TITLE:    Recycled Virgins
By:       Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com
Category: XRH, a little A
Keywords: MSR
Rating:   NC-17 for Part 3, PG-13 for the rest

Spoilers: Basically, everything up to Season 6.
          Set in October of 1998, before "The Beginning"

Summary:  The world of MSR fanfic has many wonderful stories
          about the "first time." Here's one about the changes
          and adjustments that follow.  Mulder and Scully suffer
          through their own insecurities as they take on the
          Consortium.  Some jealousy for Mulder.
 
Disclaimer:  Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner, Tom Colton,
             Marita Covarrubias, Jeffrey Spender, Diana Fowley,
             and the Cigarette Smoking Man belong to 1013.
             I borrowed them for fun but not profit.

             Bill Clinton, Al Gore, and Newt Gingrich belong to
             the real world.  The events in this story do not.

             Bob Dylan belongs to himself.  His lyrics belong to
             eternity.

             The fanfics cited in the opening are "Heat," by Brownie;
             "Impulse," by Suzanne Schramm; and "Frozen," by Dasha K.
             Later on there's a nod and a wink to Plausible
             Deniability's "Iced Tea," the story that taught me why
             Scully knocks on the door of her own office.  These are
             four superlative stories; if you haven't read them, do
             yourself a favor.

Thanks to Suzanne Schram, WedgeLuvr, Alli, and XScout for reading
and comments.
 
Feedback would be appreciated and acknowledged.  ckelll@hotmail.com
 

 
 
  Dana Scully and Fox Mulder.  Fated to be together, but blind to
  their destiny.
 
  What did it take for this clueless duo to tumble at last into
  one another's arms?  A broken air conditioner and an ice cube?
  A dose of ephedrine?  A blizzard?  Any of these would have
  sufficed. One day it happened. They became lovers.
 
  These uncompromising idealists, totally committed to their work,
  decided there was room in their lives for joy as well as anguish,
  for comfort as well as pain.
 
  And then what?  How would the earliest days of this romance be
  anything but bizarre, awkward... maybe even funny?
 
 
 
At least there was one question Mulder never had to ask.  Scully was
not subtle.  She actually screamed things like, "Don't stop!" and
"Yes, yes, yes!" and even "Mulder!"  If she was in any position to
do so, she would grab him by the ears and try to swallow his mouth.
And then, overwhelmed and fulfilled, she would giggle until he
couldn't help laughing as well.  It was a beautiful sound.  The first
time he  heard it was Sunday afternoon.  Again that evening. Monday
morning brought only questions, confusion, and long silences, but by
late afternoon they'd worked things out and they were at it again.
They made it to Scully's apartment late that night, too exhausted to
stay awake, but sunrise found them revived and functioning well. And
then to work.
 

FBI Headquarters
Tuesday morning

Skinner summoned Mulder and Scully to report on their investigation,
as he always did when they returned from the field. They sat before
him as they had so many times, united, defiant, and defensive.  Skinner
was reasonably content with their results, but a little weary of the
way they'd exchange glances before answering him, or hedge their answers
as if they were hiding something.  He asked them to re-work their report
only because he had new information that gave added significance to
some of their findings.
 
Back in their office, Scully was typing away on the keyboard while
Mulder put his feet up on the desk and opened a bag of corn chips.
The switch from sunflower seeds to corn chips signaled that Mulder
thought it was lunchtime.
 
"Why don't you do that after lunch?" he asked her.
 
"It's kind of early," she said.  Poor Mulder, she thought, I didn't
give you enough for breakfast.
 
"The macaroni and cheese goes fast, you know."  In fact the cafeteria
had run out of it a week ago, and he'd ended up with a plate of
so-called turkey tetrazizni.  It took six packets of Tabasco sauce to
choke that down.

"Go get your lunch, Mulder.  You're not doing anything useful anyway."
She made a note in her pocket planner: "request thyroid screen Mulder's
next physical." Just to make sure an overactive endocrine system
wasn't behind his high-powered metabolism.
 
Mulder returned with two double-orders of the pasty pasta and the
Washington Post.  A single serving really wasn't enough.  Scully always
said she didn't want any, but if he didn't bring her some she would
want to taste his.  The macaroni and cheese was mushy and starchy,
virtually cheeseless.  Just the way he liked it, except it wasn't crusty
on top.  He put a plate in front of Scully so that he wouldn't eat it
all right away. He was pretty sure he'd end up finishing hers too.
 
He turned his attention to the Post.  He started the newspaper from the
front page these days, since the NBA was determined to piss him off.
It worked out fine, since Scully now read the news section last.  She
was overloaded on impeachment speculation.
 
She looked up from her computer.
 
"I think I understand why the macaroni and cheese runs out early," she
said, looking at the plate in front of her.  Whoever was dishing out the
grub today was uncommonly generous.  Mulder had polished off most of
his.  Mulder lowered the paper to tell her something.
 
"Listen to this, Scully.  From Jakarta.  Mysterious ninjas able to
transform into animals, accused in the murder of suspected sorcerers."
 
"Surely that article goes on to relate the violence to suspicion and
rivalry between the Muslim majority and the ethnic Chinese," Scully said
reasonably.

"Of course that's the obvious interpretation," Mulder said.

"Mulder, has it escaped your notice that Indonesia is a multi-ethnic
country now in the throes of economic collapse and political upheaval?
Do you fail to perceive that these murders are driven by such
classically mundane motives as greed, resentment, and bigotry?"
She gave him the works, arched eyebrow and all.
 
"No, Scully, I am not unaware of the political context.  But wouldn't
this kind of turmoil also be reflected in increased activity among the
more supernatural inhabitants?  Is it inconceivable that there are real
ninjas and sorcerers among the fakes?"  He looked at her hopefully,
almost begging her to consider his point of view.
 
Scully was mute with frustration.  How could this brilliant man be so
stupid?
 
"Humans with the ability to transform into animals are featured in
folklore from around the world," he continued blandly.
 
"Unfortunately, Mulder, the practice of persecuting those who are
different, especially during times of poverty and uncertainty, is also
known worldwide," she said heatedly.
 
"The Celts believed that witches could appear as cats or hares, whereas
the Welsh and Germans held that they could assume the form of
serpents."  He could go on like this forever.
 
"Mulder, this is utter bullshit!" she exclaimed.
 
"Okay.  Just checking."  He grinned at her.  She stared at him.
 
"What?" she said.
 
"I used to wonder if you argued so much just cause you needed to get
laid," he said.  "Now that we've taken care of that, I wanted to make
sure you hadn't lost your edge."
 
Splat.  She was so quick he had to remove the soft blob from his
forehead before he could identify it for certain.

Oh my God, I can't believe I got him! Scully thought.  What am I
doing? Then, with a flick of the fork, she planted more macaroni
on his shoulder.
 
"What are you doing?"  He gave her a look of pure disbelief.  It
wasn't a look she saw very often. She burst into uncontrollable
laughter.

Mulder didn't blush visibly, but he felt his face grow warm.  Why am I
embarrassed? he asked himself.  I didn't do anything.

He looked totally flustered and indignant.  She was sorry she'd done
something so childish, but she still couldn't stop laughing.  Poor
Mulder, lucky for her he had a high tolerance for being laughed at.

He scooped up the last of his macaroni and hurled it at her. She stopped
laughing.

"Oh, not so funny anymore, is it, G-woman?" he said.
 
"Dammit, Mulder, this has to be hand-washed!" she yelled at him. An oily
stain like this might never come out. And Mulder's dry cleaner wouldn't
even blink at a little macaroni, not after the things he'd seen.  Mulder
was way out of line.

Look at her, she's outraged, he thought.

"You're wound kind of tight today, Scully.  Maybe you still need to get
laid."  I got her, he thought, I really got her.  Now he was the
one laughing.

Unwisely, she gave up her tactical advantage behind the desk and
advanced on him, brandishing her plate.  She was furious.  Any time a
woman expresses an opinion, there's some goddamn man there wondering
if she has her period or needs to get laid.
 
"Who needs to get laid?" she shouted at him, mashing the entire plate
of macaroni and cheese into his face.
 
"Gotcha!" Mulder crowed.  He had a good grip on her left wrist.  In a
real attack there were some moves she could have tried, but she had just
enough hold on reality to know she didn't want to hurt him.
 
"Don't you dare," she shouted.  She grabbed for his hand ineffectively
as he poured the bag of corn chips over her head.
 
They were out of carbohydrates.
 
"Okay, on the count of three, I'm going to let go of your hand, and
you back away," Mulder said.  He was trying to stare her down, willing
her not to notice his drink.  He found he was enjoying this.  It would
be even more fun if he could get an ice cube down her back.
 
Scully nodded.  Her initial plan was to grab an ice cube from his ice
tea as soon as he released her and shove it down his pants.  But no,
she'd never get that far.  Better just dump the whole thing on him.
Once your partner has a face full of macaroni and you have a head full
of corn chips, you might as well keep going.
 
We'll have to start keeping the door locked, Mulder thought.

"One, two, three!" they counted in unison.

They both lunged for the drink and were both splattered liberally as it
splashed between them.  Mulder dropped to the floor to retrieve the ice
cubes and corralled three of them.  Then she was on the floor trying to
pry them away.  He was face down, protecting the ice cubes with his body
like a goalie smothering a puck.  She tried to reach under him, but then
she spotted the fourth ice cube over by the desk.  She grabbed it,
yanked Mulder's shirt-tail out of his pants, and pressed the ice cube
against his back.
 
"Ahhhhh!  Scully, stop!  Scully!  No!  Cut that out!"
 
"C'mon, Mulder.  Who needs to get laid?"

Mulder was doing moose calls, nonverbal but unmistakably pained.

"Say it, Mulder.  Who needs to get laid?"
 
"AAHHH!  I NEED TO GET LAID!" he bellowed.
 
Meanwhile, in a building nearby, Walter Skinner was meeting with his old
friend and fellow Vietnam veteran Al Gore, so it was not possible for
him to walk in the door at this moment.  Conveniently, Tom Colton was
available.  He was just two flights up in an interrogation room.
 
Colton, an ambitious but untalented agent, was questioning a defector
from a violent survivalist group called the Sons and Daughters of
Freedom. The cult was somehow involved in smuggling biohazards out
of the country, and this was the first member who was willing to talk.
The informant was so disturbed, though, that Colton's pedestrian
interrogation technique yielded nothing.
 
"This is a job for Spooky Mulder," he said dismissively.  To his
horror, the ASAC agreed:
 
"You're right, Mulder really has a way with these psychos.  See if
you can get him up here."

So, with his throat full of bile, Colton went to the basement to get
Mulder.  He had already turned the doorknob when Mulder made his loud
declaration.  The door swung open.

Mulder was sprawled on the floor in a puddle of iced tea, Scully
seated beside him.  They were attractively adorned with macaroni and
cheese and corn chips.  And they were soaked, especially Mulder.
 
Colton walked into the room, surveyed the scene, then tried to keep his
eyes fixed on the file cabinet as he stammered out his request.
 
"I've got a witness in for questioning, but he's a total loony-tune.
I figured you could relate," Colton said to Mulder.  He looked at
Scully with a mixture of pity and disdain.  "I guess you could come
too," he said.

"I'll be there in half an hour," Mulder said.  "Leave your jacket,
Colton, I'll need it."

Mulder was almost presentable when he left the office.  The borrowed
jacket helped a lot.  Scully was still brushing particles out of her
hair. They hadn't spoken since Colton left the room.

"I should have asked him to leave his pants, too," Mulder said.  He had
used the hair dryer on his own, and he was pretty sure they were ruined.
Scully gave a little nod to acknowledge his departure.  She had no
intention of tagging along.
 
She tried to work, but the irate janitor was slamming his mop into
the furniture.

"Ralph, I'm really sorry about the mess," she said.

"I know, Miss Scully, you said that already," the janitor answered. "But
I'm going to have to talk to my supervisor.  This is always the messiest
room in the basement." He finished at last, and she was left alone to
place her phone call.

Whether or not Dana Scully had a life was open to debate.  What she did
have was a date for Friday.  She was going to cancel it.
 
"Aldric, Kaiser, Weber, and Gauthier."
 
"Dana Scully calling for Peter Weber."
 
"One moment please."
 
The receptionist forwarded the call to Pete's secretary, who put her
right through.

"Dana, Friday's looking kind of iffy.  I'll give you a call later
this week."  His voice always made her think of the millionaire on
"Gilligan's Island."

"Oh, that's all right, Pete. I'm calling to tell you I can't see you
anymore."
 
"Oh, sure, Dana.  That's a good one."  He was playing some kind of
computer game while he talked to her.  She could hear the little "blip"
sounds.
 
"I'm sorry, Peter, I really am."
 
"Let me give you a tip, sweetie.  That hard-to-get stuff doesn't work
on me."
 
