 "Stop -- right where you are."

 Mulder skidded to a stop, halted not by the words but by the tableau that
lay before him.  The first thing he noticed was the blood, and it took a
few precious seconds before he was able to look beyond it.

 There was a man, a man whom Mulder had never before seen and did not
recognize, and at that moment the man's identity was of little concern to
him.  His whole being was focused on the fact that the man was holding
Scully with one arm clenched across her shoulders and chest, pinning her
to him at a level that forced her to stand nearly on tiptoe.  The man's
other hand was holding a gun that Mulder quickly recognized to be his own.
 The barrel of the pistol was tucked under Scully's chin, forcing her head
upwards in an awkward position.

 And the blood... it was everywhere.  On her face, down her cheek, on her
hands that gripped the arm that trapped her as though for balance.   A
long moment passed before Mulder realized that the source of the blood was
an ugly wound in the man's neck, a jagged cut that was bleeding profusely.
 

 The man's eyes were a dark, cold steel, nearly the same shade as his
hair.  He was a tall man, and well-built;  he clutched Scully to him as
though she weighed next to nothing.  His demeanor was alarmingly calm, as
though despite the circumstances he had matters well under control.  The
hand that held the pistol was frighteningly steady, and keeping his eyes
fixed on Mulder, the man dug the gun further deeper into Scully's neck in
an ominous warning gesture.

 Mulder's eidetic mind registered all of this in mere seconds, the
majority of his attention directed solely at Scully.  Her sweater was
misbuttoned, and there was something about the way her tee shirt was
bunched up beneath it that Mulder found terribly frightening.  There was a
large welt along her cheekbone, a livid blotch of color, and her face was
unusually pale.  The expression she wore was a blank mask of terror.  In
all their time together, he had never before seen her this scared, and
hoped to God that he would never see her look this way again.

 Anxious to find some way to reassure her, Mulder raised both hands, palms
up, to the level of his shoulders, and spoke in the calmest voice he could
muster.  "Take it easy," he said quietly, noting with a tiny measure of
relief the way that Scully's head tilted at his words.  "I'm unarmed.
Let's not do anything we'll regret."

 The man merely continued to fix him with his gaze, and it was Scully who
spoke first.   Her voice was tight and dry and low as she whispered his
name.  "Mulder... he has it.  He has the disk."

 Her words aroused the man's ire and he constricted her chest with a
fierce squeeze of his arm, forcing her to gasp for breath.  "You're not a
part of this conversation," the man hissed, his voice heavy with malicious
intent.

 Helpless, Mulder could only wait until the man relaxed his grasp on
Scully, afraid to do anything that might endanger her further.  Forcing
himself to keep his words steady and even, he asked, "You have the disk.
What more do you want?"

 The man's lips curved up in a dark smile.  "Answers, Mr. Mulder.   What I
need are some answers."

 "Okay," Mulder responded, trying to gauge the situation, desperately
looking for a way out.  "We can talk about anything you want, as long as
you let her go."   He took a small step forward, his approach guarded by
caution, but the motion did not go undetected.  The man matched his
movements, stepping back and dragging Scully with him, the toes of her
sneakers trailing in the gravel.

 The man laughed then and the sound sent chills down Mulder's spine.
"It's not that easy, G-Man.   I'm well aware of the importance of leverage
in any discussion."

 Mulder nodded, his hands now clenched in fists at his side, knowing that
he would be a fool to follow his instincts and try to choke the life out
of the man.  "Then talk."

 "I need to know who else you and Dana have made aware of this disk.  Who
else knows of its existence."

 "No one."  Mulder's voice was firm.  "We haven't told anyone about the
disk."  He felt fairly safe in the lie;  there could be no way that the
man knew about the Lone Gunmen, let alone trace his connection to them.

 "Why should I believe you?" the man questioned, prodding Scully with the
gun barrel again.

 "Because you're holding all the cards, and you know it."  Mulder
answered, staring intently at the man.  "I have nothing to gain by lying."

 Seconds passed that felt like hours as Mulder waited for his response.
Finally, the man nodded slowly, his smile widening.  "Funnily enough, I
believe you, G-Man."

 "Then let her go."

 "No," said the man, shaking his head with something akin to regret.
"Can't do that, I'm afraid.  Dana and I have some unfinished business,
don't we, Dana?"

 Mulder's eyes went to Scully, who stood where she was, pinned against his
bulk, motionless except for her trembling lower lip.  Now, more than ever,
he wished that she could see him, wished that he could use his eyes to
communicate with her as he had so many times before.

 "But first things first," the man continued.  "I'm sorry, Mr. Mulder, but
your services are no longer required."

 "What are you going to do?  Shoot me here in the alley?"  Mulder forced
his voice to convey a confidence he didn't feel.   "The neighbors have
already called the police.   You don't want to have to deal with that."

 The man laughed again.  "By the time the police arrive, Dana and I will
be long gone."  He shifted the position of the gun, tracing its edge along
the curve of Scully's ear.  "Besides, I could shoot you and stand here and
wait for the police with the gun in my hand.  I'd still be a free man
again within the hour."

 Something in the man's dark words rang true, and Mulder shuddered.  He
didn't know who the man was or whose interests he represented, but somehow
he knew that the man wasn't bluffing, that he had the ability to do
exactly what he claimed.  Plan after plan flashed through Mulder's head
and he rejected each of them instantly, calculating the risk and the
danger to Scully.  But he would be damned if he would submit so easily and
simply allow Scully to remain in the man's clutches.

 "Look," he reasoned, "I'm sure there's a way we can work this out..."

 "Mr. Mulder," the man cut him off abruptly, "this has already been worked
out."

 At that moment Scully slumped in the man's arms with a low moan, her body
going limp in his grasp.  Her head lolled to one side as her knees buckled
beneath her.   His heart thumping in his chest, Mulder took a quick step
forward as the man looked down at Scully, the gun sliding from her head as
he sought to adjust his grasp.

 Then, it was though everything happened in slow motion --

 Scully bit down on the arm that pinned her to the man's chest --

 The man howled as he released his hold on her --

 The gun went off, a loud explosion echoing from its muzzle --

 Scully fell to the ground, her body tucking into a ball as she rolled
away from him --

 Without stopping to think of the consequences, Mulder took the chance he
instinctively knew Scully had given him, rushing forward to charge the
man.  Heedless of the gun, he crashed into him, throwing as much force as
he could muster into the blow.

 Mulder and the man hit the ground and Mulder winced as the air rushed
from his lungs.  He heard a loud clatter and realized that the man had
dropped the gun, and Mulder wasted no motion, pummeling the man with all
his strength.  The man fought back with the intensity of a tiger, blocking
Mulder's blows and serving up his own with nary a grunt of effort.  Out of
the corner of his eye, Mulder saw Scully, on her hands and knees, backing
away from them towards the wall of the building.

 "Run!" he shouted, relieved that she had not been hit and desperate for
her to get away.  "Get out of here!"  He lost sight of her as the man's
fist connected with his jaw and blood filled his mouth.  The next time he
was able to glance her way, she had vanished, and Mulder felt a small
measure of relief.

 The man sank his knee into Mulder's groin and he groaned, trying to stave
off the attack.  The man's punches sailed through the air with a
professional fighter's grace, and Mulder soon found himself in a position
of mere defense.  The vicious blows rained down upon him with unstoppable
speed, and the world before his eyes began to spin and cloud over.
Mulder managed to land a direct hit, and heard the distinct crack of bone
beneath his fist, but it had no perceptible effect on the man.

 Mulder felt his resistance weakening, shattered by the force of the
attack.  He could see the gun, but it was just out of reach and useless to
him.  Another punch found his skull and he gasped as a sudden sharp pain
shot through his brain.   The man was relentless, and Mulder's best
attempts now failed to come anywhere near their marks.  Mulder knew he was
quickly losing his ability to focus, the loss of clarity now intense, his
strength slipping from him like sand through an hourglass.  A single
thought gripped him, pulsing over and over in his mind --

 <DanaDanaDanaDanaDanaDanaDanaDana>

-- and he gritted his teeth, fearing for her and praying for the strength
he needed to subdue his adversary.
 
 

Scully crouched against the side wall of the building, her heart like a
triphammer pounding in her chest.  Her throat was tight and constricted
with the tears she could not allow herself to shed, with the cries she
could not allow herself to scream.  She knew she was shaking, her body
racked with the physical manifestation of the indecision she felt.  She
didn't know what to do, or how she could help Mulder, but she knew that
she couldn't leave him.  Wouldn't leave him, no matter what.

 She listened to the sounds of the fight coming from around the corner,
acutely conscious of Mulder's ragged breathing and the soft groans that
intermittently reached her ears.   Scully had no way of knowing who had
the upper hand in their battle, but as she continued her silent vigil, she
felt despair begin to well up inside her.  Mulder was in pain, she could
hear it, and fury possessed her at her own inability to do more than
listen and wait.