"Peter, I'm sorry it didn't work out between us.  I'm seeing someone
else."
 
"So this is it?  The big brush-off? This is a hell of a thing to tell
me by phone, Dana.  I would have thought you had more class.  Have a
nice life."  He hung up.

Why was I dating him at all? Scully wondered.  Oh, I remember.  I
was trying to have a life.

She must have been in a fog, because when Mulder opened the office
door he startled the hell out of her.

"Mulder, what does it tell us that I knock on the door and you don't?"
she fired at him.  She knew very well what it meant; that she did not
want to walk in on him watching one of his videos and... whatever.
Meanwhile he was reasonably sure that the most embarrassing thing she
did alone in this office was floss her teeth.
 
"You're right, Scully, I'll knock next time," Mulder said quietly.
Questioning Colton's witness hadn't been pleasant for him.  The witness,
a burned-out hippie type named Joseph Quirk, gave him answers that
sounded meaningless, but Mulder was sure they were not.  He tried to
convince Colton and his group that Quirk's mental state was evolving
into a full-blown psychosis, but they smiled and nodded.  Mulder knew
very well what they were thinking.

"Oh," Scully said, surprised by his response and his demeanor. She got
up, locked the door, and wrapped Mulder in a partnerly embrace.

"I'm sorry, honey," she said.  Colton had been treating Mulder like shit
for five years.  Now she'd gone and given Colton more reasons to despise
him.  She wanted to give Mulder a kiss, tell him she loved him, but she
didn't know if that would be much of a comfort to him.  She squeezed him
again, then let him go.  She had to get ready for the meeting about
quality control in the microbiology lab.

She was checking through the print-outs she wanted for the meeting when
the phone rang and Mulder picked it up.

"It's for you," he said.  "Rakesh Prakash."

Her eyes widened. Since she'd started working with Mulder, Scully had
found most other men boring and superficial in comparison.  But not
Rakesh.

Rakesh was self-sufficient like Mulder, but he was also gregarious
and fun-loving.  When she spoke to him she felt she was getting his full
attention, and his responses were intelligent and generous.  And he
had big hands like Mulder.
 
She and Rakesh had gone out five or six times last spring, and
then she hadn't heard from him. Perhaps he was tired of the way she
sometimes canceled on him at the last minute.  Then came the explosion
in Dallas and the tumultuous events that followed. And then, two days
ago, the miracle, longed for and feared. Mulder in her arms.  Mulder
in her bed.

"I'm late for the lab standards meeting," she said.  "Take a
message for me?"
 
**********************************************************************

Mulder looked at the four messages he'd scribbled down for Scully.
 
Rakesh Prakash:  "That guy who you think sounds like Ray Charles is
                  playing at the Sawmill this weekend."
 
Pete:  "I didn't hang up on you.  I was disconnected."
 
Lesley: No message.
 
Pete:  "I appreciate your honesty.   Would you like to drive my
       Porsche? Please call back."
 
So, Scully had a life after all.  Nothing wrong with that.  Mulder's
social life was limited to hanging with the Lone Gunmen and shooting
hoops with a bunch of guys who thought Oliver North was a hero.  He
had imagined that Scully spent her free time with her mother and
assorted mysterious godsons and nephews.  Unlikely, though, that her
nephew had a Porsche.
 
This is not a problem, he told himself.  She loves me.  She wants me.
We can test-drive a Porsche. I'll let her drive more. I'll sell my dad's
house on the Vineyard and buy a Porsche.
 
Get a grip, he told himself.  She doesn't care what you drive.  But who
is this guy, and why didn't he leave a last name? Just Pete. Sneaky
Pete.  As if I couldn't find out his name in a minute. Not that I would.

Now, Rakesh Prakash had the decency to leave a last name and a message.
Lesley was the worst. No message, no last name, and a deceptively
gender-neutral first name.  What if Scully were to tell him, "I'm
going shopping with Lesley."  Mulder would assume it was a she-Lesley.
Well, that wouldn't work now.

It would be so easy to track these guys, get their phone numbers and
names, and find out who they were.  So easy to do, and so difficult
not to do.

You seem to be feeling vulnerable, Mulder told himself therapeutically.

I'm afraid to lose her, the patient confided.

You're facing the classic Eriksonian dilemma of Intimacy versus
Isolation, he explained helpfully.

Thanks, doc.
 
Do you think perhaps things are moving too fast for you?  asked Mulder
the psychologist.
 
Too fast?  It's been six years, said the patient.

Just something to think about.
  ******************************************************************

"Scully, I need to get back to my place tonight."  It was five o'clock.
Scully's meeting had run late, and there was nothing to do that couldn't
wait until tomorrow.  Mulder hadn't been home since Friday.  He really
had to check the mail and feed the fish and wash some laundry.
 
"I'll drop you off," Scully said.  She was ready for a night alone
herself. She was sure he didn't have anything to eat at home, but she
forced herself to leave that problem to him.  He could get his own
dinner. Maybe he had plans.
 
Plans.  Not likely, but maybe.  Well, look at her.  Years of drought,
and now a monsoon.  A phone call from the elusive Dr. Prakash.  Peter
suddenly found her irresistible.  And Lesley... well, Lesley was
eighty years old.  But the point was when you're not looking they come
running.  So maybe some chickadee would come scratching around for
Mulder.
 
Well, what if she did?  Mulder was hers.  No one else could love him as
she did, or understand him.  Or thrill him?  Hmmm... She wasn't totally
confident in that arena.  Maybe she'd hit the bookstore tonight.  She
used to have long talks with Melissa about sex. Now there was no one
she could talk to.
 
Mulder was asking about getting dinner on the way home.  If she ate
this early, she'd be starving by nine.

"Sure," she said.  No reason to encourage him to make plans.
 
Dinner was unremarkable and nonprojectile.  Scully drove Mulder home
and parked by his door.  She wasn't going to go upstairs; they both
had chores to accomplish.
 
"Good night," she said, but forty minutes later they were still in the
car and the windows were fogged.
 
"Mulder." It meant stop.
 
"Come inside with me," Mulder said. The car was bringing back some
mixed memories, but he didn't want her to leave.  It was difficult
to feel manly while necking in a car.  He was a dork again, dating
the impossibly beautiful Melanie Sotomayer. She was only going out
with him because their mothers were best friends.  They dated
for almost a year, but she never stopped explaining that. For
decades Mulder would continue to gravitate toward women like Melanie.

"Good night," Scully said.
 
"I think I have some new fish you haven't seen," he said.  "You can
play with my hair."  She loved playing with his hair; she'd been doing
it for years.  He kind of hated it, but if that's what it took...

"Mulder, I don't want to touch your hair," she said. "It's too short
and I don't know if you got all the macaroni out."

"You want something to eat?"
 
"We just ate, and you don't have any food in there," she said.
 
"You are so wrong.  Come in and I'll prove it."
 
"Well... Can I see your bedroom?"
 
Oh no.  The bedroom.  He couldn't let her see it.  It was kind of messy,
but that wasn't the problem.  There was something in it.
 
"I have to get it ready for you," he said.  I have to buy a bed, he
thought.
 
"Does that involve heavy equipment?" she asked.
 
"No, Scully, maybe one of those little bobcats."
 
"I want to see it anyway."  She folded her arms.
 
"You can't.  I have to get the mirrors off the ceiling and get those
hooks out of the walls."
 
"That's adorable.  You chain yourself to the wall and then watch
yourself in the mirror?"  She was playing with his hair after all.
But it was too short.
 
"Only when the moon is full.  I'll have it ready by Friday.  We can
have a sleep-over."  A sleep-over?  Where did that come from? he asked
himself.
 
"A sleep-over?  Like a slumber party?"  That cracked her up.  They could
pierce each other's ears and smoke cigarettes.
 
"What are you laughing at?" he asked, taking her hand away from his
hair and clasping it in his.

"Can we make s'mores?" she asked.
 
"Yes.  Whatever you like," he said.  Whatever the hell s'mores are.
 
"Do you have any good comics?"  I bet he has a Ouija board, she thought.
 
"Are you kidding?" he said.  "I have the Silver Surfer origin issue
and a stack of Mad magazines."  She probably thinks I'm kidding, he
thought.
 
"What, no X-Men?"  A sleep-over at Mulder's, huh?  Better bring a
sleeping bag.

*************************************************************************
Peter called Scully at work Wednesday morning, and she was glad that
Mulder was late for once.  It was a whiny appeal, full of phrases like
"you used me" and "you owe me."
 
"Get real, Pete," she said at last.  "We dated a few times.  There
wasn't that much to it."
 
"It's all my fault."  He was crying now.  "I never told you what you
meant to me.  You don't know how I treasured our time together, how I
looked forward to it."  She rolled her eyes.

"How about this," Scully proposed.  "If you still feel this way in
April, give me a call."

But he couldn't wait six months.  She finally agreed to meet him
that night, in return for his promise to back off if that was her
final wish.
 
Mulder walked in at nine-thirty carrying a carton.  In clearing out
his bedroom he was cluttering up the office.  Of course Scully had
to examine the contents.
 
"You can't keep this here," she said, holding up a book of erotic art
from ancient civilizations.  She didn't object to anything he kept out
of sight, but this was an oversized volume that wouldn't fit in any
drawer.

"Don't worry, I'm giving it to Skinner," Mulder said.  Since Skinner
was an AD, he had a credenza.

"Oh, Mulder, I didn't know you read Patricia Cornwell."
 
"I read the early ones," he answered.  "I thought it got kind of
unbelievable when the straitlaced pathologist started sleeping with
the suave FBI man."
 
"Yeah, really.  A suave FBI man?"  They got his books shelved with
difficulty, stacking and stuffing them into place.

"Scully, I want to question Colton's witness again.  I want you to talk
to him."
 
"Why, Mulder?"  If Mulder was going to join in someone else's
investigation, why did it have to be Tom Colton's?

"This guy has something to tell us, if we can find a way to listen.
I think there's more at stake than Colton realizes," he said.
 ********************************************************************
Crystal City Marriott
Arlington, VA
11:19 A.M.
 

Colton's witness, the defector from the survivalist group, was under
guard in a hotel room.  Joe Quirk displayed some bizarre thought
processes, in Scully's professional opinion.  In layman's terms, he was
nuts. His speech was made up of lines from Bob Dylan songs.  They found
him under the desk and were unable to coax him out.

"He's decompensated since yesterday," Mulder said.  "I don't know if
we'll get anything out of him."
 
"Johnny's in the basement mixing up the medicine," Quirk said.  His
delivery was flat, deadpan.

"Tell me about the medicine, Joe," Mulder said.

"I'm on the pavement thinkin' 'bout the government," Quirk continued.
 
"Mulder, I think he's saying that he's not directly involved with the
bioweapon," Scully said.

"When Quinn the Eskimo gets here, everybody's gonna know it's him,"
Quirk said.
 
"We're wasting our time," Scully whispered.  "Mulder, we
shouldn't even be questioning him.  This man needs medical help."

"Do you know any Dylan lyrics?" Mulder asked.  "Maybe if we speak
to him in his own language..."
 
"You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows?"
Scully ventured.
 
Joe Quirk nodded in agreement.

"Everybody's makin' love, or else expectin' rain," he said.

Mulder and Scully exchanged glances.

"Did you tell him?" Mulder asked.  Scully ignored the question.
 
"Don't you know any Dylan?" she whispered.  "You listen to that old
stuff."
 
"Dylan is not exactly a guitar god," Mulder said.  "Wait--I do know
some."

"All Along the Watchtower" was on the Fox Mulder air-guitar top forty.

He cleared his throat.
 
"There's too much confusion here,"  he said.  "I can't get no relief."

Quirk looked at Mulder with that intensity peculiar to schizophrenics.
 
"Knock knock knockin' on Evans' door," he said.
 
"Evans?" Scully mouthed to Mulder. That wasn't how Axl Rose sang it.

"Let us not talk falsely now.  The hour is getting late," Mulder said.
 
"Ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more," Quirk said.

"The cult's headquarters is on an old farm," Mulder whispered.  "I
think at least some of his answers make sense."

"The answers are blowin' in the wind," Scully said pointedly.
 
"If you gotta go, it's all right," Quirk said.

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

TITLE:    Recycled Virgins 2/6
By:       Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com

FBI Headquarters
Washington, DC
 

Back in their office, Scully sorted through what little information they
had about the Freedom cult.

"I'll be back in a minute," Mulder said.  He was bringing the giant
erotica book to the AD.

Scully tried scanning various databases for survivalists named Evans.
There were quite a few.  The ring of the telephone interrupted her
work.

"Rakesh, how are you?" she asked.

"I've been busy, Dana, building up my practice." he said.  Rakesh
Prakash had made his name at the CDC for a study linking certain
prostate cancers with exposure to herbicides.  Six months ago
he'd left for private practice.

"Sounds like you're doing well."

"Let's just say that Viagra's been very, very good to me.  The waiting
room's always full.  Not to mention the friends of friends who call me
up trying to get a free prescription."

"I got your message about Jimmy Roberts playing the Sawmill. Maybe I'll
go over there with my boyfriend."

"Ouch!  Shot down!  Maybe I'll see you there."

Scully finished searching for Evanses, and just for the heck of it,
generated a list of Quinns as well.  She turned up three big-time
narcotics dealers with the alias Quinn the Eskimo.  Probably not
relevant.  Then the phone rang.

My, my, she said to herself.  Could it be another gentleman caller?

But it was Tom Colton.  He informed her petulantly that Quirk was being
moved to a private psychiatric facility.  She and Mulder had gone over
Colton's head to get the informant placed in a more appropriate
setting.  Then he told her something else.

Twenty-three members of the Sons and Daughters of Freedom, Quirk's old
group, were found dead at their compound in Delaware.

"Colton, they've got to be quarantined.  They were involved with
chemical or biological agents.  You have to treat this as a potential
hazard."

"I think I know my job," said Colton.  The Baltimore field office had
called for the NBC team, the FBI unit that handles Nuclear, Biological,
and Chemical hazards.  Scully got the names of the agents involved
in containing the threat.

She could dash over to Delaware, or she could trust that the agents
in the field would do their job.  After talking to the biochemist who
was running the show, she opted for a site visit.  Not because the
chemist was incompetent; he sounded first-rate.  It was that little
detail about the victims' sclera turning black.

She rang up Skinner's office to reach Mulder.

"AD Skinner is still meeting with Agent Mulder," Skinner's assistant
said.  "He asked me to hold his calls."  Great.  The free world could
go to hell while Skinner and Mulder looked at dirty pictures.

"Please put me through," Scully said.  "It's urgent."  Skinner was
quite the professional.  Not once did his words or voice give her any
hint of what he'd been doing.  Mulder, on the other hand, was a little
huffy when he returned to the office.

"What's so important?" he asked.  "Or did you just yank on the leash to
make sure I hadn't slipped out of my collar?"

"A thousand pardons," Scully said, wondering why Mulder was bristling
at her that way.  He was never defensive about his taste for "adult"
entertainment. Then she gave him the news about the Sons and Daughters
of Freedom.

"I'm sorry, Scully, I should have known better."

"How long does it take to pore over that book, anyway?"  She was
going to grill him about it from DC to Delaware, she decided.  "How
did you manage, Mulder.  Did he sit next to you, or did you pass the
book back and forth across the desk?"

"Neither, Scully.  He made me sit on his lap.  Come on, let's get a
car."

"I'll get a car.  You call Walt and tell him what's going on.  I don't
want him to worry about you."

He had driven about halfway to Wilmington when he remembered his plan
to let Scully have the wheel more often. She was bugging the hell out
him, still going on about Skinner and the coffee-table book. But he
was more annoyed with the AD.  Skinner had briefed Mulder on some
new intelligence and then ordered him to keep it to himself for now.
So when Scully ragged on him about the hour he'd spent with Skinner,
he felt like a rat for leaving her in the dark.

"Did you spend the whole time on your book, or did Walter have some
body builder pictures for you to study?"

"Scully, just drop it, okay?  You've known about my hobby for a long
time. Do you want to talk about the cult and the black oil, or are you
going to spend the rest of the trip fantasizing about Skinner and me?"

"You don't have to get snippy," she said.  "I resented your implication
that I would call just to interfere with your fun."

"I apologized an hour ago. It's time to get on with your life," he
said.  "And I'm not snippy. I may be fed up, or annoyed, or irritated,
but I'm not snippy."

"Fine."

"You're snippy," he said.

"Let me know when you're ready to get to work."

"As soon as you stop being snippy," he said snippily.

"Pull over.  I have to kill you."

They arrived at the cult compound about forty minutes later.  There were
police cars and Bureau cars parked outside the fence, plus a news crew
from a Wilmington TV station.  The biohazard team had set themselves up
by the gate.  This was a sharp unit, not the slackers Mulder had come
to expect.  He and Scully got themselves fitted with "moon suits" with
respirators and headed inside the compound.

The compound was really an old family farm, with a weathered farmhouse
and two outbuildings.  A chainlink fence topped with razorwire
stretched around the perimeter.

Scully scrutinized everyone working on the site and managed to
photograph most of them.  The moon suits hid badges and credentials,
unfortunately.

The bodies were arranged in five neat rows in front of the farmhouse.
Chalk outlines marked where the victims had been found. This was not a
mass suicide; these people had been scattered about the compound,
involved in their various tasks, when something had stopped them in
their tracks. They had the oily residue on their skin, as expected,
but there was no sign of rapid decomposition.

"I don't understand it," Scully said.  "This black oil, sometimes it
kills, sometimes it doesn't.  How can it have such variable effects?"

"You know my theory," Mulder said.  "You just don't want to believe it."

"If they were working on a biological weapon, they must have a lab
somewhere," Scully said.

"They probably kept it isolated from their living quarters," Mulder
said.

"Right.  Let's check the garage and the chicken coop."

The garage was a converted barn.  Mulder got some fixed idea about a
hidden trap door, and it took over an hour to dig around in the dirt
floor enough to prove there was nothing underneath.  The henhouse
had a wooden floor and held no secrets either.  The resident chickens
squawked in terror at the intrusion.

"This would be a great time for you to demonstrate your uncanny
*intuition*," Scully suggested.  "You know, the *I* in FBI."

"Do you think they'd let me talk to Joseph Quirk by telephone?"  Mulder
asked.  "He must know where it is."

"Mulder... Johnny's in the *basement* mixing up the medicine."

The lab was indeed in the basement of the main house.  There wasn't
much to it; some test tubes in racks, syringes, and beakers.  The most
sophisticated item was an egg incubator.

"They grow vaccines in eggs, don't they, Scully?"  Mulder asked.

If that was the function of the lab, there was no sign of it now.
All the equipment was clean and dry; there were no eggs in the
incubator. Scully snapped some photos and vacuumed for trace
evidence.

Mulder had stayed up most of the night, struggling to make his storage
room back into a bedroom, and he was starting to feel it.  He was
afraid Scully would volunteer or get drafted into doing autopsies; if
he had to stay here while she did twenty-three autopsies, he would drop
dead and make it an even two dozen.

"Let's hit the road," he said.  Scully noticed his strabismus and knew
he was exhausted. When he was overtired, his left eye turned in a bit.

"Only if you let me drive, macho man," she said.  She led him back to
the gate, where they gave up their protective gear.  Her specimens were
snapped into biohazard bags and handed to her.  He tossed her the car
keys and got in the passenger seat without arguing, but he kept his
seatback upright.

"Take a nap, Mulder," she suggested, but he shook his head.

"It's not that late.  I just want to rest my eyes."  She started the
car to let it warm up, then got out to use her cell phone.  She had to
cancel the rendez-vous with Peter; she'd never make it on time.  She
left a message on his answering machine.

As she started the trip back she began feeling her own fatigue.  As
Mulder said, it wasn't that late, but it was growing dark.  She found
a quick-mart and got herself a caffeine boost, as well as some cold cuts
for later.  She planned on bringing Mulder to her place and getting him
fed if he'd stay awake, tucked in if he wouldn't.  Then she'd get her
specimens over to Histology; she didn't want to be accused of
mishandling them.  She'd turn in this bureau car and pick up her own.
If Mulder was up to it he could get his car then too.

She woke him up when she got home.  Without opening his eyes he begged
her to just let him stay where he was, but at last he roused himself
and followed her in.

"You need to eat something," she told him, but when he headed for the
couch she steered him to the bedroom.  She got his shoes off and had
to wrestle with him for the jacket and pants, since he was trying to
curl into fetal position.  She loosened his tie but couldn't get it
off.  It was all of nine o'clock.

Scully had been crawling around in the dirt and chickenshit for much
of the day, and while the environmental suit had kept her clean, she
still had the urge to shower and change.  She put on her oldest blue
jeans.  They were soft and wonderful, eroding at the seat and crotch,
but good enough for now.  The shirt was another relic; there had been
a picture of Galileo on it once, but after years of wear it was plain
white.  Then her autopsy shoes, ancient cross-trainers with the soles
separating from the tops. The paper shoe-covers she used in the
autopsy room hid this little defect.  The old blue sweatshirt
completed the ensemble.  She pulled the hood over her wet hair.

I'll be in and out of there in fifteen minutes, she thought.  No one
will see me.

The parking garage was practically empty at FBI Headquarters, and she
pulled into a space near the entrance.  A black sedan with darkened
windows was idling nearby in a no-standing space. She pulled out her
cellular to call building security and see if there was anything going
on.  A second sedan zipped from around a corner and came to a halt
behind her.  She was blocked in.
*******************************************************************

Mulder woke up hungry and went to explore Scully's fridge.  It wasn't
as empty as his, but a lot of her provisions didn't meet his
definition of food.  Spaghetti squash?  Oh, come on. He found a dandy
little kosher salami; that would do.  Too bad she only had Dijon
mustard.

She's got six kinds of vinegar, but no deli mustard, he thought
regretfully.  She stranded me here with this perfectly good salami
but no rye bread.

He sat at her table in his shirt, tie, and boxers eating chunks
of salami and perusing a book called "365 Ways to Thrill Your Man the
Whole Year Long."  He crossed out number seventy-three; no one better
try that on him.

There was a barrage of knocks on the door.  Mulder chained the door
then opened it a crack.

"Let me in," demanded the drunken Viking who stood there swaying.

"Get lost," Mulder said.  "She's not home."

"Dana! Dana!" the man screamed.  "I want you back!"  Mulder opened
the door and dragged the fool in.

"Who are you?" Mulder asked.

"I'm your worst nightmare.  I'm the man who's going to take back my
woman and break your face."

"Do you have a name?" Mulder asked.

"Peter Weber, esquire.  But don't let my good looks and expensive
clothes fool you.  I can still take you on."

"How would you like a ride in a nice taxi?" Mulder offered.  The way
the man's face lit up, Mulder thought he was going to accept.

"I think I got a deal for you, buddy," the lawyer offered.  "My
Porsche for your woman."  He dangled the keys enticingly. Mulder sighed.

"Sit down," he said.  "I'll make you some coffee."  He heard his cell
phone go off, but it took him a few rings to find it.

"Mulder, where are you?" a woman's voice asked him.

"Where are you?" he responded.  The Special Assistant to the Secretary
General might be anywhere in the world.

"I'm at your place," she said.  "I've been waiting for hours and I must
speak to you."  Mulder wondered why he bothered to lock his door.

"I'll be there in half an hour."  He pulled on his pants.

Peter Weber had his head down on Scully's table.  Mulder thought about
putting him in the bathroom, but all those hard surfaces posed a real
threat to a staggering drunk. Instead he spread Weber's trench coat
across the top of Scully's bed, then grabbed Weber by the shirt and
walked him into the bedroom.  When Weber was settled in the bed, Mulder
pulled off his shoes.  Scully had a thing about shoes on the bed.

Then Mulder took Weber's car keys from the table and headed out to
meet Marita Covarrubias.

************************************************************************
Too ironic, Scully thought.  I really may be caught dead in this
outfit.

She watched in the rearview mirror as two men from the first car joined
the two men who had gotten out of the car behind her.  They conferred
for a minute, then converged around her car.

They really didn't look that sinister from up close.  One of them wasn't
even wearing black.  She looked at that one.  A blue blazer and tan
slacks.  Hey, that was Bruce Novak.  These men were from the Secret
Service.  Now she was pissed.  The Treasury Department was invading
her turf.  She pressed her credentials against the window, then
opened the door and stomped out.

"Exit the vehicle slowly," one the the T-men said.

"Who are you?" she demanded.  "I want to see some ID and I want to
know what's going on."  He showed her his badge and card, then
addressed her in a nasal monotone.

"Ma'am, I'd like you to stay right here.  We have secured this egress
and will need to maintain security."  He was tall and well built, but
he was a pissant anyway.

"I am an FBI agent in the FBI building and if anything needs to be
secured I will secure it.  I am going to enter the egress and go to
the crime lab.  But first you're going to tell me what you're doing
here."

"Ma'am, we will use force to detain you if necessary," said the pissant.

"Guys," said Novak, "I know her."

"So?" said the pissant.

"We owe her. Big time."

"You'll have to explain that, Novak," said the oldest of the T-men in
a hoarse smoker's voice.  Scully was also waiting for an explanation.

"The lab results from the FBI.  The dress.  The stain."

"She's the one who told you that the FBI had a positive match from that
dress?" the smoker asked.

"Not her, her partner, the weird guy I play ball with.  But she told
him."

Being called to testify against the President had put the Secret Service
in a double-bind.  Some of them would have lied under oath rather than
bring harm to the man they had sworn to protect.  Would have lied, and
then the lab results would have revealed their lie.  Learning in
advance that the FBI had found definite physical proof had saved them
from committing perjury.