 The scuffling continued, and then the sound of a gunshot cut through the
air, snatching the breath out of her body as her mind screamed --

 <nonononononononononononononono>

Another shot followed almost immediately, and then the alley fell back
into relative silence.  Scully froze, paralyzed by the intensity of her
terror, desperately listening for something... for anything.

 <OhMuldernononoI'msorryI'msosorry>

 A long moment passed and then she heard the approach of footsteps, the
sound slightly muffled by the gravel in the alley.  With one trembling
hand, Scully found something large and heavy beside her, a solid mass of
rock.  She clenched her fingers around it and raised it to the level of
her chest, though the rational part of her mind was aware that it was no
match for a gun.  But her anger towards the man had reached a new
intensity and she was now running solely on emotion, consumed only by the
need for revenge.  Knowing she would only have one chance, Scully took a
deep breath in preparation, and waited for the inevitable.
 
 

Mulder rounded the corner of the building to see Scully, her breathing as
rapid as his own, her eyes wide in a vain attempt to identify her pursuer.
 He rushed to her, consumed with relief as he called her name, the word
low but intense.  "Dana!"

 She was holding a loose piece of brick in one hand, raised in an attack
gesture, and though her arm lowered slightly at the sound of his voice,
she said nothing.  He knelt beside her and gathered her in his arms.
Scully was trembling uncontrollably with a force that rocked him as he
held her, and he tightened his grasp on her body, trying to comfort her.
He looked for words, but all he found was her name.  "Dana... Dana...
Dana..."

 She did not respond to his embrace, her body stiff against his.  After a
moment, Mulder realized she was still clutching the brick in her hand, and
he used his own fingers to pry it from her grasp.  Taking her hand, he
placed it flat against his face, guiding her fingers over the lines of his
features.  "Dana.... it's me.  It's Mulder.  It's okay... you're okay..."

 Scully's body relaxed slightly, though the tremors continued.  Her palm
still against his cheek, she murmured, "Mulder...I thought -- I thought
--"

 "I know," he answered, seeking to pull her even closer to him.   In the
distance, he could hear the approach of sirens, and the sound filled him
with a new sense of dread.

 "The man -- where --"

 "He's dead."  Mulder spoke the words with quiet finality, and she nodded,
tucking her head against his neck.  He held her for a moment longer, then
pulled back with reluctance.  "We have to get out of here, Scully," he
said.  "The police are on their way."

 Scully nodded again and slid her hand down his arm to find his, grasping
it tightly as he pulled her to her feet.   He adjusted the position of the
gun in his jacket to allow him to slip his arm around her, and began to
guide her down the alleyway, towards the opening at the far end.

 "Mulder?"  Her voice sounded faint and weak.  "The disk... do you have
the disk?"

 Mulder looked down at her, feeling a peculiar urge to laugh at her
singleminded intensity given the ordeal they had just escaped, but he knew
the value of the small piece of metal, the piece of metal he had forgotten
in his desire to return to her.

 "No," Mulder answered, and led her back around the corner of the building
where the body lay.  Scully stood beside him as he crouched down and
searched the man's pockets.  Finding the disk, he tucked it into his own
pocket before taking her arm again.  "All set, " he told her, taking her
arm yet again as they began to walk.
 
 

Charlie turned the corner, his legs beginning to ache as they pushed the
pedals of the bicycle up and down.   He was tired and out of breath and
suddenly wished that he had the money to buy a soda.  He slowed his pace
as he approached his street, surprised at the activity on the usually
empty block.  There were three police cars parked at odd angles as though
they didn't have to follow the same rules as everyone else, and a large
group of uniformed officers were walking around the guest house.   As he
pulled to the curb, Charlie's eyes widened as he noticed that several of
the officers had their guns drawn.

 Charlie put down the kickstand of his bike, abandoning it in front of his
own house, and moved as close to the activity as he dared.  There was an
ambulance parked amongst the police cars, but its lights were off and the
siren was silent.   He watched as two men carried a stretcher around from
the back of the guest house.  There was something on the stretcher, but
the white sheet atop it covered it completely.  Charlie knew enough from
watching television that a sheet like that could only mean a dead body lay
beneath, and he shivered with revulsion, but did not look away.   Part of
him wished that the sheet would fall aside, so that he could see who it
was that lay there covered and still, but another part did not want to
know, afraid of who it might be.

 "Charles!"  It was his father's voice that finally made him turn away
from the scene, startling him with its fury.  "What are you doin' out
there, boy?"  His father was standing on the stoop of their house, his
eyes glaring with anger from beneath his bushy brows.

 "Nothing, Pa, just lookin'."

 "Well, get in here, now.  Ain't gonna tell you twice."   His father waved
his arm, beckoning him inside, and Charlie knew better than to ignore the
command.  As he walked back towards his own house, he glanced back at the
guest house several times over his shoulder, but no other stretchers were
brought out, and the ambulance doors finally closed as the vehicle pulled
away from the curb.

 Moving quickly now, Charlie grabbed his bike and wheeled it around the
back to the shed.  He put the bike inside, closing the door carefully and
latching the lock.   Though he knew his father was waiting,  he took a
moment to look up at the roof across the way, the roof where he had first
seen her just a few days before.  The sky beyond it was just beginning to
darken, and he could just see the first star of the evening, faint against
the waning blue.  There was something about the star that calmed him, and
brought a small smile to his face.  "Goodbye, Lisa," Charlie whispered,
before turning to mount the steps to the kitchen door.
 
 

The phone rang, loud in the stillness of the office, and the man nearly
dropped his cigarette though he had been waiting for the call.  "Yes?" he
said, his anticipation growing as he waited for a response.

 Christophe's voice was cool and even.  "I have bad news to report."

 "Bad news?"  The man's anticipation dissipated as he crushed the
cigarette and lit another.  "What kind of bad news?  I was under the
impression that the situation was handled."

 There was silence for a moment before Christophe replied.  "As was I.
The details are not clear at present, but we have not yet retrieved the
merchandise you seek."

 The man took a long drag, trying to stave off his mounting anger.  "And
the other part of the assignment?  Have the loose ends been taken care
of?"

 "No."  The single word echoed through the phone wire.   The man said
nothing, weighing his options, knowing that inevitably the failure of this
mission posed potentially dire consequences.

 Christophe spoke again, quickly, in a way that indicated he too realized
the severity of the situation.  "I can assure you that this will not
happen again.  I am going to handle the project directly."

 "Oh, you are?"  The man's lips curled slightly as he inhaled again.  "And
why should I believe that you can accomplish the goal this time?"

 "It has become personal for me now."  Christophe paused, then continued.
"One of my most valued men is dead.  And his death will be avenged."

 "I see," said the man, not entirely displeased by the idea.  "Then you
have my permission to try again."

 "Thank you," came Christophe's response, and suddenly the man knew he had
the upper hand, if only for a moment.

 "However," the man declared, "if you fail this time, I will not be
responsible for how the situation proceeds from that point onward."

 "Understood," Christophe answered, and then the line went dead.

 The man held the receiver in his hand for a long moment, contemplating
this new twist in what was becoming an increasingly complicated game.
Then he put the receiver back into its cradle, grabbed the crumpled
cigarette pack on the desk before him, and exited the office.
 
 

Scully sat next to Mulder on the smooth vinyl seat, feeling cold despite
the warmth of his body beside her and his arm around her shoulders.  She
knew she was still shaking, and clenched her jaw tightly as though to will
her body to stop its motion, but it seemed to have no effect.  She tried
to concentrate on Mulder, on his nearness and the even rise and fall of
his chest against her side, but she couldn't stop thinking about the man.
 She could smell his blood on her face and hands, and could feel the
horrifying pressure of his body atop hers, the memory so intense as to
still seem real.  She shivered again, and felt Mulder's lips place a soft
kiss on the top of her head in response.  "We're almost there," he said
quietly, and she nodded, attempting a calm that she did not feel.

 He was correct in his assessment of the distance, for seemingly moments
later the taxi pulled to a stop.  Scully felt Mulder slide away from her,
and heard the sound of the door latch as he pushed it open.  She sat where
she was until she felt his hand on hers, pulling her gently across the
seat.  She found the curb with her feet and as she rose from the seat she
felt Mulder's hand against her hair, guiding her head under the frame of
the door.  She stood beside him on the curb, listening to the bustling
sound of the crowds around her.

 "How much?"  She heard Mulder's voice rise with the question, followed by
the cabbie's response.

 "Eleven-seventy-five."

 Scully could hear Mulder fumbling with his wallet, and silently waited as
he completed the transaction.  "Okay," he replied. "Here's thirty.  You
can keep the change, as long as you never made this stop.  Understand?"

 "Loud and clear," the cabbie responded, and Scully attributed the smug
tone in his voice to the fact that they were not the first to have bribed
him in this way.

 The sound of the taxi's retreat was loud in her ears as Mulder took her
arm.  She followed him as they climbed up a short flight of stairs and
then he guided her through a doorway.  "You okay?" he asked, concern in
his voice.

 "I'm fine," she answered, hoping her tone did not belie her words.  "Are
we here?  Is this the train station?"

 "Yes," Mulder replied.  "We're getting out of here -- but we should clean
up a bit, first."

 Scully nodded, knowing that she needed no words.  She walked beside him,
her steps unusually cautious because of the trembling in her legs.  After
a few moments, they stopped, and she heard him say, "This is the bathroom.
 Hang on a minute."  He released her hand and she stood where she was,
hearing the sound of a door being pushed open.  Mulder returned seconds
later, saying, "Okay, it's empty.  The sink is against the far wall, and
the toilet is in the corner to the right.  There's a lock on the door --
lock it behind you, and don't open it for anyone but me."

 "Got it," Scully said, and stepped past him into the bathroom.  She
pushed the door shut behind her and found the lock with her fingers,
twisting it once to the left and then pulling on the door to be certain
the lock would hold.  She heard Mulder's footsteps recede and felt another
wave of apprehension sweep over her.  Shrugging away the panic, she made
her way towards the sink, her tennis shoes squeaking against the smooth
surface of the floor.

 Finding the sink, Scully rested her palms against it and sighed.  She was
tired, so tired, in a fretful exhausted way she had not been since
childhood.   When she had been the youngest, before Charles was born, and
she had worn herself out trying to keep up with her older brother and
sister, to play games that had rules she could not understand and required
skills she did not possess.  She felt the same frustration now, the same
inability to compete, and the same incomprehensible weariness.  Vaguely
remembered words danced across her mind --

 <Momthebabyneedsanapmakehergoaway>

 -- Melissa's words, full of childish disdain.  The thought of her sister
seized Scully with a sharp almost physical pain, and she felt the burning
sting of tears forming beneath her eyes.  Not now, not now, she prayed,
gripping the edge of the sink and struggling to regain control.

 When she felt she could move again without breaking down completely,
Scully found the handle of the faucet with her fingers and turned it
clockwise, listening to the rush of water as it spilled into the sink.
 

X-11            X-11
 

===========================================================================

From: nvrgrim@aol.com (NVRGRIM)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* - AT THE BLUE HOTEL (12/12) - Nicole Perry
Date: 14 Mar 1996 17:25:55 -0500
 

This is part twelve of a twelve-part post.  Author's Note, Spoiler
Warning, and Disclaimer can be found at the beginning of part 1.
Relationship Warning has been added... If there are problems with the
posting (or comments on the story!) I'm at nvrgrim@aol.com.
 
 

AT THE BLUE HOTEL (12/12)
by Nicole Perry
nvrgrim@aol.com
 
 

Mulder splashed his face with water for the sixth and what he hoped would
be the final time.  Glancing at his reflection in the mirror above the
sink, he judged it reasonably acceptable and turned the faucet off.   He
patted his face gently dry with a handful of paper towels that felt like
sandpaper against his bruised skin, and the pain made him wince.

 Finished, Mulder took a longer look in the mirror.   He had a nasty cut
above one eye that had not quite stopped bleeding, so he dabbed a damp
paper towel on it in an effort to stem the flow.  His lower lip was also
split in two places, but the cuts were not as noticeable as they would
have been were he clean-shaven.  The rest of his face, while sore, did not
have many other visible marks, and for that he was thankful.

 His chest, however, was quite another story.  Lifting up his torn and
dirty shirt, Mulder could already see the black-and-blue marks on his
ribcage.  He had feared for a moment that some of his ribs had been
broken, but fortunately that now did not seem to be the case.  However, to
call them severely bruised would be an understatement, and he sighed, even
that small breath causing him pain.

 Mulder tucked the shirt back into his jeans and zipped the windbreaker
closed over it.  The jacket was not as disheveled as he had expected it to
be, and he managed to clean off most of the dirt with more paper towels
and some soap from the dispenser.  His jeans were another question
entirely, so he merely dusted them off as best he could.

 Staring at himself in the mirror, Mulder was surprised at how much he had
changed in seven weeks.  The man looking back at him from within the glass
was gaunt and pale and there were lines around his eyes that Mulder did
not ever remember seeing.   He suddenly realized that he had become a
stranger to himself.

  Shaking off the thought, Mulder exited the bathroom, walking across the
corridor to the door on the opposite side.  He knocked once, then called
for her.  "Lisa?  It's me."

 The door opened, and Scully emerged, reaching out with her hand to find
his.   She tilted her head up towards him and asked, "Better?"

 Mulder looked at her, noticing that the dark locks of hair that framed
her face were damp from where they had been caught by splashes of water.
Scully had managed to wash away the dirt and her skin was clean and smooth
except for the ugly dark welt along her cheekbone.   She had discarded the
white tee shirt entirely and instead wore only the gray cardigan, each
button now neatly aligned in its hole.   Her jeans looked the same as his,
scuffed and dirty, but Mulder did not think anyone would really notice.

 "Much better," he answered, and she offered a small, quavering smile in
return.  Mulder reached out and delicately ran his finger along the bruise
on her face.  "We need to get you some ice for that," he said, but she
shook her head and pulled away.

 "I'm fine, Rick," she repeated.  "Let's just get out of here."

 "We're on our way," he replied, and escorted her down the corridor.
 
 

Carl smiled as he waited for the old lady on the other side of the glass
to count out her money.   She placed each bill on the counter carefully,
smoothing it down and noting the denomination before reaching into her
large purse for more.  At one point she looked up at him, and smiled
apologetically.   "I'm sorry, sonny, it'll just be a minute."

 "Take your time," Carl answered, his grin widening at the fact that she'd
called him 'sonny'.   Though she was probably twenty years his senior, at
age sixty-two it had been a long time since he'd been referred to in that
way.   Though his chocolate brown skin was still relatively unlined, his
hair had been graying since Kennedy had been in office, and by Carl's way
of thinking, that was an awfully long time ago.

 As he waited, Carl watched the old lady, and allowed his thoughts to run
as they usually did while he worked, wondering why she had chosen the
train that she had, and where it might be taking her.  Somebody's
grandmother, he decided, noticing the thick plastic accordion photo file
she had placed on the countertop.  Perhaps even a great-grandmother by
now, on her way to visit a bunch of screaming children for a week or two.
The thought made Carl shake his head, glad that his own grandchildren were
grown but had not yet decided to have babies of their own.

 "Alright then," the lady finally announced.  "I've got it all right here.
 Exact change, and my senior discount card."  She slid the money into the
silver tray of the partition and Carl pulled it through on the other side,
counting the bills to verify her accuracy.

 "Well," Carl replied, "I've got your ticket right here, then."  He slid
the envelope across to the lady who smiled as she took it and stuffed it
into the giant vacuum of her purse, putting the stack of photos inside
beside it.  "You have a good trip now, you hear?"

 "Will do," the lady answered with at graceful nod of her head.  "Thank
you for the help, sonny."

 Carl grinned and gave her a little wave as she exited the line.  He
watched her as she made her way towards the stairs that led to the
platforms at the far end, and then turned his attention back to the next
customers in his line.  The grin died on his lips as he looked at the
couple standing before him, something about them immediately demanding his
full attention.

 They were a young couple, older than his grandchildren, but not by so
much -- not enough to justify how worn down they looked.   The man was
tall and his expression was serious and intense.  The woman stood very
close to him and Carl noted with a pang of sadness that her blue eyes were
sightless.  Carl spent all of his time studying the people that passed by
his counter, and little escaped his gaze.   He noticed the couple's cuts
and bruises, noticed the way the woman's hand was shaking as she gripped
the man's arm, but he said nothing beyond his normal words of greeting.
"Welcome to Amtrak.  What can I do you for, today?"

 "I need to get a couple tickets," the man declared, and Carl nodded.

 "Where to?" he asked, and noticed how the woman's head tilted up at the
question.

 The man hesitated a moment before answering.  "Los Angeles," he replied.
 

 "Okay then," Carl responded, checking the route map in front of him.
"That'll be a transcontinental ticket.  You'll be wanting the Sunset
Limited."

 "That goes to Los Angeles?"

 "Sure does, by way of Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona."  Carl turned to
look at the schedule posted on the side wall.  "We have a train that left
Florida last evening, be coming through here tonight.  Scheduled for a
7:10pm departure."

 The man nodded, placing his hand atop the woman's as he answered.
"Sounds good."

 "What kind of tickets would you like, sir?"  Carl asked, and the man
paused once again.

 "We'll be needing a sleeper car.  Something with a little privacy."

 Carl frowned, checking the list.  "Reservations are generally required in
advance for that, sir, and I think the cars on that particular train may
be booked."