The pissant and the smoker were old-style patriots.  They would have
lied and been discredited.

"We're waiting for the vice-president to return to his vehicle," the
pissant explained.  "I'll call in and see if we can get an estimated
time."  He spoke on his radio for a few minutes, then he flashed a big
smile at Scully.

"Agent Scully... ever been to the White House?"  As he spoke a black
limousine pulled up by the door that led from the parking garage into
the building.  An entourage of men in suits emerged through the door;
the only one of them who looked remotely friendly was the vice
president.

Al Gore shook hands with Scully before he got into his limo.  The two
Secret Service sedans bracketed the limo, one ahead and one behind.

AD Skinner was among the knot of somber-looking men.

"Agent Scully," he said, and with a jerk of his head he ordered her into
the last sedan.  He got in after her, and instructed the driver to turn
on the radio. He didn't want to be overheard.

"Sir, what's going on?" Scully asked.

"A rather peculiar business," Skinner said.  "The White House has
learned of some extravagant gifts to individuals and institutions
in this country, coming from Beijing.  The most public of these is
a gift to the National Zoo, a proposed addition to the reptile
exhibit costing millions of dollars.  Another beneficiary is the
group you visited this afternoon, if there are any survivors."

"Why exactly is the White House concerned?" Scully asked.

"They believe that these contributions are payments, and they want
to know what that money is buying."

"I can understand that, sir.  But what's your role in this?  Why isn't
Counterintelligence handling it?"

"Al Gore and I go way back.  Naturally, he deals with me directly on
occasion."  Skinner turned away from her; he wanted no more questions
on this subject.

Not a very satisfactory answer, Scully thought.  None of this explains
why I'm going to the White House in the outfit I wouldn't be caught dead
in.

"Are you feeling all right, Agent Scully?" Skinner asked her.  "You
look a little pale."

"I'm fine, sir," she answered.

The outfit I wouldn't be caught dead in, and no makeup.

TITLE:    Recycled Virgins 3/6
By:       Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com

The White House
Washington, DC
Wednesday night

It was a short ride to the White House, and Skinner and Scully were
ushered into a small, tastefully furnished room with a gas-log
fireplace.  The leader of the free world was waiting for them there,
along with the vice president, who had arrived ahead of them.  Both
men rose and waited for Scully to be seated, but Skinner had to tug on
her arm and remind her to sit down.

Intellectually, Scully held a multitude of opinions about Bill Clinton
the man and Bill Clinton the President.  But sitting here not ten feet
away from him, what she felt was awe.

"The FBI is within the Justice Department, and the Director is
supposed to be responsible to the Chief Executive," the President
began.  "That's why the Director is appointed by the President.
There have been some problems, but overall I believe the Director
is doing his job as well as his abilities permit."

Skinner and Scully sat as if they were in Sunday school.  Skinner's
nose started to itch, but he wasn't going to scratch it.  The
gas-log was glowing in the fireplace, and Skinner longed to take
off his jacket.  Scully sweltered in her thick hooded sweatshirt.

"Communication between the Bureau and the White House has been
flawed in the past," Clinton said.  "FBI agents who knew that the
Chinese government was trying to buy influence chose to restrict
my access to that information."

Everyone in the room knew what he was talking about.  The incident
had occurred in June of 1996, although the story hadn't become
public until almost a year later.  The FBI had learned of a plan
by the Chinese government to use campaign donations to buy political
clout.  The counterintelligence specialists from the FBI who informed
their colleagues in the National Security Council had insisted on
"no wider dissemination" of the information.

Scully surprised everyone in the room with her forthright response,
but most of all herself.

"Sir, with all due respect, while the exact communication from the
Bureau remains in question, what is indisputable is that two officials
in the National Security Council failed to apprise their superiors of
the warning," she said.

You tell 'im, Red, thought Skinner.

"That is true," said Clinton.  "That is another reason that you and
AD Skinner have been asked to come here."

"Naturally we are eager to offer any assistance we can," said Skinner.

"I have been informed of an exchange that will be made tomorrow, an
exchange of cash for merchandise.  I have a location, and a time, and
the identity of one of the parties.  I want the goods intercepted; I
do not want this deal to go through."  Clinton's speech was measured
and deliberate.

"We want this handled quietly," Gore said.  "Walter, this is part of
a very large conspiracy.  What I told you before is just the tip of
the iceberg.  Remember, no one needs to know about this unless and
until they are involved."

"Understood," said Skinner.  "Strictly need-to-know, with briefings
delayed until shortly before the operation."  Scully suddenly
understood that Skinner and Mulder had not spent their tete-a-tete
admiring erotic art.

"Mr. President," said Scully, "if you have accurate information
specifying a time and place, I think we can make the interception
uneventfully."

"The exchange is set for noon tomorrow in the National Zoo," Clinton
said.  "AD Skinner, I believe you know how to get in touch with Al.
Please keep him informed."

******************************************************************
Marita Covarrubias was all business when Mulder got to his apartment.
She actually told him to have a seat.  He did sit down.  If he
didn't he'd be allowing her imperious style to affect him.

"What's going on?" he asked her.

"This is about the vaccine, the antidote to the black oil," she said.
"Someone was using the Wilmington group to synthesize it."

"Who?" Mulder asked.  "Who was using the Wilmington group?"  She
shook her head slightly.  She was not going to answer that.

"Did the vaccine kill them?" Mulder asked.

"The vaccine is safe, as far as we know," she said.

"Then they were killed by the black oil," Mulder said.  "The vaccine
doesn't work."

"They didn't use it, they just made it," Marita Covarrubias said
impatiently.  "They synthesized it, using eggs as a medium.  Then
they brought the eggs to a middleman, who would ship them out of the
country.  The vaccine would be extracted at one location, then
forwarded to the final destination, where it could be prepared in
mass quantities."

"What is the final destination?"

"A large Asian country.  That's more than you need to know."

"Where is the vaccine now?" Mulder asked.

"I don't know, but you need to find it before your government does.
There's a mole in place, ready to receive it.  Someone working from
the inside."

"Working for who?" Mulder asked.

"I don't know," she said.  Mulder didn't believe her.

"So you want me to track down the vaccine and give it to you,"
Mulder said.

"I know you don't trust me," Marita said, "but I'm the best
friend you've got."

"Okay, my friend," said Mulder.  "But I have a few more questions."

"You have all the information you need," she told him.  "Now drive
me to Dulles. I must get back to New York."

"My Taurus is in the shop," Mulder said.  "Hope you don't mind
if we take my second car."

Marita Covarrubias was not the first insider who had chosen to feed
information to Mulder, but she was the most mysterious.  He hadn't
a clue who she really worked for or what her goals were. He would
have given up a week's pay to know what she was thinking right now.
It might have surprised him.

She was thinking, I wish he was wearing his leather jacket.

Marita eyed the Porsche appreciatively before getting in.  Then she
stared at him as he struggled to maneuver out of the tight space by
the curb.

"The parking brake is on," she said quietly.

He released it.  That helped.  They lurched along down the street,
gears grinding.

"There's no need for you to go to all this trouble. Pull over and I'll
get a cab," said the self-assured blond woman after they'd gone a block.

"I said I'd drive you to the airport and I'll drive you to the
airport," Mulder said through gritted teeth.

"You're shifting too soon.  That's why it strains when you try to put
it into third gear."

"I know what I'm doing."

"You have to use the clutch before you shift gears."

"I'm clutching, dammit."  This thing was harder to drive than the
snow-cat. At least with the snow-cat he'd had wide open spaces, no
traffic lights, and no audience.

"Pull the car over now.  I'm going to drive."  Marita Covarrubias spoke
like a woman who was used to being obeyed.

"What are you worried about?  Is your private jet going to leave
without you?"

"Mulder, let me drive and I'll tell you something you don't know about
the Freedom cult."

"You tell me something useful and I'll let you drive."  He tried to
make his driving even rougher now.

"They found twenty-three bodies.  I'll tell you who they didn't find.
But first you have to let me drive."

"Deal," said Mulder.  He would have bargained harder, but he'd stalled
out at the traffic light.  They switched positions with a poorly
executed Chinese fire drill; Mulder had some anxiety that Covarrubias
would peel out and leave him in the road, and he almost plowed into
her hustling to the passenger seat.

Marita eased off the clutch as the light changed and the car moved
with liquid grace.

"There were twenty-five members; twenty-three found dead, the man you
have hidden away, and one more.  Howard Canfield.  The courier.  The
one who brought the eggs to the middleman."

"Is he still alive?" asked Mulder.

"Very much so.  The Consortium almost caught him about a mile from
here.  He's still alive, and he knows he's being hunted."

Mulder calculated the possibilities: whether or not Canfield had been at
the compound when the black oil came, he might very well have the
vaccine. The bigger question was whether he was now under the control
of the black oil.

Covarrubias drove them to the airport, then Mulder returned to his
apartment for a change of clothes and other needed items.  Heading back
to Scully's, he felt he was finally getting the hang of the manual
transmission.  Except that there seemed to be a major problem now
with first gear.

Peter Weber was gone when he got back, but the bozo had left his
cellular  phone.  Scully wasn't home yet, so he dialed her number and
opened the conversation with that original line:

"Where are you?"

"I'll talk to you later."  End of call.

Mulder had been in a hurry to get back so Scully wouldn't be on
her own dealing with a large drunk, and he hadn't stopped for food.
He began to forage again.  Unfortunately, the fridge hadn't restocked
itself yet.  The freezer yielded various flat rectangles of lite and
lean food, plus a brick of low-fat vanilla frozen yogurt.

His luck improved with the cabinets.  The lower one had pastas, the
six kinds of vinegar he'd noticed before, and some Extra Virgin olive
oil.  The bottle was half empty, but it continued to proclaim its
innocence. The middle cabinet had paper products, candles, and an
old bottle of Die, Flea, Die.  But the upper one was a treasure chest.

Oreos, chocolate syrup, marshmallow fluff, graham crackers, Pop-tarts,
peanut butter, and Beefaroni.  And other things:  coloring books,
crayons, finger paint, tubs of modeling clay, and Legos.  Aha. This
was the secret stash for the nephew's visits.

The peanut butter caught his eye until he remembered the only bread
in the house was whole wheat pitas.  Pop-tarts? No.  Marshmallow fluff?
He examined the jar.  A recipe for s'mores. So, that's what s'mores
were. Sounded pretty good.  But he didn't have any chocolate.

Finally he selected the Oreos and took the box of cookies and the
"365 Ways" book into the bedroom.

Mulder rarely undressed for bed.  His habit was to lay down in front
of the TV fully clothed and let the mindless chatter keep his ghosts
at bay until he was too tired to think.  Stripping down and getting
between the sheets would be an open invitation to the demons.

But this time he kept his clothes on because he wanted to know
when Scully got in.  She didn't like him sleeping in his clothes,
especially if she thought he was going to have to wear them again
the next day, and she would surely undress him.  Which would be
nice anyway.

So he ate the Oreos and read the book.  Some of the suggestions
were so corny he would laugh his ass off if Scully actually tried them.

He drifted off to sleep, and then Scully came home wrapped in Saran
Wrap, and she lit scented candles, and she told him that he was the
eggman, and she was a ninja from Jakarta, and he would have to drive
a little red car up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

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

Riding back from the White House, Skinner and Scully roughed out a
strategy for the interception at the zoo the next day.  Scully
was glad that Skinner didn't suggest calling Mulder at home,
since she knew Mulder wasn't home.  In fact Skinner had tried to
call Mulder earlier; the woman who answered the phone made it very
clear she didn't want any interruptions.  Skinner had left it at that.
God knows Mulder needed it.

Then he'd called Scully's apartment to have her attend the White
House meeting in her partner's place.  She hadn't been briefed yet,
but it wouldn't take long to bring her up to speed.  Some drunk had
picked up the phone.  Probably her brother, Skinner speculated.
Luckily Scully had shown up on her own, although not exactly dressed
for the occasion.  But she'd handled it well, Skinner thought
appreciatively.

"Do you want a ride home?" Skinner asked her.

"No, thank you, sir," Scully said.  "The Hoover Building is fine."
She still had to log in her specimens and get her car back.  Some
malfunction in the Secret Service car was keeping it as hot as
a sauna, and Skinner had his jacket off.

Scully at last dared to pull off her sweatshirt.  It was dark in
the car, and Skinner could probably care less.

You were right, Mom, Scully thought.  Never leave the house without
a bra.

The flickering light from the street lamps they passed was giving
Skinner a little treat.  Not just because the white T-shirt showed
off more than it hid, or because the jeans clung to her hips.  With
her ragged, faded jeans, her wild, air-dried hair, and her full, free
breasts, Scully was the embodiment of Skinner's high school fantasies.
The jogging shoes were an anachronism.  But if she was in sandals,
or better yet barefoot, she'd be the girl who could have convinced
him to join a commune instead of the Marine Corps.

Skinner enjoyed the show.  No harm in that, he thought.  Lucky
Mulder was such a numb-nuts or he'd never get any work done.

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

Scully found Mulder asleep in his clothes, cookie crumbs on his face
and chest, his right hand in his pants.  He'd found the cache of
supplies she kept to survive visits from little boys.  Right now
he looked like one of the boys.

She rubbed his arm and shook his shoulder to wake him, then
shielded his eyes as she turned on the light.  She had a lot to
tell him.

Mulder opened his eyes.  This was better than Saran Wrap; Scully was
wearing a tight white T-shirt.  It was a while before his eyes took
in anything beyond the T-shirt.  She'd done her hair like Janis Joplin.
Her faded jeans were ripped at the knees.

Oh, Scully, what a great idea!  We're playing Woodstock.  And it wasn't
even from the book.  Mud.  There should be mud and music.  He reached
for her breasts, cupping and kneading them through the T-shirt.  It
had to be fate; she had two tits, and he had two hands.

"Mulder, I'm all sweaty," she said, removing his hands from her body.

"Good," he said.  He pulled her into the bed on top of him, then
turned on his side, landing her on a sleeve of Oreos.  It was
uncomfortable, but not as bad as sunflower seed shells.

Mulder climbed on top of her and started a slow dry-hump. The Oreos
burst out of their cellophane.

Oh, very smooth, thought Scully.  He's lucky he's cute.

He dropped down next to her and planted his mouth on hers.  She felt his
lips and she welcomed his tongue, and now she was thinking it would be
fun to have Mulder grinding and grating on top of her.

But he's too far ahead of me, Scully thought.  I'll never catch up.
Still, she decided to go along for the ride.  She got his belt
and fly opened, working one-handed, since he was lying on her left hand.

"Scully," he said gratefully.  He tugged at her and she slid back on top
of him.  He started squeezing her buttocks through the denim, grabbing
her with his big hands.

Oh, that's so good, she thought.  The sensation raced through her.
How could anything feel that good.  But he's got way too many clothes
on.  She tried to loosen his tie, grabbing it by the knot.

"Bruckman," he gasped, letting go of her ass to take off his tie.
She was supporting her weight with a hand on his chest.  The other
hand was playing by his balls.  But too lightly.  Yuck.  Then harder,
just right.  And then her wrist slid past his scrotum and he had
a fleeting thought that she was going to try something along the
lines of Thrill number seventy-three.  But no, the hand slid back,
and she was rolling his nuts in her hand again.

His hands were back on her breasts, and he was circling her nipple
with his finger.  First the right.  That's nice.  Then the left--and
it was electric.  Her arm trembled and she collapsed on top of him.
She snuggled into the shelter of his right arm.   He was still
playing with her nipples.

I'm the scientist now, he thought, fingering and circling her
nipples one at a time.  She'd sigh contentedly when he worked on
the right one, but she arched her back and groaned when he got to
the left.

"Mulder," she said. They were making very little progress getting
their clothes off.

"Scully," he agreed.  It was time to get naked.  He slid his pants
off with his shorts and socks, then finished taking off his shirt.
He watched her get her jeans off.

"Scully, put the shirt back on."  She shrugged and did as he asked.
"Okay, now take it off again.  I missed it."

"You're a wacko," she said, starting to take it off again.

"Wait.  Put your arms behind you," he said.  She knew what he wanted.
"Oh, yes."  He lifted the shirt over her breasts, kissing and
tonguing them in turn, but with extra attention to the left.  He
rolled her onto her back.

She knew what was next.  She'd really have to talk to him about it.
Most of Mulder's moves thrilled her.  He was clumsy at times, but so
sweet and insistent that almost everything he did made her melt.  But
this little habit was going to have to stop.

And there he goes.  One finger on the clit, no problem.  Then
sliding around her labia.  Yes, Mulder, I am wet for you.  And then
the one, two, and finally three fingers in the vagina.  What was
that all about?  Making sure I can accommodate your mighty phallus?

"Dilated to meet you," she said.

Now let's make sure he's up to my standards, she thought.  She
squeezed the shaft of his penis.  Nice and hard.  But wait a minute.
Why should she be the one getting ground into the Oreos?

"On your back, Mulder."

She thinks she's so tough, he thought.   Okay, little lady, you can be
on top.  Oh, not bad, not bad at all.

"C'mon, Scully," he said in a loud whisper. "Give it to me!"

Much, much better this way she thought, sliding the head of his
penis against her clitoris, then toward her vagina.  Okay, stop
right there, take a breath, okay, in.  He was on the large side.

"Don't move, baby.  Not yet," she whispered.

Huh? thought Mulder.  Is this from the book?  Then she started pumping,
and he did too, and then she shifted herself a little, and now her
breasts were grazing his chest, ah, nice.  She was pinning
his arms, as if he was going to try to get away, well, whatever made
her happy...

"Oh, Mulder," she said.  And then, "MMMMMulder."  And then her mouth
over his, with her teeth against his face, her hands on his head.
Her hips bucked, and his too, with his hands on her ass, trying to
drive her faster. She didn't want to go faster.  She wanted it slower
and harder, and she dropped lower on top of him, changing the angle,
hitting the spot, ahhh.  She lifted her head, catching a real
breath, and she was laughing now, with relief, or joy, but still
rubbing on him.

Rubbing on him, but not fast enough or hard enough or deep enough.
ARRGGHH! He grabbed her hips again, giving her the rhythm.

She watched him now, noticing his slack expression, heavy breathing, and
racing pulse.

"You want it, baby, don't you?  You like it rough.  You want it fast.
Yeah, you like that." She shifted again, and gave him the pounding he
needed, thrusting into his thrusts.

She was laughing again, laughing at him because he was so cute, so
helpless, so completely at her mercy. This was for him, hard and fast.

"Scully," he said.  She kept pumping, but she lowered her head to kiss
him.

Yes, thought Mulder.  Yes. Past the point of no return.  He let go of
her ass, and his right arm went across her neck with his hand on her
shoulder. His left hand slipped between them, pressing on her clit.

She was pumping, for him, but with the pressure of his fingers, she felt
the waves inside her begin again. This wouldn't be as good as the first
one.

"Oh," Mulder said, looking happy rather than blank, but still breathing
hard.

Then he was kissing her again. His dick was shrinking inside her and
they were making squishy sounds together. She was still coming, but
the friction was almost painful. She stopped moving.

"Slow down, baby, slow down," she said. Those fingers.  It was too much
for now.

"Lighter, Mulder. Lighter.  Slower."  The big moose was snickering at
her.

"Stop."  There was no rhythm to his moves any more.  She'd feel him
press, then stop, random pressure that kept the waves of her orgasm
going. It wasn't totally pleasant; she wasn't sure if it was pleasant
at all.

"Stop.  Stop it, Mulder, really."

"I stopped, Scully, I did.  It's you.  You're the one who's moving."

She wanted to shout, Get your hand away from me! Because whoever
was doing it, she had absolutely had enough of it.

"Hold me, Mulder, just hold me."  That worked.  Both arms around her
back.  Cozy, comfortable, satisfied, satiated.  She could go to sleep
right now and leave him trapped in the wet spot, but what kind of person
would do that?

An hour later Mulder woke up with Scully still on top of him, used the
sheet to wipe the drool off his neck, and rolled her off his chest and
next to him in the bed.  And he didn't wake up again until twenty
minutes later, when the agony of his cold right arm forced him to
remove it from behind her head.

TITLE:    Recycled Virgins 4/6
By:       Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com

Dana Scully's apartment
Thursday morning

Scully was up first.  She noticed that Mulder's stuff was starting
to accumulate in her apartment, and it didn't displease her.  She
didn't think they'd ever be able to live together, but it made
sense for him to keep a toothbrush here, or that kind of thing.

She was dressed and had just finished styling her hair when Mulder
came stumbling into the bathroom with Oreo crumbs stuck to his back.
He seemed a bit antisocial at this early hour, so she left him to his
ablutions and went to make breakfast.

Mulder's cholesterol was never higher than 160, so she left the yolks
in when she whisked the eggs for his omelet.  She would always envy
his metabolism, but after all these years she knew the negative side
of it; he was perpetually hungry.  She was feeling rather nice and
domestic when she heard him roar at her from the bathroom and then
come storming into the kitchen.

"Scully, you used my razor," he said reproachfully.  It was true;
she'd grabbed it from the sink on her way into the shower and given
her legs the once-over.

"You got me, G-man," she said.  "Are you going to send me up the river?"

"This is serious," he said.  "You wore it all out.  Look, I cut myself."
A gouge on his chin was dribbling blood.

"I'm sorry, Mulder.  I won't do it again."

"I'm bleeding."

"I can suture it if you like."

"It was a new razor, Scully.  I only used it once before."

"Mulder, I have another confession.  I left the toilet seat down."
That got him to smile.  She put a little Band-Aid on his chin
and offered to kiss it and make it all better.  He leaned over for her
but she couldn't resist kissing his perfect lips.

Scully could have lost herself in that kiss, but she had to tell him
about last night.  Of course he had a lot to tell her too.

She pulled a kaiser roll from the freezer and stuck it in the toaster
oven.  She was determined that Mulder would get enough to eat this
morning.

I must have missed that yesterday, Mulder thought. That would have
worked with the salami.

Breakfast was ready, and Scully began telling Mulder about her late
night adventure.

"You met with Bill Clinton wearing that T-shirt?" he asked after he'd
heard her story and she'd finally convinced him that it wasn't a joke.
"Scully, that's entrapment."

"I kept my sweatshirt on for the meeting," she said, "so don't worry
about Bill.  I took it off on the ride back, though.  You think
Skinner noticed?"

"The poor bastard," Mulder said.  "Now, do you want to hear about my
wild night?  The part you don't know about, that is."  He told her
about his conversation with Covarrubias.

Between the two of them, they could piece together the whole picture.

Howard Canfield, one of the two survivors of the Sons and Daughters
of Freedom, would be bringing eggs containing the black oil vaccine
to the Heritage Garden at the National Zoo.  The buyer was Mark Hansen,
a reptile curator at the zoo, who would meet Canfield at noon.  From
an inquiry to the Department of the Interior, Scully learned that
Hansen, who was involved in the zoo's breeding program, had been
shipping eggs to Indonesia on a monthly basis.

"Komodo dragon eggs, according to the permits," she said.  "I don't
think the dragons are that prolific."

"It wouldn't be the first time that something from Indonesia found its
way to China," Mulder said.

"Why do the Chinese want the vaccine?" Scully wondered. "They haven't
been involved in the conspiracy before."

"They are now, I guess," Mulder said with a shrug.  "Let's hope they
just want it for protection."

"Something wrong with your juice?" Scully asked.  She'd poured a big
glass for him.

"Uh, no," Mulder said.  "It's great."  He managed to drink it.  Ugh.
It had those little bits of stuff in it.  It just figured that Scully
would like orange juice with  bits of stuff in it.

"You had a visitor last night, you know," Mulder said, wiping his
mouth.

"Let me guess.  Lesley wanted me to check his blood pressure."

"No."

"Jason returned my garter belt."

"No.  And I'm not going to ask."

"Maybe you'd better give me a hint," she said.

"Tall, blond, and stupid.  Also three sheets to the wind, and
proud of it."

"Peter was here?" she asked.  "Because I thought I saw his car last
night."

"I take it I'm supposed to be impressed by his car," Mulder said.

"You can if you like," Scully said.  "I think for seventy thousand
dollars, they should give you an automatic transmission."

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

FBI Headquarters
Thursday Morning

"I assume Agent Scully informed you of our meeting last night,"
Skinner said.

"Yeah," said Mulder.  "How come you never take me anyplace good?"

"And you've heard the plan for our operation today," Skinner continued.

"Sir," Scully interjected, "Agent Mulder has some additional information
that will affect the operation."

Mulder gave Skinner what he'd learned from Covarrubias, including that
the merchandise being transferred was eggs carrying the black-oil cure,
and that the seller himself might be infected with the black oil.

"We'll need to get a biohazard squad standing by," Skinner said.
"And I'll contact the National Institutes of Health so they can send
an appropriate unit to transport the eggs.  The rest of the plan can
stand.  Agent Colton is in place waiting to follow Mark Hansen from
his home to the zoo.  He will stay with Hansen until Agent Mulder can
take over.  Once we have the merchandise, we'll book Hansen for
violation of U.S. and international laws regarding the sale of
endangered species."

"In this case, chickens," Mulder said.

"Hansen's permit is for the shipment of Komodo dragon eggs.  If he's
shipping chicken eggs, he's violating his permit," Skinner said.
Mulder could be such a hard-ass.