 "Could you check, please?"

 Carl nodded and put his fingers on the keyboard.   A twinge of arthritic
pain shot through his right arm but he ignored it, as he usually did, and
checked the passenger manifest.   He could hear the woman whispering to
the man, though he tried not to eavesdrop.

 "Rick, we don't need that.  We can't afford it."

 "Don't worry about it," the man responded, just as the information Carl
was seeking popped up on the screen.

 "You're in luck, sir.  We do happen to have one available.  It's a
Deluxe, on the upper level, should be just fine for you.  Two beds --
lower one's a double -- with a private sink and vanity, and a fully
enclosed private shower and toilet."

 The man nodded appreciatively.  "Sounds perfect.  We'll take it."

 "All right, then," Carl drawled, "be just a moment."  As he booked the
reservation into the computer, Carl took a few more discreet glances at
the couple, wondering who they were and what they were running from.  He
had spent nearly half his life working for the railroad in one capacity or
another, but he had not yet run across a pair like these, at least not
that he could remember.

 "Name?" he asked, noticing the man's startled reaction as he did so.  The
man said nothing, so he repeated the question.  "I need your name, sir --
to book the tickets."

 "Stewart," the man finally answered.  "Mr. and Mrs."  He did not offer
first names, though Carl waited a beat to see if he would do so, before
continuing.

  "Checking any luggage today, Mr. Stewart?"  he queried, but the man only
shook his head.

 Carl continued to type, and moments later, all of the information was
entered.  He read the total amount at the bottom of the screen aloud, and
watched as the man pulled a wallet from the pocket of his jeans.  He
quickly counted out the bills and slid them into the tray beneath the
partition, and Carl retrieved them, automatically double-checking the
amount.   Carl's eyes widened as he counted, and then he looked
quizzically up at the man.

 "Sir," he said slowly, "you've given me a bit much, here.  This is double
the amount I need."

 "What I need," the man replied, his words measured and even, "is for you
to forget that we were ever here."

 For a reason that he couldn't quite explain, Carl's heart began to pound
a little faster, as though he had suddenly become embroiled in something
that transcended the mere purchase of tickets.  He debated for a moment
about refusing the man, about perhaps even calling his supervisor over to
ask them a few pertinent questions.  But a quick glance at the woman
silenced his nagging fears.  There was something vulnerable about her that
made Carl decide that whatever their reasons for secrecy, they were
entitled to them, and he wasn't going to be the one to stand in their way.

 Carl began to slide the extra cash back under the partition, but was
stopped by a shake of the man's head.  "Keep it," he said, and the
intensity in his eyes made Carl realize he meant it.

 "Well, I thank you, sir," Carl said, bringing a smile to his face as
though everything was business as usual.  "The train will be departing
from platform six.  You have a safe journey now."

 The man didn't respond, only gave a brief nod in his direction, before
scooping up the tickets and tucking them into the pocket of his jacket.
Taking the woman by the arm, he maneuvered their way through the crowds of
people on line.   Carl watched them until they disappeared from his view,
and only then did he tuck the extra money into his pocket, suddenly
inspired to buy some flowers for his wife on the way home.
 
 

Walter Skinner paced back and forth in the confined space behind his desk.
 The restlessness was unusual for him, as he was a man for whom composure
was an attribute of utmost importance.  But the paperwork on his desk was
too disturbing, and he was finally at the point of demanding the answers
that he sought.

 The inner door to his office opened, and the man entered, the usual trail
of cigarette smoke following in his wake.   "You wanted to see me?"

 "I want an explanation!"  Skinner's voice was explosive to his own ears,
and he fought to lower his tone.  "I need to know the meaning behind all
this."

 The man crossed over to Skinner's desk and glanced casually down at the
paperwork.  After a moment, he took another drag of his cigarette and
offered a slight shrug.  "As I told you, the investigation is underway.
There is nothing else to report."

 "Nothing else?"  Skinner glared at the man.  "I have a man in New Orleans
with previous ties to organized crime killed with two bullets from a Smith
& Wesson 1076, the Bureau's standard weapon.   I have a bloody fingerprint
lifted from the face of the man's watch that matches Dana Scully's.  The
dead man in question was found in an alley behind a guest house where the
two tenants of an upper unit, a Mr. and Mrs. Wilder who gave no first
names, have vanished into thin air.  Inside the Wilder's apartment I've
got more prints belonging to Agent Scully, and many belonging to Fox
Mulder as well.  And the icing on the cake?  The Smith & Wesson service
revolver issued to Agent Scully seven months ago was inside.   No shots
fired from that gun, though, which tells me that the gun that killed the
man in the alley is probably Mulder's, and still in his possession."

 Skinner paused, winded from his long tirade, and watched the man, who
continued to smoke implacably.  Silence filled the room, which the man
finally broke.  "Excellent recitation of the facts,  Mr. Skinner.  I don't
see what else I can tell you that you don't already know."

 "What you can *tell* me, is what the hell is going on around here."
Skinner leaned in close to the man, ignoring the stench of the nicotine.
"I want to know the identity of the dead man, and what he was doing in
that alley.  And more important, I want to know why I'm only finding this
out from local police instead of Bureau agents."

 The man regarded Skinner with a curious stare that made his skin crawl,
but he met the man's gaze and did not flinch.   A long moment passed
before the man looked away, moving back towards the door.  He placed his
hand upon its knob and turned back to Skinner, the corners of his mouth
turned up ever so slightly.

 "Information is given out on a need to know basis.  And you, Mr. Skinner,
do not need to know any more than this."

 Skinner watched as the man exited the room, pulling the door shut behind
him.  Alone once again, Skinner stared down at the files covering his
desk, and with an angry moan of rage, suddenly swept them to the floor
with a powerful swing of his arm.   He pinched his forehead between two
fingers, fighting to remain calm, then hit the intercom on his desk.
"Holly, get in here -- I'm gonna need some help with this paperwork."
 
 

Scully made her way around the compartment for the third time since Mulder
had gone, acclimating herself to their new surroundings.  The room was a
long thin rectangle.  The beds were against the far wall, and as the man
at the ticket counter had promised, the lower bunk was much larger than
the other.   The sink and vanity counter were tucked into one corner of
the left wall, and there was a small window above them.    Scully pressed
her fingers against the cool glass and felt it vibrate with the motion of
the train.   The shower compartment took up much of the other corner, and
Scully touched the door handle as she passed, confirming its location in
her memory.  Along the right wall were two armchairs near a small armoire
that stood empty.

 The key turned in the lock of the door and Scully whirled at the sound.
"It's OK, Lisa," Mulder said as the door opened, and she sighed with
relief.  She heard the door click shut behind him and then his steps as he
crossed the room.

 "Where did you go?" she asked, curious.

 "Dining car," he answered.  She could tell he was standing near the sink,
and he dumped something into the bowl that made a strange rattling sound.
 

 "What's that noise?  What are you doing?"

 Mulder didn't reply, walking back over to her and taking her gently by
the arm instead.  "Come here," he said, and Scully followed him over to
the chairs along the wall.   She heard one of the chairs squeak as he sat
down in it, pulling her down onto his lap so that her back rested against
the curve of his left arm and her legs dangled over the side of the chair.
  She heard the rattling sound again, more muffled this time, and was then
shocked to feel something cold and damp against the tender bruise on her
left cheek.

 "Mulder!"  Scully instinctively pulled away from the chilling sensation,
but his arm remained firm in its grasp of her shoulders.   His body was
warm against hers, and despite her agitation, she found something very
comforting about his awkward embrace.

 "It's just a little ice," he said, "wrapped in a towel.  Trust me --
you'll be glad about it later."   With his other hand, he again touched
the soft cold cloth to her skin.

 Scully sighed, unable to deny the truth of his words, but still reluctant
to completely acquiesce.  "I can do this myself, Mulder."

 He was quiet for a moment, and then all he said was, "I know."

 Suddenly she realized that perhaps he wanted to do this for her, needed
to do it in some undefinable way.  That perhaps it felt as good to him to
hold her as it did to her to be held.  The realization calmed her and
Scully relaxed against him, nestling the right side of her face against
his shoulder as he held the compress lightly against the other.

 They said nothing for a time, Mulder seeming to know instinctively when
the ice was too cold against her skin and moving it away from time to time
without her having to ask.   The only noise was the distant rhythmic
clatter of the wheels as the train rolled down the track.

 A question hit her, and she put words to the thought.   "Why Stewart,
Mulder?"

 "You mean, why did I change it, or why that particular name?"

 "Both, I guess," she answered.

 "Jimmy Stewart.   After all, he's an American icon."  Mulder chuckled
slightly and Scully smiled at the warm rumble it made in his chest.  "As
for the change... the police are going to put two and two together sooner
or later.  They probably already have.  And the landlord -- he knew us
under the name 'Wilder'.  Can't use that anymore."