"The seller, Howard Canfield, will be taken in for questioning about
the Freedom cult," Scully said.  She gave Skinner the FBI's file on
Canfield.

"I want Canfield.  Let Scully have Hansen," Mulder said.  He didn't
think Scully or Skinner really understood about the black oil. They'd
concluded that Howard Canfield was a low-level threat.

"I know what you're worried about, Mulder," Scully said impatiently.
"I'll use appropriate measures to minimize the risk."

"Don't you wonder why the black oil is letting Canfield make this
delivery?  It killed twenty-three people at a compound where the
vaccine was being synthesized, but now it seems willing to let the
vaccine get shipped out.  I think it's trying to get to the
manufacturing plant.  I think it wants to destroy the source of the
vaccine," Mulder said.

"Are you asking me to believe that the black oil is a thinking, living
entity?" asked Skinner.

"Unless you can give me a better explanation," said Mulder.

Skinner decided to bring in additional agents as well as the Nuclear,
Biological, and Chemical hazard squad.  They would let Canfield proceed
to his meeting with Hansen, and they'd have agents at the ready in the
Heritage Garden.  Skinner would brief the team at ten, and immediately
following they'd reassemble at the zoo.

Mulder and Scully had some time before the briefing.  Scully wanted to
arrange the return of the Porsche.

"I think it would be less humiliating for Peter if you call him
about giving the car back," she said when they were in their
office.

Scully had driven the Porsche in to work so that she and Mulder could
arrive in separate cars.  She hadn't realized that Peter kept his
extravagant toy in such poor repair; the parking brake was gone, and
first gear was going fast.

"I'll call," Mulder agreed. "I understand if you don't feel you can
handle him."  He knew she'd rise to the challenge and as he spoke he
pushed the phone across to her side of the desk.

Scully grimaced at him, but she made the call.

"He's AWOL," she told Mulder when she hung up.  "Didn't come in and
can't be reached by phone."

"Probably sleeping it off," Mulder said.  "Is there a gracious way to
say I think he's an asshole?"

"Only if you want to hear my opinion about some of your chickadees."

"You used condoms, didn't you?" Mulder asked.

"Peter and I?  No," she answered truthfully.

"Aw, jeez, Scully, you're a doctor!  Why didn't you make him use a
condom?"

"Since the risk of infection was--"

"That's great," he said sarcastically.  "Russian roulette.  You know,
it's not just AIDS.  There's hepatitis, gonorrhea, syphilis, and herpes.
I, for one, would not care to contract any of those."

"You forgot chlamydia," she said.

"You're so conscientious about getting tested, but you do nothing to
protect yourself," Mulder said.  Scully put herself through a thorough
screening every six months.  It seemed prudent, since she was frequently
exposed to body fluids.

It was four days since they had become lovers, and the discussion of
prophylaxis was overdue. They'd made love twice that first day,
without the benefit of latex. Their third time, on Monday, Mulder had
torn open the foil pack he'd been carrying around for five years.
His protection had poured out in dry, crisp flakes.  And Scully hadn't
even laughed.

They'd decided individually that they were a couple of celibates with
clean medical records, but they'd never actually discussed it. Mulder's
sexual salad days had occurred in that brief window of history when
condoms were optional; ah, those were the days. Scully had been
initiated later, and while she accepted rubbers as part of the routine,
she didn't miss them.

But Mulder hadn't known about Peter Weber, that arrogant, over-muscled
lawyer who called Scully "my woman" and offered to trade his Porsche to
get her back.

Scully was enjoying Mulder's discomfort.

"And now you're feeling exposed," Scully said.  "I never stopped you
from using condoms; it's not my fault your trusty friend dried up and
blew away."

Mulder said nothing.  It occurred to him that Scully was being
unusually flippant.

"I'll tell Pete he can't have his car back until he gets a blood test.
Would that make you feel better?"  She looked at him with mock concern.

"When you calculated the risk of infection," Mulder asked, "did it
come out to zero?"

"As I scientist, I wouldn't call it zero," Scully said.

"You never slept with him," Mulder stated.

Of course she hadn't.  Peter Weber was an asshole.

"No, Mulder, I didn't.  Now do you want to bring me up to date on
your recent sexual activity?"  She looked him in the eye.  His
first reaction was to ask her to define "recent" and "sexual," but
she was too serious for that.

"Is that what you want?" he asked. There wasn't much to tell but he
really didn't want to tell it.

She shook her head.

"No, not really.  But don't ask me to defend my past."

"You don't have to defend anything," he said.  "I just want to tell
you this:  I've had no possible exposure since my last blood test,
which was negative."

She'd been certain about that anyway.  She was surprised that he
wasn't as certain about her.  Still, she approved of this approach.
Limited full disclosure.

"Me too," she said.  "Negative as of my latest blood test, and no
contact of any kind since.  Except you."  She reached for his hand
across the desk.

"Extra virgin," he said, catching even himself off guard.

"Explain?" she asked, her eyebrow riding up her forehead.

"Us. Like the olive oil... " He looked at her, hoping that would be
clear, but fidgeting  because he didn't know how to explain it any
better.  "It's been opened, it's been used, but it's still extra
virgin."

She was still holding his hand.

"No," she said, "that's not it."

He nodded.

"Recycled," he said.  "Recycled virgins."

She laughed.  "Factory reconditioned.  Original cartons."

They were late for Skinner's briefing, but it was worth it. Some
things seemed clearer now.
******************************************************************

Oh, the joy of driving in DC.  The convoy of FBI agents threaded their
way through the morning traffic to the National Zoo.  Scully was
driving the Porsche; she said she wanted to drop it off at Peter's
office after the operation.  Mulder, driving his Ford, reached to
answer his cellular.  For the second time, one of his fellow agents
was asking him about Scully's vehicle.

"Yes, it's a Porsche, Schroeter," Mulder said.  "Call her yourself if
you're so curious about it."  Then he called Scully.

"How are you doing in that thing?" he asked.

"It's a peach," she said.  "I'm going to hate to give it up."

"It can't be much fun in this stop-and-go traffic," he said.

"No.  It would be great to get it out on the highway.  You must have
had a blast."
 

National Zoo
Washington, DC
Thursday, 11:45 A.M.

One of the advantages of a career in law enforcement is that you can get
a parking space at the National Zoo, even at eleven A.M.  And it's free.

Mulder was one of the last to pull in, and he joined the crowd around
the red Porsche.  Scully had the hood open.  Skinner was leaning
against the rear fender, waiting for the stragglers to arrive.

"Most inappropriate, Agent Mulder," he said.  "It's conspicuous and it
invites questions regarding propriety."

"It's no Crown Victoria," Mulder agreed, wondering why everyone was
addressing their comments about the car to him.

"Re-check your radio, then go ahead and take over from Colton," Skinner
said.  "He's by the reptile center."

"We talked about this," said Mulder.  "I don't want Hansen, I want
Canfield.  Canfield's got the vaccine and the black oil.  What's Hansen
got?"

"Hansen is our link to the Indonesian connection." Skinner said.
"Indonesia links to China.  You may not care, but the President does."

They stood there, sizing each other up.  Then Mulder backed down.

"Fine," he said.  "I'm going to the reptile center.  Just gotta talk to
Scully first."

As agents began moving off to their assigned positions, Mulder got
Scully's attention.

"I'm thinking of what Marita Covarrubias said, that I had to find the
vaccine and give it to her because *they* have someone in place
to receive it."

"Mulder, you're not going to give it to her, are you?"

"No, but I wish we had a contact at the NIH.  I don't like the idea of
handing the vaccine over to someone who might be part of their plan.
Do you know anyone at the National Institutes of Health?"

"Sorry, I don't," she said.  "If it was the Centers for Disease Control,
my friend Rakesh could help us.  He worked there for years."

"Too bad," said Mulder.  "Listen, Scully, I want you to be careful.
"You've seen this stuff in action."  He punched her lightly on the arm
and took off to relieve Colton.

Skinner had been apprehensive about the operation from the start
because he'd had so little time to get things in place.  The new
information Mulder had given him that morning had made planning both
simpler and more complicated.  Simpler because he now knew where the
meeting would occur, what was being exchanged, and who would be
there.  But more complex, because of the danger from the black oil.

Zoo officials had been alerted about the meeting, and visitors were
being diverted away from the Heritage Garden.  Skinner had not wanted
to close the zoo altogether; that would have alerted the buyer, if
not the seller.

The operation proceeded flawlessly.  The buyer, Mark Hansen, and the
seller, Howard Canfield, converged in the Heritage Garden.  The
biohazard squad was in place.  Canfield gave Hansen a small picnic
cooler, turned to leave, but crumpled to the ground.  He had completed
his task, and the black oil had no further use for him.  Hansen
surrendered to the first agent he saw, who happened to be Bernie
Shroeter.  Mulder stepped in to grab the cooler.

Mulder had hoped that the vaccinated eggs would be protected against the
black oil, and this appeared to be the case.  There was no trace of it
on the cooler.  The black oil had kept its place, for some reason,
and it was contained along with Canfield.  Canfield's death had been
instantaneous, but he showed no sign of rapid decomposition.

Too easy, too smooth, thought Skinner. He was directing the operation
from the well equipped surveillance van, and the sophisticated
electronic gear his agents wore gave him a detailed overview. Mulder
was taking the cooler to the NIH van, which was equipped with climate
control and hazardous materials protection.  Scully was running to catch
up to him. Well, they deserved the honors...

Skinner's phone trilled.

"How are you, Mr. Skinner.  Enjoying your day at the zoo?"

"What do you want?"

"An exchange, Mr. Skinner, a deal.  I'm sure by now you've noticed
that one of your agents is missing.  A lanky, ill-mannered man."

Skinner watched Mulder continuing toward the van.  His peculiar gait
was unmistakable.

"Go ahead," Skinner said.

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

Scully had caught up to Mulder, who didn't slow down for her.

"Something's wrong," she told him.  He looked at her in surprise.
He'd been thinking the same thing.

"It was too easy," he said.

"That's it," she agreed.  "Too convenient, too easy."

"Maybe the cooler's empty," Mulder said.  "Or maybe these are ordinary
chicken eggs."  They had reached the NIH's transport van.  The driver
stayed in his seat, but the man on the passenger side got out,
extending his hand.

"Hi," he said.  "I'm Quinn Evans of the NIH."

Quinn Evans? Mulder thought. Did he really say that?

"Quinn the Eskimo.  Stall him," Scully said under her breath before
dashing off to get the car.

"Fox Mulder," Mulder said, bringing the cooler to his left hand to
return the handshake.  "I'll need to confirm that your vehicle is
suitable to transport this rather sensitive material."

"That will be a problem, Agent Mulder.  You see, I can't show you much
without compromising the controlled environment."  The man had a warm,
sincere smile.

"I'd like to speak to your driver," Mulder said, as Scully pulled up
in the Porsche.

"You go right ahead," said Evans.  "I'll just hold that cooler for you."
He reached out his hand.

"Sorry, my ride's here," said Mulder, grabbing the cooler and stepping
into the car.  Scully eased off the clutch and the car lurched forward
into second gear and away.

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

"We have Mulder," the familiar voice said, "and you have a basket of
eggs.  Do you even know what they are?"

"Why don't you tell me," said Skinner.  He wanted to hear what the
cancerman would say; he didn't want to give up any of his own
information.

"Mr. Skinner, those eggs hold the key to the survival of the human race.
It will take your scientists months to figure out how to mass-produce
the vaccine.  Give me the eggs.  The people who work for me can begin
the manufacturing process at once."

"And I'm sure you'd be happy to share the vaccine with the rest of
humanity for a small fee," Skinner said.

"You understand so little," said the smoking man condescendingly.
"I'm offering to exchange Mulder for the eggs.  Give up the eggs and
save Mulder's life.  I'd think twice before rejecting the deal."

"How do I know Mulder's alive?" Skinner asked.  He wondered what the
cancerman hoped to accomplish with this charade.  He could see Mulder
clearly on the monitor.

He watched Mulder talking to the man from the NIH transport vehicle.
Then he watched Mulder snatch the cooler back from the NIH man and
speed off in the red Porsche.  He wondered what the hell was going on.
And then he repeated his question.

"How do I know Mulder's alive?  Let me talk to him."

"I don't have him here, Mr. Skinner.  He's in the care of a man who
knows better than to fail me.  When you're ready to deal he'll be in
touch."

Skinner flipped the phone shut.

"Agent Shroeter, Agent Luskin, catch up to that Porsche," he commanded.
It was a tall order, but they trotted back to their car to try.  He
contacted the Capital police to look for the vehicle, although he didn't
have the number or even the state on the license plate.  Then he flipped
the phone open to warn Scully that her passenger might not be who he
was.

"No, you listen to me," he told Scully when she tried to tell him
her suspicions about Quinn Evans of the NIH.  "That may not be Mulder."

"Sir, it's Mulder--"

"Agent Scully, return to the zoo at once!  That is an order!"

"Respectfully, sir--"

"Agent Scully, I've noticed you never mention respect except when you're
being contentious or insubordinate."  He heard a clunk as the phone
slipped from her shoulder.  The manual transmission didn't leave her
a free hand.

"Sir, Agent Scully and I--"

"Mulder!  Put Scully on!"  Mulder held the phone to Scully's ear as
Skinner relayed his suspicions.  He heard a yelp as Scully pulled the
little Band-Aid from Mulder's chin.

"It is Mulder, sir," she said.  The spot where he'd nicked himself
shaving was still oozy.  "His blood is red."

Skinner wondered how she'd managed to draw blood so easily while
driving a car.

"That proves he's not an alien.  What about that Van Blundht character?"

"He's not Eddie Van Blundht, sir, he's definitely Mulder," she
reasserted.  Skinner was trying her patience with his directions on
how to see whether Mulder was Mulder, but she let him finish.  Finally
she said,  "Oh, honestly, sir!  Sure, fine, whatever!"

Then she turned to Mulder and said, "He wants you to spell 'bureau.'"

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

Now Skinner believed that the person in the car with Scully was
truly Fox Mulder.  And that the two of them were defying his orders by
racing out of town with the vaccinated eggs.

Maybe they were bringing the eggs to the NIH themselves.  That would be
nice.  He would know soon enough.  It wasn't that far to Bethesda.

Wearily, with a sense of futility, he deployed his remaining agents to
question the scientist and driver from the NIH.

TITLE:    Recycled Virgins 5/6
By:       Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com
 
I-95 Southbound
Thursday afternoon
 

"Mulder, did you ever see 'Smokey and the Bandit?' Scully asked as
she sped south in the red Porsche.

"Cute flick, except for the soundtrack," Mulder answered.  "I was
thinking of that big car chase at the end of 'The Blues Brothers.'"

"Yeah, great music there," said Scully.  "R-E-S-P-E-C-T, Tell you what
it means to--"  Mulder had his arm across her shoulder, so it was an
easy move to put his hand over her mouth.  He wasn't going to last
six hundred miles if she was going to sing. She elbowed him in the ribs.

"We need a plan," he said, letting his hand drop back to her shoulder.

"We have to convince Skinner to let us go through," Scully said.
"I don't think we have a chance if he sends the Bureau against us."

"Not unless we blow something up for good luck."  This road trip to
Atlanta reminded Mulder of the futile search for Eric Rudolph, wanted
for the bombing at the Atlanta Olympics among other attacks.

"Could you be just a little more constructive?" Scully asked.

"Okay, we have to talk to Skinner again, but we've got to use a land
line and a scrambler.  He doesn't need to know where we are until
he's on our side," Mulder said.

"Problem two," said Scully.  "We're going to the Centers for Disease
Control. So far so good.  But who do we see when we get there?  And
Mulder, we'll probably get there around midnight."

"Not the way you're driving, leadfoot."

"Leadfoot?"  She looked at the speedometer.  "Oh."

"Call your friend from the CDC," Mulder said. "See if he can give us a
contact."

Scully started tugging out her cellular, and the car began to drift
toward the next lane.

"Scully!  Just drive.  I'll call."  He punched up the number she gave
him, noticing that she didn't have to look it up.

Mulder had to bully the receptionist to get through to Dr. Prakash
right away, and the doctor got on the line with an attitude.

"I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder of the FBI--" Mulder began.

"Are you a patient of mine, Mr. Mulder?"  Prakash was a concerned
and compassionate physician, but right now he just sounded annoyed.

"No, but my partner, Dr. Dana Scully--"

"Mr. Mulder, I will be happy to see you in my office, and if Viagra
is indicated I will most certainly prescribe it.  You can make an
appointment--"

"Dr. Prakash, this is an emergency.  I need--"

"Mr. Mulder, as distressing as impotence may be, it is not a medical
emergency..."

Scully could only hear half the conversation, but she saw Mulder's
growing indignation.  She held out her hand for the phone.

"What did you tell him about me?" Mulder demanded as he passed it to
her.

"Rakesh, we're bringing an experimental virus vaccine to the CDC and I
was hoping you could refer me to someone there who could work with it,"
she said.

Prakash had a couple of suggestions and offered to make the
arrangements. Scully said she would call him back for the information,
since she didn't want to leave the phone turned on.

"Now, about your friend," the urologist added.  "Of course I would be
glad to participate in his care, but I can't do it over the phone."

"My friend has no complaints," she said.  Obviously Rakesh Prakash spent
most of his day dealing with people who wanted Viagra.

"His erectile function is within normal limits?"

"I have absolutely no complaints either," she said.

"I bet he can't give a backrub the way I do," Prakash said.

Scully sighed as she remembered.  Rakesh gave the best backrubs.  That's
where she got the idea that he'd be great in bed.  But she would never
know.

"I don't think anyone can do it the way you do," Scully agreed.  Mulder
was grinding his teeth, but she didn't seem to notice.

******************************************************************
The Capitol
Washington, DC
Thursday afternoon

"This isn't Mulder," he said, tossing a still-lit Morley down on the
carpeted floor.  "You've failed me, Mr. Gingrich."  Bound and gagged,
Peter Weber could only watch in terror.

"I'm a congressman, not a hoodlum," said the Speaker of the House.  "I
never told you I was a professional kidnapper."

"You told me you were tough, shrewd, and not afraid to get dirty.  But
when I called on you to prove it, you delegated the task to pinheads."
He lit another cigarette.

"I subcontracted with a couple of operatives who were highly
recommended. They went to the address you gave me.  They found a tall
man wearing a really good suit.  They abducted him.  They did exactly as
you asked."

"But it was the wrong man, Mr. Gingrich.  And I have a very low
tolerance for failure."

The congressman had been swimming with sharks his entire career.  Hell,
he was a shark.

"I carried out your instructions.  I expect you to uphold your side
of the deal," he said.

"There is no deal, Mr. Gingrich.  Start packing."

*****************************************************************
FBI Headquarters
Washington, DC
Thursday afternoon

"Walter, I want you to know for the record that the President sends
his thanks."

Skinner held the telephone receiver away from his face for an instant
so his friend Al wouldn't hear his derisive snort.

"And off the record...?" Skinner asked.

"Off the record, he's grateful that you blocked the transaction, but
he regrets the death of the seller and the loss of the merchandise.  How
did that happen, Walt?"

"My report was the truth, Al.  The seller collapsed spontaneously.  In
my opinion he succumbed to the black oil."

"Another question," the vice-president said.  "I really don't
understand what happened with the scientist and the driver from the
NIH."

"The scientist was shot and killed by his driver when one of my
agents approached him for questioning."  Skinner refrained from telling
him that this kind of denouement was not unusual when dealing with
the X-files.

"How about the driver, then.  Get anything from him?"

"No," Skinner said.  "The driver, who doesn't speak English, by the way,
has diplomatic immunity and is currently en route back to East Timor.
The State Department played a large role in his speedy departure."

"And the merchandise?" Gore asked.  "You don't really expect me to
believe it's a basket of eggs."

"It's eggs," Skinner said.  "Al, if you value our friendship, do not ask
me where the eggs are.  My report covered that."

"Take it easy, Walt, that's the one part of your report I understand
perfectly."  Now it was Gore's turn to snort.  "Two of your agents
stole the eggs and ran away."

"Good-bye, Al.  I'll be in touch."  Skinner ended the call and took
off his glasses to rub his eyes.

At least Danny had come through for him.  Skinner was sure that Mulder
couldn't go more than a few hours without using a cell phone, and he
was right.  Danny had located the call and given him the information
he needed.  A three-minute call from Roanoke, Virginia, to Chevy Chase,
Maryland.  The call was made on Scully's cellular.  Danny got him the
number and the name that went with it:  Rakesh Prakash, MD.  Skinner
decided to call Dr. Prakash himself.

"This is Assistant Director Skinner of the Federal Bureau of
Investigation," he told the receptionist who answered.  "It is urgent
that I speak to Dr. Prakash right away."

"Are you a patient of mine, Mr. Skinner?" the doctor asked him.  Skinner
heard a distinctive echo.

"Take this off your speaker phone," Skinner said brusquely.  "This
matter is strictly confidential and of the most sensitive nature."

"Mr. Skinner, I am exactly halfway through a vasectomy.  I will talk
to you on my speaker phone or not at all.  But perhaps you are
wasting your time.  I do not prescribe Viagra over the phone."

"Dr. Prakash, you were contacted earlier by agents Dana Scully and
Fox Mulder.  I need to know the nature of that communication."

"I have no intention of revealing that to you, Mr. Skinner.  Now you
are wasting my time."

"You can't claim doctor-patient privilege," Skinner said, starting to
hate this arrogant physician.  "Not unless the call concerned a
medical matter."

"Personal medical information was divulged to me," Prakash said.
"Good-bye, Mr. Skinner."

Skinner decided it was useless to be confrontational.  He composed a
note to Prakash:

        Dear. Dr. Prakash:

        I appreciate your loyalty to agents Mulder and Scully.
        Should they contact you again, please inform them
        that their suspicions have been confirmed to my
        satisfaction.

                                   Walter Skinner
                                   Assistant Director, FBI

He addressed an envelope and sealed the note inside.  Tom Colton lived
near Chevy Chase. Skinner would ask him to deliver his message.

*******************************************************************
The Capitol Building
Washington, DC
 

"When you offered me a meal, I thought you were getting ready to kill
me," Pete Weber said.

"No one's going to kill you.  And if anything I did or said offended
you, I am sorry," the Speaker said.  That is how politicians apologize.

"Well, let's see.  I was offended when your thugs kidnapped me," Pete
said.  "I was offended when you had them tie me up.  And I was
particularly offended when you stuffed that rag in my mouth so you
wouldn't have to hear my Eastern establishment whining."

"Let's put that behind us now," Gingrich said.

"If you're not going to kill me, can I go home?"

"How did you like your food?"

"It was adequate.  I'm not fond of Southern cuisine."

"You're going to feel very sleepy soon.  You're going to take a long
nap.  When you wake up you'll be back where we found you.  You will
remember none of this."

*****************************************************************
FBI Headquarters
Washington, DC
Thursday evening

"Agent Colton, I'd like to commend you for your work today," Skinner
said.

"Thank you, sir.  I hope you noticed that Hansen is the only principal
from the operation who is actually in custody,"  Colton said smugly.

"Yes. Uh, excellent.  Agent Colton, I hope you won't mind running
a small errand for me."

"Not at all, sir."  Colton took the request as a sign he was destined
for advancement.  Then Skinner gave him the envelope and asked him
to deliver it.

Colton looked at the envelope.

"Sir, I was under the impression that medical records are strictly
confidential," he said.

"What's your point?"

"I don't think it's right, sir, that you're sending sealed messages
to my doctor."
******************************************************************

Beauchamp's Roadside Rest
off I-85
North or South Carolina
Thursday evening

Scully turned off the ignition and hurried into the restaurant.  Thank
goodness, a clean lady's room. Then she joined Mulder at the corner
table he'd selected.

"I'm gonna get me some chicken-fried steak," he announced.  She
shuddered.  The waitress took their orders.

"I'll call Rakesh," Scully said.  "You call Skinner."

"Wrong."  His elbows were on the table, his chin propped in his hands.

"Okay, you call Rakesh," she said.

"Gladly.  First tell me what you told him about me."

"I told him nothing, Mulder.  He views the world in urological
terms, that's all."

"Scully, he didn't ask me if it burns when I pee.  He asked me if I
needed Viagra."

As if, Scully thought.

"What happened to your usual air of confidence, your indifference to
the opinions of others?" she asked.  She waited for some snappy
rejoinder.

"Mulder?"  He wasn't answering.

What happened to my confidence? he thought.  Maybe it took a hike when
you started parading your ex's in front of me, Mr. Moneybags and
Dr. Viagra.

"I want to drive," he said.  Maybe that would help.

Their orders were served.  The phone calls could wait until they had
eaten.

************************************************************************
FBI Headquarters
Washington, DC
Thursday evening

Skinner sat at his desk, reviewing and signing off on a stack of
reports. He usually came in early to start his day before the
interruptions began, and most often he worked late, as he was doing now.

He had to be available.  He hadn't heard from Mulder and Scully, but
he'd heard from the National Institutes of Health.  The people there
had even more questions about Quinn Evans than he did.

Somehow Mulder had made the right call, keeping the eggs from Evans.
Skinner had taken that on faith almost from the beginning, and that
was the right call too.

Sooner or later Mulder or Scully would contact him and tell him what
the hell they were doing.  When they were good and ready.  After they
had debated whether they could trust him, and who should talk to him.
Because after everything he'd done for them, after all the times he'd
protected them and covered for them, that was still the way they
treated him.