 Scully nodded her head slightly in response. "We'll need new i.d.'s
then."

 "New i.d.'s, and some more money.  We're almost out."  Mulder shifted
positions slightly beneath her.  "I'm going to get off at the first stop
in the morning -- make those calls, and pick up some clothes and stuff for
us."

 "Okay," she answered.  After a moment, she continued, her voice low.  "We
left a lot behind.  A lot of evidence."

 "So... that means they know where we've been."  Mulder's words were
equally soft.  "It doesn't mean they know where we're going."
 
 

Scully didn't say anything further, and for a time they merely sat
quietly.  Mulder tried to relax, but his nerves were on edge, expecting a
knock on the door at any moment, expecting that despite his best efforts
their escape had been tracked.

 But the knock did not come, and as the train continued along unmolested
by police or local law, Mulder began to believe that perhaps luck had been
with them once again.  He could not believe how blessed he felt to have
her here with him now, safe in his arms.  The events of the afternoon had
shaken him more than he would have thought possible.  Though Scully had
said little about what had transpired at the apartment in his absence, her
terror and shock had told him everything that he needed to know.   Never
again, Mulder vowed silently, hoping that this time he would be able to
keep his promise.

 The ice in the towel had almost completely melted before Scully spoke
again.  "Mulder, I'm about ready for bed."

 "Me too," he agreed, moving his arm from around her shoulders to allow
her to get up from his lap.  He rose as well and crossed over to the sink,
dumping the remaining ice fragments into the bowl and draping the damp
towel along its edge.

 When he turned back around, Scully was seated on the edge of the lower
bunk.  She unlaced her tennis shoes and dropped them on the floor before
pulling back the covers and sliding beneath.  Mulder waited until she was
settled before flipping off the light switch.  In the darkened
compartment, he copied her motions, kicking off his own shoes and climbing
in beside her.  The bed, though a double, was not particularly large,
which Mulder found strangely pleasing.  He slipped his arms around Scully,
her back pressed to his chest, her head nestled in the spot just below his
shoulder that he had already come to think of as hers.

 Mulder did not realize he had fallen asleep and was surprised when he was
wakened by the motion of her body, shaking in his arms.  Her tremors were
intense but she made no noise, and it took a moment before he realized
that Scully was crying.  He hesitated, unsure whether he should disturb
the privacy of her silence, but her trembling cut at his heart and he was
unable to ignore her suffering.   His lips close to her ear, he softly
whispered, "Dana?"

 Scully froze, her body going completely still in his grasp.  A long
moment passed in which Mulder regretted his actions, hoping that he had
not angered her with his interruption.  Then she twisted in his arms,
burying her face against his chest, and began crying freely, long
wrenching sobs that made his soul ache.  Mulder held her as tightly as he
was able, murmuring a litany of endearments in an effort to stop the flow
of her tears.

 His shirt was thoroughly damp before she finally began to relax, her sobs
trailing off into a soft combination of sniffles and hiccups as she fought
to catch her breath.  In a small voice, she whispered, "I'm sorry,
Mulder."

 "Oh, Dana..."  Mulder caressed the strands of her hair that lay beneath
his fingertips. "Don't say that...please.  You don't ever have to say that
to me."

 "I just... I don't know if I can do this....I don't think I can,
anymore."

 "Do what?" he asked as she shifted against him, laying her palm flat
against his chest.

 "This... the running, the hiding, the lying."  Scully's tone carried a
level of despair that Mulder had never before heard.  "I don't think I can
survive much more of this."

 Mulder paused, wanting desperately to say the right thing, to find the
right words, but the ones he chose seemed to him woefully inadequate.
"Dana... you're not in this alone."

 In response, Scully moved her hand from his chest and trailed it down his
arm until she found his own.  Linking her fingers through his, she
answered, "I know.  And that -- that  scares me, too.  It scares me how
much I need you, Mulder."

 "I need you too, Dana... so much."  Though they were not quite the words
he longed to say, they seemed to serve their purpose.  Mulder felt a
gentle tug on his arm as Scully pulled their linked hands to her lips and
placed a soft kiss atop his knuckles, a kiss that burned deep inside his
chest.   He tilted his head and found her lips with his, reaffirming his
words with his kiss.

 It was Scully who finally broke the embrace, pulling back from him with
an audible sigh.  Though the compartment was dark, Mulder could see the
flush in her cheeks from the faint light that came in through the window
across the room and he smiled, struck once again by her beauty.
"Goodnight, Mulder," she murmured, before curling up against him again.

 "Goodnight Dana," he replied, as he closed his eyes and allowed the
motion of the train to lull him back to sleep.
 
 

"...I refused to believe
This could happen to me and you
But it's lonesome and it's hard and it's true
And I hear the train sigh
And idle down below
Why your love is so sweet and wild
Is something I'll never know..."

-- Melissa Etheridge
 
 

And that's all she wrote...   ;-)   Thanks a lot for sticking with me!
With the exception of my thesis, this may be the longest thing I've
written yet... <whew!>  So I would *love* to know what you thought -- even
if all you have to say is, "Wow, nice typing!"  <g>  I'm at
nvrgrim@aol.com... Thanks again for reading!!!

And p.s. to Mom -- I did make my goal of posting on my birthday... so I'm
dedicating this to you and Dad, for twenty-seven years of unconditional
love and support.   You both are the best!   :-)
 

X-12            X-12

__

Author Chit-Chat:   I once read a quote that said, "There are no new
stories -- the celebration is found in retelling the old ones in a
different way."  I wish I remembered who said it, so I could thank them,
because in my opinion it really applies to this whole business of fanfic.
<g>  I'm having a great time with this series of stories, and it's
*incredibly* rewarding to know that people are actually interested enough
to keep reading -- that's enough of a motivator to keep any writer
writing!!  My apologies for the delay in getting this installment out --
after I posted "Blue Hotel" in mid-March, I experienced a bit of fanfic
burnout -- couldn't bring myself to put fingers to keyboard until the
beginning of May. <grrrr>   So thanks for being patient, and I hope this
one is worth the wait.  :-)

Thank You's:  Without running on too long, I want to take a moment to
thank everyone who wrote in with such enthusiastic comments!!   Feedback
is the *best* thing ever, and comments and suggestions do a lot to inspire
my creative muse.  <g>  Special thanks go to Amy S., Dia, MD and the
ever-fabulous Karen for sending me some very specific ideas that ended up
in the mix this time around.  And I can't forget to thank Wonder Kat,
Proofer Extraordinaire, for spell-checking me and making sure that I don't
go too far overboard!  <wink>

Spoiler Warning:  This story is the latest installment in the road series
that includes "Goin' Nowhere", "Passing Through", and "At The Blue Hotel",
all of which can be found on Vincent's archive at Ohio State -- or e-me,
and I'll send them.  <g>  As I've said before, in a roundabout way I'm
trying to solve the mystery of
what-the-hell-happened-to-Scully-when-she-was-missing-for-three-months.
To do that, I'm riffing off of information provided in the Duane Barry
trilogy and all the other related mythic episodes we've seen during Season
Three.  Just a general warning to any overseas readers...   :-)

Disclaimer:  Thanks as always to Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox for providing
me with terrific source material and allowing me to weave my own dreams
from there.   I think everybody knows the folks from Mr. Carter's
Neighborhood by now -- all the other characters are mine.  And special
thanks go to David and Gillian, the two most *rockin'* actors on
television.

Now that I've bored you all to tears, let's hit the road....
 
 

DOWN THE TRACKS (1/10)
by Nicole Perry
nvrgrim@aol.com
6/5/96
 
 

"...and they're thinking of the long road ahead
 and the strength that they will need
 just to reach the end
 and there in the silence they search for
 the balance between this fear that they feel
 and a love that has graced their lives..."

 - cowboy junkies
 
 

Mulder shifted restlessly as he felt sleep slipping away from him, the
remnants of his dreams clinging like cobwebs to his brain as consciousness
slowly dawned, bringing him back into reality.  He yawned as his eyes
fluttered open, his body registering the pressure of a weight against his
tender ribs.  It was dim in the train compartment, the faint light of dawn
seeping in through the window on the far side.  There was just enough
light to illuminate Scully, lying sprawled atop him, her denim-clad legs
tangled with his under the twist of blankets that covered them both.

 He shifted again, careful not to awaken her with his movements, in a vain
attempt to glimpse her face in its peaceful repose.   Her dark hair was
strewn across his chest, her face buried in the crook of his arm.   In one
hand she clutched the fabric of his shirt, twined between her fingers with
the intensity that a drowning man grasps a life preserver.  He could feel
her breaths, deep and even in sleep, each exhale a soft murmur against his
skin.

 Mulder lay quietly, enjoying the sensation of her body pressed so close
to his, savoring the peace that came from knowing that she was safe in his
arms.  He ran his fingers through her hair, the strands soft against his
palm as he smoothed it back across her shoulders.  He listened to the
sound of the train, the rhythmic pounding of the wheels along the track a
counterpoint to the softness of her breathing, and tried to formulate a
plan.  As blissful as he felt in the quiet of this early morning, he was
all too aware of the reality of their situation.  On the run, alone, with
no one to turn to but each other.

 No one, he thought.  She has no one to depend on but you.

 The weight of that responsibility was heavy, especially given his
awareness of his own weaknesses.

 She's counting on you to keep her safe.

 She's counting on you to take care of her.

 Though he wasn't one to believe in the power of a supreme being, Mulder
offered up a silent prayer for the strength he was all too conscious of
needing.
 
 A whistle blew then, loud in the stillness, causing Mulder to realize
that the train was approaching a station.  The whistle was loud enough to
cut through Scully's slumber, and she stirred restlessly against him, her
hand grabbing the fabric of his shirt more tightly as she awakened.

 "Hey," he whispered softly, unwilling to raise his voice.

 "Hmmmmm," was all that she said, and though she raised her head enough to
rub at her eyes with her free hand, she did not release her grasp on his
shirt.

 "Sleep okay?"  he asked, still keeping his voice low.

 After a long moment, she answered.  "Yes. You?"

 "Fine," he replied.   There was little else to say, so he remained quiet,
shifting again so that he could draw his arm more tightly around her.
 

 "Where are we?"  she questioned finally, tilting her face up towards him
as though she were still able to catch the answer in his gaze.

 "Not sure," he responded, "but I think the whistle means we're coming to
a stop.  I've been hearing them off and on all night."

 "Ummmm," she answered.  "Is it time to get off of the train?"

 "No," he said.  "It's early yet, and none of the stores or things will be
open.  I think our best bet is to wait for the next one."

 She only nodded, burrowing her face once again in the space where his arm
met his shoulder, her body soft and fragile against his.
 
 

Scully lay quietly, fighting off the sense of disorientation that
threatened to consume her.  She remembered with an aching, vivid clarity
the events of the previous day that had led to their arrival at the train
station, and their subsequent departure.  Despite her best efforts, the
train compartment felt foreign to her, and part of her longed for the
familiarity of their New Orleans apartment.  And yet the most important
thing had not changed -- Mulder was still here beside her, and she drew
strength from the clasp of his arm across her shoulders.  Taking a deep
breath, she inhaled the scent of him, faint with dust and sweat from his
fight in the alley.  She was reassured by the feel of his body against
hers, warm and solid and strong.

 She emitted a low, whistling sigh, and felt him gather her even more
closely to him.  The protectiveness of his motions made her smile
slightly, and she tried to quell the impulse inside her that wanted her to
beg him to let her go.  Although she had always been a woman who took
pride in her independence and self-reliance, there was something
incredibly comforting about his embrace, and she was reluctant to
relinquish the sensation.

 "Mulder," she questioned, "what are we going to do now?"

 The tone of his voice was flippant as he answered. "Well, I think the
first order of business is to shower, and then see about getting some
food."

 "I don't mean at this very moment," she contradicted, knowing he was
already anticipating her response.  "I mean, what's our plan going to be?
 Where do we go from here?"

 He hesitated a long beat before replying, and she died a thousand deaths
in the silence.

 <I'mleavingyouDanaleavingyouandgoinghome>

  "We need to turn the tables on them, Scully.  We can't afford to keep
running.  It's too dangerous for you, and we don't stand a chance of
winning if we play it that way."

 "What do you suggest?" she asked, feeling a rush of relief at his use of
the word "we".  Suddenly it felt as though things were as they once were,
the two of them working as a team, struggling to come up with a strategy
to solve a case.

 Another pause, and then Mulder continued.  "We need to take the offense.
And part of that lies in finding out who created this disk, and why.   We
need to find the manufacturer, and discover who's in charge of their
payroll."

 Scully nodded, her face rubbing against the coarse fabric of his shirt.
"Makes sense.  But how?  We don't have any leads... no access to
information."

 She felt Mulder's fingers in her hair, idly toying with the strands just
behind her ear.  "At the library, yesterday... I found some things out
about droperidol."

 Scully didn't say anything, just inclined her head in another nod against
his chest in a silent request for him to continue.

 "It's an opiate, similar to morphine, even more powerful in its effects.
It was used during Vietnam on the P.O.W.'s, and might have also been a
part of the Nazi experiments."   Mulder's voice was rough, and she could
tell that he was having trouble getting the words out.  "I think... I'm
fairly sure that it was part of that compound that you saw in the lab.
Part of whatever it was that they gave you...."

 Mulder's voice trailed off, and Scully fumbled beneath the blankets
searching for his hand.  Finding it, she gave it a brief squeeze.  "It's
OK, Mulder," she said quietly, hoping he couldn't hear the churning of her
stomach.  "Tell me."

 He cleared his throat, and managed somehow to finish.  "The drug is
capable of putting a person into a coma.... and keeping them that way,
with additional injections...  indefinitely.   I think... I think that
whoever took you away used that drug, in combination with something
else... to keep you under while they... did whatever it was they did."

 They were both quiet then, each lost in their own thoughts.  Scully
called upon a reserve of strength deep inside to finally break the
silence.  "Can we... can we use that information to find them?"

 Mulder was slow to answer.  "Maybe...  we can start by finding out which
companies manufacture it, and who their customers are.   The Gunmen can
check into that for us, I think."
 
 

He could see her face clearly now as she lay nestled in the crook of his
arm.  Her expression was calm and composed, but Mulder was all too aware
of the effort she was expending to make it so.  He could hear the tension
in her voice as she responded.

 "Good.  And maybe they will have some new information about the disk by
now, too."

 "Maybe," he repeated, placing a soft kiss on her forehead.   "Let's hope
so."

 As though she had suddenly realized how closely they were laying, Scully
pulled away from him, releasing her grasp of his shirt to scoot over
towards the wall, leaving a cold empty space in the sheets between them.

 "Scully?"  His voice raised slightly with the question.  "You OK?"

 "I'm fine, Mulder," she answered, and his heart sank at the words he had
heard all too often.  She was withdrawing from him again, and it hurt, as
it always did.

 Good job, Mulder.  Smooth move.  Nice early morning conversation.

 Running a hand through his sleep-tossed hair, Mulder searched his brain
for words that would reassure her, and came up empty.   He reached out for
her, his fingers grazing her cheek, and she flinched.  "Dana... talk to
me.  Please."

 She didn't answer, and that made it hurt even worse.  He debated about
getting out of the bed, about leaving her alone, but he had never been
able to turn his back on her, and now was no exception.

 Before he could stop himself, Mulder reached out to her again, caressing
her face gently with the tips of his fingers.  This time she did not pull
away, and he released the breath that he hadn't realized he was holding as
she allowed his hand to trail down the slope of her jaw.  Her skin was
warm and soft to the touch, and he drew his fingers slowly down her neck
until the collar of her sweater stopped his progress.

 Scully's eyes fluttered shut and Mulder took that as a sign of
acquiescence, allowing his hand to continue its gentle exploration of her
body.  His fingers moved lazily over the rounded slope of each breast,
toying with the buttons of the cardigan that lay between them.  She
murmured softly, a low moan of contentment, and it brought a smile to his
face.

 Enjoying himself now, Mulder moved his hand lower in a soothing, circular
motion across her stomach.  A thin band of smooth pale skin lay exposed
between the edge of her sweater and the waistband of her jeans, and as his
fingers danced along it, Scully emitted a low giggle of protest that
warmed his heart.  He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard her
laugh.

 "Mulder....don't...."

 His smile widened as he deliberately repeated the motion.  "Don't what,
Dana?"
 
 

His hand moved against her again and she squirmed, although the sensation
wasn't entirely unpleasant.  "Don't do that, Mulder.... I'm warning you."

 "Oh?"  His voice was warmer now, dark and low and deep in his chest.
"*You're* warning *me*?  I'll have to keep that in mind."

 Scully tried to relax, to lie still and enjoy the feeling of his hand
against her body, but she couldn't help herself.  "Don't," she pleaded,
the word escaping her lips with an unfamiliar giggle.  "That tickles..."

 Suddenly both of his hands were there, toying at her stomach, pulling at
her sweater to tickle her mercilessly.  The sensation was exquisite, and
her breath caught as she laughed and tried to push him away.  It was as
though his hands were everywhere, coming at her from all directions, and
try as she might she couldn't seem to stop him.

 Mulder was laughing now, too, and listening to that rich full sound
Scully realized that she would gladly suffer an eternity of this torture
if only to hear him so relaxed and happy.