Supporting their work and their methods had cost him dearly.  His
career was stalled, his credibility was questionable.  But he had no
choice, because he knew they were right.  So he had to sit here and
wait, while they got to joyride in a Porsche.

He passed the time trying to decide which of them annoyed him more.
Scully, with that thin veneer of respect she used to cover her
accusations and insinuations, or Mulder, with his predictable
outbursts.  It was a toss-up.

*********************************************************************
Beauchamp's Roadside Rest
off I-85
North or South Carolina
 

"You talk to Skinner, Mulder, he likes you better."

"You think he likes me?  He thought I was the alien shapeshifter."

"You know what I mean.  He looks at dirty pictures with you."

"But he took you to meet the President."

"He called me contentious and insubordinate," Scully said.

"See?  I told you he likes you."  He said it with that grin that made
all things palatable.

"Fine, Mulder, I'll call him.  But I'll call Rakesh first.  I'll need to
know what our plans are so I can tell Skinner."

"No, I'll call Prakash," Mulder insisted.  The discomfort of talking to
a man who assumed he was impotent was dwarfed by the discomfort of
Scully talking to a man who assumed he was impotent.

Mulder used the pay phone to call Prakash, who relayed Skinner's
message.  Since talking to Skinner, Prakash had concluded that he could
only protect the content of the conversation if Mulder included
something medical.  Doctor-patient privilege and all that.  Mulder
finally caught on.

"Tell me where we're going and who we're looking for," Mulder said.
"Then I'll think of something personal for you."

"Don't you understand?" Prakash asked.  "If they question me again,
I'll have to tell them what we said here.  Unless I'm acting as
your doctor."

"Sometimes I get up at night to take a leak."

Prakash was satisfied.

"You're meeting Dr. David Miller in Stone Mountain, Georgia."  He gave
him the address.  "And you have nocturia.  Call me if it gets to be
a problem."

Next Mulder watched as Scully called Skinner.

"Agent Scully, how nice of you to phone.  I hear Bethesda is lovely this
time of year."  Skinner's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Sir, we're in South Carolina--"

"North Carolina," Mulder interrupted.

"No, Mulder, we're--"

"Agent Scully, just tell me why you are not in Maryland," Skinner said.

"Sir, due to our suspicions regarding Quinn Evans we felt it was best
to bring the vaccine to the Centers for Disease Control instead of the
NIH."

Skinner had guessed as much, but it was good to know.

"Put Mulder on," he said.  He was well aware that Mulder and
Scully had averted a major disaster by keeping the vaccine away from
Quinn Evans and whoever he worked for. But Skinner had spent a long day
trying to justify his actions and those of his agents.  He'd been
embarrassed in front of Al Gore.  He'd had to obfuscate in a report
to Louis Freeh.  Mulder had left him hanging all day, from afternoon
until evening, without a word to explain what he was doing. Skinner
had earned the right to hassle him.

Of course Scully had done exactly the same thing, but she wouldn't be
as much fun to hassle. Scully handed the phone to Mulder, feeling
slighted because Skinner didn't want to talk to her.

"Agent Mulder," Skinner said, twisting the eraser off the pencil in
his hand, "I hope Dr. Prakash was able to help you out with your
problem...."
 

TITLE:    Recycled Virgins 6/6
By:       Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com
 
Miller residence
Stone Mountain, GA
10:13 PM

Mulder parked the car in the graveled driveway and turned it off.  This
was the address Prakash had given him.  The sudden stillness brought
Scully back from sleep.

"Gum?" she asked as she took a piece.

"No," he said, rubbing his face.  Together they walked across the patchy
lawn to the front door.

Dr. David Miller was a specialist in emerging infectious diseases, but
the black oil was new to him.  He was a fast-talking, slovenly young
man, and he stuttered with excitement as he ushered them into his
house.  Unprompted, he offered them some iced tea.  Mulder used it
to swallow the Tylenol tablets Scully put in his hand.

Miller led the way to the CDC in his Subaru, with Mulder and Scully
following in the Porsche.  They found the decor in Miller's lab to be an
unexpected mixture of high-tech equipment, pop-culture graphics, and
furniture that looked like cast-offs from somebody's rec room. While
Scully and Miller began the tedious process of extracting the vaccine
from one of the eggs, Mulder checked on the CDC's security measures.
Satisfied with what he found, he sacked out on a battered, smelly sofa
with a crocheted afghan hung over the back.

Some time during the night Scully covered him with the afghan. He opened
his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.  She had not meant to wake him.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

"It's slow work," she said.  "Go back to sleep."  She rejoined Miller at
his bench.  He was removing a couple of test tubes from an agitator.

"Gotta give these two time to equilibrate," he explained.  "You want
coffee or something?"

Time to equilibrate, Scully thought. That sounds nice.

Miller boiled water over a propane burner and produced two large mugs of
tea. Scully sipped hers gratefully.

"What's it like, being a fed?" Miller asked her.  "I thought you agents
spent your time auditing ledgers and trying to break encryptions."

"Mulder and I have a different niche, out of the mainstream," Scully
explained.

"I g-g-et it," Miller said.  "Saving the world is sort of a side-line
for the FBI."

Scully smiled.  Miller was placing a large square of scored glass in a
rubber tray.  She watched as he popped red and black wires into jacks on
the side of the apparatus.  He handed her a control console.

"I'm sorry, David," she said, "but I have no idea what you want me to
do."

"It's easy.  We're going to calibrate. Start with the first knob, top
left."  Miller had some kind of electronic meter in his hand.  "Turn it
up--no, that's too much.  Way down, okay, now up again, but slowly."

"There must be a better way," Scully said.  Miller said there was, but
it cost three thousand dollars and he didn't have one.  When they
finally finished, Miller put the rubber tray in a case and dropped a few
milliliters of solution from one of the test tubes in the center of the
glass.

"That's all we can do for now," he said.  "Let's get some breakfast."

Scully woke Mulder, although what she really wanted to do was squeeze in
next to him.  Miller drove them to an establishment called Libby's.

"They have bagels," Miller said proudly.  Scully was surprised to find
that even the bagels were served with a side of grits.

Mulder and Miller got into an emotional discussion about the NBA lockout
and how to survive it.  That led to a debate about whether Michael
Jordan was the greatest of all time, or merely of this era.  Scully had
heard it all before and she started to nod off.  Only Mulder's quick
reflexes kept her face from landing in the grits.

"Good hands," Miller said.

"I think it's time to get going," said Mulder.  Miller drove them back
to the lab to get their car.  Then Mulder grilled him about shipping
arrangements; Scully had decided that some of the eggs should be
distributed to other research facilities around the country.  Two of the
eggs had been repacked for Mulder and Scully to hand-deliver to the NIH,
now that Quinn Evans was out of the picture.

"D-d-dana and I worked this out together," Miller said.  "It's all
settled."  But Scully was asleep, and Mulder insisted on reviewing the
plan. Satisfied, he nudged Scully awake and they left.

His hours at the wheel Thursday night had finally made him master of the
Porsche.  Even the loss of first gear didn't faze him as he popped the
transmission into second and headed toward the interstate.  Scully's
head rested on his shoulder.  The morning sky was a brilliant blue.

David Miller said it could take as long as a week to know if the eggs
really carried the vaccine and even longer to know if it was effective.
If it was, and if scientists could find a way to synthesize it, this
was quite a victory.  A ringing victory in a long and costly war.

Costly to him, but much more to Scully.  She'd lost her sister and she'd
lost her fertility.  Melissa Scully, though mourned and remembered, was
at rest, dead and buried.  The other loss was ever-fresh, a wound that
kept on hurting.

Scully could not have children.  And the blue sky and the pretty car
and the new vaccine were not going to change that.

If this was Mulder's Ford, he'd be able to put his arm around her.
As it was, he needed his hand for the stick shift.

While Scully was being ravaged by cancer and its treatment, Mulder had
broken through the high security at the clinic near Allentown and
stolen one of the vials with her ova.  He hadn't been looking for the
vial and he was poorly prepared to deal with it. He rushed back to
the medical center to check on Scully with the vial in his pocket.

Her room was empty.  There was a book on her bedside table, a journal
of her thoughts, addressed to him.  "I know we've traveled far together.
This last distance must necessarily be traveled alone." Mulder felt his
heart turn to ice.

But she wasn't gone, he hadn't lost her yet.  She was with Penny
Northern, a woman dying of cancer.  Scully kept vigil at her bedside
all night, as Mulder waited in the hall, available but not intruding.
Penny died early that morning, and Scully emerged from the room tearful
but determined to live, determined to continue her work.

As Scully prepared to sign herself out of the medical center, Mulder
got on the phone.  He spoke to Skinner and told him that Scully would
be coming back to work.  Then he made call after call until he found
a facility equipped to store the vial of ova and willing to accept it.
None of the centers he contacted held out much hope that the ova
could have survived.

Telling Scully some vague lie about where he was going, he brought the
ova to the clinic he'd found.  When he returned hours later, Scully
was ready to go.  She never questioned him about his absence.

The bills and the contract from the storage facility were in a small
gray file cabinet in Mulder's bedroom. The medical director had added a
waiver to the usual contract;  Mulder had to acknowledge that the eggs
had been "severely compromised" before being brought in for storage.
The letter of agreement contained the director's most optimistic
prediction: "The possibility of someday retrieving a normal, active
human ovum from this specimen cannot be entirely ruled out."

The gray file cabinet was the one item that had to disappear before
Mulder could let Scully into his bedroom.

The file contained other depressing items: A calendar where he'd noted
Scully's nosebleeds and other signs of illness.  An index card with the
code numbers the government used to store her records. A hospital ID
band.

But not everything in the file was grim.  The eight by ten color glossy
of Scully's tattoo was a favorite of his.  If only he'd snapped a
picture when she'd shown him her mosquito bites on their first case--
or maybe not. It might have been their last case. He had some normal
photos as well, and the notes she'd written to him over the years.
There was a birthday card she'd signed "Love, Dana," and a copy of her
senior thesis.

The Scully file was the reason he couldn't let Scully see his bedroom.
She wouldn't have been surprised by the dusty stacks of books and
magazines; she could have handled the videotapes; she wouldn't have
cared about the rollerblades he'd used twice or the skis he'd never
got to use at all.  But he had to find a new place for that gray
metal cabinet.

He had kept one thing from the file, something they'd be able to laugh
at now. The draft of an article they'd worked on together, passing it
back and forth, editing and annotating each other.  The earliest notes
were in pencil, comments such as "unclear here," and "source, please."
Then came the ball-point pen:  "What???" and "Unsubstantiated!"
Finally his black felt-tip marker and her red one: "IT IS NOT SCIENCE
TO DENY WHAT YOU HAVE SEEN!" and "MULDER ARE YOU ON DRUGS?"

Now he had the car in overdrive on a clear stretch of highway.  He put
his arm around her at last.

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

The Capitol
Washington DC
Friday afternoon

The Speaker of the House gazed out his office window, his brow furrowed
in concentration.

Returning Peter Weber to the apartment he'd been kidnapped from was
going to be a problem, Gingrich realized.  The consultants who had
originally removed him were experts at breaking and entering; the
Speaker was not.  He could call a locksmith or ask the building
manager to open the door, but he was sure to be recognized. He would
have to wait until that woman got home before he could bring the tall
man in the really good suit back to her.

*******************************************************************
I-85 Northbound
Friday afternoon

They were running low on gas, and when Mulder came to the exit ramp for
a truck stop, he had to take his arm back to downshift.  Scully woke up
feeling dirty and stiff with her breath deadlier than mustard gas.

"Morning, beautiful," Mulder said.  He'd seen her worse than this.

"Oh, good morning," she said.  My bra is killing me, she thought.

Mulder pulled into the service station.  He had filled the tank, paid
for the gas, used the men's room, and cleaned the windshield before
Scully had finished in the rest room.  He was idling near the
bathrooms when a couple of Peacock-brother types came over to share
their opinions about what Mulder could do with himself and his car.
Finally Scully got into the car and  he lit out.

"This car brings out the worst in people," Mulder said.  "I bet Peter
Weber gets the shit kicked out of him now and then just for driving
around in it."

"I forgot about Peter," Scully said.  She tried to call him again but
she still couldn't reach him at his home or his office.

"Don't bother calling his cell phone," Mulder reminded her.  "It's at
your place."

Scully took off her jacket and unbuttoned the cuffs of her silk blouse.

"If you're planning on going any further, why don't you wait till I
pass this semi?" Mulder asked.  He wasn't kidding; when she looked
over her right shoulder, the trucker waved at her and blasted his
horn.  Mulder floored it and they finished passing.

Scully unhooked her bra under her shirt.

"What are you staring at?" she demanded.  How would he like to spend
thirty-plus hours in an underwire bra?

"I'm just watching," he said.  "All these years I've had to turn away
when you did the bra trick."

"The bra trick?  You mean this?"  She pulled the bra through her