 When she couldn't stand it any longer, she tried to roll away from him,
but he merely rolled atop her, pinning her beneath his weight.  For a
brief instant Scully panicked, her mind flashing back to the previous day.
 Then she felt his lips brush her forehead and she remembered where she
was, and who she was with, and laughed aloud, surprised at how much she
was enjoying herself.

 "Get... off... me... Mulder," she cried, punctuating the words with a
series of giggles that she instantly regretted as they spurred him on to
tickle her harder.  Desperate for breath, she reached up and found his
shoulders with her hands and pushed with all her might, which finally got
his attention.

 Scully felt Mulder take her hands in his, lacing their fingers together
as he pressed her back down against the pillow.  She gasped as his lips
met her throat, trailing a series of little kisses up along her jaw before
finding her mouth with his.  She relaxed in his embrace, allowing his body
to fall closer to hers, as his tongue explored her mouth.   His beard
tickled her skin as she smiled into the kiss, and felt him smile back.

 All too soon, he pulled away, and she felt his head come to rest beside
hers on the pillow, his breath warm against her ear.   Her own breaths
were coming in rapid gasps that matched the pounding of her heart, and a
long moment passed before she found the energy to form words.  "What," she
finally asked, "was *that* all about?"

 "Just a wake-up call, Scully," he answered in a too-innocent tone.
"Didn't you put in a request?"

 "I guess I did," she replied.  Tilting her face back towards him, she
captured his lips again with hers and kissed him hard, hoping to erase the
self-satisfied smirk she somehow knew he was wearing.
 
 

Mulder wandered down the corridor of the train, watching the scenery as it
flashed by outside the windows.   This was his third trip walking the
length of the cars, and a quick glance at his watch told him that it was
nearly time to go back for Scully.   He had left her in their compartment,
ostensibly to get his bearings as to the layout of the train, but really
to give her some privacy while she showered and cleaned up.  The room was
small enough, he reflected -- the last thing that she needed was for him
to be hanging out infringing on her space.

 Still, it was hard to leave her, if only for a short while, and Mulder
had found his mind occupied by nothing else but her during the intervening
thirty minutes.  Approaching the aisleway where the main corridor met a
smaller artery, Mulder took a left, quickening his pace slightly.   It had
been even harder to leave her this particular morning, he thought,
reflecting on how incredibly aroused their impromptu tickling session had
left him.  Mulder knew that he was attracted to Scully, knew that he had
been for a very long time, and part of his mind and body screamed out to
him to push their physical relationship to the limit.

 Yet he was all too aware of Scully's new vulnerability, and he was
anxious not to do anything that would push her too far, that would put her
in a situation that made her feel threatened or unsafe.  His hand wandered
up to the pocket of his shirt, checking once again to ensure that he still
had the disk, the disk that was a physical reminder of the horror of her
abduction, the disk that she had lost her eyesight to obtain.  She had
suffered so much.... more than she should ever have had to endure.  More
than anything else in the world Mulder wanted to protect her, and if doing
so meant depriving himself of pleasure, that was a sacrifice he was more
than willing to make.

 Lost in these thoughts, Mulder bumped into another passenger while
rounding a turn.  "Sorry!" he said by way of apology, with an embarrassed
wave of his hand.  "Guess I need to pay more attention in these narrow
corridors."

 "Not a problem," answered the passenger, a young man with a mop of sandy
blond hair and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that had fallen slightly
askew.  Fixing the frames atop the bridge of his nose, he continued, "It's
one of the hazards of train travel."

 "Guess so," Mulder answered.  "Don't do much of it, myself."

 "Ah," the young man grinned.  "Well then, I'll make sure I keep an eye
out for you then.  Least until you get your 'train legs'."

 "Sounds good," Mulder replied, and smiled back as the young man moved
past.

 He climbed the stairwell that separated the lower deck of the train from
the upper, and moments later, Mulder found himself back in front of their
compartment.  Looking down, he noticed a small tray against the door,
containing a coffee decanter and a carafe of orange juice, accompanied by
two cups, saucers, and two small glasses.  A newspaper lay alongside, the
morning's copy of "USA Today".  Reaching down, he retrieved the tray,
before knocking on the door three times, as promised.

 "Rick?"  Her voice was muffled through the door.

 "It's me," he answered, and waited for the snick of the lock as she drew
back the bolt.  Twisting the knob, he entered the compartment.  "Looks
like they brought us a little snack," he said, pulling the door shut
behind him.

 Scully was standing in the center of the room, a worried expression on
her face.  "Somebody knocked, but I -- I... I didn't want to answer it."

 He walked over to the table between the two chairs and carefully put the
tray on its surface, before taking her briefly in his arms.  "And I'm glad
you didn't."  He kissed her forehead, catching the clean whiff of soap and
shampoo.  "Feel better?"

 Scully nodded, favoring him with a relieved smile as she pulled away.
She cautiously crossed the room to the bed, finding its edge with her hand
and sitting down before she answered.

 "A little," she replied, "but I wish I had some fresh clothes."

 "Me too."  Like Scully, Mulder had been forced to put on his clothes from
the day before after his shower, and he knew exactly how she felt.  "I
promise -- next stop, we're going to do some shopping."

 "What I need," she grumbled, "is a hairbrush.  They give you
complimentary everything else, but no brush."  Scully ran her hand through
the tumble of damp brown waves that fell across her shoulders in
frustration, and Mulder chuckled.

 "It's fine, Scully -- trust me.  Besides, mine looks just as bad."

 "Yes, but you don't have a giant bruise on one side of your face."

 At her remark, Mulder took a close look at her.  The mark left by the
assassin's pistol was still clearly visible, but the livid purple color of
the bruise had faded somewhat over the intervening hours.  "I don't know
how it feels," he said, "but it seems as though the ice helped.  It's not
as swollen as I would have expected."

 She brought a hand gingerly to her face and ran her fingertips across the
bruise.  "Good," she replied.  "It doesn't hurt as much as it did
yesterday, either."  A pause, and then, "How are your ribs?"

 "Not bad, considering."  Mulder sank down in one of the chairs and
watched her as she fumbled beneath the bed, her hands searching for the
tennis shoes that he could see, just beyond her grasp.  He waited as long
as he was able before finally giving in.  "A little to the left," he said.

 Scully moved her hand in that direction and found the errant shoes, a
slight expression of relief crossing her face.  "Thanks," she responded,
as she picked up the closest shoe and began to put it on.

 Relieved that his interference hadn't angered her, Mulder asked, "Want
some coffee?"

 "Sure," she answered, and he took the decanter and poured them each a
cup, adding milk to hers the way that she liked it.  He waited until she
had laced up the second shoe, and then crossed the room to her side.

 "Here," he said as he handed her the cup.  "Be careful."

 Scully nodded as she took a cautious sip.  She murmured her approval and
then asked, "Did you find out where we are?"

 "Yes," Mulder answered as he walked back to the table to grab his own
cup.  "That last stop was Beaumont, Texas.  The next one is Houston --
according to the conductor, we'll be there around ten, which is a little
over an hour from now."  He picked up the paper and unfurled it to its
full size, glancing at the headlines as he sipped the coffee.

 "Sounds good."  Scully paused for a moment, her head tilted to one side
as she listened.  "What are you doing, Mulder?"

 The question startled him for some reason, and it took him a moment to
answer.  "What am I -- um, just looking at the newspaper."

 "Oh," was all that she said, but the stricken expression on her face
stopped him cold.  The awkwardness of the moment brought him once again to
the painful awareness of just how much she had lost.  So many little
things, he thought, so many things that I take for granted she's now been
denied.

 Suddenly anxious to change the subject, he said, "Let's get out of here
-- get something to eat.  You hungry, Scully?"

 She threw a smile in his direction, and he felt as though he'd been
forgiven for yet another mistake.  "You have *no* idea.  How far away is
the dining car?"

 "Not far," he replied, crossing the room to her side.  Gently, he reached
down and took her arm.  "Shall we, Mrs. Stewart?"

 "You bet," she answered, allowing him to guide her up from the bed and
towards the door.  They were nearly there when she spoke again.  "Mulder?
 Will you bring it with you?  The newspaper, I mean."   She squeezed his
arm lightly with her hand.  "One of us should keep tabs on what's going on
in the world."

 He recognized the need beneath her teasing banter, and it made his heart
ache, but he responded in the same light tone.   "I'll be sure to share
all of my findings with you -- starting with the latest sports scores."
She laughed as he grabbed the paper up with his free hand, tucking it
under his arm so that he could open the door and lead them both out of the
compartment.
 
 

Here endeth part 1... parts 2-10 posted simultaneously.  Let me know if
there are problems with the posting at nvrgrim@aol.com.
 

X-1                                   X-1
 

This is part two of a ten-part post.  Author's Note, Spoiler Warning, and
Disclaimer can be found at the beginning of part 1.  If there are problems
with the posting (or comments on the story!) I'm at nvrgrim@aol.com.
 
 

DOWN THE TRACKS (2/10)
by Nicole Perry
nvrgrim@aol.com
6/5/96
 
 

The man cradled the phone against his shoulder to free up his hands in
order to light a fresh cigarette.  "So what are you telling me?"

 Christophe's smooth, cool voice hurtled through the receiver.  "They did
not leave New Orleans by plane.  Of that I am absolutely certain.  Nor by
boat, unless it was privately owned.  All of the charters and shipping
vessels check out."

 "Where does that leave us?"

 "Bus, train, or car.  We've searched nearly all the rental agencies and
come up empty, although that doesn't rule out their having purchased a
vehicle, but given the time frame, it doesn't seem reasonable.  A bus
seems the most likely -- there were a slew of departures from all over the
city yesterday, with a wide variety of destinations.  But we are still
checking into the possibility of a train."

 The man nodded, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the dank room.  "Good.  I
want to be kept continually apprised."

 "Of course."

 "And," said the man, dropping the tone of his voice for emphasis, "I
expect you to resolve this matter personally, once you have located them."

 "With pleasure," Christophe replied.  "Make no mistake about that."

 "Good," the man repeated, and hit the button on the phone to end the
call.   He took another long drag of his cigarette, then dialed another
number on the cellular.  It rang twice, and then was answered.

 "Yes?"

 "It's me.  I need to speak to him."  A pause ensued, during which the man
smoked and envisioned the room in New York City to which he was now
connected via the phone.  Envisioned the men of the Consortium as they sat
in their armchairs, making decisions every moment of every day that
affected a multitude of lives.

 Including his.

 "You have something to report?"

 Jarred back to reality by the cold voice, the man stumbled to form a
reply.  "Yes.  The situation has been rectified.  We should have it back
in our possession shortly."

 "We cannot be too clear about the importance of this.  Failure will not
be tolerated.  Do you understand?"

 "Yes," the man answered, the blood turning to ice in his veins.  "There
will be no failure."

 "There is something else," the voice continued.  "The woman... she may
still be of use to us."

 The man took another drag of his cigarette.  "That changes things... may
I ask why?"

 "You will be informed in due course.  Through the usual channels."

 The man exhaled, nodding as he did so.  "And Mulder?"

 The response was quick.  "We have no need for him."

 "Understood.  He will be taken care of."

  "Remember -- we cannot afford any more mistakes.  Neither can you."

 The line went dead then, and the man closed the cellular and placed it on
the table beside him.  His fingers shaking ever so slightly, the man
brought his cigarette back to his lips.
 
 

After the relative silence of the corridors, Scully was surprised at how
noisy it was in the dining car.   A jumble of voices filled the air, the
laughter of young children mixing with a loud variety of adult chatter.
She adjusted her grip on Mulder's arm as they negotiated the car,
listening closely to his directions over the din.

 "This looks good," she heard him say, and stopped just behind him.
"There's a chair, just to your left."   Mulder pulled the chair away from
the table, the sound barely audible thanks to the carpeting in the car.
She trailed her hand down the length of his arm and found the back of the
chair, releasing her hold on him only after she was seated.

 He moved to sit across from her, and Scully heard the rustling of the
newspaper as he placed it on the table.   Mulder reached across the table
and gave her hand a little squeeze.

 "Comfortable?"

 "Yes," she answered, returning the squeeze before pulling her hand away.
 With quick, light strokes, Scully began to familiarize herself with the
table, locating the plate, the flatware and the glasses, memorizing their
locations in her mind.  She found the napkin and placed it in her lap,
noting as she did so that it was made of the same soft fabric as the
tablecloth.   "Pretty fancy," she remarked.

 "It is," Mulder agreed.  "Much nicer than I would have expected.  Want to
hear the menu?"

 Scully nodded her approval, and listened to the recitation, trying to
decide exactly what she was in the mood to eat.   As hungry as she was,
she had a hard time concentrating on the available selections, focusing
more on the sound of Mulder's voice as he read the choices aloud.   She
had always liked his voice, and during their time as colleagues had
treasured his words of praise and admiration as much as his teasing
banter.  But his voice had come to signify so much more to her now, and
she savored its rich warm cadence.  It was her way to gauge his feelings
and emotions, to help her guess what he was thinking now that she was
unable to study the expressions lurking behind his hazel eyes.

 His eyes... Scully shut her own in a moment of silent regret, wishing
that she had been more appreciative of the power of his gaze.  His eyes
were an intense shade of green when he was on the trail of some
unexplainable theory, flashing with a fiery intensity that spoke of his
passion for his work.  At other times, they were a softer shade of brown,
full of warmth and empathy and his signature combination of worry, fear,
and guilt.   Always expressive, and, she remembered, extremely beautiful.

 Lost in these thoughts, she was startled to hear Mulder calling her name.
 "Lisa?  What is it?  Are you OK?"

 "Fine... I'm fine," she hastened to answer, throwing a smile in his
general direction.

 "For a minute, it looked like you were going to faint."   Scully could
hear the worry in his voice and she shook her head to reassure him.

 "Well, I might, if we don't order something soon," she teased.  "Why
don't you stop with the recitation and find us a waiter?"

 Mulder chuckled.  "Your wish is my command," he replied.  "I'll be right
back."

 Scully heard him get up from the table and as his footsteps retreated she
fought down the rush of panic that always accompanied his absence,
fighting to retain a modicum of control.   You're fine, Dana, she
reassured herself.   Everything's fine.

 She listened to the sounds of the various diners, catching brief snatches
of the conversation that surrounded her.  After a moment, she heard steps
coming nearer, but knew from the rhythm that they did not belong to
Mulder.   The noise of a chair being pulled back reached her ears, and she
realized that someone had sat down at the table next to her.   In a now
habitual gesture, Scully lowered her head slightly, unwilling to draw any
attention to herself.

 She heard the rustle of papers, followed by the sound of a zipper and
then a noise that sounded as though a pile of sticks had fallen on the
tabletop, muffled by its linen covering.  The train shook as the wheels
went over a bump in the trestle, and Scully heard a small plink as
something hit the floor, followed by a faint rolling sound that seemed to
come from directly below her feet.  She heard a man's voice utter a low
curse.  "Shit!"  Silence, then the voice continued.  "Excuse me, ma'am?"

 Scully froze, and the words reached her again.

 "Excuse me?  Can you hand me that pencil, please?"

 "Ummmm....." Scully leaned back from the table instinctively, her foot
moving against the floor in the vain hope of locating the object, with no
success.

 "Ma'am?"  There was confusion in the voice, and she heard the sound of
the man as he rose from his table.  A slight intake of breath, and then
the voice spoke again, filled with apology and a familiar sound of pity
that made her cringe.  "Oh.... I'm sorry, I... I didn't realize."

 "That's OK," Scully answered, aware of the twinge of anger beneath her
words.  "You dropped something?"

 "A pencil.... I think it's beneath your table."

 Scully waved one hand in a brief gesture of acquiescence, scooting her
chair further back from the table to allow the man to retrieve the lost
item.   The man's hand brushed her leg as he reached past her, and she
heard a light scraping sound, followed by his voice.

 "Thanks," he said.  "I'm awfully sorry about that."

 "No problem," she answered, her voice a mixture of impatience and
embarrassment.

 Familiar footsteps approached and Scully drew a breath of relief at the
sound of Mulder's return.
 
 

Elliot laid the errant pencil back amongst the rest as he sat back down in
his chair, shaking his head ruefully, regretting his own insensitivity.
Catch a clue, he thought.  Can't you tell a blind woman when you see one?

 He looked up and noticed the man approaching the table next to him, the
same man he had encountered in the corridor earlier, and offered him a
quick smile.  "Hello."

 "Hey," the man responded, as he pulled back his chair and sat across from
the dark-haired woman, taking her hand in his.  "We meet again."

 Elliot's grin widened.  This was one of his favorite things about train
travel.  Trains were a civilized means of travel -- civilized and
sociable, unlike airplanes, where seatmates rarely even spoke to one
another.  "As they say, once is coincidence.  Twice is fate."  He extended
a hand, noting the ink blotch that stained one of his fingers as he did
so.  "Elliot Masters."

 The man offered his other hand in a brief shake.  "Rick Stewart," he
responded.  Indicating the woman across from him, he said, "This is my...
wife, Lisa."

 "We've already met," said Elliot, and Lisa smiled.

 "Kind of," she said.  "Sorry about the pencil."

 "My fault," Elliot replied.  "I need to keep a better hold of things."

 At that moment, the waiter approached their table, and Elliot turned back
to his own, trying to make some sense of the papers he had strewn across
it.  As usual, things were a mess, and he couldn't find the sketch he had
begun the night before.   With a sigh of frustration, he rifled through
the series of drawings, searching for the one he needed, stopping only to
order a cup of coffee and some toast from the waiter.

 Finally locating the paper he sought, Elliot reached